July 22, 2025 – Update! – River Fork: The Bear in the Storm

My research focused on the frequently neglected subject of childhood grief, incorporating my own experiences growing up in the 1950s and living for twenty years in a rural New Hampshire community shaped by logging, farming, and the towering presence of Mount Washington.

The research included indigenous Native Americans of the Algonquin Nation, namely the Abenaki tribe and the Pequawket band.

Later I explored the process of novel creation, encompassing manuscript writing, cover design, assembly, and publication. Even though I trembled at the enormity of this self-imposed task, luckily, friends—authors and other writers—urged me to persevere.

A story had initially brewed in my head for over two years. Then I jotted down scenes for a young audience—a children’s book with lots of graphics. I’d do my own artwork, of course.


Years ago, I had purchased Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein and read it to my son many times. My son was around 6 or 7. It was rollicking fun to read. Son, and I nearly fell off the sofa from laughing so hard. Silverstein provided great humor, timing, and storytelling. The artwork was hilarious and beautiful. I had hoped to emulate his style of writing stories for children or adults.

Well, back to my update! I decided that this novel would not suffice as a “children’s” book, for loss and grief affect not just the little ones; everyone in a family, or any relationship, is affected in different ways.

Therefore, it is not a Silverstein-style book. But it is a story I feel strongly about. Some of the scenes are based on my own experience at suddenly losing my mom when I was five.

The novel is a Young Adult, historical fantasy. The setting is 1956-1957 in a fictitious farming and logging town in the New Hampshire mountains. The theme deals with loss, grief, belief, acceptance, self-discovery, and the coming of age.

I am currently refining the manuscript and artwork I plan to incorporate for the publication of River Fork: The Bear in the Storm, the first of two novels. The sequel involves the same characters, but two years later, in 1959, which I plan to publish after River Fork: The Bear in the Storm.

Though this is a Young Adult novel, I consider it suitable for children and parents dealing with loss.

The plan is to have River Fork: The Bear in the Storm available on the Internet and at bookstores.

Please keep in touch to learn more about the River Fork series, and to purchase it when it is available.

Follow my updates!

Please tell others about it.

Contact me below to reserve your copy ahead of time, to leave comments or ask questions.

I’ll post when River Fork: The Bear in the Storm is available.

J. M. Orise

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Thawing From My Trip South Took a While!

We left Maine in January. Two months later than anticipated due to discovering a blockage in my heart, and dealing with all the craziness of that experience.

And we left a day later than planned due to an unanticipated snowfall—4 inches. Neighbor John who watches our property plowed us out! We weren’t exactly “Snowbound”—I read John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem when I was a teen. I believe 4 FEET and more is what he had in mind.

For our trip, I opted to wear cotton socks with my L.L.Bean loafers. Sure it was cold at home, but we were heading south after all. We’d be warm by dinner time!

We left early in the day in 9° F weather. It would be warm soon, we’d be in the truck until 9-10 PM, and arriving in the southern mountains, in Wilkes-Barre, PA! Warm country.

Driving at speeds of 65-70 mph, the truck’s heater could not compete with the incoming flow of cold air…(Hubby’s analysis). Late in the day, it was so cold, the heat barely warmed our feet. My feet, although jammed into the heat outlet were being cooled. Being a bit of a contortionist, I pulled one foot up to the seat to warm it, and switched to warm the other. The floor area was cold! When we swapped driver, I felt the heat move around my feet at the accelerator a tiny bit. As a passenger, Hubby’s feet got colder.

I determined something was plugging the airflow. Next time we swapped driver, I crouched down and dug into the passenger’s heater duct. I proudly displayed chewed up paper napkins and other fibers. How pervasive was this blockage? Who were the perpetrators? Mice? Squirrels?

I engaged the heater’s air blower to the max. Tissue paper and bits of filter netting, a part of the dash construction to filter dust and debris that might be lodged in the heater passageway to the dash and window air ducts, flew at Hubby and me. Chunks of paper snow! I pulled more and more fragments from the dash’s vent grillwork with tweezers I had packed in the back seat of the truck.

