Dear Pinkhoneysuckle Friends,

Pinkhoneysuckle has drawn attention from the Europeans from which most of Caucasian America has roots.  I would greatly like to thank people from all across Europe, to the immediate neighbors we think of, to friends from Russia, Slovenia, Spain, Pacific Islanders, and the cradles of American souls in Greece and in Italy as I ask you to take some time to look at your Amazon America sites to learn about America as you do not know us, America where we have suffered much of what many people in 3rd world cultures believe never touched the Americas and especially the United States of America.

Through the years throughout the American South, the blood of not just the English came to our shores.  From the Southern United States, more than any other area, the mixed marriage of people with Spainish, Scotish, Ireland, Africa, and the Native American began to happen as the people of Europe explored  from the Carribean nations and made their way to mainland America, and we were the first who had to hide ourselves, because we became, as early as the middle 16th century, a mixture of blood as explorers and settlers made their way in to The Appalachian mountain areas of America.  Here, first, one began to see olive skineed America with dark eyes, and even very early in our history persecution began, and the poor became segregated in the Mountain and valley areas of the Appalachians, because we were not the pure and fair of early America.

The Scots and the Irish, and especially the Irish who wound up in the Highlands of Scotland to escape religious persecution also brought their independent natures to the Appalachians, buecause one still needed to hide that no longer wanted to share in the religion of Europe that was organized and governed by any large governing body.  In the Southern United States and the Appalachian Spain came the Methodist, the Presbyterian, the Baptist, and those Churches who associated themselves with Christ as a head defying all they had been led to believe in the old country, that in both the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church;  They had to vow to higher powers and people and not to wilderness religions which would spring up with strong spirits like the Minnows and the Amish who would make their way more in Pennsylvania, from the Allegheny to the Ohio Rivers.

Through my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” you will find what kind of people settled from one end of the Appalachians to the other, and I believe that you are most unfamiliar with where America stashed many of its 3rd world people who were neither acceptable to the pure bread of the American Indian and certainly not acccepted in to the more organized Puritanical peoples.  I could not with one book give to you a complete history of the Europeans who are in so many of our blood who had to hide out along The Appalachian Trail, because it would have taken a doctoral discertation on a fraction of it to begin, but in my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” you learn about the other America and how class systems were so inbred in to how we developed that even the slightest differences from the pure bloods who found homes here suffered through generations of not even understanding why we were considered to be a lesser people. 

By the 19th century people who came to America to escape the great wars believed they were coming to a totally peaceful refuge; whereas few were ever directed to the Appalachians where they would not be immediately welcomed.  The Polish and other Europeans might find their way to the mining which they were familiar with in Pennsylvania and Ohio and might touch mainland America with bonding coming earlier as people came in droves and settled the East Cost cities.

Still rural America, especially Appalachia would hold the old values of the share cropper, the few who had using those who had not, and churches which would often add Southern to their counter parts of the well organized groups back East, and still newer and more evangelical groups would form from how the King James Version of the Bible was taught from camp meetings which would be great gatherings in the Wilderness.  The Appalachians, to this day,  are among the most independent of all Americans, but in mid 20th century there would be a social breakdown of this network which came all the way from Washington.

The Ameircan Civil War would have left Southerners of the mountains fearful of new ideas from the North, but this time cutting Appalachians off from their ways of lifee would finally hit at the character of who they had always been — independent, proud, and another America.  One where poor were bruised but hopeful.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” is one woman’s story of herself and the thousands of other women, children, and men of The Appalachian back ground who suffered through that period of time and, though they had come to the new world first, they would be the last Americans as a sub group for whom jokes could be made, the hilarity of a nation weighed on their backs, and how they spoke in dialect left the rest of America Amused.  The sanctioned abuse of women and children is a great part of the, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” story, and it is time that European Americans kenw about us.

Yes, one woman will tell you about being a hillbilly, Holy Roler, and about poverty which is beyond anything most of you knew, though she admits to weeping through, “Angela’s Ashes,” for many in her family had come as Irish Protestants and to know that the 20th century Ireland allowed its cities such poverty weighed heavily on her heart.

I am the woman, and I take off the clothing, the pose of all that is proper, and I tell you our story, the poorest of the poor along the Appalachian spine and how we had to live, some, even to this day, for we were and are the most invisible of all of America.  Please check out my book through Amazon, and if you purchase through Amazon or Create Space;  I would be pleased for you to know us, but you are also welcome to read what is there for you that is just free, for that was our nature, to give what we had, even if we did not have it to give.  The story of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” is a story which will awaken European hearts to a people lost in America when the new world first began.  Many thanks.
Barbara Everett Heintz — “Pinkhoneysuckle,” — Amazon, Kindle Ready, Create Space — Just Awarded Hnorable Mention In the 2012 Book Festival for Biography/Autobiography, and now registered for many more levels in The 2012 Book Festival of Hollywood, California in July.  I hope to meet you there.

Blessings to My People,
All of whom you are.
Barbara Everett Heintz – “Pinkhoneysuckle”

May is one of those months for whom children – Girls might have to pack on their shoulders as a name, for the young and new mother sees the bright and sweet refreshing earth and all the flowers preening and dancing, for a new child is born, and it is, “May,” and we ask her how she can possibly choose, “May,” as the little one’s name, for on either side are April and June, and either month is so glorious that; “Yes,” How can you choose?  The older that I get the more beauty which I see in the coming of the new month, the new earth, turning and turning until I awakened one day, and the young girl I was had disappeared.

Have you seen her, that girl with the white dress and the green flowers, tall and thin, and concerned that life and home as she ever knew it was ending.  Have I passed by you in the dark or on my way to some trail where I have walked and everything within me was too confused to recognize that I was wasting time just wanting time to move on to another place, and many of my walks started in April would go in to May, and this year I just know that someone somewhere is going to be called up on by Mary, the ephemeral Mary who comes places and leaves us with words like, “World Peace,” and to cause swirling suns, for May has the power and the glory of being that tasty morsel for all who hunger; Then, “Feast,” and all who thirst, “Drink;” and thus we wait to see if this chosen month of a Holy Mother’s closeness to her children will feed us and quench our parched throats for one more time.  Who proclaimed this month, the hours of May as being that sacred and that special.

Children finish college in May, and they leave us, just like I left the girl in the white dress with the green roses standing outside an old school building of red bricks, and the big old Southern snow balls which bloomed in every yard.  I left her with the scent of purple iris forever in her nares to breath again over time, so a flash memory of a day one is obliged to leave home can be recalled.  Have you seen her yet?  She is a girl who may be spilling tears over the old roses or faking smiles for those she would never see again, because it was the right thing to do to pretend that the best thing that could have ever happened was an appointed time of leaving.

