Stacey Joy of California was our host for the Open Write on its final day of the February writing invitation. Here is her prompt and invitation to write, below and linked. You can read the poems of others today and visit the tricube form.
Inspiration
In the spring of 2025, Leilya Pitre introduced me to the fun poetic form called a Tricube. I wrote a spring poem to her prompt and had been eager to write a tricube poem again. If you want to revisit Leilya’s prompt and responses, visit this link.
Here we are in February with so much to celebrate: Black History Month, Snack Month, Library Lovers Month, American Heart Month, and Hot Breakfast Month. I’m inspired to write a tricube and I hope you are too.
Process
A tricube has three stanzas containing three lines, and each line has three syllables (3/3/3). You might choose one of the February celebrations or something else that speaks to you.
I’m reliving my visit to Las Vegas last week in my posts this week, and today’s tricube is about seeing The Wizard of Oz at the Sphere.
Some Tuesdays I write about a tiny slice of life. A moment. Today, it’s going to have to be the whole pie. You see, I’ve been on a book adventure, and I want to share it with you.
When you fall head over heels in love with a book, its setting, and all the characters, you can’t just shake loose of the mind and heart embrace and move on with life. You want to live there in the pages, remain with the people, and mourn the ending of the page-turning joy that held you tight right through the last sentence. You slowed down because you didn’t want it to end, but you couldn’t stop that train.
When all you want to do is linger, you can’t accept that it’s over. The End. Done.
I’ve told all my friends about Theo of Golden by Allen Levi and its impact. It restores our hope in humanity and leaves us wanting to be more like Theo.
When fellow blogger Sally Donnelly watched Katie Couric interview Allen Levi, she sent me the link. A huge shout out to Sally for doing this ~ I was meeting with my own book club that evening and could not watch live.
When my sister-in-law Bethany finished the book, she was eager to see the coffee shop that inspired the book. We planned the one-hour drive over to Columbus, Georgia and invited our husbands along for the fun. Turns out, there is also the bike shop and the book store and the fountain and so many benches and the Riverwalk and even a character. But we didn’t know about the inspired character until our visit.
The Chalice in Golden is the fictional version of Fountain City Coffee Company, which sits on Broadway, a downtown street two blocks east of the Chattahoochee River that divides Georgia and Alabama. This is where we started our adventure on a rainy Sunday. We ordered coffee and muffins and sat at a table admiring the portraits on the wall – wondering about the stories of each face.
The man in the left corner above, wearing khakis, offered to take the photo below of our group when he saw us discussing the photos and referencing the book. Locals were extra kind and seemed to understand our need to experience this place.
We asked about Fedder Fountain, and one of the baristas explained that Columbus is known as “the fountain city” because there are fountains everywhere. We discovered this as we walked, but as we later discovered in the bookstore, all of the significant places we wanted to see were wrapped tightly within a block or so, and the photo below is probably the inspiration for Fedder Fountain. We believe that they turn the fountain off for the winter months to prevent freezing.
We saw art everywhere, but here is what we believe to be a feather (or a dragonfly wing), below. It resembles the cover of the book even in its gold and beige tones.
Next, we strolled down to the Riverwalk. The bricks to the left in the picture below form a walkway that extends a good way, and this is where Ellen and Theo would have taken their bike ride along the river. You can see the bridge in the photo, too – this takes you to Phenix City, Alabama on the other side, and there is a bike shop called Brickyard Bike (RiverRides in the book) where Ellen arranged the bike ride. Along the banks would be the place where she showed him the birds’ nest. One of my favorite parts of the book is when she takes out the Student Driver tag and puts it on the back of his borrowed Noble Invention after giving him these instructions: “Don’t bring anything with you. I want you to be able to keep both hands on the handlebars and your eyes on the trail. The last thing I need is a casualty. I’ll bring some water for us in my basket.”
Next, we found the bookstore. JudyBug’s Books was exactly as I had pictured The Verbivore from the descriptions in the book. The man behind the counter was as friendly as they come. We asked if he was the inspiration for Tony, and he grinned a knowing grin, tapping his chest. “I’m Tommy,” he smiled, introducing himself while stressing his similar name.
I have never met a bookseller I didn’t like, but I genuinely took interest in Tommy. He talked with us and told us about the town, even pausing to explain how before Covid, men would gather outside and talk (the Penny Loafers). I could tell that this man was happy and unhurried, peaceful and well-read. I asked him the title of the last great book he’d read. He ambled over to the display, kind of scratching his chin, and recommended Big Fish as the one he recommends to everyone. He explained that while he isn’t big on magical realism, he thinks this book is the best in its genre. Of course, when Tommy from JudyBugs or Tony from the Verbivore recommends a book, I’m buying it as I envision him drinking port with Theo from that bottle that told the story of a life.
