Excerpt from Man on the Balcony.

29. June 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Hello everyone. With all the concern regarding the oil spill in the Gulf and the Grande Isle area of Louisiana, I thought you might enjoy reading this excerpt from my novel that pertains to the flora and fauna, and the people who make their living in that unique area of our country.  The book is a novel but the descriptions are from personal observation.  ENJOY!

CHAPTER 29: (An artist’s visit to the bayou country in search of painting inspiration.)

“At daybreak, Maggie and Flora left the bustling Big Easy and headed out for a day of sightseeing, sketching, photo taking and camaraderie. The two-lane highway snaked alongside lazy bayous, the monotony often interrupted by narrow drawbridges, small towns and wide expanses of marshland. As they passed through Westwego, Raceland, Lockport and LaRose, shrimp boats of every size and description hugged the banks of the waterways, resting from a busy week of harvesting delicious fruits of the sea.

Along Bayou Lafourche, the large shrimp boats were mostly painted white with a diverse selection of names painted on the back or side. Some logos were clever and funny, usually female names, and some were writen in French. Long, saltwater fishing-sized rods extended skyward from the stern. Massive airing shrimp nets draped the vessels like clumps of wet Spanish moss. On each side of the bayou, small cottages and framed houses vied for attention with larger and more impressive homes. Much like the houses, the boats came in every size and color, some requiring a large crew, some showing scars from frequent tropical storms or hurricanes, yet adequate for personal use. Flora explained that some of the larger shrimp boats were more valuable than the homes of the owners.

“Seafood festivals draw hungry crowds from miles around. Then we have a yearly “blessing” of the shrimp boats when they are dressed up like Mardi Gras floats, and parade the waterway with style. The priest stands on top of a bridge and offers the blessing as the boats glide beneath.”

“Sounds like a great idea for a painting.”

“It would certainly be colorful,” Flora replied.

After driving for about two hours from New Orleans, they entered the small bayou town of Golden Meadow, Flora’s former home. If they chose to go further they would end up in Grand Isle, the furthermost marshy land mass in Louisiana. Here, the bayou was wider, with boats lined up on both sides of the canal. Flora pointed out a large, shiny white craft, the stern covered with blue canvas awning. 

“That’s my son’s boat.”

Maggie laughed when she saw the clever logo below the stern: MARK AND TWAIN, Golden Meadow, La. A small boat was attached to the side to serve as added security in case of a nautical mishap.

Mark’s home, a few feet from the water, was a one-story bayou house with white siding. A double carport held a late model Honda Accord. A long porch spanned the structure and held a dated but well maintained glider and two rockers painted in Mediterranean blue. The home was as well maintained as his boat but there was no question about which he loved the most. Maggie learned that the house originally belonged to Flora who sold it to Mark after her husband died.

Mark took Maggie for a tour of the Mark and Twain.   With an eye patch, Maggie thought he would look like a swashbuckling pirate in spite of his white shorts and t-shirt. His attire did much to show off his tanned and muscular physique. He explained the workings of the boat, how the nets were used for trawling, and the culling process where the marketable seafood was immediately put on ice, and the remainder returned to the sea.

“It’s hard work, but I can’t imagine doing anything else. Doesn’t leave much time for a personal life, however, but that’s just as well.” He didn’t elaborate and Maggie didn’t ask.

She placed her hands firmly on each side of the wheel and imagined how powerful one would feel guiding the impressive craft through the long channels into the open sea. She understood why Mark loved his life on the bayou, away from the noise and fray of the city. The briny smell of the sea and seagulls flying overhead cleared her mind in minutes. Mark went to a bait chest and gave her a handful of small shrimp to feed the gulls. “The gulls are all right as long as they don’t poop on my boat.” Sensing there was a banquet in progress, large brown pelicans arrived to join the gulls in the delightful but noisy feasting and frolicking.

When the shrimp were devoured, the pelicans took up vigil atop the wooden pilings. Mark came up behind her with keys in hand. She felt his chest against her shoulder when he leaned over and inserted the key. “Turn it on, you’ll get a better feel for it.” He stood close by as the powerful twin engines came to life, the propellers churning the water into an agitating muddy eruption. Maggie felt the vibration in every sinew of her body. Overcome by the power of the boat, she turned the key and handed it back to him. Her hands smelled of the sea, the odor blending with a spicy fragrance of aftershave before merging with the fresh clean-smelling breezes of the bayou.