We got more heat!

We arrived to 11° degrees Farenheit in Wilkes-Barre! Warmer socks and shoes were packed and inaccessible in the bed of our truck. With feet nearly frozen we hustled to our room and cranked the thermostat to 73°.

This intense cold lasted for two days. Even with vents cleaned out, we barely got warm. On the third day, in southern North Carolina, it was warmer…in the 30s. I finally dug out my thick cotton socks and a second sweater.

We arrived at our Florida destination late that night, but it was too cold to spend a whole lot of time unpacking in the dark with a flashlight. However, I brought in all that should not be left out in the cold…well, it had been left out for a couple of days and nights… but how cruel can you be to your stuff? My stuff? I like my stuff.

The cold lasted for a few days after we arrived…in the 30s and 40s. Nearly a week later, we have 60° and low 70° weather.

Discomfort is soon forgotten when things get better.

Things are better.

Hope all is well with you all. Leave a comment below. Love to hear from you.

Oh, and keep warm, too.

I’m Back With Friends Again.

Here I am at the Citrus Writers of Florida meeting, in Citrus Springs.
My heart fills with joy. But I can’t fill a form without making errors I have to scribble out—street address, phone number, what software do I use for this and that. I scan my cell phone for answers I know I mentioned in past FB posts. I’m not functioning properly. I am too excited.


SO I THOUGHT.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

But THAT excited?

I met some of the people I longed to see for the last two years. This was a Citrus Writers of Florida monthly meeting I had just learned about from an author friend. I didn’t think I’d be able to attend for Hubby had appointments out of town. Medical checkups, etc..

We left very early. Hubby didn’t believe it was a twenty-nine minute drive. More like an hour drive, he argued. I had started breakfast, he went to the car and waited for me to appear! He dialed my cell phone. “Are you coming?”

Okay. Nix the breakfast, brush your teeth, see if you are presentable, grab a book, pour coffee in a portable cup, grab a bottle of water, jab a banana and two apples in the purse and off we go. I quickly ate the banana and drank the coffee. (I need to eat in the morning and this would have to do.)

The appointments went well. We cancelled a scheduled scan Doc said was no longer necessary. And another appointment we planned to schedule was already scheduled for next month. So that was easy.

Because of our twenty-nine minute drive, we were early. The nurse immediately called us for our appointment, and said, “Glad you came early. I’ll take you now.” On our way home, I realized now I had time to attend the 11:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. meeting in Crystal River! Hubby obliged and drove me to the meeting and I had 4 minutes to spare. He planned to read and snooze in the car.

Like I said, it was a wonderful meeting. I plan to sign up as a member.

Returning home, I ate my apple and looked forward to more food. I was starved. After our late lunch, I had a revelation. My sugar level was low. I usually experience signals when it gets low. This time, I was so happy to be somewhere, it just didn’t register.

I have Hypoglycemia. I manage it with protein, and especially with breakfast. I was running on empty and filled my tank with a high glycemic banana, and a black coffee, which acts like sugar. That’s when my system registers too much sugar here, and begins to rid itself of the sudden stockpile. But there are times when it doesn’t turn off when it should and I get giddy, forgetful, confused and sometimes sick to my stomach.

Ergo: my difficulty in filling in a form and remembering simple things and people’s names at the meeting, and trying to remember who had notified me of the event.

I first experienced these symptoms many years ago. I had to convince my doctor that I had low blood sugar. He didn’t believe me until one day, during an appointment, I turned very pale and sick to my stomach. I said, “I need milk. Now.” His nurse sacrificed her lunch milk. I recovered immediately. Doc gave me a home finger test and chart. “Do a finger blood test first thing in the morning. Write the results here,” he pointed to the chart. “And write anything/comments here. Come back in a week.”

In the mornings, I leaned against the kitchen counter and “chased” my finger with a little spring loaded tiny blade gun (I hate cutting and needles). The right hand had a job to do. The left hand wanted to live up to its name, “left” which is past tense of “leave.”

