News of California Gold Decimates the Population of Oregon

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Word of the Sutter’s Fort gold discovery reached Oregon in the summer of 1848. Oregon learned of the gold finds indirectly, not from travelers arriving straight from California.

Ships from California came to Oregon after stopping in Hawaii that summer. They brought the news about the gold. In July 1848, the brig Honolulu docked at Fort Vancouver in Oregon. The captain bought all the mining supplies he could find, intending to hurry to California and sell them at a huge profit. He claimed to want to supply coal miners, but word of the gold mines leaked out.

Siskiyou Trail (from Wikipedia)

Siskiyou Trail (from Wikipedia)

Oregonians then flocked to the gold fields. Men traveled from Oregon City and other points north down the Siskiyou Trail to California. (Interstate 5 follows the same approximate route from the Willamette Valley to California’s Central Valley.)

Their journey took several weeks. The Siskiyou Trail began as Native American footpaths along river valleys. It was so rugged that at first only mules and horses could make the way through the Siskiyou Mountains (in southern Oregon and northern California). A good day of travel meant covering fifteen to twenty miles of the 600 miles journey.

But soon wagon trains as long as those that had followed the Oregon Trail made the trip to Sutter’s Fort and the burgeoning town of Sacramento. Wagons took even longer to make the trip—a couple of months at best.

Despite the rigors of the trail, by the end of 1848, two-thirds of all adult males in Oregon had left for California to seek their fortunes. These men were adventurers by nature. Most of them had made the dangerous journey from the East to Oregon within the past five years. Still, desertion of their new home of this magnitude left Oregon bereft.

The Oregon Spectator, October 21, 1848, page 2

The Oregon Spectator, October 12, 1848, page 2

By September 7, 1848, The Oregon Spectator, the first newspaper published west of the Rockies, had to shut its operations for several weeks, just as the San Francisco papers had halted publication earlier in the spring.

Oregon farms could not harvest their crops. The families that remained in Oregon suffered from the loss of labor and a lack customers for their produce.

The Whitman Massacre was forgotten. The militia that had fought the Cayuse Indians was disbanded. It would take another two years before five Indians were hung for the crime.

All in the lust for gold.

When The Oregon Spectator resumed printing on October 12, 1848, the editors apologized:

The Spectator, after a temporary sickness, greets its patrons, and hopes to serve them faithfully, and as heretofore, regularly. That ‘gold fever’ which has swept about 3000 of her officers, lawyers, physicians, farmers, and mechanics of Oregon from the plains of Oregon into the mines of California, took away our printers.

The publishers went on to say:

Some of our fellow citizens express their fears that Oregon has been ruined, by the discovery of the late extensive gone mines of California. They ask—who will cultivate the ground when from $10 to $100 per day can be realized at the mines?

After waxing eloquent about the many advantages of Oregon, the editors said:

Oregon is temporarily injured by reason of so many of her citizens having left their farms, and shops, for the purpose of gold digging; but only temporarily.

The editors firmly believed in the bounty of Oregonian land, for not only the West, but for the nation as a whole. They argued that in the future Oregon would be seen for its great capacity to feed the nation.

[I]s such a country ruined, because gold mines are discovered in the neighborhood? Surely not; it should rather be regarded as a rich blessing, at the hands of the great, and wise Ruler of the Universe.

“All that Oregon has wanted, was a good market, the facilities for carrying her goods to market, and the protecting care of the home government; the home government, we trust, is about to extend her fostering care, the mines have already brought the desired market, the mines will bring facilities for carrying provisions to the mines; and the mines will materially contribute to make Oregon known, and develop her great resources.

Meanwhile, news of Californian gold reached back East. The St. Louis paper reported the gold find on August 8. The New York Herald reported the news on August 19. The Herald’s story was the first major East Coast mention of the gold discovery. However, its report was not confirmed, and did not immediately elicit any mass migration.

That would soon change.

Have you ever heard news that turned your life quickly from one path to another?

Break a Leg (Or At Least a Foot)

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An aerobics class; not mine.

An aerobics class; not mine.

Those of you who have read my story “Competitive Yoga” in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Shaping the New You (story available online here, and book available from Amazon here), know that I took up yoga several years ago. You also know that I hate exercise.

My experience described in “Competitive Yoga” was not the first time I made a foray into regular trips to a gymnasium. In my mid-thirties, after constant nagging by my husband (an exercise fiend who currently works out strenuously six times a week), I tried an aerobics class.

