Friendship Lasting Through The Decades

Cynthia and I have been friends since our days in a baby buggy (I'm on the right). As you can see, I was happier about our "friendship" than Cynthia.


We were friends all through school, then went our separate ways. I got married and began raising a family and Cynthia went on to nursing school. Not surprising since she'd said from the time she was about six that she wanted to be a nurse.

We lost touch for about 20 years or so, until hurricanes and a job relocation brought us from Fort Myers, FL, to the Atlanta area. Cynthia and I are now less an hour from each other. Ironic considering we were both born and raised in Southern Indiana.

The first time we got together after our move, we talked non-stop for the entire evening. Our husbands just looked at us, smiled, shrugged and talked among themselves.

As you might have guessed, Cynthia is the Cynthia of attic fame. The series, Cynthia's Attic is based on my childhood playing in her attic.

I believe it was fate that brought us back together, but a the solid base on which our friendship was built all those years ago (No, I'm not going to say how many!), is what keeps our friendship going strong.

I'm the author of the 'Tween time-travel series, Cynthia's Attic.

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The wildest storm I survived

My parents divorced when I was 12.

It was August, hot and sweltering, and even our neighbor's horses had forgone their frolicking in favor of hiding in whatever shade they could find. Dad had left for work a few weeks earlier -- he was a long-haul trucker by trade -- and the house was wrapped in a quiet, comforting afternoon of radio music and laundry. The mail came, and Mom left to get it. "It's a letter from your Dad," she said with wonder as she walked in the door, tearing it open.

The rest of that day -- and the months that followed -- was a blur.

To put it plainly, divorce is ugly. There's no saying it otherwise. It rips you apart from the inside, makes you bleed out all the faith and trust and love you ever had in people. It lets loose all the pain contained in Hell and pumps you full of watery sorrow like a mad scientist. And amid the tearing, howling, violent storm of family destruction, you may think it kinder to die, to be swallowed up in the dark water instead of weathering the hungry tide.

I am 25 now, and when I look in the mirror, I still see the scars. They no longer bleed and ooze, nor are they merely scabbed over -- fresh skin has knitted over the emotional wounds. I stand here, broken and re-healed, bent and re-straightened to testify:

You can survive.

You can heal again.

It is possible, with a little stubbornness, with a little persistence. The waters of turmoil are potent and deep, it's true. But be like a sailor and fight the tide. Keep rowing. Eventually, the rain and clouds will clear, and you'll see the shore in the distance.

~*~

Heather S. Ingemar has loved to play with words since she was little, and it wasn’t long until she started writing her own stories. Termed “a little odd” by her peers, she took great delight in exploring tales with a gothic flair, and to this day, Edgar Allan Poe continues to be her literary hero. To learn more, please visit: http://ingemarwrites.wordpress.com/ or follow her on Twitter: http://twitter.com/heatheringemar

Buy a story (or two or three): Heather Ingemar on Echelon Direct

Does A Slightly Embarrassing Cousin Count??

My most embarrassing relative...

This week's topic is a tough one for me because I can't remember any embarrassing relatives! The closest I have is a cousin, two years younger than I, who was a holy terror when we were kids. No secret. Even he admits it. Neighbors would flee when this six-year-old stalked the sidewalks, slingshot in hand.

I remember one particular bus trip when "Bobby" (not his real name), his mother, my mom and I were going "uptown" to shop. (I should explain that "downtown" was the shopping district in our small hometown. Shopping "uptown" meant traveling about an hour by bus to Louisville, the largest city.)

Anyway, when "Bobby" wasn't thoroughly annoying every single passenger by running up and down the aisle sticking his tongue out at them, he was hanging out the bus window, thumbs stuck in both ears, fingers waving, giving the, naaaah-naaaah-naaaah salute. For you younger readers, this would be equivalent to one of the more disrespectful gestures of today. I still remember my mother's shock and embarrassment, but I thought it was pretty funny.

Amazingly, "Bobby" grew up! Especially considering, when he was about 8, he wrapped a bath towel over his shoulders, climbed onto the roof of his house and did a Superman impersonation. Results? Six months in a leg cast.

I'm not sure if it was that incident or divine intervention, but before he got into high school, he changed. The brat was gone; replaced by a quiet, studious teenager. He still had a funny side and was a great practical joker, but the jokes were all in good fun. He went on to become a successful businessman with many lifelong friends.

So, that's all I've got. A slightly annoying younger cousin. I don't know if I simply don't remember being embarrassed by my relatives, or if I was just too busy being embarrassed by myself.

Mary Cunningham is the author of the award-winning series, "Cynthia's Attic," and "Ghost Light," 'tween fiction/short story (Kindle).

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Cynthia's Attic: Curse of the Bayou

Curse of the Bayou is book three in the award-winning young reader time-travel series, Cynthia's Attic.

Hope you enjoy reading page 59!
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Twelve-year-old best friends travel through the magic trunk in Cynthia's attic to a 1914 Louisiana bayou searching for Cynthia's great-grandfather, Beau Connor. Discovering a connection between Beau and Buzzard Jack LaBuse, the meanest, orneriest pirate this side of the Mississippi, leads to a heart-stopping confrontation to recover a long-lost treasure and lift a family curse.
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Curse of the Bayou: Page 59

How do you reckon they got here, son?"

"Like I told you, Ma, I found them here in the hayloft, all nestled down like they were fixin' to take a nap."

"Well, what do you suppose we should do? Wake them, or let them sleep? I hate to disturb those angelic faces…oh, my heavens! Jay! You don't think they're dead, do you?"

I heard the word, dead, and sat straight up. "No! We're not dead, and who are you?"

"Now, listen here. I'll do the talking if you don't mind."

A tall, thin young man in overalls, resting one arm on a pitchfork, looked down at us. With that deadly weapon in his grasp, I decided to shut my mouth…for the moment.

"What? Where are we?" Cynthia regained consciousness and did a double-take.

A plump, older woman in a huge white apron answered, "You're on the Conner farm, dearie. I'm Samantha Conner and this is my son, Jay.

No wonder Cynthia was speechless. I wasn't too familiar with her mother's family, but their name was Conner, and I'd heard mention of Samantha, Cynthia's great-grandmother. Her grandfather was nicknamed Jay by his dad who thought that 'John Joseph' was too showy for a farmer's son. This might also explain why the man we were looking for, her great-grandfather, Aloysius Beauregard Conner, went by Beau.

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And that's a sampling of Mary Cunningham Books

To purchase Cynthia's Attic: Curse of the Bayou, click here