I smeared the blood on paper strips and filled in the numbers on the form. At times, I couldn’t spell simple words. Once I struggled with the word “with.” I gave up on the third try. I won French spelling competitions in grammar school and I was also a great English speller.

I left the misspelling and scribbles for Doc to see. He said, in his ten years of medicine, no one had ever diagnosed themselves with the condition. He agreed. I had Low Blood Sugar.

His advice: monitor and control the condition with nutrition as I had been. It was better than drugs.

So I eat breakfast every morning. And it is under control.

I hope the form I filled doesn’t alarm the group. I was tired, hungry, listening, researching, writing…all at the same time. Talk about stressors. Stressors alone can make one’s sugar act weird.

But I was happy! And still am.

I can’t wait to attend the next meeting.

Speaking of Interuptions…

I’m managing Hubby’s care. He underwent surgery a few days ago. Due to Covid restrictions, I wasn’t allowed inside the hospital.
We have a slew of doctor appointments coming up and wouldn’t you know, thinking I had it “all together,” I planned a sneak appointment for me, in between errands, to get a professional hair trim, and still show up in time for Hubby’s release from the hospital.

So, I went to the grocery, hurried home to put food away, then had a quick lunch/snack. As I was getting ready to head out, something hard as rock presented itself in my mouth.

What?

In a split second I realized what had happened. I was right. And my plans abruptly changed.

A bridge composed of two connected crowns detached from my teeth. The crown covered two teeth. The first two after my canine and a third tooth was a cantileverd molar. The two teeth were in perfect conditionm but were sacrificed to support a bridge and ultimately a sculpted molar. A “floating” molar replaced a molar which had been incorrectly removed from my right upper jaw years ealier by another dentist. (After removal, he said it was a perfectly strong tooth. He had attempted to relieve me of a pain in my jaw and temple. The pain returned after the extraction. Over time, it went away….and I was missing a tooth. Not a happy experience.)

Cantilevered bridge sample

This complicated bridge was installed forty-seven years ago. 47! I was told it could last thirty years—if I was lucky. At that young age, thirty years seemed an eternity. So I agreed to have it done.

The set is polished, and still new looking. I am hopeful a dentist of great talent will re-install the set, even though the first tooth I had sacrificed to make this crown possible had now broken off at the gumline. The second tooth, which was reshaped to accept the crown as well, is still in position. So there will be some serious pain in drilling and poking, I’m sure. Perhaps the last canterlevered molar can be cut off the set, then a tooth implant can be installed in its place, thus giving me a sturdier bite. This idea for the last molar is based on now learning that a cantilevered crown is not a very good setup…it would have ultimately failed over time. Well the time is now and it is a very inconvenient interruption.

Is there ever a good time for interruptions?

However, there is some good news. Hubby is home and slowly getting better. We will be walking within a week or two in our favorite woods path. Our daily habit. That is not an interruption. That is a planned event. I’ll make an appointment to have my hair trimmed some day soon—I hope.

Like and leave a comment. Appreciate it.

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Are you a Beta Reader? Want to swap?

Hello fellow writers, authors, publishers, readers,

I’ll swap with Beta Readers for my YA historical, paranormal manuscript. Approx 53,000 words. Want an honest critique. I’ll do the same for you.

Theme: loss, guilt, frustration, anger, love, acceptance, hope and coming of age.
The setting: 1957, New Hampshire, fictional farming town on the Saco River, cradled in the White Mountains.
Tim will be 13 in 4 days. His two friends are 15 and 14. Each has experienced loss.
tbwavestandbyjo-2017-72dpir
Synopsis:
Tim’s refusal to accompany Dad cost him his dad.

His dad had spoken of the bear with magical powers. But Tim hadn’t asked enough questions. Where and how could he find this creature? He and and his friend, Charlie, go on a quest to the Saco River, searching for the bear. Tim hoped it would bring Dad back. But an unexpected storm unfolds.

The boys are trapped in a cave with little food. How can they find the bear if they are trapped? Tim has to convince his friend to believe in the bear, that it will rescue them like it had rescued his dad years before. But did Tim truly believe?