Actually, I tried several aerobics classes, but there was only one instructor I could follow. The others jumped around too much, and their routines were hard for me or too complicated. But Debbie—though she adopted the cheerleader yell approach to leadership—was easy to follow and only changed her routines every couple of months.

I still had a full-time day job at the time, and although Debbie taught evening classes three times a week, I was lucky to make it to the gym once a week. But I kept at it. For four years.

And felt quite proud of myself for my perseverance.

Then on Monday, August 28, 1995, Debbie announced that for family reasons she could no longer teach the evening class I attended.

I groaned. How was I going to find another aerobics instructor I could follow?

“I guess I’ll have to find some reason to stop aerobics,” I told her as I thanked her after class that evening.

On Tuesday, August 29, 1995, I broke my foot.

Now mind you, it wasn’t a deliberate act on my part. It was the end of a very horrible and rotten day.

My day at work had been long and hard. Several messy lawsuits in the middle of discovery, and I was scheduled to give a management training presentation on workplace violence the next morning.

I came home that Tuesday evening to find the hanger rod on my side of the closet in the master bedroom had pulled out of the wall, dumping all my clothes on the floor. My husband took the opportunity to complain about the volume and weight of all the clothes I owned.

And after dinner my checkbook wouldn’t balance. It was $10.00 off. (This was back in the days before online banking, when people actually balanced their checkbooks.) I went through it several times and could not find the error.

I was tired and cranky.

I carried the bank statement down the stairs, staring at it to see if my missing $10.00 would magically appear. In trying to count my pennies, I failed to count the stairs, and I missed the last one.

CRACK!

I heard the bone snap.

I immediately went into shock.

I yelled for my husband, who came running.

From the top of the stairs, my ten- and thirteen-year-old children stared wide-eyed as I laid on the floor shivering, my head on the floor and my injured foot raised on the step above me. They’d never seen Mom laid low before.

“I’ll take you to the ER,” my husband said. “Kids, get yourselves to bed.” He found me some shoes (I only put on one) and my purse, carried me and the purse and unneeded shoe to the garage, and sat me in the front seat of his car.

My teeth still chattered, and I babbled incoherently.

We sat for three hours in the suburban hospital Emergency Room nearest our home.

crutches“It’s cracked,” the ER doctor told me. “But you can put as much weight on it as you can tolerate. No need for a cast—here’s a padded shoe. Keep it elevated, and let’s fit you for crutches.”

“Should I stay home from work tomorrow?” I asked. I was out of shock and a little more rational after three hours of sitting, and worried about my presentation at work the next day. But it was two hours past my bedtime, and I hurt and I was exhausted. I needed to get to work, but I knew I would be wiped out.

The doctor looked guarded. I think he was used to people wanting to drum up excuses to stay home from work, but I just wanted to know if I had to find a midnight substitute for my management training program. “It’s up to you. I’ll write you an excuse if you need it.”

I was my employer’s expert on the Family and Medical Leave Act. I knew what documentation I needed for the absence. But even if I missed the presentation, how many days would a broken foot keep me out of work? Surely not the “more than three days” required for an FMLA absence. “Not a problem,” I said.

“Here’s some Tylenol 3 for the pain, and a referral to an orthopedic group,” he said. “You should make an appointment with them later in the week.” And he sent me home.

I decided I was too tired to go to work the next day, so I left voice mails messages for a couple of possible substitute presenters. I missed the training program on Wednesday, but had lots of return messages asking whether workplace violence had caused my injury and whether I had completed my FMLA paperwork.

I couldn’t get in to see the orthopedic doctor until Thursday, so I hobbled around my house until then.

“No way should you be on that foot,” the orthopedic surgeon told me on Thursday. “You’ve damaged your ligaments. You’ll need to be in a cast for at least six weeks. No weight bearing on that leg. But your foot is too swollen to cast today. Come back next Tuesday after Labor Day to get your cast.”

So that’s how long a broken foot kept me out of work—from the Tuesday evening when I broke it until the following Tuesday after I was put in the cast.

And it kept me out of aerobics far longer—over eight years, to be precise, from August 1995 until September 2003, when my second stint at the gym began. I didn’t really start yoga until the start of 2007.

What desperate measures have you taken to avoid something you didn’t want to do?