I’d overheard a woman speaking with my sister in law as I was paying. She said she’d overheard us talking about Theo of Golden, which her book club was reading this month, and wondered if we’d read it. “Oh yes,” Bethany explained……and I watched the woman’s face light up as they talked after Bethany asked her if she realized she was standing in the Verbivore.
Tommy at JudyBug’s Books
Before leaving town, we drove across the bridge to Phenix City to see Brickyard Bike Company, which sits just half a block away from the river. It was closed, but we imagined Ellen giving biking advice to Theo before setting off down the Riverwalk.
A quick video of The Riverwalk in Columbus, Georgia
The photo below I have intentionally saved for last to leave those who have read the book with one last photo gift ~ Theo’s balcony.
if you know, you know
the significance of that
balcony upstairs……
I nearly cried when I saw it: there, directly across the street from the coffee shop, is a balcony with the most exquisite railing.
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers at Slice of Life
I’ve recommended Theo of Golden to everyone I know, with this sense of urgency: stop whatever you’re doing and read this book.
So when my sister-in-law had turned the last page and both scolded me for not revealing the impact the book would have (I won’t give specific spoilers) and in the next breath thanked me for recommending it, she was eager to visit the coffee shop and see the portraits that became the inspiration for the book. Fountain City Coffee is an hour from our family farm in rural Georgia, so we made plans to take our husbands (who are brothers) and go to the coffee shop on Sunday, February 15. Though we’ve been to or through Columbus, Georgia on many occasions (my own brother was born there), we wanted to see it through the lens of this amazing book – the art on the walls of the coffee shop, the Riverwalk and adjacent bike shop where Theo and Ellen go for a ride and talk about the bird nest on the bank, and the little bookstore.
It was a stroke of magnificent timing that my writing friend Sally Donnelly of Arlington, Virginia sent me the link to Katie Couric’s interview with Allen Levi, the author of Theo of Golden in the comments on her blog post. I’d hoped to watch it but had an event with my in-person book club in my home that evening and couldn’t watch the live interview. Sally knows what a fan I am, and it was simply the best Valentine ever to watch that interview. I’d hug her if she were here!
I’ll be taking plenty of photos and maybe even doing a few recorded clips as well, and I’ll plan to blog about this experience on Tuesday morning. As I write, the rain is pelting down in heavy waves on this 48-degree morning here in rural Georgia, so I hope it has blown over by the time we make our jaunt west to the state line that divides Georgia and Alabama. If you’re having the same weather we are having, it’s a great day to run by the bookstore on the way home from church and grab a copy of this book and then sink down into a chair by the fireplace and devour it!
Our Christmas gift to each other last year will serve as our Valentine’s Day gift also, since we will be traveling for a long-awaited excursion next week. As long-time lovers of all things Eagles, we decided in October on a dream whim while playing dominoes during a family vacation that we should definitely go see them in concert at the Sphere. One of our daughters lives near the area and offered to pick us up from the airport and show us the lay of the land.
It didn’t take arm-twisting. We hopped off the Mexican Train long enough to buy two tickets, make a reservation at a nearby resort, and book airfare, then looked in each other’s eyes and said, “Merry Christmas.” One of our sons decided to join in the fun also, minus the concert tickets. That’s how we roll on the festivity meter. No gifts under the tree, but a memory-maker instead that will be appreciated long after whatever sweaters we would have opened.
My friend Margaret Simon who blogs at Reflections on the Teche shared Georgia Heard’s Substack with me, and I love reading about Georgia’s travels and writing experiences – and her book recommendations. A couple of months ago, she shared that she was reading The Salt Stones: Seasons of a Shepherd’s Life, and recommended it on her post. I picked it up and loved every page of it. I think what I enjoy most about her book recommendations is that they are journey-related and not necessarily bestsellers that everyone would naturally pick up and read. I like books that take me down back roads, and she does a splendid job of sharing sacred places, both inward and outward.
Georgia Heard offers writing calendars that work for both children and adults. Here is her February Valentine Mini Writing Calendar, inspiring us to fall in love with the everyday. I’ll be starting this today and walking with Georgia through the week. Join me with a journal and a pen!
Day 1 asks us to fall in love with love with something ordinary: the sky, a pencil, a crack in the sidewalk, and to write a few lines about what we noticed.