She was a funny girl who could make people laugh just by opening her mouth, for you did not know what was coming out:  A big pink bubble made from a wad of four well chewed pieces of bubble gum, some rhyme which made fun of herself and the time she was having – And there were her graand imitations ranging from Minnie Pearl to Lawrence Welk’s lastest, “Champaign Lady,” and it is my doubt if most of you even know who in the heck these people were, so you need to watch some old time television just to grasp that the one I am looking for had a way with being on stage when there was an act to draw from. 

Every May I miss her, and I want to help her, lead her like the child she was, and whisper that I am an apparition, and I have a secret, and if she looks toward a point in the heavens she will see the sun spin and her future will be swirling like strawberry syrup blended into soft vanilla ice cream, but if she looks quickly, then she can see that future, have dominion over it, make of it what she would change, and she would never lose touch with the home which was hers in the Tennesse valley, beneath the mountains, and the place where hours seemed like hours and not seconds.

Please, would you see if you can pick her out of a crowd today, for she is so afraid.  I am telling you that for a moment she forgets that she is in the white dress with the green flowers, and she thinks she is naked!  Few young ladies want to be caught naked when it is their time to move on to whatever is before them; no you want the clothes you’re wearing that day to be just right, and she is holding the carnation which was given to her with her last things given a child when they graduate.  She is laden with awards, so she looks around at all of the girls getting married soon and wonders, “Why not me?”  She expected that marriage was in the cards, but on this great day when all is the green of every season which shall pass, then not one boy is able to say much to her, that mystery girl who would not let it rest that there had to be something better someplace..  There has to be!

I left her standing there so long ago, my shadow hangs over her, and I know that she, like me would be older now, fighting it like the dickens, for she feels cheated by time, and she is still waiting.  I know that she is still waiting to see which road she will take, and can she bear to be home even for another day or so mortified as she was of leaving a brother broken at birth, a little brother she adored, and a little sister who was just starting out, for she took care of them, and she had no idea that Mother’s madness was going to ease away just a little, that Daddy would find his Lord, and that somehow, without her, it was going to be alright as it had been over the ages, during the madness, the tormented hours of body and of soul.  All of it would work out somehow.

I can see her at this moment as I saw her last, tears making vision difficult, the smile which twitched in her nervous moments, the sun coming down, and the walking away, the walk away from the one place where she sometimes found a little joy.  She looked back, and I saw her as she patted the new dress next to her body, wondering if anyone noticed it, wondering why the nice boys had never displayed one emotion beyond some respectful words when they knew very well that every girl was there to marry, but with her dress neatly patted down, some good byes said as if they were temporary, she disappeared, and I have never found her since that day, my May shadow, the girl from whom so much was expected with so little to make it all happen that she felt thirsty and so hungry and could not explain the last moments I would know of her.

I had to become her breath, for it was beginning, the swirling sun, the rapid blending to make one flavor which was beautiful as it became pink, so my eyes turned to where hers seemed to last, toward that swirling sun with the apparition of a mother, any mother just saying that all was well.  “Be happy,” and I wonder if she heard those words as I could decipher them to mean after all of this time, but I do not know.  There were no promises of world peace, no proclamations, just a message left as her family’s car pulled away; “Be Happy!”  It came, and it went, and I know the years have now told much of the story which I would like to write again sometimes for such a girl who lived trauma as if she was in her own war, the kind of war where suffering never ends but just gets pitched over the memory;  “Annie, Annie, Let the ball come over,” and as quickly as that I remember know more.

So if you see her or you have news for her, the girl with the white dress, the green roses which were perfect for a month like May;  Then would you make certain that she knows we both saw the same message scribbled across the sky before the sun swirled from brilliant light to pink like cotton candy that she has one last thing to conquer, and it is to, “Be Happy,”  and to let the days of May be her summons to follow this command all the days of her life. 

I should have said, “What a pretty dress,” but they would not come, but it was just like her; just what she would do to wear such a dress, made from white cotton, in a color which roses are never apt to bloom.  She was funny that way.*******************************************************************************

Written By The Author Of  “Pinkhoneysuckle”, Barbara Everett Heintz — Writer With Honorable Mention In The San Francisco Book Fair For “Pinkhoneysuckle” – Available on Amazon/Kindle Ready, and Create Space – Part Fiction plus the authors on experience of being a girl and coming to age at a dfficult time and under the worst of circumstances, always recalling the tribulation of the Appalachian families of mid-centurey unto this day.  It is riveting, filled with fear, angst, reality, a vivid imagination, and a reality that terror was around every corner, even your grandfather’s living room.  It is extremely Faulknerian, and the story brims with the emotion of the story teller who kept it hidden for so very long. — Barbara Everett Heintz – “Pinkhoneysuckle.”

YES MY FRIENDS;  EVERYONE WHO KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT YOU KNOW WHAT KNOWS THAT I AM GOING TO HOLLYWOOD FOR THE  BOOK FESTIVAL, AND YOU MAY ADDRESS ME CASUALLY EVEN THOUGH I DID PLACE AS FIRST HONORABLE MENTION UNDER BIOGRAPHY/AUTOBIOGRAPHY, SO NOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NOW THAT I HAVE IT FIGURED OUT THAT I SHOULD HAVE ENTERED ABOUT THREE MORE TOPICS;  I JUST DID NOT KNOW WHERE I BELONG, BUT;

I know that word must be out to Mr. George Clooney that this old Mama wrote her first book at 60 and got it published somewhat, thereafter, and I think this is a Mitsvah; as my friend Maurna, the only Jewish girl ever to grow up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, would say about it.   I would even give George a copy of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” because he is going to need to get the movie started quickly before I die from another spontaneous pulmonary embolism, and if you do not know what that is,  it is a very bad thing, “Spontaneous,”  That;s the clincher, for it happens so fast they have almost too little time to put the paddle on and to yell, “Clear,” before you are dead, or gone to your great reward — A better way of saying; “Kick the bucket,” for when we were kids they would kill us if the old cows kicked over the buckets, so you would walk to the strainer fast and hope that no one noticed you just dumped a cup of milk and a horsefly after twenty minutes of milking.//I need you now folks, more than ever, even though, I did place in The San Francisco book show;  Did I mention that before?  But I need your help. 