Parenting the Parents: On Being a Sounding Board

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free-vector-man-and-woman-icon-clip-art_116853_Man_And_Woman_Icon_clip_art_hightAugust 1979, thirty-five years ago this month, was the first time I felt I was more of an adult than my parents. After my husband and I graduated from law school and took the bar exam, he had to go on his two weeks’ annual training with the Naval Reserves, and I went to visit my parents.

My parents were typically rational people, and they’d known each other since high school. I thought they didn’t have any secrets from each other. (I’d only been married twenty-one months at the time—I hadn’t yet realized that a few little secrets are good for a marriage.)

During my trip to see my parents that summer, I learned that each of them had a secret they were keeping from the other. A big secret. And they each told their secrets to me.

My mother needed a hysterectomy, but she said, “don’t tell your father.” The surgery would require several weeks of recuperation, and my mother was my younger siblings’ chief chauffeur, as well as doing everything needed to keep the family’s home running smoothly.

My father was considering taking a new job across the state, but he said, “don’t tell your mother.” Any move from the house my parents had occupied for seventeen years would obviously impact the entire family.

In the wisdom of my twenty-three years of age and newlywed status, I knew these were secrets my parents needed to share. “Don’t you think you need to talk?” I told them both, in separate conversations.

Well, my parents did talk not long after I left to return to my home. My mother had the surgery and recovered just fine. My father took the new job, and the family worked out the transition to new home and schools.

And I learned that even responsible adults sometimes need a sounding board.

In the intervening years, I have encountered many more occasions when people I relied on have needed my attention and concern. My mother, as she declined with Alzheimer’s in her last few years. My father as he cared for her and now faces her estate issues. My husband as he dealt with his own disappointments in life. Bosses, who may have wanted to seem omnipotent, but needed to bounce ideas off someone they trusted before making information public.

The trick to being a good sounding board, I discovered, is to listen. I’m told I interrupt my family members too often. But I hope when it counts, I can listen.

I hope also that I can let others come to their own realization of the appropriate next steps. Sometimes they can use a nudge. But most people appreciate the opportunity to develop their next steps in their own time.

I can’t say my husband and I have always been completely open with each other in our thirty-seven years of marriage. We’re both introverted and like to think things through on our own. But I have always remembered those conversations with my parents in August 1979, and tried to be sure I didn’t keep big secrets from my husband.

And he’s usually a pretty good sounding board for me.

When have you served as a sounding board for others? When have you needed a sounding board yourself?

I’m a Guest Blogger Over at Jill Weatherholt’s Blog

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A friend I’ve come to know from blogging, Jill Weatherholt, asked me to be a guest blogger on her blog, and my post was published last Friday.

If the links don’t work, paste the following into your browser:

http://jillweatherholt.wordpress.com/2014/08/15/summer-spotlight-theresa-hupp/

I told Jill’s readers all about my novels and my blog. I also answered some questions for Jill, like what celebrity I look like and what I don’t understand about the opposite sex. (Doesn’t that make you want to read my answers?)

So head over to Jill’s blog to see what I had to say. And while you’re there, check out Jill’s own posts and those of her other guest bloggers this summer.

Did you find any other blogs on Jill’s site you’d like to follow?

 

 

A Picture I Wish I Had: Licorice Ice Cream

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A high-school friend of mine had only one older sister and didn’t understand the pains that younger siblings could be. She seemed to like being around my little sister and brother.

In the summer of 1972, my friend drove over to my house. She decided we should take my younger sister and brother to the Baskin Robbins store for ice cream. My sister was almost eight that summer, and my brother about four-and-a-half.

I protested, but my siblings were all in favor of the idea, and my parents gave permission. Off we went in my friend’s car, whether I was keen on the idea or not.

Baskin Robbins has always touted their thirty-one flavors, and 1972 was no exception.

licorice ice creamMy sister declared that she wanted licorice ice cream.

Our younger brother, who wanted whatever my sister wanted, decided he wanted licorice also.

Licorice ice cream is black—almost as black as the candy twists—and smells and tastes like the candy as well. My siblings liked licorice, so the smell and taste were all right.

But, as an experienced older sister and frequent babysitter, I knew what black could do to clothes and upholstery.

I protested again. To no avail.

“If they want licorice, they can have licorice,” my friend said.

“They’ll get it all over your car,” I argued.

“We’ll stay here till they’re done eating,” she said.

“Where will they sit?” I asked. Baskin Robbins didn’t have any indoor seating.

“They can sit on the hood of my car.”

My younger sister and brother had never been allowed to sit on the hood of a car before. They exuberantly agreed to this plan.