“Do you have something to drink?” she asked, feeling a need to steer the moment into safer waters.

He disappeared into the galley and returned holding a beer in one hand and a Coke in the other. “You don’t look like a beer drinking kind of girl,” he said. They eyes held until she turned away.

“What’s life like here on the bayou?” she asked.

“Oh, we’re a close knit group around here. We hang together in good times and bad. Seafood harvesting is our lives. Saturday nights, when we aren’t too tired, we gather at a local tavern, listen to zydeco music, dance and flirt with the local girls. If we’ve had a bad week on the water, we might even drink too many beers and have to be driven home by a fellow shrimper. This is a mostly catholic community and we take the Blessing of the Shrimp Boats seriously. We also take hurricanes seriously. They visit quite frequently.”

“What do you do with your boat during a storm? You can’t exactly store this big thing in your garage.”

“The boats usually fare better than the homes. We batten down the hatches, scientifically adjust the anchor lines so she can move with the tide without sinking. Then we do a lot of praying. Smaller boats are usually moved into a more sheltered canal where they can ride out the winds without damaging other boats. This one has survived two bad storms without major damage.”

Mark became quiet for a while, deep in thought as he watched the easy-waltzing white clouds overhead. “You know, Maggie, it’s the same with boats as it is with people; to survive, you ride out the storms.”

He wondered what she would do if he kissed her, and she wondered if he would let her paint him. They were oceans apart.

“Have you always lived here on the bayou?”

He nodded. “For generations, we have made our living harvesting the sea. I can’t imagine it changing. I have two nephews who can’t wait to finish school so they can take to the briny deep. Mark and Twain will be paid for in another year. I make good money and I like to live simply. I don’t need the city with fancy houses and cars that seem so important to other people. I love being out in the open gulf, just my partner, the seagulls, an occasional family of dolphin, and me. Out there, all the ugliness in the rest of the world disappears leaving only beauty, peace and tranquility. Some days I stay out as long as I can just to experience the sunsets over the marsh on my way home. What more could one ask for?”

“I’ve never been happier than I am now,” Maggie replied. “Yes, my art is enough.”

“We’re a lot alike. The sea is as much in my blood as the smell of paint is in yours.”

Later, back at the house, they were welcomed by delicious smelling odors including the hot spicy scent of Zataran’s crab boil that no native cook would dare be without. They found Flora in the kitchen surrounded by pots and skillets and happy as a pirate with a new bag of treasures. On the table, she placed a large serving dish filled to the rim with a steaming concoction prepared in a rice base.

The three of them feasted on jambalaya, file gumbo, shrimp Creole, boiled crawfish, and spirited conversation. The two hour meal was brought to a close with bread pudding smothered in whiskey sauce. Mark was in heaven and Maggie couldn’t imagine ever eating again.           End of  Chapter 29.

I hope this gave you a feel for “life on the bayou” and the importance of solving the oil spill problem immediately. We have only begun to feel the impact of this disaster.

If you haven’t read Man on the Balcony, the book is still available through Author House.com, Amazon.com or your favorite book seller. For autographed copies contact me personally at MariePin001@comcast.net.  My latest novel, Spanish Moss, is also set in New Orleans with bayou country connections. Thank you for reading and feel free to leave a comment or question. Have a great summer.  Marie

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LIFE’S IRONIES

8. June 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Some of life’s most troublesome happenings are chalked up to fate, serendipity, paying the piper, God’s punishment, or if you’re of a more complacent nature - just the law of averages. I’m thinking at the moment of the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and the number of humans and wild life it has and will continue to devastate.

 New Orleans and environs have had their share of tragedy. I lived there for eleven years and had good friends in the Galliano and Grand Isle area. My husband, on occasion, escaped his medical responsibilities in New Orleans by spending a day on a shrimp boat with a Cajun patient, arriving home with an ice chest of fresh shrimp and blue crabs straight from the waters of the Gulf - fruits of the sea unsurpassed in taste and freshness. I now wonder how the warm and friendly residents of that area, as well as those in other Gulf towns depending on the marvelous waters for their livlihood, will cope during this lingering crisis.