I have presents for those who will buy the book, if you will send to me an address and show proof of purchase by the extremely wonderful knowledge you show in your reviews — I am not talking, “Cheap,” but they are a little on the feminine side.  However you must be willing to show your feminine side in California;  Maybe you could wear opposite underwear for a day, but I need to get you to my book on Amazon, Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Kindle Ready, and published and purchaseable through Create Space or from me even with real dollars, but you know you can trust Amazon.

Now, I am struggling with weight these days, so I need to know what you all think George would respond best to, my antique pink colored rose dress with the tears from my sons wedding, or should I wear something that shows we old ladies still have breasts.  Should it be A-line, no line, or Bohemian, that, “Baby Doll look.”  Now George must have adored his Aunt Rosemary, so I might should put on a few more pounds and wear some bling..  I could bring him frozen White Castles from Ohio, giving my booth that nice, old town scent he is familiar with, but should I pretend that I do not know who he is or just sort of act nonchalantly as he picks up, “Pinkhoneysuckle.”  I just do not want to seem as anxious as the girls in the back seat at, “The Stop and Rob.”  I am intelligent, but that could throw him off the feelings he has for uppity slugs.  You Xanga people, please wake up;  And let’s figure out how it should be when George Clooney comes to my booth in Hollywood.// His social secretary should know that an intimate meeting at The Gold Star or Skyline joints would be better, so he could keep the secret about who is going to play me all young and skinny, but I have an idea or two, but I cannot tell for we want to keep showing the sense of surprise and avoiding over eagerness — even if it means I have to wear one of those Depends that are becoming so popular with some of the gals these days – far more comfortable than a string going down the wrong spot on your labia.  Now get cracking here, for I trust you everyone, and I learned to write from you, my Xanga friends.  Such love hath no man or woman.
Blessings, San Francisco Book Festival — First Honorable Mention under Biography or Autobiography;  Buy on Amazon, Create Space, or From Me, and that special Christmas gift you needed for someone will be in the bag.

Come on People;  Are You Listening or scratching baby fat.  I need you more than ever.  Love, Barb Hz

Oh my friends, the announcements came out today for the winners of The San Francisco Book Festival for 2012, and I, yours truly, had the shock of joy washing over me like Cumberland Falls when my kids were babies, for low and behold, I only entered one category biographical and autobiographical, and as I read through the few winners from all over The United States; Low and behold;  There, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Barbara Everett Heintz jumped out at me, the first Honorable Mention in my category, and I just know that all of you had something to do with it!!!

Thank you;  Thank you;  Thank you.  I am so incredibly blessed, for I have waited so long to do something for Appalachian women and children, so when I wrote my book, tore off the face which I carried around in silence for 60 years and told the truth of what when on in the troubled lives of so many women just like me; the one darned category I entered gave to me — Honorable Mention!!!  I am first on the list under the winners, so I am going to polish up my act, and I am going to enter more book festivals, from Hollywood to New York City, and maybe on The Banks here in Ohio, so you all get ready! 

I believed last October after I lived through the PE that God had a purpose for me, and Dear Mr. George Clooney, you can give President Obama a four thousand dollar a plate dinner at your house to raise funds for the election.  You and your younger friends can help save the world’s children;  But Mr. Clooney,  I want you to meet me, and let us see what we can change in the Clooney back yard!  We are all so appreciative of how you show our world here in Cincinnati as The Queen City, but come on My Little Brother, and may we bring attention to what is needed for the men, women, and children of Appalachia, its mountains and valleys that have lost their identity over 60 years of handouts which aid in the plagues of obesity, alcoholism, drug addiction, and the impossible situation young women with children find themselves in now where in many cases, even the grandmothers do not know about the basics of childcare!  I am counting on you Mr. Clooney, and if you have not read, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” yet, then it is time.

I had a beautiful friend from Slovenia once in my life where she was trying to spend six months to a year in America to save her daughter from the brutality which was hitting the then, Yugoslavia.  She was a chemist, and for people with no heart, she was being given two dollars per hour under the table, because she did not have a worker’s VISA.  She was brought to our home, and that Thanksgiving came in to help me at my request, for I was struggling along as a nurse, and I had new twin daughters and three other children, a husband who traveled a lot, and one of the children who was brilliant, but was abused and given drugs by older women had just worn me down to the lead of a pencil. 

I looked at that woman, and I needed her;  She needed me, and I gave her what was minimum wage to work hours she could, for she had nothing in this country, and she said of her own people here;  “They treated me the worst, except for one brother who was lending a hand.”  I hurt that Thanksgiving, for I had an elder couple, guest from home, and I worked at the hospital until the early morning hours, but by noon, I had food everywhere, and my friend would take nothing but the liver and the heart of the turkey even as I begged.

Over the months we would come to know each other, and we found clothing for her, for her child, and she had us to find some spending money, and I had her, and soon I realized that we shared something language could not separate;  A strong relationship to mountain life in other places, for as I explained to her in pantomime about Sand Mountain, and rural Tennessee, she told me about Yugoslavia and The Balkans.  She explained that change came everywhere in and around them;  but change never came to The Balkans, and we understood each other as only friends could, for in my mountain and valley existence between Franklin County, Tennessee, and Jackson County, Alabama, I saw people who kept out change for the poor, because if you did not have the poor;  You had no modern day slaves to do your work for nothing other than small change, and they gave you a whole lot of praise.

At age 60, I already had COPD from other’s cigarette smoke, and I would always be short of breath and never understoood it until I had a blood clot in my lungs.  I did not understand about cotton fibers from all the years of picking cotton for school clothes and the fibers at the gin where we loved to go, for there was free Coca Cola at the cotton gin.  My precious friend told me how her face and that of all of her friends broke out from all the chemicals they used in their chemical factory, about the bad water, and what we just called, “Dumping anything,” as people used petrol or paint or threw cans out of car windows.  Our mountains were not the pure and crisp of The Appalachian trail, and my parents would have community dumpsters after we grew up.

We are meant to meet people along our way, and after my friend left, for her language was too poor to get a real job, and she had to take her child back or disappear, I grieved for her, and I could not keep up with her very well over time, but I am glad to say that I believe we had a small part to do with the fact or child is a chemical engineer, a physics intellect, and she holds her doctorate now and can take care of her mother.