I was outnumbered.

It was a hot summer evening, and the ice cream began to melt immediately. And to drip.

At four-and-a-half, my little brother was not able to manage his drips. His shirt very quickly became covered in black ice cream.

At almost eight, my sister soon was unable to manage her drips as well. Her shirt was covered in black ice cream as well.

Soon the drips spread to their shorts.

The kids got sticky.

My friend laughed.

I went into Baskin Robbins for more napkins, and tried to clean them up.

“Don’t touch anything!” I ordered when we got back in the car.

We got them home and into the bathtub. I don’t think anything was permanently damaged, except for the shirts. And shorts.

The picture I wish I had is of my younger siblings covered in licorice ice cream. While my friend laughed, and I prematurely acted like the strict parent I later became.

What picture do you wish you had?

A Picture I Wish I Had: A Baby and Huckleberries

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Photo ©2008 Julie from Idaho. Permission via the Creative Commons 2.0 License

Photo ©2008 Julie from Idaho. Permission via the Creative Commons 2.0 License

A friend of mine in Washington State recently posted a picture of huckleberries she had picked. Now those of you who don’t live in the West may not even know what huckleberries are. You’ve heard of Huckleberry Finn, but did you ever wonder where the Huckleberry in his name came from?

(Actually, a little research indicates that some huckleberry varieties grow in the East also, but I will take a parochial attitude in this post and tell you that they can’t possibly be as good as western huckleberries.)

Huckleberries look like blueberries, but are smaller. And sweeter, in my opinion. And purple through and through. They are highly sought after by discerning humans and bears.

Huckleberries have not been domesticated, but have been picked in the wild from time immemorial until today. They are rampant in the hills around Coeur d’Alene Lake in Idaho.

Picture from Mermaids of the Lake; this site has a huckleberry pie recipe also

Picture from Mermaids of the Lake; this site has a huckleberry pie recipe also

One of our favorite activities on summer vacations at Coeur d’Alene was to boat from our cabin to Rockford Bay, where there was a little restaurant that served huckleberry pie. One teenager would waterski from the cabin until we reached the Bay. Then we’d stop, collect the skier, dock the boat, and traipse into the restaurant to order pie.

Some people liked it with ice cream. I typically just savored the sweet berries and flaky crust.

Today, when I visit Washington or Idaho or Montana, I eat huckleberry ice cream or milkshakes . . . or pie, when I can find it. And I try to bring home huckleberry jam or syrup.

When we summered in Idaho, we sometimes picked our own huckleberries, though that was a lot of work.

One summer day, my mother and I and the brother right behind me in age picked huckleberries. My sister was probably picking, too, though she was not quite five at the time, and I don’t remember her contributing many berries.

My baby brother, who was not yet two, was left on a blanket within sight. He was told to stay on the blanket. My recollection is that he mostly complied.

He mostly complied, because he had an incentive to stay on the blanket—the pickers dumped their full bowls of huckleberries into a large container that sat on the blanket beside him.

Baby brother wore a little yellow windbreaker to protect him from the cool mountain air. The jacket was probably a hand-me-down from my sister. I only remember it was yellow, because it didn’t stay yellow.

Baby brother got into the huckleberries stored in the large container on the blanket and ate his fill. Purple huckleberry juice stained the yellow windbreaker beyond repair.

That’s the picture I wish I had—the baby covered in huckleberry juice.

What picture do you wish you had?

Untold Stories From Pictures: A Brother-Sister Relationship

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One of my tasks before my mother’s recent funeral was to put together a slide show of her life. I’ve mentioned in an earlier post that my father and maternal grandfather both took many photographs over the years, so the problem was not finding pictures of my mother. She lived for 81 years, and there were pictures of her from babyhood until her last months.

The problem was that the photographs were in a variety of formats from snapshots to slides to 8mm movies [CORRECTION: 16mm] to digital, and even a newspaper clipping or two. Fortunately, my father had had the slides and movies digitized a couple of years ago.

Even more fortunately, cellphone cameras are so good these days that one can use a digital camera to take a picture of an old snapshot, crop it to remove any extraneous material, and thereby create a digital record of the snapshot . . . or just about anything else.

In fact, the digital image can be cropped to make a much more effective picture than the original. Or with photo editing programs, faces can be highlighted and smudges removed. (One does have to watch that glare doesn’t creep into the image, I found to my dismay.)