This cold weather has my memories of Alaska swirling like magic-dust snowflakes of wanderlust. I’ve been there twice, both times on cruises – so even though I tasted none of the “local” flavors of the non-touristy places in the nation’s largest state that was anything but a folly, both times I’ve indulged in that spectacular smoked sockeye salmon that is sliced thin and served with eggs, capers, lox and bagels. We’d go to brunch, and they’d serve it as an early tea time with breakfast for late risers being more of a light lunch.
The cold weather brought the memories, but the threat of power outages last week brought shopping for things we could eat with minimal preparation. I found a good brand in Publix over in Peachtree City and gave thanks for the fish, imagining it swimming upstream to spawn, trying to avoid the fish-spearing claws of grizzly bears out there standing on those shallow rocks as ribbons of fresh red fish flitter past their feet. The one I was holding made it back home to do its one last thing before ending up in a sliced and packaged fillet.
I always boil all of our eggs prior to a winter storm. We’ve discovered that they keep fine in a cooler on the back porch and can feed us for days on end. And when we put a little sliver of salmon on top, it’s just the ticket for an Alaskan meal right here at home in middle Georgia!
Reading and writing circles in my life that started as groups but quickly became those who are now friends and sisters enrich my life in ways that bring depth and meaning to ordinary days. At the end of this week, one group will celebrate the finale of the second year of The Stafford Challenge, led by Brian Rohr in memory of William Stafford and will kick off year three with a launch party the next day. I’ll be there for both, but at first I wasn’t quite sure.
I didn’t participate in a small writing group with this larger group during its first year, deliberately waiting to feel the climate. Once you’ve participated in a few groups, you realize that there are some unhealthy ones out there and that it’s always best to stand back and take a long, hard look at who’s at the party and how they’re behaving before deciding whether to go all in and put your heart out there.
By the middle of the first year, I could sense that the larger group had plenty to offer, but I was still hesitant to take part in a small group with such an eclectic mix of personalities. I prefer positive people still growing as writers, and I’d sensed that there were a few who perceived themselves as professional poets with red pens, ready to offer venomous feedback on everything that didn’t align with their thinking. The few times I ambled into the Facebook group and posted a poem, it reminded me of a small town social media group with spiked collars and leather jackets and on…something, maybe steroids or stronger, and that simply wasn’t for me. I’d written a poem about my daughter’s birthday, and one lady accused me of being a racist because I’d used the expression gypsy vagabond. I took the poem down, satisfied that I’d finally confirmed that the idyllic pond was trolled by poet-devouring piranha.
I realized it wasn’t just me when one of my writing friends from my favorite larger writing circle shared that she, too, had experienced a troubling exchange in that group. Fast forward, and it turned out that four of us whose groups spanned to other circles were looking for a small group to continue in The Stafford Challenge, and so we formed our own that meets on the first Monday night of each month. We share what we’re writing, what we’re reading, what we’ve written, and what we’ve read. We talk grandchildren and husbands and children and pets, and we talk life. We inspire each other to keep writing, and we nudge each other to try new forms and techniques. We encourage and empower. There are no red pens.
That’s how I learned of Kate Baer. My friend Glenda Funk, a retired teacher from Idaho who travels the world with her husband Ken and is an avid reader who is also owned by some extremely spoiled and entitled Schnoodles, shared Kate’s book of found poems I Hope This Finds You Well, and I joined the fan club instantly. I didn’t think Baer could put out a better book of poetry, but Glenda mentioned last week that she’d just finished the latest Kate Baer, How About Now, and I finished it in one sitting yesterday. By the end of the day, I might have ordered one of those blue shirts on her website shop – – 1-800-How-About-Now. And the print of that favorite poem, How About Now, that you can read here.
And of course I surfed around, looking for more to dig deeper into Kate’s life and inspiration. The best reading I found was this interview https://cupofjo.com/2025/12/11/kate-baer-house-tour-pennsylvania-poet/ where we learn just how common her life is, and we realize that this is the way of the truest poets – the gifts of seeing the wonder in the simple things and being able to share it in words to tug at the hearts of readers with such enormity.
Consider my heart tugged, and consider me grateful for all the readers and writers in my life who offer such joy. You are what I think Kate Baer refers to as The Cure. Which, by the way, is my own personal favorite poem from her latest book.
P.S. I wanted to share one Substack author’s link about Kate’s Found Poetry in I Hope This Finds You Well.
We’re in Kentucky celebrating our grandson’s first birthday. When my daughter was pregnant with him, she’d call to tell me how fast the bean was growing. Here we are, at a first birthday party after what seems like only a month since he arrived. Happy birthday, Silas! We love you so much!