We know what happened in the Balkans, and the turmoil of Appalachian towns which are almost ghost towns with the W — marts and other such places called progress have taken away people’s ability to live on garden vegetables and their own meat.  Quilting is now more formal, and few want them for night time covers, and clothing is bought on the cheap where once to sew clothing was as important as sowing the fields, and the independence is lost, and there is always the war and codes of silence which must be obeyed.  “Do not rat out your neighbor’s for crimes of drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence against women and children.  Change has not come back home, for old ways leave one in danger if old rules are broken. 

We cannot fix it all Mr. Clooney, but you could look mighty tall just telling our stories, for do the white and black people who have known poverty and populated our home places might could start fixing if there were options.  Those people who make home made drugs and sniff gasoline are trying to get away from something, and you can find out a lot about what goes on by reading my book, “Pinkhoneysuckl,e,” which I wrote through my Xanga blog.

I will always be Barbara Everett Heintz, the girl born in Pisgah the hamlet of Rosalee, and who would move from Alabama to learn my life station from the time I could reason, no matter where I have ever gone.  I am a home girl, and what I want for my elderly aunts, for the souls of those gone, and for the people who remain is simply to rekindle the spirit that they can do all things to be independent, to see a better world, and to enjoy the churches and schools they build, but you are going to suggest that Jesus said there would always be poor, and he spoke ill of the rich;  But he also loved his poor, and spent much of his ministry asking people to look at what was needed; how to give, how to set free, and the sinners were his companions, just as they are to many, but The Bible Belt can be helped to know that their Lord walked among the impure, and defended the prostitute, and he endeavored to bring the message that we are all part of a broader community.  Nothing is ever going to be pure and perfect anywhere, for greed will always be there;  But Ronald Reagen more or less took from scripture the idea of, “A shining city on the hill,” and it adds up to simply praising, giving, and longing that we keep, “Hope,” alive, and it is not just a word of presidential candidates.  It is a duty, and I can write a book about me and about my people, but I need some extra hands to help the people who are without along the great Appalachian journey.

That is what I ask for winning a little recognition, and count on it;  “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  with all the pain will end with a message, that even for the hopeless among us, there is a way.  Bless you all that my story is being heard.  Thank you my brother, Robert, and my daughter in law, Rebekah Leah, and to the whole family beginning with Karen Paik who knew this book deserved a hand.  Blessings friends and family from deep within my heart.

Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon — Kindle Ready, and Create Space

I always find myself almost critical of people who stand at one door of their lives which they cannot leave, who they went to high school with, their most embarrassing  moments when they got caught doing something really stupid at school.  A for instance, my husband, at age 67 has, “The Golden Beaver,” a trophy he got from his grade school in San Francisco for being an outstanding little citizen, not to mention that he was always first in his class in everything!

People covet that Golden Beaver to the point his cousin, Dr. Alan Flach of San Francisco, actually had a patient give him one who he saw in Opthamology when said patient came in as an elder man, so now Al has a Golden Beaver as well, but we know who earned that baby, for we have to look at it constantly on the way to and from a bathroom in San Francisco.

When I was in the 6th grade, an unbelievable thing happened to me, for such things never happened for the poor clean that I talk about in my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” but that year mercy burst open, and I won Franklin County Tennessee’s Jr. 4-H speaking contest which meant that I got to go to camp for a week, a whole ten dollar week, a certificate, a chance to go to Chattanooga for the first time to speak again, and folks when I heard my name called;  I went up to that stage, and all of the sudden everything went black, as black as a night without a moon, and I could not breath, and I guess the other winners saw me struggling, and they grabbed my hands as we had our picture made for, “The Winchester Chronicle,” and the news traveled over the phone lines to Mama who almost congratulated me and to Daddy who almost cracked a smile when my picture with the other kids who were the high school winner and the runner ups stood on stage beside me got that picture published in The Winchester Chronicle, and from that day forward with the help of Mr. and Mrs. Augustus Larkin and their daughter, my best friend, Betty, I would start winning contest like hotcakes on a griddle which made pancakes at The Chuckwagon restaurant in Winchester.

I am feeling almost that same sense of waiting as I await the names of The San Francisco Book Festival to come out, waiting for that moment so unexpected that I will fall to the floor if I win anything, because old people are not supposed to write a book called, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” that kicks ass in any book awards program, and with the day sales event cancelled there;  I have books here which I could sell you for a discount, but I am not going to ask  you to go that far, because none of you Xangans except for a couple, and you know who you are, have read my book and know that I wrote something which she shake you like a rag doll, wash you with your own tears, or have you laughing until your pants feel slightly damp, and that I had a blood clot which postponed publication to hit my lungs was like fainting without the prize.

I admit it;  I want to place in a book festival this summer, and when I was in the 6th grade;  I remember standing there and feeling as if something was going on around me, that something was going to happen, and then they called my name.  I am not going to be ashamed not to win a prizel  Who knows me, but who else could have written the book which I did, because people are not often willing to debowel themselves as I did to get that story on paper.  I got one jerk review, and it was through the people my publisher hired, and from then on;  The reviews have been over the top, “Good.,” so I am twelve years old, standing on that stage, and I have heard my name again, for we experience that kind of joy minimal times in our lives, and my life has been a challenge for sometime now;  such a challenge, but tonight and for the next few days;  Would you just pray for me a little that the Book Gods will know that I wrote something special, and what I wrote can even have the potential to change lives along The Appalachians where many just gave up a long time ago, but I will not let them lay down without a fight.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” asks people to take a look at third world Appalachia with the heart you do for kids in countries far away, because so many of those kids do not have a bat’s chance in hell until the churches, the country’s electorate, and the movie stars become aware that suffering is going on, and it did not disappear with Lyndon Johnson’s war on poverty;  No my friend, there is, “Ugly Behavior,” that is keeping a whole lot of people down, and I mean in the cistern or the bowels of human degradation with only a long shot, for there are not many Mr. and Mrs. Augustus Larkins any more, and 4-H has become somewhat removed from the Agrarian sector, for obvious reasons;  How many farmers do you know?

Over the next two weeks, I am going to be watching for an E-Mail, and if I get a nice one, I might faint again, but regardless of what happens;  I am going to keep entering, keep going, get my book down to Berea and up to Pittsburg, then on to Maine, because my life began with one win when I was 12 years old, and if you think I will lie down and quit because I do not get a letter this time;; You are mistaken.  If I wrote what was and is honest, truthful to a fault, striped myself stark naked in the book, then somebody is going to notice that sometime, and, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” will awaken the enthusiasm of the girl who once believed and still does;  “I can change the world.”

