Storyteller of the Week

 Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

 

 

 

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, right and her sister, Vera Stanfield

 Jayne Jaudon Ferrer earned her first byline at the age of nine and never looked back. Her work has appeared in publications ranging from Boca Raton Magazine to Christian Parenting Today, and she is the author of seven books: a novel, Hayley and the Hot Flashes, which has been selected as an August Bonus Book by the Pulpwood Queens and Timber Guys International Book Club; The Art of Stone Skipping and Other Fun Old-Time Games, which offers nearly 200 pages of instructions and fun facts about the world’s most beloved games; and A New Mother’s Prayers, A Mother of Sons and Dancing With My Daughter.— collections of "reality" poetry that explore everything from the terror of teaching your 15-year-old to drive to the undeniable healing properties of chocolate. Jayne’s poems are also featured in a number of anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader’s Choice 20th Anniversary Edition, A Daughter is Life's Greatest Gift, A Son Is Life's Greatest Gift, The Harsh and the Heart, From the Porch Swing, and Echoes Across the Blue Ridge.

For the past 14 years, Jayne has been the host and editor of Your Daily Poem, www.YourDailyPoem.com,  a website designed to share the pleasure and diversity of poetry with those who are skeptical. She published Poems to Lift You Up and Make You Smile in 2022, a collection of 100 favorite classic and contemporary poems featured on the website.

 During the course of her writing career, Jayne has been a radio continuity director, an advertising copywriter, newspaper columnist, magazine editor, public relations coordinator, freelance journalist, and creative director. She has interviewed movie stars, judged contests, produced plays, scripted everything from nuclear power plant videos to beauty pageants, and even developed a few political campaign slogans. Jayne is the mother of three sons and a native of Florida who now lives in Greenville, South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she enjoys gardening, hiking, and watching old movies. Learn more about her at www.JayneJaudonFerrer.com. 

 

Comments by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson

 

I met Jayne Jaudon Ferrer in 2017 when she published my first poem in Your Daily Poem and by the end of 2023, she will have published 25 of my poems. Since I write poems for children and adults who don’t normally read or like poetry and her readership includes children, senior citizens and those who are skeptics, we were a perfect fit.

 Although she is southern born and bred and I am a western/southwestern gal, throughout the years we also have discovered we have much in common. We were both journalists who interviewed movie stars, both are married to soulmates, had a close friendship with our sister, mother and grandmothers, have three sons, grandchildren and we both were raised on country music. She attended concerts of her cousin, the late Mel Tillis and still attends concerts of his daughter, Pam Tillis, two of my favorite country singers.  

 I have been a fan of Jayne’s poetry for many years. When she published a novel, Hayley and the Hot Flashes, about a country music star, I wrote a review for Goodreads.

See review at https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/153810335-sharon-waller

 Jayne is my superhero, not only because she is a Renaissance Woman but because no matter how busy she is she finds time to answer my emails even when I share my sorrows and joys as well as my poems. When our son died in 2021, she sent a condolence card.

 It is my great pleasure to share a few of my favorite poems of Jayne’s from Your Daily Poem.

 

Bound by Blood

Like Frost’s poem, we two diverged
when our citrus-scented, small-town days 
stopped short at the altar.
She of a serviceable skirt and
sensible pumps persuasion
left Main Street to see the world
on the arm of a naval commander.
I, the one with a penchant for accents,
intrigue, and adventures du jour, 
stayed down South raising billy goats and boys,
one no less rowdy than the other.
Our paths cross from time to time.
More often, we engage in adagio duets
played with gusto in the key of fiber optics.
Her with news of the Smithsonian's latest exhibit,
the Ritz’ recipe for lobster bisque—
me with tales of church bazaar projects, 
belly flops in the backyard pool.
Lives shared in a series of vicarious tête-à-têtes,
trading triumphs, trivialities, and trials . . .
Who but sisters can explore—
in abject detail, infinitum—
original sin, suede after Easter,
the state of the union,
and skin tags?