I sit in a rustic green rocker on a porch facing the Rough River in Falls of Rough, Kentucky this morning with a cup of coffee. A thousand birds are worshiping their maker in glorious song, competing with the heater that sits adjacent to the front porch. Here is my list of choir members so far:
American Robin
Belted Kingisher
Northern Cardinal
European Starling
White Throated Sparrow
Yellow-rumped Warbler (butterbutt)
Song Sparrow
House Sparrow
Tufted Titmouse
Mourning Dove
Carolina Wren
Red-tailed Hawk
House Finch
Blue Jay
American Crow
Ring-billed Gull
Canada Goose
It’s the robins who are leading in worship here this morning. They all are competing for the title of soloist extraordinare. In the distance, I hear a woodpecker, but he is beating the drum and not singing, so I cannot tell what kind he is.
The river is still, smooth as glass and muddy. and of the ten or so cabins in this remote area, only one other is occupied. There isn’t another soul outside, so I hold the only ticket to this private concert-for-one.
At least for now. The boys will be up shortly.
OOh, ooh – and just now, the woodpecker flew across the river to a hole in a tree, and I can see that it is one of the smaller varieties. And then it attempts its own clownish note, and Merlin declares it is a Northern Flicker.
The sky is a steel gray with morning clouds supposed to burn off by mid-morning. We came in after dark last night and can hear the falls rushing under the bridge we drove across, but that will take a walk or ride to see them.
for just this moment
the rest of the world stands still
I bask in birdsong
Then, all at once, every bird ceases to sing, as if their concert has ended with one Amen in unison, and they have other things to do, other places to be. I am left alone in the silence of this porch, where three small noses are sniffing under the front door to take in the world here outside and to remind me that they, too, have their own offerings to give. That’s my beckoning to get up and help Briar walk them on their leashes down to the water’s edge and hold on tight, at least where Fitz-the-brave-hunter-of-anything-that-moves is concerned.
I can see how Ada Limon, the U.S. Poet Laureate who lives in Lexington, Kentucky, finds her writing groove here in this state. There is magic in the air for those who take the time to notice.
Later today, at 2:00 Kentucky time, I’ll attend my grandson’s first birthday party. He’ll be one tomorrow, and what a joy he is! In the flurry of activity and excitement, I will think back to this porch and all its lack of demands and be thankful that God gives us children when we are young, so that in our golden years we can fully appreciate the power of the front porch.
My cousin Elizabeth, center, with us and her parents – my Aunt Ann and Uncle Tom
As far back as I can remember growing up, my dad’s only sister, Ann, has been an active part of my life. She married Tom Downing before I turned one, and they have been there through it all ~ birthdays, holidays, weddings, graduations, and funerals. Aunt Ann can shop for me better than I can shop for myself. She has an eye for putting together an outfit, and she has done this for me and for my grandchildren on several occasions. When my mother died, sisterless herself, she’d phoned Ann with a request before she left this earth.
“Be there for Kim when I’m gone,” she’d asked of my aunt. “She’s going to need you. You know why.”
It didn’t take me long to figure out why I would be spending hours each week on the phone with her. She was the only one who could help me navigate my dad, her brother, who didn’t particularly care for strong women. He was all for women in leadership roles – until they tried to lead him anywhere, and trying to help my dad in his later years would take strength and something I lack when my patience runs out: tact. And so Aunt Ann, always a strong Southern woman to the core and dripping in class, carries the torch as the voice of wisdom whenever I need to talk. She helped me through those final years with Dad, who did not know how to do life without my mother and swore off help from anyone until the bitter end. I could not have survived without my Aunt Ann to lean on.
When my cousin Elizabeth called to invite us to Uncle Tom’s 90th birthday this past Saturday, my husband and I made the drive to their home in Ashford-Dunwoody in Brookhaven, just north of Atlanta, to be part of the festivities. We were blessed to be part of that day, sharing in the memories and the moments of belonging as family. In the midst of the holiday season, with this being the first Christmas without Dad after losing him in June, these times seem to carry more weight. As I walked through their house, each room brought back such memories of all the years there for various events, and I felt the shadow of my childhood self playing games on Thanksgiving Day in the basement while the men watched football and the women cooked. The moments of today carry far more layers of meaning as I return to their home, the place of old pictures and relatives long gone now. Ann and I stood on her front porch for a few moments alone together, remembering the space where we’d all stood smiling as Uncle Tom brought his camera for photos, the space now every bit as sacred as the circle at the Grand Ole Opry, preserved through the years and taken into the newer building just to keep the same floor where the stars have all stood.
We wish Tom a very happy birthday, and cheers to the years ahead and all the years behind along the journey that brought us to now.
it all matters more
today than ever before
these crossroads of life
Aunt Ann’s porch of family pictures through the years
Common Threads 