The extent of this tragedy can only be fully realized by observing the miles and miles of colorful net-draped shrimp boats lined up along the banks of bayous; vessels of every size, color and monetary value. At daybreak, families of pelicans languidly perch on pilings like finials to wish a bon voyage to the skippers, and at end of day enthusiastically welcome them home knowing that treats of fish will be thrown to them like Mardi Gras beads from a carnival float. Their satiated bodies will then succumb to the night as another gorgeous sunset tints the flat, marshy land with warmth. Along with seagulls, ibis and herons they put their faith in the promise of another sunrise and continued nourishment from the lands and waterways that make up their habitat. Is even their faith now at stake?

This is not just another news story any more than the tragedy of Katrina, and this brings me to my subject of ironies. The morning the levees broke in New Orleans, I had just finished writing a novel, Man on the Balcony, with much of the setting in The Crescent City. I remember thinking how quickly that event dated my story, since New Orleans would never be the same. My third novel, Spanish Moss, released in September, takes place in The Garden District and the story line contains considerable prose about the Bayou Country and its Cajun inhabitants; the beauty and uniqueness seen through the eyes of an artist. Ironic timing; probably - yet insignificant compared to the irony of a second tragedy to the coast line of Louisiana and now threatening, as well, the entire framework of the Gulf of Mexico, including our Florida beaches. The possibility that the destructive tentacles of this man-made monster could also threaten the Eastern shores boggles the imagination - and who can guess the fallout from another active hurricane season?

It seems to me we should be better prepared for the “what ifs” of life. A surgeon goes into the operating room prepared with knowledge of a second course of action should a procedure go wrong or he’s confronted with the unexpected. Shouldn’t our governments and industry be better prepared for ironic or unexpected possibilities when the stakes are so high for so many? Should those in charge be allowed to sink their heads in the sands of complacency, in a state of denial, or asleep at the wheel? Is this America, or a third world country that has to depend on outside resources for salvation? Granted, the oil spill was a rare occurrence, but it’s the rare occurences that shock us with their devastating sequelae.

Perhaps it’s time to return to the tried and true motto of the Boy Scouts of America: BE PREPARED.          ********

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May Newsletter

17. May 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

HELLO to all.  I want to take this opportunity to THANK YOU for your interest in my site and in my activities -painting and writing. I hope you will continue to find my comments useful and encouraging. Also, if there is a topic you would like to suggest for discussion, questions you would like answered, or just feel like expressing yourself, please feel free to respond. You may click onto the “comment” at the end of each entry, or contact me privately. I always enjoy hearing from other painters and writers, but also from those of you who appreciate and find enjoyment in the works of others. It doesn’t have  to be about art - tell me about your favorite activity, or send me your favorite recipe.  If you would like more New Orleans recipes, just ask.

 It has been a busy winter season here in south Florida with the snowbirds (I use that term without malice) sharing our sunshine, sports of all kinds, shopping, as well as tropical sea breezes and sandy beaches. Now, they have returned to their various homes in the north, and I find it a great time for catching up on domestic and artistic chores. I may even start another book since the main character is entering my thoughts more often than is comfortable - demanding to be heard.

My next project is a wedding portrait; a happy couple who want to preserve their special day for their children and grandchildren. No matter how many commissions I do, there is always a bit of apprehension and insecurity before I put brush to canvas. But one must overcome the usually unwarranted “fear of failure” and get on with the job at hand. After finishing a portrait, I find it necessary to de-stress by painting something abstract or inhuman like a landscape or still life.

All creative activity has a tendency to take one into another world where worries and cares are forgotten for a time. Perhaps that is why writers and painters never “retire”. In fact, I’m so preoccupied when painting or writing that I jump when interrupted. I forget time; I forget to eat (new fad diet?); I make a cup of tea and forget to drink it - in fact, I’ve even attempted to clean my brush in a cup of tea. Don’t try it - it doesn’t work and could be dangerous to your health. Frankly, in this time of unrest throughout the world, and in order to preserve our physical and mental health, we need to have short periods, at least, of pleasurable distraction. I’m a huge fan of journaling and always carry a small note pad to jot down thoughts while waiting for the doctor, the dentist, the car repairman, or for the coffee to brew. Much can be learned by watching the activities of strangers, or observing the awesome complexities of nature.