When you think you can change the world by bursting open your own;  Then I hope someone will pick me up when someone finally recignizes me that hour and that day with a prize which says that I am back, and hold me up while I faint, and make certain they get a picture of me in The Winchester Herald Times as it is called now.  I will take a copy of the paper over to Mama and Daddys grave and put it in a secret place with a few other notes for them, because I want to meet them in the air when we rise up on Judgment Day to see if this time they have something even grander to smile about.

Would you just send me some notes, help me wait it out, and I asked that the prayerful say a word or two, for I need something to take the smirk off that Golden Beavers face.  I am going to get me a yard squirrel, and let that beaver know;  “You are not the only game in town,” – That is if I win anything.

Blessings, and I know you are dying to spill your guts too about a golden moment of becoming, so Xangans;  Here is your chance.

Blessings, Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” – Amazon/Kindle Ready…

Dear Friends,
I am sorry to say that the day portion of The San Francisco Book Festival has been cancelled, though there is still an awards program on the evening of May 19th.  I have placed together gifts of promotional material which are way nicer than the usual gifts given at such events, so I am hoping to find other festivals in the summer or the early fall which do have outside sections for people with gifts to bear.

I stand by my position that anyone who purchases, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” may have something from my gift bags, and all you must do is to show me some proof of purchase, and I will share the treasure.  Part of “Pinkhoneysuckle,s purpose is to help people understand what it is like to simply never receive gifts of any kind for any occasion, and gifts are a large part of our culture.  I bought jewelry for the most par, not expensive, but pretty in my eyes, and I once again urge those of you who are interested in reading about one woman’s experience growing up in a third world America which seems to be the destiny for many places along the Appalachian corridor.

I cannot imagine having received even a pretty empty bottle at Christmas or for a birthday, so I chose what I could afford to give out to many, for in the culture I am from;  We wanted to give you something, and if nothing else you would go home with a jar of my mother’s jam.  That was not so practical for book mailing purposes, but I did wind up with a few pretty necklaces.  Call them lures if you like, but they are available to those who purchase my book;  All I need from you is a where and when, or if you wish to purchase a book from me – within The United States, then you can ask me to send along my small treasure.  You may email me through Xanga for such a request. and for those of you who want the book, I can send it all at book rate for $11.00 which is less than I can sell it for on Xanga.  My one request is that you would kindly add a review when you are finished.

I will describe, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” again as a book which is biographical fiction, true historically, a thriller in many regards, and a testament to lives that were lived as few Americans could imagine them.  It is romance, fear, anguish, and it does not end with all things tied up in a beautiful bow, for the United States seems to enjoy holding on to its small town poor.  I marvel at how many modern ghost towns we have in this country, where once children played, because there were local businesses alongside a factory or two to keep the area solvent.  I can tell you that manufacturing America was killed beginning at a slow pace about ten years after The Second World War in the Atlantic and the Pacific Arenas ended.

In addition that began the process of the loss of the farms which fed the cities along with the local people who owned the land, but our government decided that limiting what the farmers planted in acreage and the encouragement of higher education for Americans was supposed to put us on a level much higher than the nations of the world.  Instead, farms, factories, and even towns would disappear over a thirty year period, and those who once were self sufficient would be seeking welfare just like the folks in the city.  Drugs would take over the rural areas just like the cities, and the small churches did not have collection plates to feed the communities.  People lost their pride among The Appalachian Poor, and those who suffered most would be the women and children left behind when husbands had to move North to find the factories to make the living.

Bible Belt politics as not always friendly to the poor either,  and the young would no longer be convinced of the promises they heard in the churches as they saw families fall apart.  I write about these things, but I narrate this as one woman’s story of the many women who suffered silently along with children who could not even look people in the face for all of the shame they felt.  Hear me, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” will remind many women of my age that we managed the impossible, for now people are locked up for such crimes against children.

I would not finish the story without adding a coming of age and a love story, for those existed too – As did sexuality, birth, marriage and all of the things which were supposed to be so pleasant, but in the error of women endeavoring to just be respected;  A lot of what made us strong would be taken away in the name of women’s rights.  We were insulting some by just being feminine, and were seen as tokens by males who would leave the poor girls to fiend for themselves.  “Pinkhoneysuckle,” is hard to read, because it hurts, but within all of the hurt, the narration walks you through the dark humor which has always been the gift people suffering in silence could use to bear their burdens and to ease their pain.

This would be a very good book for book groups interested in America’s hidden people, and it would be of help to women who believed they have had to be silent for 60 years as did I, for I would hurt the living if I told my truth.  I am looking for other places to bring my book, and I am willing to send it to  stores or to gift shops where there might be interest in my sharing some time;  And, again, I have small articles that are pretty to give to those who purchase from me.  Even for the men, I can cook up something to add to a package, so get in touch with me.

Go to Amazon, and read the critiques made of my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” and you will learn that you can be changed by a woman who lived in a time and a place that no one let you know was there.  Any help is appreciated.

I THANK YOU; BARBARA EVERETT HEINTZ – PINKHONEYSUCKLE THE BOOK ON AMAZON, CREATE SPACE, KINDLE READY AND CAN BE ORDERED THROUGH ME THOUGH SOON MORE INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORES WILL CARRY MY BEAUTIFUL BOOK

Blessings, and Thank You, and wish me luck at The St. Francis On May 2nd, though I feel as if  I am going up against the absolute pros by sticking myself in a San Francisco Bay Area book show..

Greatfully, Barb Hz

Hello everyone, and here we are still in Cincinnati awaiting our return to our other place in San Francisco, for my husband and I are trading;  “Who can be hospitalized next?”  Right now he is winning, for having stepped off the curb  at Findlay Market, Cincinnati’s inner city place where goods are brought from the farm, the dell, the backyard garden, and places near and far, and the inside cubicles have the scent of newly spiced sausages, cheeses, wonderful preserved food of all kinds, and sweets that would make  our grandmother’s weep that they could not live to see, “A Cupcake Tree.”  You have the picture now, great eats, the beloved German lagers, and every year through April and May flowers spill over the bins in every color under the sun, for the winter is over, and the season of nature’s ever changing colors has turned to a bowl full of whipped up rainbow colors apologizing for the winter of brown and grey which just passed.  This year, the white snow did not even color the hills much more than in San Francisco, but Findlay market was the scene of my husband’s dance step, if one wants what happened to sound so pretty.

