carriepepper.comCottage Ink Publishing | Writing, Missing on Hill 700, Carrie Pepper

Books Recent Posts Contact About CIP Store Blog New Paragraph Cottage Ink Publishing Make Your Words Matter . . . . Keynote speaker, Memorial Day, Walnut Creek, CA Carrie Pepper has published stories in three Chicken Soup for the Soul books, as well as articles on a variety of subjects for Entrepreneur, Spirit of Aloha, Globe-Fearon Educational Publishers, and Health and Fitness Magazine. She is a member of the American Society of Journalists & Authors. MISSING ON HILL 700 is her first book. She is currently working on other projects. Cottage Ink Publishing also provides : Creative Writing Editing Web copy - Website Content Letter writing Custom greeting ca rds Contact Carrie Pepper to find out more about: Professional writing services Discounts for large orders Booking Carrie to speak to your organization Buying her books Contact Information: Phone : (916) 342-5668 Email: carriesuepepper@gmail.com Little House Blog Carrie Pepper Carrie Pepper Javier and the Pretty Rocks 19 Nov, 2020 • Just an hour on the beach, in the sand, without my shoes, standing in a wash of “pretty rocks,” as a little girl in her blue swimsuit called them as she reached to grab tiny stones and bits of shell, polished, blue and red and slivers of polished green glass. Each wave lapping up and over, exposing new treasures to glisten in the sunlight, the water rushing in with each tide to create that scouring bubbly music of pebbles and foam on wet sand. September Memories By carriesuepepper • 21 Sep, 2020 • A breeze barely enough to lift leaves on the liquid amber—this September began warm with increasing temperatures to come. Unlike Septembers of my youth, shopping the pages of Sears & Roebuck and JC Penney for back-to-school clothes. Talley-Ho sweaters with covered buttons and wool skirts paired with knee socks and penny loafers, blouses with white collars for wearing under V-necks and dimes—not pennies—in my penny loafers. Thank you to my legs By carriesuepepper • 24 Jul, 2020 • Sitting on the hot tub step this morning with coffee, I looked down at my legs and smiled. Thank you, legs, I said, thank you for carrying me all these many years–from my first wobbly steps to riding my tricycle through our big house there on Jefferson Davis Highway–oh, how I’d ride through those expansive rooms, round and round, peddling as fast as I could, playing a game that the boogie man was after me and I had to ride fast to get away. Then, my legs carried me on a 2-wheeler as I rode the trails through the woods, and down the hill to the tennis courts, trailing my feet in warm rain water puddles in summer. On ice skates they carried me round and round Byrd Park Lake in Richmond, near Monument Avenue where now historical monuments I grew up with are being questioned or taken down. They walked with me down the fairways with my father–while we played a round, or just walking the course in winter on our way to High’s Ice Cream for butterscotch sundaes. They held me up on water skis as I bumped across choppy wakes at Lake Gaston, on cross-country skis or show shoes, along leaf covered paths of the Appalachian Trail. They stretched wide and held me in the saddle as we trotted along through sage and gullies in Wyoming, were patient with me as I learned to stand at the Barre and tendu side or back, remembering the feeling after the first few classes as I hobbled down the three flights of stairs, wondering if I’d always feel so uncoordinated. Then my 30’s arrived and I ran flat out across the tennis court, side to side and back, my legs toned and tanned under my cute short skirts. I say thank you to these legs that have taken me far and wide–up steep mountain trails, down sandy beaches, gliding on sharp silver blades, through the hot sweaty aerobic classes of the 80’s–especially ones with Bill, that young handsome hunk who choreographed his classes to the music, dancing in shimmering royal blue tights with a smile that lit up the world. A Cry Above By carriesuepepper • 02 Jul, 2020 • Most of us have heard the cry of a hawk, that piercing call that signals the sharp-eyed raptor is high above, circling in search of dinner—a little mouse scurrying for cover or a small grey hare. This spring, a pair nested in nearby redwoods and produced one, if not two, offspring. We heard first, the parents, as they circled in search of nesting material, then, the babies as they waited eagerly, mouths yawning, for food. We heard the crows as they made attempts to venture close to the hawk’s nest and the insistent cries of both parents and babies—protective cries and fearful ones. Lavender Lambs By carriesuepepper • 11 Dec, 2019 • I squeeze the lavender wool, knead it with my paws as my little cats do—soft and clean now, dyed the most lovely shade of lavender, no lanolin left—and I’m standing in the chute of my uncle Lynn’s sheep barn as he opens the gate and lets them in. I stand there with dozens of sheep squeezing past and around me, and no matter how many come through and surround me, no matter how hard they push, I feel no pressure—only soft, greasy wooly puffs, fluffy and furry and frantic, with legs. They bleat and lean together and I squeeze their fluffy backs and am surprised at how greasy my hands are. Plastic Kills By carriesuepepper • 18 May, 2019 • Have you ever read something that affected you so strongly that you couldn’t shake it? Something that gripped your heart and brought you to the depths of sadness? This is what stories about animals, or sea creatures in peril, do to me. I stumbled upon an article today, written in the Washington Post, about a beautiful, young 15 foot whale. He’d been found washed up on the beach in the Philippines, his belly rock hard with 88 pounds of plastic. The line that I cannot get out of my head is, “The current off the southern Philippine island of Mindanao had washed away the blood it vomited before its death. ” This innocent creature God put on Earth to live and swim in beautiful clean seas, killed by the stupidity of man. It sickens me. Remnants By carriesuepepper • 01 Apr, 2019 • Wandering about my backyard yesterday evening, I discovered a scattering of downy feathers—a worrisome number—clinging to needles beneath the redwoods. There were a few grayish-blue feathers, too. There was no body, only feathers. Had my tomcat done this? A hawk? I poked at them with my long stick and felt the bird’s fear rising from the earth, imagined how the poor thing struggled and tried to flee; perhaps it only left behind a few feathers and managed to escape. I placed two of the more mature feathers on a narrow wooden table and secured them with a small grey stone. Apple Orchard Lane By carriesuepepper • 06 Jan, 2019 • There’s a little yellow house set back in the trees near a lake; it’s rundown and available for a song. I just need to find it. The front porch sags a bit, but the bones are strong and the black and white linoleum in the kitchen still has a sheen to it. Outside the kitchen window, lilacs and wisteria grow in tangles and there are footprints in the cement near the step; little girl foot and handprints; the name and date aren’t visible anymore. I open the back screen door and there’s a rush of pungent weeds filling my nostrils; through the trees, I can see a sparkle of water and even though it’s too far to see, I know there’s a little dock down there with an old rowboat tied up, probably not seaworthy any longer, but it’s there, bobbing in the chilly water. This little place has been sitting for at least 20 years, waiting for hands on the doorknobs and feet on the linoleum, for the smell of coffee to waft through the lilacs and warm old fashioned music to curl around the corners and fill all the rooms, making those spirits that still linger here feel at home and happy. Apple Orchard Lane. Nothing Gold Can Stay By carriesuepepper • 17 Jan, 2017 • As afternoon grew chilly with a light wind in from the east, I warmed a towel in the dryer for Rocky’s nap and headed for the...