Summer is a good time to re-assess the world around you, set priorities by deciding what is important in your life, spend time with family and friends, read a book - or write one, visit a gallery and learn more about art - or even more exciting - create your own art. It’s never too late to be a kid again.

June will soon be “busting out all over” and I wish all of you a renewal of spirit as you “bloom where you’re planted”.    xxxxxx

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Quotes

27. March 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” Ben Franklin

“Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others.” Robert L. Stevenson

“Well done is better than well said.” RLS

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Michaelangelo

27. March 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Michaelangelo said “Lord, grant that I may always desire more than I can accomplish”.  He proved that great DESIRE can bring about amazing RESULTS.  However, desiring to be, thinking or talking about it does not make a writer, artist or world class swimmer. I like to think that I write/paint; therefore I am. It’s the doing that makes it so.

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HAVE YOU LOST YOUR JOY?

27. March 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

In an era of political and social unrest, breakdown of morals and increased crime, it’s easy to lose our JOY. Lately I have noticed a shortage of individuals who appear to be enjoying themselves. We tend to concentrate on things that are wrong in our personal lives as well as the outside world. We seem to have lost touch with ourselves and most of the things that bring happiness are overshadowed by worry and unrest. I’m not saying the things robbing us of our JOY are unimportant or don’t need to be addressed and dealt with in an effective manner; but in order to preserve our mental and physical health, perhaps we need to reassess our attitude as well as how we spend our time.

How many of you live or have lived on a farm? How many write, paint, dance, decorate, or engage in sports? How many wish you had time for more creative activities ? How many have a great idea for a book. When I talk to a group it is amazing how many hands go up in response to that question.  Do you want to be a writer, or do you want to have been a writer. Most of us fail to do the required work so only dream of the latter.

Perhaps we should approach life like a railroad crossing and stop, look, and listen. How often do you look at the sky and study the constantly changing clouds? Do you ever yearn to be removed from human language, the constant interference by all our modern technological tools?

Like writers and painters, we must soak in or absorb scent, sight, sounds and textures. Get in closer contact with self. How does your skin respond to temperature change, or the brush of a leaf against your forehead? Is it possible to reawaken our nerve endings to the sensations we experienced in childhood?

We humans are the only animals on earth unhappy with ourselves. Does a white-tailed deer want to look like a hippo, or a porcupine like a gazelle? There is too much emphasis on beauty - fitting the mold of acceptability. What if all wild animals looked alike? Can you imagine how boring nature would be if there were only one species of trees or flowers? Can’t we celebrate our uniqueness; open our hearts wide to other possibilities? Even hurting means we’re alive.

We fret about physical attributes. Who decides what is physically acceptable and what isn’t? They should be voted out of office. Why do we allow the opinions of others to rob us of our JOY? We’re too short, too bald, too childish, a stuffed-shirt, a slob, and the most troubling one - too fat. Consider a WATERMELON. It doesn’t mind being fat - we choose the fattest one at the market. A watermelon is GENEROUS - it begs you to eat it! A PEACH is also generous, juicy; its nectar fills you with JOY. Lets show the world we’re a PEACH not a PARSNIP!

DISCOUNT THINGS THAT TAKE TOO MUCH TIME! What if we had to peel grapes? I don’t even buy ones with seeds!

REINVENT YOUR CHILDHOOD: I’ve found JOY in a field of cosmos, or as a child, walking in the woods and finding may-apples hiding beneath umbrella-like leaves,  or picking blackberries. Eating my mother’s fresh blackberry cobblers brought a special JOY. Watching fog lift to reveal a field of Queen Ann’s lace, or fog wrapping itself around a lamp post on an empty city street can bring JOY. Think of a bus driver - a lonely job before the city awakens. I’ll bet he finds JOY in the solitude, the stillness before the traffic and blasting horns invade his day. What is more JOYFUL than seeing, feeling, or smelling the blossoms of orange or other fruit trees? How often do you go the beach and drink in a sunrise or sunset - all by yourself?

