a woven pattern

I love this quote by my great-great-great grandmother, Almira King Holsclaw:

“I can see my life like a pattern woven in with the lives of so many others. It seems, as I look at it from here, now that it is so nearly finished, that there is plenty of brightness to offset the dark, gloomy part of my weaving.”

Almira (left) with her grandson Hubert and family (baby is my grandma Mary)

Aren't we all so inextricably connected? Just think about it, one small decision by some obscure ancestor of yours could have dramatically altered your own life, or caused it to not exist at all. Two of my great-great grandfathers were pestered by their mothers to become priests, but they decided to marry and have families instead. If one of them had given in, my whole family wouldn't be here. Or if a single ancestor hadn't made the decision to remove to America, hundreds and hundreds of their descendents wouldn't be here. The temperment of our ancestors mattered, too. A kind mother or father sowed important roots and molded our families  into what they are today. Then think about the chance encounters you have every day with people. How many of those meetings have eternal significance?

My character Maddie does something that changes lives forever. In the present, she reads about an ambush on a runaway slave family and decides she isn't going to let it happen. So she crosses the time portal and changes the past - hiding the slaves in the future until the hunters have gone away. In the future, one of their descendents finds her and thanks her - for without her, she and her family would have never been born.

Read the synopsis for my story on the Going over Home tab!

hope

I know I ought to be strong and chipper when I promote my book, but the truth is, I'm kinda scared to death. I'm afraid my book won't find readers, I'm afraid if it does the readers won't like it. What author isn't? I have two magazines reviewing my book and several historical societies and libraries and even Conner Prairie reviewing it. The name will get out there. But worry continues to creep in. So what do I do?

I have to give it over to God. He is ultimately in control. Every time I start to worry I have to make myself stop and give it all back to God. Every time I try to take it all back in my hands, he gently reminds me, "I'm in control. Let me handle it."

It's not a copout, it's not a weakness. I think it takes more strength to give it up than to keep it and worry over it. I just keep reminding myself that he gave me this gift and this passion for a reason.

"We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." 2 Corinthians 10:5

A tribute to the ones who went before us

Do you ever think about what will be said of you after you're gone? I love a quote from the show Lost: "Don't knock the obits," one character says. "It's the nicest part of the paper." To me, there's nothing like the writings of our ancestors in the history books - they could bestow a more eloquent compliment like nothing seen in today's obituaries and tributes. Below find some of the more sincere tributes given to my ancestors.  

Of Fredericka Peterson Goldquist: "Her labors were a continuous element for good in the community in which she lived and her life was, indeed, a serviceable one for she was continually holding out a helping hand, or speaking a word of encouragement, or kindly advice."

Of Catherine Kerr Oder: "Deceased was a great sufferer but bore her affliction with patient fortitude and died firm in her faith in the Savior's promises."

Of Hannah Zimmerman Caylor: "Her affliction has been a constant source of suffering during the last twenty years of her life but she has been patient and silent, always fearing that her own suffering might bring others worry. Thus has she lived long and learned the beautiful, but hard lesson of patience and died as she had lived with fortitude resigned to the will of the God whom she had found and served."

Of Anna Walsh Garrity: "Despite her many trials and sorrows, she bravely cared for her little brood until the last. It has been said by loving friends, in eulogizing Mrs. Garrity, that no woman ever lived that was more void of faults, and that no woman ever bore her burden more resignedly than she."

I'm dumbstruck when I read some of these. What amazing people we come from! My ancestor Almira Holsclaw stands in awe of her parents' generation, her mother in particular: "It must have been the pioneer spirit that kept her going." Do we still have that spirit alive in us? Let's rekindle it. Let's learn the hard lesson of patience and live with fortitude, resigning our lives to the will of God, for we know that he works all things together for the good of those who love him (Romans 8:28).

What stories do you have of your ancestors? Please, share away!