He was in such joy and bouncing around with our children when a voice inside said, “Fool, you are about to bust your ass,” but he did not hear the warning, and off fell the man I married into a heap, and 100 cell phones became poised to dial 911.  He would get up though, but he has managed to rupture his Achilles tendon twice begining with that fateful day at Findlay market when spring, like Frank was out of step with nature, but he would keep going in his need to get back out to San Francisco for the Bohemian Club Spring Jinx where he was playing his bassoon in great pain, so the Dr. there fixed him, a sweet, charming Dr. who hails from Pakistan who warned my husband it was a less than perfect repair, so Easter was coming.  I was back here in tears, for I was lonely for life to be alright, still recovering from my own pathetic body which forgot my order to, “Keep yourself in shape,” so Frank came to Cincinnati for Easter, and he was limping badly.

I keep telling folks that if an old nurse tells you to get to the physician, then go, for we have seen it all, and we know these things, but to be dramatic, to evoke his Easter suffering, for some dumb reason;   He just goofed off dragging his leg, sometimes on crutches which are too hard for him to pick himself up on and do the — Swing through movement.  “Frank, you need to see the Dr.,” and weeks later he finally did, so now he had a ruptured Achilles tendon with less to work with than the first time, so he would get a graft and two cast before we can go out to the coast for summertime, June gloom, The GLBT fest in Delores Park below our house there, where the cries of mad women draw cheers of the, “We’re not going to take middle America’s idealistic family crap anymore, for we are GLBT, and the clapping echoes on every hill.  Meanwhile, we do not admit to our connection with the midwest or the south;  even much of the North is off limits, so it is a better thing to answer when asked where you have been;  Just say Ann Arbor or Madison, and you will not have the GLBT contingent throwing paint balls at your California home.  Practice saying this now;  “Oh, we’re back home  from Ann Arbor with a little Chicago accent, for it may save your life.

June gloom, that was another reason to get out to San Francisco, for all the way up and down the coast, the fog rolls in to cool down all the coastal cities;  Otherwise we might be more like Florida, but we have gloom, so feeling gloomy makes one want to join marches, energizes us to talk about those Right Wings even louder than before, but we need this variety in our life.  Frank would not go to the physician immediately though after his Easter sacrifice, so when he finally went, he now hd a newly ruptured Achilles tendon, with even less tendon to fix the foot to the leg, so this time he would have a graft and the new flesh would heal around that, and the sutures Dr. from SF had put in were to come out, for they were old tech, tended to eat through flesh, and were really not write for this procedure, and my voice floated on the springtime air, “You’re just making that worse,” so Frank just kept feeling angry and sorrier for himself.

He would be intubated this time, reminded that he needed to have his affairs in order because of a 1994 CABG, but on a lighter note, he had a Dr. who was part Alsatian like him.  The Dr. was also an Elvis Impersonator, so my symphonic husband would get knocked out by a voice singing ddply;  “Wise men say only fools go free,” and it would be poetic justice, for this damned fool had caused so much of his own problems that God would send me an Elvis impersonator personality type who would be the miracle worker this past week in April who would show my husband that real men like Elvis, not any of this panty waist symphonic and operatic hogwash.  Now I am a house winch, and it does me no good to share that my back was aching, and I had need of my naps, not when my husband has to get around on a scooter that keeps all weight off of his leg and foot.

I am at your service filled my heart with remembrance of the wedding we had almost a half century earlier, and that the kids want me to care for Dad through those pathetic hours between surgery, a man who would crawl on the floor to void rather than to disturb me when I fell asleep in my watch chair.  He now had the foot connected to the leg, and all seemed like an up until I began to hear the words, “Bowel Blockage yielding Prostate Problems yielding the need to void every five minutes, pain, anguish, a Dr. who would not get back to us so I was willing to give him a grenade if that was what it took to remvoe the bowel blockage.  Back to the ER; “Your right, it’s a bowel blockage,” and the reason I could not help him was it was too high.

“Now shut your smirky little criticisms, for one day you may have a bowel blockage too, and since it is smooth muscle in the abdomen, the pain is like labor, only instead of a baby, A man gives birth to a swollen prostate gland and feels like they need to void them about every five minutes”  I do not want any osmirk or attitude out of any one of you, for men are not used to L&D kind of pain, and they never would have had the foot fixed had they know it would end up affecting their abdominal functions, for how much worse can having your foot reconnected to your leg really be?  I give my husband the prize of being the least among the too of us in this house, so I go back on duty — Nurse Heintz on duty, and I made certain that man got some comfort before day three had ended;  “Yep, it’s way up there said the ER Dr.: and do you want us to give him a soap suds enema,” said the ER nurse, as I help my teeth grinding each other down thinking, “You lazy assed little freak;  That is the least you could do for the thousands of dollars this three hour stay for an abdomen which is not working;  “Yes, give him the soap suds, as my husband pointed his fingers longingly at me,”  like the child calling, “Mama, Mama, you  can fix anything.”  And thus I took him home.

With the help of fiber which becomes clear when stirred, my husband dancing around with his, Spare the knee scooter,” and prayers, the obtunded bowel began to sound like a really bady bass section of a symphonic passage from Mozart, this man fianlly found relief, and I am like a nervous cat ready to pounce on a Pit Bull, for I have gotten the news, the very good news that The San Francisco Book Festival hares canceled the outside portion of May 19th, but the awards services for that night will go on at, The St. Francis Hotel in the evening, so there goes my line of people lined around the corner to purchase my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”  and I do not have to worry about apologizing for having such a long line at my book space, the TV cameras flashing, and all of San Francisco on notice that I have returned.  My worries are gone, for the winners will be announced before, and I will know whether to endeavor to return with my husband pre second cast removal or to stay behind until June gloom welcomes us.

But the news will have traveled all over that if you have swallowed a wrench and cannot get the plumbing going;  theroe is a retired nurse who can cause an eruption of Mt. Vesuvious, and her name is:  Barbara Everett Heintz, and she really needs an up day, so all of my Xanga friends are going to my sale’s site on Amazon, and they are going to order my book with the beautiful name of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” for all whom they know.  Next will come great reviews, for Xanga friends are like no others, and you will tell the world, that I can do anything, even turn organic matter in to gold, and send it flying in to the sewer processing plant of Cincinnati with all that never helped my poor man attached to it and fixed to it like diamonds.  You really need my book, and I need an award to raise this spirit which strives to stay above water even when the plumbing goes out.