Creative action of any kind can bring JOY not only for ourselves but to the observers as well.  In a topsy-turvy world and uncertain future, I challenge you to briefly revisit and reclaim the things in your past that brought you JOY. Only if we open our eyes to the beauty of the world, and embrace nature and all living things, can we expect to maintain a JOYFUL future.

Would you take a moment and share with me how you maintain JOY in your life, and indicate whether I can share your response with others?

Thank you, and may SPRING bring you a special JOY.    ““““` 

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FAULT

12. March 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Some words are soft, sweet-sounding and melodious while others are harsh, rasping, an assault to our ears. The word FAULT is among the latter. Whether a fault in the earth’s crust capable of causing destruction and chaos, or a human act of violence, fault is a word we find difficult to embrace.  Following the recent horrendous earthquake in Chile, we waited with a mixture of fear and awe for a predicted “great wave”, or tsunami, to hit Hawaii. Our airwaves are polluted with reports of political and personal scandals involving elected officials and other celebrity. We believe their words and trust their good judgment only to have our expectations shaken, broken and cracked open at some later date.

How many of us have the courage to admit blame when we stray from our path and find our character and reputation compromised because we took the wrong behavioral turn?

“It wasn’t my fault” is heard repeatedly from the mouths of people of all ages, from children to senior citizen. In childhood an object is broken, someone sustains an injury, a sibling cries, and the first thing the parent hears is, “It wasn’t my fault”. Often the denial is true, but more often it’s a self-protecting method of shifting the blame. We seem to have been born with this human trait and it follows us throughout our entire life. Being found at fault for childhood pranks, teenage misdemeanors or hard crimes in adulthood is something most of us either fear, or are in a state of denial that we’re doing anything wrong.

If we’re blameless, then where does the fault lie? On an innocent bystander, someone who just happened to be near the scene of the crime? Innocent children are often punished for acts they did not commit, and innocent men and women have gone to prison or put to death for acts that were no fault of their own. Once that awful word “fault” is tethered to a reputation, it might as well be written in indelible ink for the life is usually forever changed. No wonder we are quick to defend ourselves at every turn.

How often do we hear “fault” blamed on parents by their children, or by parents in defense of their children? It’s the “fault” of society, the “fault” of poverty, mistreatment, or lack of education. Fault is often blamed on having too much wealth, too much social recognition, “spoiled rotten by parents or grandparents”, etc, etc. Parents are often unfairly faulted when their children do not turn out as expected by society. Our media celebrities and sport figures fault their fall from grace on substance abuse, physical or mental insufficiencies, childhood neglect or poverty, etc, etc. More and more often members of society accept these explanations, or excuses, and are quick to forgive.

In our political arena, “fault” is placed on an opposing party or one news media over another. The government spends too much money or not enough. One party is made up of brilliant minds and the other a bunch of idiots. Please! It’s like a second grader telling his teacher the dog ate his homework. Where does it all end? Does blame-placing, twisting the truth or downright lying serve any useful purpose? Or does it only postpone the inevitable - a time when truth is finally forced to the forefront for the world to absorb, leaving us disappointed or disgusted, and instilling in us a reluctance to believe anything we hear or read. In an attempt to save face, stall for time, hoping it will just go away, we pray that daddy or mommie will come home, take our side and place the fault on someone else. How often do we hear, “The fault is entirely mine, I accept the blame, and I accept the punishment?” Period! Not often enough, I fear.

FAULT is a hard, harsh word, whether found in the earth’s crust or in the human experience. We can change neither, but perhaps the world would sleep better at night if more of us strived to avoid even the “appearance of evil”. When the fault is ours, let us be quick to claim it, allow the innocent to remain so, and get on with the business of restoring once again our belief in humanity.

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Trivia

5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Stephen King, prior to becoming famous for his writing, worked at a gas station, and in a laundramat. His wife worked at Dunkin’ Donuts. His writing office was the furnace room of his trailer home. “CARRIE” was published in 1973, “THE SHINING” in 1977.  Paperback rights for CARRIE sold for $400,000 and the only thing he could think of to buy was a hair dryer for his wife!