Observations on the Eve of My Sixty-Fifth Birthday

On the one hand, it seems eons since Susie and I

were catching grasshoppers in my mother’s marigolds,

Dixie cups and crinolines bouncing in the breeze.

On the other hand, it seems just yesterday Susie swept

into our tenth high school reunion, regal in royal blue,

light years removed from the Quickdraw McGraw sketches
she parlayed into a glamorous career in design.

 

Odd I can’t remember the names of guys I thought I was in love with

in college, yet I vividly recall the day in first grade when Mark Hayman
cackled as I got a spanking. (He got one, then—touché!)

All those afternoons sipping cherry Cokes in Beeson’s Drug Store . . .

all those evenings circling Knight’s drive-in and dragging Main . . .

Oh, Mighty Mouse! Oh, Monkees! Oh, when did Reader’s Digest

get more interesting than Tiger Beat?

 

We’re not old. We can’t be. Old is dull. Old is decrepit. Old is

boring—or was, before Boomers. Now old is Sketchers and

scooters and iPads and iPhones and discounts and 401Ks.

Is getting older daunting because scenarios from “In the Year 2525”
grow more realistic every day? Depressing because,
despite Oil of Olay and Botox and Viagra and Vitamin E,

we still can’t party all night and perform the next day like we used to?

                                   

We’re healthier, hipper, and, because life expectancy continues to increase,
we aren’t really that old, but we are still sixty-five.

Egads.

 

Last Laugh

I am mowing the lawn at your house,
sweating in the late spring sun,
breathing hard--okay, panting--
when I hear you laugh.
It is the laugh I loved best: full
and throaty; musical, with whoops--
the kind they say adds years to life,
except yours is over.

For five months I have missed you,
have wept over popcorn in the grocery aisle,
pink pumps at Penney’s, hymns at church,
a blaze of azaleas in a neighbor’s yard--
things you would have loved, did love.
It is in these imperceptible places, these
minor moments of my life where you used to be
and now aren’t, that I miss you most.

But here is your laugh,
come back to mock my middle-aged,
out of shape self as I slump, spent,
against your Japanese maple.
Hilarious indeed that while I am about the
yardwork you adored and I abhore,
you check in with a laugh to give me
a second wind.

From She of the Rib: Women Unwrapped 

Ode to a Tea Bag

It is the bleakest of mornings
as I crawl from my bed,
red-eyed, rumpled, and decidedly unrefreshed.
My right hip seems not to be working,
my left shoulder has a kink,
already a sinus headache is brewing
and, oh, Lord!—look at my hair!
Limping, snuffling, creaking, moaning,
I make my way toward the kitchen...
grope about in the dark for the kettle,
grope about in the dark for the tea tin,
turn on the stove, feel my spirits rise up
as I reach for a cup in needy anticipation.
Thank you, God, for the glorious gift of Earl Grey.

 

To Alice, with Love

Alice, you saved the day.
From the moment I woke with a throbbing head
till I dragged up to your register at dusk,
this day was twelve hours of worthless.
Took the dog out: he ran away.
No bread, no milk: no breakfast.
Checked the mail: bounced a check.
(Highway robbery posing as Customer Service.)
Work brought one cretin after another:
rude people, whiny people, impatient people, stupid people . . .
in multiples of three.
At lunch, my Coke was flat, my French fries were cold,
my hose got a run, my cell phone died,
and my headache still throbbed away.
Later, my computer froze up, the copier broke down,
and the repairmen didn't call, but Visa did—twice.
Heading home, I am a blob of pathetic morosity,
wending my way through drive-time traffic
in search of pharmaceutical relief.
And there, Alice, there you were—your bright-lipped smile
and big-bosomed "Hey, hon'!" an antidote for this dismal day
and its rattlesnake snipes of reality.
With your discordant din of digitized beeps,
your halo of iridescent orange curls,
your aw-buck-up-darlin’, tomorrow's-another-day reassurance
in your flat-voweled, honey-drenched drawl,
you washed away the sins of the world
with the sweet milk of human kindness.
Bless you, Alice. Bless you.
Keep the change . . . and bless you.