Blessings My Friends, Barbara Everett Heintz — “Pinkhoneysuckle,” on Amazon, Create Space, and in the hands of some person being considered for the awards night at The St. Francis, and I will bow and say;  I owe it all to my faithful friends at Xanga.  Love, Barb

“”

Mr. Jeff Luttrell, a man who fought in WW II, and the man who said the Sunday prayers said thus, “I pray for the sick, for the afflicted, for the tired, the poor, and for those who have gone before us, and when our lives on earth are through, then, “Dear Lord,” would you own us and crown us in heaven.”  Sunday after Sunday, and into his 90 years before his turn to be owned and crowned by God in Heaven;  He said this prayer.
 
I was a little girl when I first heard it, and I could not believe that men who gave their mules names like, “Tote,” and their brothers nicknames like, “Cap,” that in that church where the old school bell still hung, and the floors were oiled before revival time until your knees would almost stick, that they could have words roll off their tung which sounded like a new, “Lord’s Prayer,” and then I got it – That though the week life was hard, and you might hear them calling old Tote a worthless bag of bones, a son-of-a-bitch that couldn’t plow a straight row crooked,” — That in these moments, and the quiet of their day when they might get in Sunday dinner and a nap, then it just all came together.  The Holy Spirit was on their tongue and in the air, and the memories of a horrible war were becoming just that; horrible memories which would outlast all of them, but when they knelt and prayed like Mr. Jeff could all of the days from his conversion, then they were all ready in touch with that something higher than the rest of us.

Mr. Jeff died this past year, and we cried for him as we had for daddy, but for the rest of our days;  No matter how weak our own hearts and brains might feel to search for who needs us the most, then we have his to fall back on.  Thus I pray for you, all of you who are sick and for the afflicted – whatever the affliction.  I pray for the tired and for the poor, poor in money ways and poor in spirit ways, and I pray for those who are approaching life;s end, and I am going to add that for each of us we may be found and called to that upper and far better Kingdom of Heaven, and I will never be without the right words, for the best of men thought that he was a sinner, and we were all sinners, and we needed to come to the same place to let the words of needs and forgiveness flow like his, our beloved old friend, Mr. Jeff.  He was a man who could stir the waters with his words, for they were not just words; they were food for the naked and the hungry.

I have this feeling though, that if there are crowns for all of us, that Mr. Jeff is going to ask the Lord if his old cap with the bill will do, and daddy is going to be wearing his weekday cap, and if we get to see them together, they are going to be sitting down at Duck River, with the same old farm clothes, and Mama and all the women are going to have the cornmeal out in a bowl and ready to fry that catfish until it is golden,  for the best of men will still know their King, and they will call him Lord, and for those who are not pleased with their heaven, then they might walk along saying that, “Old Tote had better sense than those damned fools in the first place.”

Barbara Everett Heintz, Pinkhoneysuckle Blogger, and “Pinkhoneysuckle,” My book on Amazon/Kindle/ and Create Space

I’ve been away in my thoughts for a while, but you, my friends, are never far behind.  Love, Barb

A lottery ticket – That’s what everyone is carrying on about this week, for it seems as if our once masked hero, “Batman,”  or  George Clooney’s alternative personality when he is not blowing up things or catching the ladies — You do not mean to say that he bought the winning ticket down at, “The Stop and Rob,” but you can do almost anything in black tights, a hoodie with a logo, pointy ears and a sexy voice which comes through that sounded like this, “I’m Batman, so give me two tickets with The Power Ball number, and don’t give me any grief,”  That was willIbee;s story about the incident, and who would not believe someone like him and the raspy voice lady we all know as  Lotta Lovelace, then the biggest power ball in history was won, and sure enough we have been sitting around dipping our chips in Chezzy Whiz just waiting for George to make his winnings know, but no one can agree on whether he will remain annonymous, still trying to get away with the, “Pardon me, but do you believe in Batman,”  And we see his major good body filling out those tights with a six pack, taking off in the only real bat mobile he came in the day he bought the winning ticket. 

Betty Jean has not taken a breath since she handed them over from her side of the camera, and we all just are glueed in to the knowledge that some body else is going to pick the sparte change up, for George is going to get The sisters of Perpetual Motion and Light on th phone, organize a truck and endeavor to wipe out hunger in a place where people will still share a loaf of bread, and if you are not one of them;  Then your life is bereft like some of us when we wiat for the Social Security guys to up and broaden our monthly checks, for the government cannot fix a pothell much less to decipher that we paid for our social secuity payment while Congress sees us as being mysteriously involved in some give-a-way scheme.

I do not know about you, but I made my SS payments and have the checks stubs to prove it, so when the people down at, our favorite lunch place, “Granny Doesn’t Cook Here Anymore Cafe,”  then you get our gizzards pretty fast, because no one is giving us anything we did not make.  Those fools in Washington knew that Social Security was off limits from their borrowing and debt fanagleing, so let us have them sweat in a lard bucket of now filled with molasses or our home made dandelion wine depending on who is asking, and we are going to be on your backs like a Rattlesnake entered in a bull riding contest, because we do not take handouts.

We know that GC is going to do the right thing though, for he will go wherever he needs to go to endeavor to tilt government policy to helping the poorest some place else.  He has seen some very awful stuff, just like we lived in the Shawdows of our Appalachians, but as long as he is giving it over to the poor, then my friends and I have a book, my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Pink twinkes,” “Pink bubble gum,” and some pink looking wine left over from last year’s celebration of our prom quenn and her court, but we changed the card on it to read;  “Dear George,”  We are so proud that you won the power ball, and this basket of goodies from your fans at, “The Stop and Rob,” just goes to show our abiding respect to you for helping the poorest.  We just do not want a bunch of war lords taking it from the truely poor, and as for the folks living on the mountain and down in the valley, we are looking for a miracle of other sorts, one of those moments when this country wakes up and once to show where and how we got to where we wouldn’t starve as long as there was a root to bite in to or an old goat that had a kid who would leave us with some left overs.

Probably the biggest news is that I am taking my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” to Hollywoood, and if you have even a half of a brain, then we want you on the judging team for best fiction, and we will not bribe you, but it certainly would be nice, your being a judge and all if you put out a good word on my Amazon, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” site, and if you want a few extra pink and chewy pink marshmallow and coconut covered cream puffs; then we have you covered Mr. Clooney, but how does it feel being in the same company as Mother Theresa, and for this alone, we will continue to let you pretend that you’re not the power ball winner, black tights, pointy ears, and the sexiest, “I’m Batman,” that you went out moving along and swaying to our lullabyes where the Appalachians becan to fracture, and we all sang to old shape note sound as evening came on and we found a dictionary that explained to us tha anonymous was another way of keeping one’s mouth shut when you needed to. You are our hero, and Saint hood should be in your, ”Most Apt To Make It,” pilgrims of Augusta school days.

