STOP at the intersection
of North Cliff and North Main . . .
from there the mountains rise
into blue to graying sky
on an afternoon in spring.
Breezes shake tree limbs
gently like hand-held
cardboard fans cooling
faces of church go-ers
on hot days in Arkansas’ past.
© Freeda Baker Nichols
As I shred old copies of my writing, I sometimes come across a note that makes me stop and think. Like this note within a folder, marked CADRON– “Writing is no longer fun. I work at it but I do not enjoy it. I seem to have lost something in the shuffle of life.
Today I must start the novel. First, I will give it a name. ALONG THE CADRON
THE CADRON CREEK
AS THE CADRON DRIFTS
THE CADRON DRIFTS EASTWARD
EASTWARD FLOWS THE CADRON
EASTWARD DRIFTS THE CADRON
The Cadron Drifts Eastward
Westward
The Cadron drifts westward
with its secret and song.
Two hearts wait patiently
yet ever so long.
One will claim ownership,
the other must leave
desolate and destined
forever to grieve.”
Years later, here’s the book in published form. 
Coreopsis in bloom on Banner Mountain.
From my journal: “A nice sunny day, this 27 day of February 1991. I must get back to writing in a journal. That, at least, would help me get started back to creating stories.
Sometimes it’s easy to write, other times it is not so easy.
I hope that I haven’t written all the things I’m capable of writing. I hope I can get back to creating short stories soon. That is really my love, creating fiction–short stories, children’s fantasies and novels. That’s the real fun things to do in writing.
This Friday, Writers of the Foothills will meet. Our subject is War in the Persian Gulf. The war is almost over now. I feel relieved and will be glad when it is finally over and the troops are back home. ” © Freeda Baker Nichols
A Man and his Dog
“When a best friend waits at the end of the trail, the trail is never long.”
© Freeda Baker Nichols
THE COLOR RED
the red wing of the blackbird
the cardinal on the trellis,
the redbird in the maple tree,
the red stripe of America’s flag
the cardinal in the rain will soon dry
and fly again, as great as before!
© 2017 Freeda Baker Nichols
Banner Mountain Girl — Post # 6
From my journal, dated 28 Sept. 1982: “I do not know how to become a famous writer. I don’t care whether I am famous. I would like to write the stories I always wanted to, but it seems I can’t begin them. I do not know where all my desire to write is now – it seems to have vanished. I could not work out a solution to keep writing.”
Up and down, back and forth, topsy-turvey, creative juices flow and subside and flow again. Year after year. Then, looking through a 1975 Journal, I find this: “All the seasons have beauty if you look for it. The spring—everything is tender. In the summer, it’s full grown . . . in the fall—everything is all colors,” Roxie’s voice trailed off and she did not speak of winter. (Roxie Huggins, a dear neighbor of my family on Banner Mountain) After re-reading this, I pick up my pen and paper.
My Journal entry in 1982: “Weather is cool. Nice.
Happy is a word – an emotion. It’s what people want to be.
Lonely is what people dislike to be. It’s what I am a lot of the time.”
#becoming a writer . . .
Watch for the next post of Banner Mountain Girl
© Freeda Baker Nichols
Banner Mountain Girl – Part Five
From my Journal, dated 8 Sept. 1977: It’s lonely, trying to write. I have no one to share with, no one who understands what I do. I don’t know why I want to write. I feel I must write. A writer must have patience, persistence, desire.
From my journal, dated 1 Oct 1977, Saturday:
The desire to write has been a part of me for so long, surfacing every now and then in painful attempts to write something for others to read, but always being pushed back inside where it lies dormant until something revives it. I’m not succeeding with anything– not yet, except letters to the editor, but even those were a beginning, a thrill for me because they were well-spoken of, and talked about on the radio and reprinted in other papers. I felt joy because of those published pieces. I would like, of course, to write something for money– something that would stand on its own merit and become an article widely read and one that people would like and understand.