THREE KEYS TO SUCCESS, according to U. S. International University Prof. Robert Epstein, are:

1. MODIFY YOUR  ENVIRONMENT. 2. MONITOR YOUR BEHAVIOR, 3. MAKE COMMITMENTS.

Today, choose one thing you’d like to change about yourself,  choose which one of the above would most help you make the change, and then use it.

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Excerpt from SPANISH MOSS

5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Since my books are about LOVE, for Valentine’s Day I’m sharing a scene from my latest book. I admit I’m a hopeless romantic and offer no apology.

Maggie is being given a tour of Jack’s home:

Page 174: Jack was pleased at how she moved about his things, studying the house with genuine interest. His gaze followed her from room to room; his imaginization seeing her waiting when he came home at night. Steady, Jack, don’t get carried away.

At the back of the house, a rectangular-shaped window-filled room overlooked a large secluded garden. Two towering magnolia trees stood like sentinels at each back corner of the yard. Pink and white oleanders softened an enclosing brick fence. A seemingly abandoned guest cottage with a front porch sat intimately between the magnolias.

      “I think your house has great possibilities, Jack. It has charm and more than adequate space to work with. What more could you want?”

     They walked out onto a covered porch. Jack watched as Megan wandered into the yrd alone, observing the various azalea bushes, gardenias, and a bed of neglected amaryllis.

     She continued around to the side of the charming cottage, wondering what stories it held within its walls. Against the brick fence an overgrown passion vine crept up the wall and attached itself to the back of the cottage. She picked one of the colorful blossoms, remembering they lasted only three days, representing the three years of Christ’s ministry on earth.

     She looked back toward the porch and stopped dead in her tracks. Jack leaned against a column, his legs crossed at the ankles like he’s just stepped out of a romance novel. Black jeans and black polo shirt did nothing to conceal his marvelous physique. The only thing missing was a long, cool, mint julep in his hand.

     This near perfect man, a vision of contentment and masculinity removed what appeared to be a white meerschaum pipe from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Megan watched as he filled it with tobacco, tapped it down with his forefinger, brought forth a lighter and held it over the bowl while he took deep puffs until it was satisfactorily lit.

     “Jack, what are you doing?” A heart doctor smoking? So, he wasn’t perfect after all.

     “What do you mean? I’m standing here watching a very fetching wood nymph explore my garden.”

     “That pipe.”

     Jack laughed. “Do you mind? It’s my one vice. You women console yourselves with chocolates; I occasionally relax with my pipe.”

     Megan smelled the familiar sweet aroma as she drew closer. Grandfather smoked a pipe and he lived to be ninety-three.

     “Does it offend you?”

     “Not at all; I like it, in fact.” What was not to like.

     She joined him on the porch, breathed deeply of the fragrance, and told him about her grandfather. “I’m just surprised that you would smoke.”

     “Only occasionally.” He held the bowl in his nicely sculptured hand and studied it like an old friend. “I follow the same advice I give my patients - don’t smoke cigarettes.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “And I don’t inhale.”

     If smoking a pipe was his only vice, how could she object? Besides, it added one more aspect to his masculinity profile. Also, a pipe was a perfect prop for a writer. Good Lord - a physician, a pianist, a singer, unparalleled charm, as well as a would-be writer. Her heart didn’t stand a chance.

     “What have we here?” he asked as he took the red flower and placed it above her ear.

     “It’s called a passionflower,” she told him, with emphasis on passion. She knew she was flirting but couldn’t have cared less.

     “Really; and why is that?”

     She ignored his teasing, removed the flower from her hair and held it up to show why the flower was so named. “Seriously, the red symbolizes the blood of Christ shed on the cross. See, it has ten petals and sepals that represent the ten apostles present at the crucifixion; the five stamens represent the five wounds, and three styles represent the three nails. These tendrils represent the ropes and scourges; and three secondary leaf bracts - the holy trinity.”

     “That’s amazing. So you’re not only an artist, you’re also an horticulturist and a student of divinity?”