Tim’s roller-coaster emotions confuse him. Is he angry at Dad for leaving? He doesn’t think so. But then—

Please leave a comment, share and like if you truly like.

Helpful critiques are always welcome.

Thanks for reading.

Have I Mentioned My Re-writes Lately?

Sung to the tune of:
Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, by Rod Stewart

Have I Mentioned My Re-writes Lately

guitar by jo

 

 

Have I mentioned my re-writes to you lately?
Have I mentioned my second manuscript too?
They fill my heart with gladness
Take away any sadness
Easily trouble me
That’s what they do
 
Oh the midnight oil’s forever burning
Greets the day with hope
That this will do…this time
 
Re-reads fill my life with laughter
I can write it so much better
Easily trouble me
That’s what they do 

There’s a manuscript that’s divine
It might be yours, it sure ain’t mine 

And at the end of every re-write
I give thanks then I pray
This is the one, yes this is the one!
 
Have I mentioned my re-writes to you lately?
Have I mentioned my second manuscript too?
They fill my heart with gladness
Take away any sadness
Easily trouble me
That’s what they do
 
There’s a manuscript that’s divine
It might be yours, it sure ain’t mine
 
And at the end of every re-write
I give thanks then I pray
This is the one, yes this is the one!
 
Have I mentioned my re-writes to you lately?
Easily trouble me
That’s what they do
 
But I surely won’t give up
No matter all the mark-up
I’ll keep writing, that’s what I’ll do
 
Have I mentioned I’m still writing lately?

copyright: Lyrics by J. M. Orise 02/10/2019
copyright: Art by Jo M. Orise

Share your writing journey. Fill my heart with gladness. I bet you can. 

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A House Full of Boxes – Where Is That Key?

The world’s greatest packer here.

All boxes taped solid, each box marked—contents, how to handle and where to deposit.

housefullofboxesbyjo

I like order!

Contemplating the move from New Hampshire back to Maine, advice came in from all quarters:

  • Hire a mover.
  • Get a large box truck.
  • Sell it all.
  • Have an auction.
  • Hire my friend—and his truck—and his friends.
  • Pack books by theme and organize them—like a library.
  • I’ll be there, just call me.
  • Buy moving boxes and white wrapping paper. No newsprint!
  • I got a trailer you can use. It’s an open trailer, pack it all at once and move everything in a day—just be sure it doesn’t rain.
  • Move it all into the garage and move it out later.
  • Rent a storage unit.
  • Leave it all behind.
  • $9-10,000 is a good price for all you got to move. That should be the worse case scenario.

Sheesh!

Hubby and I stopped talking and got busy.

  • What! You’re moving it yourself?
  • Hire someone to pack. You don’t have to do that.
  • You’re too old to do all that work.
  • Hire a mover!

No one asked what we wanted.

Our concern? Others packing would be a disadvantage—our not knowing where things were. That “good price” was too steep. We’d moved before—no one helped unless we begged at the last minute. Those buyer walk-through days had been met each time. We were successful this time too! The house was empty in ten days!

Day two, we packed an open trailer and a relative hauled it leaving it in our new yard. Arriving a few days later with a very heavy load in our box trailer and pickup, Hubby and I unpacked both trailers and truck. The next day, we were off again to NH.

What made it work for us was a special condition agreed to by the buyer—leasing the garage at closing. We moved out of the house ten days, in time for closing. Now we had thirty days to clear out the two-story, four bay garage. We made it in twenty-nine days! We now have thirty days to clear out the sawmill building. At the end of this month, we will be home free! Done! C’est tout finis! Finiti! Terminado! Back to painting and writing!

Okay! Calm down.

Why so long? Hubby and I were the crew. We spent days sorting, packing and going to the recycling center (I call it “the dump”) to dispose of unwanted stuff. We sold a few big items by hauling them to dealers for consignment. Each trip was three hours, sometimes more. Back pain was excruciating. It was difficult and exhausting.

