Words have always been my first, best friend. Or was it trees? My dad told this story many times, in gatherings of new friends, that my first real word was "tree". So you see, I don't recall anymore, which came first. But in all honesty, it seems like they came together.

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I became a writer upon the publication of my first work at the age of seven, when my supper-club-waitress-mother had worked her magic with one of her regulars who happened to have a small gossip/local interest column in the Billings Gazette. She knew he'd be dining there on a particular night, and so she gave him the one and only manuscript copy of my newly-penned Dracula story, written in several chapters. Of course, each chapter was one sentence, but hey, I was seven.

 

He reprinted the entire thrilling tale (spelling and all) of how that most famous vampire preyed upon my grandmother's scary neighbor, Rita Potrazz, who lived on a quaint street named Colorado Avenue in Black Eagle, Montana. My world premier novel was in print (my name unfortunately misspelled,

setting me up for an early dose of publishing reality) and my career had begun. 

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Forty-seven years later, and I'm finally ready to fulfill that early identity. I've published many things in my academic career as a professor of nursing, but now I've given myself the gift of writing as a practice of joy. Thankfully for you all, Dracula is no longer the focus of my work. 

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I still get along with trees well, however. Montana's Big Sky Country was my place of birth, but my coming of age was within the emerald forests of the Pacific Northwest where I moved through two careers, raised three amazing sons, battled my demons, and finally made peace with myself. 

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Among these virtual pages, you will find a curation of my non-academic writings...mostly essays, some poetry, and excerpts from my forthcoming book, "One Eye on the Ocean: A Memoir". 

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