13 Sept. 1977: Life of a writer is a lonely road, open at each end. Do I go forward and find new rewards or retreat to familiar places? I, alone, can make the choice.
28 July 1978: I mailed my story, “Tadpoles Can’t Bite,” to Homelife today. I hope they like it and use it.
1 Sept. 1978:” Tadpoles Can’t Bite” didn’t impress the editor who read it but I still think it has a lot of value and placed in the right hands, it will make it to the people.
© 2016 Freeda Baker Nichols
Banner Mountain Girl—Part Four
The Egg and I
I have a special memory of walking barefoot in the dust on Banner Mountain–a remembrance of carefree childhood days. No time was more exciting than when the peddler came. Sometimes, the egg in my hand was still warm when I took it from the hen’s nest and ran and skipped down the road to where the peddler was. I traded the egg to him for bubble gum. Sweet. Juicy. Bubble gum.
The peddler was a man by the name of Sampson Hooten. I have been told that he had a yellow mare with a white star in her forehead. Many years later, his son told me this. I don’t claim ever knowing the peddler’s name and I don’t recall what he looked like. The only thing I remember about that experience is the warm egg and the taste of bubble gum. From that memory, I wrote this poem after I became a full-fledged poet. (Note: The peddler’s name in the poem is changed to match the rhyme)
Eggs for Bubble Gum
I traded eggs still warm for bubble gum
and always gave my baby sister some.
We blew big bubbles, like balloons of pink,
until they burst and stuck upon our cheeks.
We both blew bubbles quickly as a blink.
I liked the gum I got from Peddler Weeks
and always gave my baby sister some.
I traded eggs still warm for bubble gum.
This is a Lil-Ann Form. It’s published in “Poems by Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas.”
. . . . .
From my journal, dated 28 November 1977 – The rain falls friendly but cold upon the roof in this November nighttime. Steadily, gently, it falls to an unwelcoming earth, already saturated with moisture. Oak trees with brown leaves stand unmoving, unreal, symbols of fall, an announcement of winter.
© 2016 Freeda Baker Nichols
BANNER MOUNTAIN GIRL — part three
FROM MY JOURNAL:
Dated 1 Oct. 77 “I like the story, “Violets from Portugal,” by Helene Carpenter but I can’t write like that–not yet anyway, perhaps not ever. But I want to, how very much I want to write about my inner feelings concerning life and situations in my own life. The desire to write has been part of me for a long time.”
My earliest memory of wanting to write was when I was about nine years old and I wrote a poem about my mother. It was a short rhymed verse. I still have the original copy tucked away somewhere in my files on a sheet from a Big Chief tablet. I suppose it will be an important item if I ever become famous.
Another entry in my journal:
Dated 19 Feb. 79 Quoting my daughter Tracy, “Mom, you shouldn’t want fame.”
My reply in the journal: “Fame, though, for my writing would mean I have accomplished the goal and fulfilled the desire to write. Fame for itself is probably not rewarding, but fame as proof of success is nothing more than an exclamation mark after an exclamatory sentence. Hurray. Hurray! Quite necessary for emphasis, I’m afraid.”
Fantasy’s Friend
Setting my sail on a shimmering sea,
I invited you to skim with me.
Away from the shore to never-never land,
together we swept, hand in hand.
One day my hand unclasped your own,
I drifted then on the sea alone.
My heart became a desert trail
like waves of water, behind the sail,
which opened, then closed a shimmering plane
without you there to whisper my name.
I listen for your voice above the ocean’s roar.
If I could summon you back once more!
But I hear nothing and feel no breeze
to carry me over the shimmering seas,
which mirror your face in a puzzle-like shade
as I reflect on the error I’ve made.
How could I have been so blind
as to leave unlocked the door of my mind,
through which you escaped on the shimmering sea?
Oh, precious love, still sail with me.
© Copyright, Freeda Baker Nichols
From Poems by Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas, 1991
Freeda Baker Nichols 