Advice was replaced with “I told you so” comments! A few poked fun at how we just loved to move the hard way. Why not be happy for us? Why not congratulate us for what we accomplished—by ourselves?

We didn’t know how in the world we could carry the heavy furniture into the house and up a flight of stairs. We had struggled to move it to the trailer from the house. While dreading how to move our last heavy piece of furniture to the trailer, our young neighbor volunteered! He was fantastic. Later, he informed us of his bad back gotten while on duty in Afghanistan, but not to worry! He was glad to help. Bless his soul. At the other end, we hired two high school boys who gladly moved furniture upstairs and down with ease! Youth and strength go hand in hand. One hauled lobster traps with his dad, that explained his ability to pick up what we could not. Bless their souls! And very nice too.

My step daughter is very good at cleaning out barns and selling ‘stuff’ of interest to

Pic_0422_680

Time for a break.

collectors. I snapped several photos to help promote the sale of the ‘stuff’ left behind.

One of the items we decided to sell was my old snow blower. They ignition key is packed in one of the boxes labeled KEYS. She needs that within a few days.

“Hmm. Hun, have you seen the box marked Keys?”

Hubby stares at the jungle of boxes.

No response.
________________________________

Share and tell us about your moving experiences.

 

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I Had To Put It Into Words

What is River Fork?

A coming of age YA story.

Why did I write it?

As a former teacher, I encouraged my high school students to write. One  particular assignment required an autobiography titled: “Fact, Fiction or Fix-it Autobio.”  Over the years my students, because of the title, felt comfortable enough to share stories I would never have been privy to.

tbwavestandbyjo-2017-72dpir

comment to beta read

I empathized at how much some had suffered in their short life. In particular was the loss of a parent, sibling or  a friend.

My mother died in a fire — my sister and I witnessed the event. I was five, my sister was seven. Needless to say, we never forgot. It is indelibly etched in my memory. So much detail for such a young mind.

Being aware of my students’ stories, a story evolved in my head for two years. My brain cranked out scenarios. At first it was a morass of imagery. How would I best present my idea. Picture book? Children’s book? Family story book? I wasn’t a writer. I wrote poetry and still do and tuck it away in a briefcase. But writing a book?

Since I am an artist, I began with cute pictures and stories. Then the story grew. It didn’t need to be cute — loss is not cute. I needed honesty and a theme, a plot, etc… . What did I get myself into?

I had to put it into words. As I began the writing process, I adjusted the length and breadth of the story. Years later, I found time in my retirement to finish the MS.

These last four years were devoted to researching the writing craft, improve my writing skills and understanding the different publishing options. Needless to say, the times have surely changed the publishing process since I first put pen to paper.

The story:

  • Timeline: 1957
  • Theme: the loss of a parent.
  • Setting: fictitious town of River Fork, NH.
  • Characters: Three neighboring teens who live in  a farming community.
  • It is about coming of age, death, forgiveness, hope and faith, budding romance.
    • It contains a bit of paranormal (no magical potions, witches, vampires, violence, etc…)
      tbwavestandbyjo-2017-72dpir
Are you a beta reader?

The MS has been line critiqued and gone through several revisions

Presently, I need a critique from a few beta readers willing to give me an honest review. Comment if interested.

If you wish to work with me in this endeavor, your name will be mentioned in the credits and I will gift you a digital copy of my YA novel once it is published.

 

I’ve since begun a sequel—Roach’s story.

Please like, comment and share this post.
Thanks.

 

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I Think I Got It … Kinda.

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Yes, I’m really here… 😉

 

Been writing for a while.

Blogs, that is.

I do have a manuscript for a YA novel that I am interested in publishng as well.

But this is about social media.

I find social media protocols strange. Some give an option, then it really is not what I think it will be.

Two days ago, I clicked on that ‘bell’ located at the top of my WP window. This time it worked! All the other times nothing happened. So I had given up.

Like I said, I clicked it the other day and there  was a list of people following me. My Twitter account had notified me I had these followers, but I couldn’t find them in the Twitter followers listing. Perplexing at the time.

