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Description Description (184 pages, paperback, $15.95): Special Offer 20% Off Whether the memories are only half-recalled or of events that shaped a lifetime, the anthology sheds light on unique women from all walks of life – the quiet heroines, the bossy, the influential, those who bandaged scraped knees, and those who didn’t notice the cuts and scrapes. In the process, both veteran storytellers and those who rarely speak their memories may discover new facets of their relationships with the women in their personal histories. Whether from college students, mothers-of-five, best-selling authors, or none of the above, something in these words will spark a sense of recognition in readers, prompting them to consider the stories of influential women, past and present, in their own lives. With this book, we aim to touch hearts all over the world. About Her: Stories of Grace, Grit, Grievance, and Gratitude has been two years in the making. The book contains nearly seventy stories submitted by women and men. The stories are compiled into eight chapters, each containing photographs to supplement contributors’ written words: Table of Contents About the Editors: Michele Glorie Palmer is a mother of two and corporate communications director of a large software company. She grew up on a farm in New York; spent her early thirties living in New York City; and now lives in what she believes is one of the quaintest towns in New England. Her mother, Jo Carubia, is her day-to-day source of inspiration. Excerpts from About Her: Stories of Grace, Grit, Grievance, and Gratitude: “When I was about seven years old, and cowboy shows on TV were my favorites, my mother had many opportunities to rescue me. One day I was out in the front yard practicing my twirling and roping skills. I heard a car come down the hill. I had roped just about everything in the yard and decided that a car would make a good notch on my rope.” (from “Saved by an Angel,” JD) “ … no one was surprised when she came downstairs in red, white, and blue bloomers and patriotic streamers entwined in her thick, graying hair, pulled up into a loose knot.” (from “Flora,” LR) “In those moments as we embraced there was a deeper connection between us. Mother had strong intuitive skills. As we looked at each other in silence, I didn’t need to mention what I was thinking.” (from “Christmas Socks,” JB) “I never noticed her crippled hands or her face bloated from steroids. I would tell her about my life, and when I ran out of things to say, I would make up stories just to see her smile. She must have been in tremendous pain. I never knew it.” (from “Life and Death,” AW) “I held her and we both started to cry…” (from “Until You Got Here,” BM) “I’m overwhelmed with disgust—dog germs! Pttuuey! I know I’ll be dead in minutes.” (from “Je Suis Mama,” KT) “It’s ironic that when Gramma died, my love for Barbies suddenly did too.” (from “Gramma and Barbie,” TS) “When she would come home - quiet, stinking of dead shrimp - Mom would kiss my sister on her forehead, kiss me on both cheeks and then get into the shower. She would spend a lot of time in the shower. She never told us, and we never heard her, but we knew she had been crying.” (from “We Don’t Eat Shrimp,” PKG) “ . . . as soon as the music started I knew once and for all, thirteen years after the fact, that my mother was gone. . . Even as a child, I knew that turning the [music box] arm and setting that music free was as close as I could get to the essence of my mother’s best, most pure, most complete self.” (from “Colored Circles,” VTM) “Cast from her own family of origin in Cork, Ireland at age seven, she [Nana] journeyed to America with a loving uncle only be thrust into the role of servant girl by his less-than-loving stateside wife. Resilient to her core, she found for herself a surrogate family down the road, through her friendship with another little girl named Mary.” (from “Heaven Beneath Her Feet,” MA) "Claire Keeler has been in the ground thirty-four years this Holy Saturday. It still snows in March in Minneapolis. I no longer live above her in the old duplex, which has passed into careless hands. But each Saint Patrick’s Day, I sit down at her table and we have an Irish whisky … neat." (from "Irish Whiskey, Neat," RC) |
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