     Megan turned and looked out over the yard. “No, not really, but I do enjoy gardening and the study of flora and fauna. With a little attention, this yard could be lovely.”

     “You can dig in my garden anytime you wish.” He took the flower and gently placed it back in her hair.   Etc.

 Please leave a comment, ask a question, or otherwise inquire about my painting and writing. And, may love be good to you.

Marie

    

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SAINTS AND LOVERS

5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Remember when you were a kid and spent hours making valentine cards, and how excited you were to receive the red heart with a cupid’s arrow from the cutest boy or girl in class, and the giggles and teasing that went along with it? Then, so quickly, we were grown up and the emphasis was on the red cellophane-covered box of chocolates, or a bouquet of red roses if we were abundantly cherished.

Regardless of age, we recall things as they used to be, the endless possibilities for a life filled with love - that one perfect love. In my youth, I don’t recall there was much ado about the fact that it all began with a Saint? Even today, we seldom hear the word associated with Valentine’s Day. Allow me to remind you of the origin of this special love-filled day of celebration. 

And so the legend goes: Long ago, a man named Saint Valentine died for his beliefs. He was a prisoner of an evil king because of his belief in God. He refused to deny it; but then God sent a miracle.

Saint Valentine had a great love for his wife and wanted her to know of his love one last time before his execution. One day a pigeon appeared at the prison window - a pigeon he recognized as one from his home. Before his imprisonment, he and his children loved to feed the birds and this special one would eat right out of their hand. The appearance of his little friend brought him much comfort. He shared bits of food with the spotted creature and wondered about his problem - how he could prove his love.

A rosebush also grew near the prison window and on it bloomed one beautiful red rose. It was so close he could touch it and smell its fragrance. It reminded him of the love he felt for his wife. Since he had neither paper or pen, he wondered how he might get a message to her. Then an idea came to him; he could share the rose with his wife. He reached through the bars and carefully plucked the rose from the stem. Thorns pricked his fingers until they bled, but he didn’t feel the pain.

He decided to write words of love on the rose petals and give them to the pigeon, and hoped the bird would take the petals and fly away to his house. He held onto the hope that his wife would find them and know that he still loved her.

His prison bed was a lowly pile of straw. He plucked a piece of straw and used the sharp end to press the words, “I love you” on the petals of the rose. The bird would take the petals from his hand and quickly fly away. He continued this every day until all the petals were gone. 

On the appointed day for his execution, emissaries of the king asked him again if he would renounce his belief in God. He refused to do so. Guards removed Saint Valentine from his cell and cut off his head. He had been true and faithful, true to his love for his wife, true to his love for his God. True love demanded a price and he paid it.

Great iron bars at the window kept the prisoner in, but the bars did not keep Saint Valentine from sending out his love. Saint Valentine was free.

 You might ask, “If he were in prison with bars at the window, how could he be free?”

The ansswer is: When you love, and when you believe in something as strongly as did Saint Valentine, no one can lock away your love. A jailor can imprison you, but not your feelings; they remain safe in your heart.

When bad things happen, if a person feels love for someone and believes in something, his belief sets him free. The Valentine card is a symbol of love for others and the rose is a symbol of hope and the sharing of that love.

When you see a rose, think of how Saint Valentine loved his wife and family, then look for someone you can love in the same way. Every rose will then have a special meaning. Bleeding from thorns shouldn’t hurt; they are an important part of life. Love is more meaningful and grows stronger if one can overcome the thorns.

To quote James Michael Pratt, the author of  THE LAST VALENTINE, “As long as love is alive, the dead never die. It’s not in the end alone that we love, but along the way. A love that endures the thorns of life calls out to us. When we listen, it lights the ground on which we walk and we know that we’re not alone. When the flame of life flickers out and is no more, the love you showed to others will light the ground for them to walk upon.” 

I wish all of you a love-filled Valentine’s Day. Since I write books about love, this particular celebratory day is special to me.  Cherish that special love if you have it, and don’t give up hope if you have yet to experience it. And remember, if there are no pigeons nearby, there are numerous ways you can send out the message of love to those around you.

Until next time - Marie

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