Here they are in my WP account. Beautiful!

I experienced an epiphany. Things started to connect. So that is how it comes together. Now to make it work for me.

I did redirect my website to my WP account. It is http://www.jmorise.com . And, I am the one who solves a lot of issues for my hubby’s computer as well as mine. I taught computer science for 20+ years. Therefore, give me a break before judging me. I retired just as social media was coming of age. I was not interested at the time. I was busy painting and writing my MS and fulfilling a whole lot of obligations. Retirement finds me just as busy as when I was employed.

Does anyone else out there find social media difficult to digest?

I’m not talking about posting a picture and requesting likes. That is what I call a scrap-book or a family album.

Comments from like-minded participants as well as likes are my goal.

As I said, I think I got it… .

Leave a comment, a like and please share.

Thanks.

Summer is O – V – E – R – there. Somewhere.

Pulling out the old linoleum flooring was a chinch. Happy about that.

Pulling out the old linoleum flooring was a chinch. Happy about that.

Didn’t we just notice spring arriving and how hot it got in July. New England got damned hot.

Yeah, I know. I chose to used two different patterns from kitchen to dining. I like it. A dividing point instead of a wall.

Yeah, I know. I chose to used two different patterns from kitchen to dining. I like it. A dividing point instead of a wall.

July-August, I was cutting tiles for our kitchen  floor. Man, it was like standing in a hot oven as I cut tiles outside on a wet-table tile saw. No shade. The sun’s glare on a wet, shiny tile demanded sunglasses. It took several minutes to regain my vision as I stepped back into the house from each cut—many cuts.

August, we installed interior doors solid panel as well as french double-doors. Painting the woodwork and touching up was a joy. Uh huh. Right!

My easel is just beyond that doorway. Waiting.

One french door was too short. Fortunately, I had a remnant from another door, so with a little surgery and sanding and painting, I successfully ‘grew’ the too short door with a transplant.

I’ve seriously pondered such surgery. Three or four inches taller would be just right. I was ‘normal’ height in high school. I prayed I would continue to grow. Years later, I conceded that I was deluding myself.

Sutdio doors. Patient on horses awaiting surgery.

Sutdio doors. Patient on horses awaiting surgery.

Back to my door transplant. Hubby was impressed and promised to help with the installation. Once the paint was dry and the glass surfaces scraped clean, he helped carry the door upstairs. French doors may have less wood, but they are still  heavy. Since Hubby was not home, I installed the door myself. Difficult, but doable. The light shines through the glass door and illuminates a dark hallway at the same time. Just what we need.

September, it was sheet rock and mudding. Then, I noticed the kitchen ceiling—cracking? Grab the step-ladder, tape and tools and keep mudding until it looks smooth. That took a while. And yes, sanding and priming and painting. My neck hurt from hours of looking up.

October, finish work with door molding and thresholds and ahhh—some more damned sanding, painting and touching up.

“But you’re an artist. You must love doing this,” said Hubby.

Yeah! Right.

My finished doors and the patient now standing about 3 inches taller. Waiting to go upstairs.

My finished doors and the patient now standing about 3 inches taller. Waiting to go upstairs.

I don’t mind doing it a little bit. But this has been going on since I was a little kid helping my parents with each house project. Then my first husband proved inept with a hammer—to install little blocks of wood outside the window for drapery rod extensions he sunk the hammer head  deep into a plaster wall. So, I became the architect/carpenter/painter, et al. I’ve constructed additions, designed homes, built homes and two-story, 4-bay garages, an eighteen sided home and now this. It is going to stop.

My manuscript is in my computer just inside my studio, reminding me to finish the editing I promised myself to finish last spring.

Summer is over there. In my kitchen, on the floor, the ceiling, around doors, in doors and thresholds. Oh yeah. Almost forgot. We cut trees and split firewood and I helped Hubby design and build a retaining wall to support the fire-wood in the basement. He feared the stacked wood might fall atop our little VW. I assured him it would not. Hubby worries about stuff like that.

Hope your summer was fulfilling as was mine. 😉