Still more fortunately yet, my mother’s mother had kept a photograph album of her children labeled with dates and locations. But she didn’t write the stories behind the pictures.

Here is one of the pictures from my mother’s childhood I found:

1938-2 circa 20140708_084539

My mother and her brother as children

I know this snapshot is of my mother and her brother. I know that it took place in 1938, when my mother was five and her brother seven. I know that they are sitting on the steps in front of their home.

But I have no idea what caused them to look so stubbornly away from each other when the photograph was taken.

My mother talked frequently of how her big brother teased her mercilessly when they were children. Since I was the oldest in our family, I really couldn’t relate to her stories.  I was the one who teased younger siblings as I was growing up.

But here is my mother’s and uncle’s relationship, preserved for posterity, after both of them are gone. I smile at it, and wonder . . . what would it have been like to be the little sister?

What pictures show you stories you would like to hear?

People to People and a Communist Thunderstorm

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PTP logoIn 1971, when I was fifteen, I went on a People to People High School Student Ambassador trip through Europe. At the time, I lived in Eastern Washington State, and knew nothing about the history of People to People.

Since then, however, I have learned that People to People was founded by Dwight Eisenhower, in 1956, the year I was born. It began as a part of the U.S. Information Agency, but in 1961, it was incorporated in Missouri and moved to Kansas City, where I now live.

People to People moved to Kansas City, because J.C. Hall insisted on it. J.C. Hall, founder of Hallmark Cards, where I worked for many years, was instrumental in setting up People to People as a private organization, and Mr. Hall served as an officer of the organization in its early years.

My daughter went on a People to People trip to Australia in the late 1990s.

So I have had many connections through the years to People to People, and I have always thought it was a wonderful organization with an important mission. Its mission is currently described as promoting international understanding and friendship through educational, cultural and humanitarian activities.

My People to People trip in 1971 was a fantastic experience—my first visit anywhere beyond North America. We had twenty-seven students and three teachers in our group, from various towns in Eastern Washington, and we went to eleven countries in six weeks, starting in England and ending in Austria. On four of our stops we stayed with local families, where we really experienced local food, housing, and culture.

It was a great opportunity for a shy and studious high-school junior to get away from home, be forced to live with strangers, and develop confidence and cultural awareness.

One of the countries we visited was Romania. As I recall, we flew from Istanbul to Bucharest. . . . At least that was the plan.

Photograph from Arbit Speculations

Photograph from Arbit Speculations

Our flight took off after dark. As we flew through the night, we encountered a serious thunderstorm—worse than any I had previously seen in Washington State. By Midwestern standards it was probably pretty typical, but we didn’t have these nasty storms in Eastern Washington, where it seldom rains for more than a few minutes at a time.

The wind buffeted the plane from left to right and back again. We rose and fell more than on any rollercoaster I’ve ever been on (which isn’t many; I hate rollercoasters). Lightning flashed outside the windows multiple times every second—huge bolts darted from cloud to cloud and from air to ground.

I sat in a window seat, gripping my arm rests as tightly as I could, as if that would keep me safe if we crashed.

A Romanian woman and her small child sat beside me. Both were crying, and the mother prayed, crossing herself and hugging her child. So much for atheism behind the Iron Curtain in 1971. It is said there are no atheists in foxholes; I learned that night there are no atheists in thunderstorms either.

After what seemed like interminable hours during which the aircraft crew wrestled the air currents, the pilot came on the intercom and said something. But he didn’t speak in English, so I had no idea what was happening.

Shortly after the pilot’s speech, the airplane landed. But it turned out we didn’t land in Bucharest. We were in some other city in Romania—where, I have no idea.

All the passengers were all ushered off the plane, made to show our passports, and held in the airport. The teachers gathered our group together and tried to figure out where we were and where we were going.

I wondered if my parents would ever learn of my whereabouts if I disappeared into a Communist prison cell.

After an hour or two, we were ushered back on the plane, flown to Bucharest, and continued our trip unscathed.

But that remains the scariest flight I have ever been on.

What’s the worst flight you have ever taken?

Time Is Ticking

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I wrote a few weeks ago about preparing for the bar exam. I revealed in that post that my husband and I both passed, but I didn’t write about the difficulty of the exam itself.

In the summer of 1979, the Missouri Bar held the bar exam for aspiring lawyers in the state capital, Jefferson City, at the Ramada Inn. Candidates from all over the state converged on this town that had about 33,000 residents at the time (not counting politicians).