The mommy writer

Every writer has certain music that gets them in the mood to write. I am no different. I have my trusty mixes readily available in my car, complete with several versions of Wayfaring Stranger. Tonight I had to head over to CVS to pick up a prescription and I decided to pop in my CD. My daughter happened to be with me. Here is what happened when I tried to sing along:

"I know dark clouds will gather o'er me, I know my path is rough-"
"Mommy, is a lady is a girl or a boy?"
"A girl. but golden fields lie out before me-"
"Who is Sarah's brother? Daddy?"
"Yep. where weary eyes no more will weep"
"Who is your brother? Nicholas?"
"Yep. I'm goin' there to see my Savior-"
"Who is your mommy? Grandma?"
"Yep. I'm goin there no more to roam-"
"Mommy, do ducks talk? I mean, in the singalong?"
"Only in the singalong. I am just goin' over home. I am just goin' over home."

Lemme tell ya, juggling motherhood and a budding writing career is no easy work. My daughter comes first before writing ever does, but I won't tell a lie - it is a sweet moment to lay her little head down to bed and come and rest before the computer. Ah, peace and quiet.

Out of the ordinary stories from my past

I've been a writer since I could hold a pencil in my hands. Throughout my school years, I had a series about an eccentric family with triplets: Jenny, Nick, and Michael. As the years went on, these triplets were joined by no less than thirteen other just-as-crazy children. They went on several adventures and ran into a number of mishaps. Nick, who was not-so-loosely based on my own younger brother by the same name, was the worst. He preferred to levitate when bored and often provoked his other siblings. See below for an example of his antics:

Never fear, his little tirade was not without consequence.

He did get in trouble. Stay tuned for more off-the-wall stories from my past (and future)!

My first review

There's no better gift to give an author than a review. I received my first today, and I couldn't be happier! If you've read my book, I would covet a review from you. :)


My first review

As a lover of historical fiction, I was delighted to find a new author in this genre. Katie Andrews Potter has crafted an engaging and gripping tale traversing 2 centuries that give the reader a glimpse into life in Indiana during the 1800's. The quality of the work is as good as that of Louis L'Amour and other highly respected writers of historical fiction. I look forward to the release of the rest of the books in this series by this talented author. - John Etchberger



I'm on Cloud 9 after this review. I'm also very busy contacting genealogical and historical societies for reviews, as I believe their members would have an interest in my book, it being a genealogy-themed historical fantasy. I'm workin' and prayin' hard to spread the word! Speaking of which... go "like" my author page on facebook! www.facebook.com/katieandrewspotter

memory and scent

Tonight my husband, daughter, and I were taking our dogs for a walk in our neighborhood. All of a sudden we could smell one of my favorite scents: wood smoke. I love it because it reminds me of Conner Prairie, and of camping -- all good memories.  But my 3-year-old had a reaction too. She piped up, "I smelled this smell when we got chicken nuggets, fries, and chocolate milk, and I smelled this smell when we slept in a tent." She was referring to when we went camping in Brown County last October. Scent and memory are inextricably linked.

I was especially glad of her little discovery because of something in my book. My character, Maddie, has a memory of her past when she smells a wood smoke scent, too.  Her parents refuse to talk about it, but Maddie now has her first clue as to where they came from, and that is wood smoke.

            “Mama,” I began. “I-I know that wherever we come from is somewhere you don’t want us to know about….”
            Mama lifted her chin, a worried look surfacing. “Oh?”
           “I just don’t know why.”
            "You don’t know why?”
             I shook my head. “No. I don’t know where we came from, I don’t know why we left, and I don’t know why you and Papa won’t tell us. I was tired of asking you questions and getting these worried looks, but today I remembered something from back then… the memory came back at Conner Prairie --”
            “The memory?” she cut in. “Wh-what do you mean by ‘the memory?’” Her look was bewildered now, almost frightened.
          My hands went up in exasperation. “I-I don’t know. I couldn’t place it, but -- at Conner Prairie, I smelled a wood smoke smell. It seemed so familiar, and I realized that wherever we came from, it had that same smell. And there were so many things at Conner Prairie that you do at home too, so I thought that might be a clue….”
           “I see.” Her expression softened. “But you don’t know where we came from?”
            “No, Mama. I told you I don’t. But I really would like to know.”
           My mother sat down at the table and brought her hand to her forehead, and I watched as the worried look surfaced once again. She rubbed her forehead, shook her head, then looked up at me, her face wrinkled with sadness, her brown eyes misty.
            “I can’t tell you, Maddie. It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry.”
            And with that she stood up and left the room, leaving my head spinning with more questions than I’d begun with, and not a single answer.