That’s all from the gang, George, . so sleep well, Those farther West have probably just now come in and started reading that you have one bunch of star gazers right here along the sweet Ohio, and you do not have to be ashamed to play the power ball, for if you can win the lottery at the, “Stop and Rob,”  Then I can take my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle, out to San Francisco and Hollywood and cause some folks need for underwear padding if I even get  honorable mention.  But; I’m going to give it my best shot! Now how many people thought a soap star would wind up being among the biggest stars since Clark Gable?  It is probably as many as who believe that a poor girl from middle Tennessee could go out to California and kick some major literature ass!  California, here I come, so you all stay tuned!!!

Hello Everyone,

Let it be known that I ask for showers of blessings up on those who have come to my Amazon/Kindle sites, and to Create Space which is a little unknown to many of you book lovers and writers, for a little care goes a long way with me as I prepare for The San Francisco Book Festival in mid May, and to all the naysayers who think it is a fruitless effort to go to you, the people, then you are misjudging the value that human beings feel for one another, for I spend hours returning notes to those who comment or who write to me whether it is Kindle or Xanga, Facebook, or Gmail;  If you get a note off to me, then you are going to get a letter back even if you happen to slip in words like, “You horrid flea bag old lady, then you are going to get something from me.  If you purchase, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” and you sent an address to me;  You are going to get something in the mail — A new car, A trip to Cancun, or your choice of European vacations including hotels with hot and cold running water – No!  Wait!  I forgot that I have to sell more books before I consider contest prizes, one of those other lessons learned  Yes, I can afford the price of a postage stamp, so with a proof of purchse from you, I would throw in a prize.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been collecting for my book festival guest, The One in San Francisco, and I have some mighty sexy gifts which I can give out, so here is a partial list:  Nice beads just to love and to fumble with in your pocket, strings of long faux perils, better than most people give, lotion in travel sizes, and I think I got some nice scented soap.  Now I hear you;  “That bitch would sell her soul to the devil to get that book Launch off to a successful start, and it is almost true”  I have some pendants, earrings, and even some almost collectable items, candy from the Easter sales, and the pre-requisite book marks on which embroidery is spelled wrong.  I have so many prizes, guaranteed to take away the sting of buying my book, but let me tell you this;  Do not try to pawn them, for you know how those pawn brokers might recognize something famous in them which I did not see, so you should just ask for change if you are a gambler, for my prizes are filled with love, that golden elixir that makes up from the, “Made In China label,” then, – With some help from Jesus and the saints, tonight I say some tags, “Made in Czechoslovakia, so now I have finally hit the big leagues of gift tokens, all just for you all, my fans, the ones who love me;  And for those who despise my every word;  It is not mine to judge, but I fare well just longing to say something to you dear critics, and it begins with; :Your Mama,” and I will take this sentiment no further.

Now comes the PIA which Americans of pure hearts cannot escape, that my husband got back in just in time for Easter having played The Bohemian Club concert in San Franciso, dragging around there the whole time, for his Achilles tendon decided to snap like a fire cracker a few weeks back, so he used our great conglomerate of physician wealth in The Bay Area to get himself all fixed up, and the days turned in to weeks, then his pain came back on with a vengeance, and it being Easter and Passover, he has to wait until next week to get an MRI to see if he has to go back to surgery.  Now considering that he visited our new grand daughter in Sattle while he was out there and after surgery, that he would not stay off the steps in our house which go down to the laundry  room, and he would get up every night to take care of, “Pie,” our cat out there, since he prefers her to the rest of the family just now; In coming back here, he appears to have blown the entire surgery.  Think of putting a band aid over a knob which closes a cupboard that has one too many jars of red jam, anchovies from Spain, those wonderful French truffles and two cans of campbells soup, and the small band just decides to snap rather than to take the pressure of all that it is holding in, then that is what an Achilles tendon re-attachment probably resembles, but the man is a man, and he could not sit still.

I have been with him through Open Heart Surgery, his development of diabetes, and total depletion of his B12 during the years before it was realized he had a malabsorbtion syndrome, and I can say he is a good father, a wonderful provider, a denizen of common sense when it comes to community affairs, but when it comes to health care, I need my Dad around to give him that one look which means, “You do what you are told,” and if you choose not to, then I will kick your sorry ass from here to hell and back!”  More so, Daddy would mean just what he said, so my husband would behave after the procedure, but what should have been the one month scratch and dent fix me up has turned in to the variation of some theme from the sanctimonious ministers who think they can cry and whine saying, “I have sinned against you, Lord;” but could I keep the change after the sermon today to keep my posse in shape, to have a woman in every port of call, and a BMW with “Eagle’s Wings,” to flit around the country irregardless of my sins of non-compliance.

I have my feelers out for George Clooney to worry about on top of all of this, because if he keeps getting arrested, then I would like for you to tell me when he is going to have time for this woman who knows that my book is the book for him from which to grab another Oscar!  I mean it, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” takes you down to the creek, or to Elk river, and that water is filled with washed off sins, so George, please come in from the cold, less have some slidders, and see that I, Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” has a script written, ready to go, and the price of filming in Lexie Crossroads is as good as it gets.

On that I just want to wish you all a very Happy Easter, for even here in Ohio, the last and most beautiful of spring blossoms are falling over the land with the pronouncement that it is Easter, a time of miracles.  It is the most Holy Passover which came right with Easter this year, and such days make me so very happy as I let my body and mind go in to all of this nature and cry with the people that God gave us a majestic dwelling place, and the land around us sparkles like the precious emeralds, polished, raw, and too beautiful to have enoguh beauty for every person who can love the days like this.  Bless you friends who go to the site, and bless those who have given me their best love in the hours of divine pleasures which is greater than the sum of any one sacrifice that ever led man to hope that we shall be changed — Yes, we are the ocean tides this night and day, and the morning prayers begin with the joyful creed and the prayers of our childhood in thanksgiving that the tomb was bare that first Easter morning  except for the burial cloth, the symbol that a King was here, but he had to disappear so dramatically , for it was time to walk among his disciples reappearing to them to begin all the work which continues unto this day.

Happy Easter everyone.  Thank you for purchasing, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” and let us walk together to cheer the wounded souls, to feed the hungry, and to cloth those who have none.

Barbara Everett Heintz’s Easter And Thanksgiving.