Most of the bar exam takers stayed at the Ramada, but my husband wanted to be able to get away from the craziness of hyperactive lawyer wannabes pumped on caffeine. So we stayed at the Best Western a few blocks away.

On the first morning of the exam, we drove the short distance to the Ramada Inn and found the huge bank of conference rooms where the test would be conducted. One room was for typists, and the others were for those of us who would write their answers in long hand. (Today, almost everyone takes the exam on laptops, but such devices didn’t exist in 1979.)

The room looked something like this. But no laptops.

The room looked something like this. But no laptops.

Each candidate was assigned a specific seat, two candidates to a table in a room filled with rows of tables. The test-takers were arranged alphabetically. Because my husband and I have the same last name, we were seated next to each other. Thankfully, there was an aisle between us, so we didn’t have to share a table. If we had, I think I would have worried about him as much as about the test questions.

We had stacks of blue books (remember blue books?) in which to write our answers. Everyone aligned their pens and blue books and water bottles, fidgeting and fussing with nervous energy, until time to start the test.

My husband has never worn a watch, while I always wear one set five minutes ahead of the actual time. But for purposes of tracking how long to spend on each question, my husband had with him a small alarm clock, which he set in front of him on the table, along with pens and blue books.

Palpable anxiety filled the room, in sighs and groans and squeaking of chairs.

At the appointed time, the first set of questions was distributed.

We wrote.

And we wrote.

Monitoring the minutes as they passed, to be sure we saved enough time to answer all the questions.

alarm-clock-ringing-6-cf8bumoxAbout two-thirds of the way through that first time block, the alarm on my husband’s clock rang. Loudly.

I looked up in astonishment. It wasn’t time yet, was it? Others in the room groaned, and the tension in the room grew twenty-fold.

Across the aisle from me, my husband fumbled quickly to silence the alarm.

“It was an accident,” he later told me. “I didn’t set the alarm. I swear.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him.

Oh, well. We both passed, so no harm done.

When has the unexpected made you more stressed in life?

Musings On My 250th Post

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wordpress image 2WordPress keeps excellent statistics for bloggers, and so I realized recently that today’s post would be my 250th post. This milestone seemed worthy of comment.

I’ve been blogging for about two-and-a-half years, for most of that time twice per week. I’ve written before about lessons I’ve learned blogging, and I wrote recently about the value of blogging. I won’t repeat what I said in those posts.

I will say, however, that blogging regularly for so long has taught me the difficulty of writing well consistently. I am very proud of some of my posts, but others feel like they were dashed off to fill the space. (And some were.)

Unlike with novels—which take months and years—or short stories—which take days or weeks—my blog posts get no more than a couple of quick rewrites after the initial draft. I need to have a theme for the post and tell the story almost right the first time.

Blogging has taught me to write quickly and to a deadline. I’d learned these lessons at other times in my life, such as when writing briefs as an attorney with a heavy caseload, or when editing employee communications with a fast turn-around time. But on this blog there is no one else to cover for me, to fill in when too many priorities compete for my time.

What I am most proud of is that I have kept to my blogging schedule despite deaths, illnesses, injuries, holidays, and the general frenzy of life.

I set out when I retired from the corporate world to become a writer.

Writers write.

I am writing, therefore I am a writer.

I have kept the commitment to myself to write.

And I appreciate you, as readers, coming back to greet me post after post.

It amazes me how readers find this blog. Some of you are friends, but some of you happened upon the blog after typing some odd query into a search engine.

lbffWordPress provides me with a list of queries that people have used to find my blog. Among the top queries WordPress reports—other than the to-be-expected query “theresa hupp blog”—are “little bunny foo foo origin,” “family pictures”, “banana cream pie history,” and “accidents on the oregon trail.”

Funny what people search for on the Internet, but all of these topics have been the subject of posts I have written. (Well, maybe not the history of banana cream pie, but I have written about making such a pie.)

Here are a few of the oddest queries that have recently led readers to me:

  • “name a tall tree family feud”
  • “tomboy with broken leg”
  • “leg xray copy indian”
  • “can i leave my husband when he is studying for the bar exam”

I can guess which posts these queries picked up, but I don’t really want to be known as a source of wisdom for women wanting to leave their husbands during the bar review process. After all, I stuck by mine . . . and he stuck by me.

Still, writers are grateful for readers, wherever they come from.

What led you to find my blog? Whatever it was, thank you . . . and please come back!

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