Back to the Beginning

 Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

  
Jayne Jaudon Ferrer at 16

I was Born  with a Pen in my Hand

by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer 

I have been passionate about words for as long as I can remember. I learned to read at age 4, had my first story published at age 9.

 

Photos of me at 16, which is the year I started writing "professionally" (did a summer series of interviews for the Tampa Tribune of country music stars). Above is a picture of a weekly neighborhood newspaper I wrote the summer I was 10 (all typed by hand!!), Below is a story I wrote in 3rd grade (with its pathetic illustration!), and a poem I wrote in 4th grade. I thought I wrote a story called "Jet the Race Horse" in first grade, and I know for a fact I wrote a story called "Aurora and Her Horse" in the fourth grade (it was published in my hometown newspaper), but I haven't been able to find either of those. 


 

Black Jet, Racehorse
Black Jet was a black thoroughbred. He was an excellent racehorse. He was only 2, and already he had won 6 trophies and 3 grand prize ribbons. His master was a girl named Alicia. She was 14. She had gotten Black Jet when he was 6 weeks old. His mother had been a grey mare. One day, Alicia decided to enter Black Jet in the Kentucky Derby Races. She gave him a good brushing, wet his coat slightly, and let it dry. In 3 hours, he was ready. Her father drove them to the races and when everything was going along fine, they found out that the jockey broke his leg! There wasn’t another one free, so Alicia would have to ride! “Be careful,” said her mother. “Remember the racing rules,” called he father. “Win!” called her big brother. “Ready, get set, go!” The race was on. Alicia rode like she had never ridden before. All of a sudden, she was even with the head rider! “Go, Black Jet, go!” she whispered. She was gaining. Only 100 yards to go! “Go, go, go!” she shouted. “Please, we’ve got to win!” All of a sudden she was over the finish line and the crowd was shouting liking mad! She took the huge, gold trophy without thinking. Still in a trance, she put the wreath of roses around Black Jet’s neck. “The winner is 14-year-old Alicia Ayres!” said the announcer. So it went on, and when she got home, she was so happy and so confused, she just sat down and cried! And Black Jet and Alicia won 16 more races before they retired from racing. And the family lived happily for a long time.


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I credit my childhood church librarian and Volume 2 (Storytelling and Other Poems) of my Childcraft Encyclopedia set for launching that love of words. In school, a handful of caring, encouraging teachers in her small central Florida town further fueled that passion. And always, there were books: the Bobbsey Twins, Cherry Ames, Donna Parker, Nancy Drew, Louisa May Alcott, and her beloved brown thesaurus.

My professional career was in advertising copywriting, and I worked as a freelance journalist on the side. My first three books were collections of poetry about the bliss and bedlam of motherhood. Then came The Art of Stone Skipping and Other Fun Old-Time Games, a nonfiction book Kirkus Reviews proclaimed as "a wonderful resource." 

I published a “best of” anthology gleaned from poems on YDP in 2021, and my latest book is a novel, Hayley and the Hot Flashes, the story of a middle-aged country music diva that addresses the value of friendship and the importance of going after your dreams.

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Following are a few of my early poems published during my college years:

Star

Silence and black
Laid back and slack
Explodes in a glittering crash.
Writhing and sweat
Climactical debt
Power expands without limit.
Hours and beers
Alcohol tears
Saturday’s turned into Sunday.
Singer and band
Number one man
The spotlight is off and he’s no one.

       
And the Circle Says Stop

The point of termination
     is approaching.
A new toy that was
anxiously unwrapped last summer
     has become old and overused.
Close Pandora’s box and go
home to Mother now, 
     leaving good and bad behind,
erasing some things, substituting
a semicolon in your mind
     for others.
Sweep away the things
that have been your world for
the last nine months, and
tidy up the mind for 
     another change of pace.
Young adulthood, as it’s properly
labeled, should be a
     roulette wheel, with all its
incessant spinning and stopping 
and change of direction. Perhaps
we should forego higher education 
     with its emotional gambles 
and give a try at the tables
     instead.

Ramblings with a Propensity Toward Perdition

…It’s a disease,
contagious and incurable.
YOU can call it depression
    melancholy
    spring fever
    the blues:
        I call it hell.
…Where do you turn for help
when even ice cream fails?
I don’t want your sympathy;
yes, I know you’ve been here yourself.
    Big deal.    
    I’m here now
and I don’t want to share my drowning pool.
Go AWAY, Sun. You’re shining on my gloom
and dark corners are hard to come by these days.
…Why is it that when you’re your most unlovable,
this insatiable desire to be loved pops up
    and all it does is
    leave you with frustration
    and smudged mascara
        and a bewildered lover?
I have unanswered questions
almost as much as those unaskable.
    Yes, that does make sense.
    You read it again and think.
…Actually, it’s very profound,
which is comforting, because that means
    even in the deepest pit,
                        …I have my moments.

From my first book, A New Mother’s Prayers (Pocket Books, 1989):


And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

God, I watch in wonder
as this ringlet-crowned master of mayhem
crouches meekly 
beside what used to be an earthworm
and remarks,
“How nice of these ants to come visit
this poor fellow!”
I marvel at his insightful grasp
of a dear friend’s death:
“But, Mommy, that means
we won’t see her anymore!”
How can it be, Father, that
a spirit so naïve and unsullied
spills forth such compassion
and wisdom and woe?
Father, are they your eyes
that look so tenderly 
on a fallen sparrow?
Are they your hands reaching out
to comfort a teary-eyed toddler friend?
His time on earth has been so short, Lord,
yet, sometimes, it seems
he possesses the perceptions of years.
Help me guard that heart’s pure love.
Help me shelter that sanguine soul
as long as possible.
And, please,
when childish dreams at last succumb
to grown-up doubts,
leave a little blind faith behind.

Required Listening

Baby giggles, God.
It’s the best gift you ever gave us.
Better than kittens,
better than sunsets,
better than chocolate.
Guaranteed to lift me up from 
whatever abyss I’m in,
guaranteed to force even somber souls
to suppress a smile,
guaranteed to make the world 
a happier place, for at least a
heartbeat.
Imagine what might happen, Lord,
if all across the world, each day,
all of us—presidents, prisoners,
shift workers, shopkeepers,
zookeepers and zealots alike—
took two minutes to listen to
baby giggles.
Oh, what a different world we’d have!
For in those lyrical laughs, those
lusty, honest chuckles,
one hears the echoes of 
Eden’s innocence
one more time.

From A Mother of Sons (Pocket Books, 1996):

Midnight Rendezvous

It is with something less than
maternal goodwill that I crawl,
asleep and annoyed, 
from my coveted bed
to silence your angry screams
violating the night.
We rock in the chair
that has been ours since
the very beginning,
ensconced in 
Great-Grandmother’s afghan and
the VCR’s ghostly green light.
Mute now, but for
periodic, pitiful whimpers,
you cling to me like some
abandoned creature reclaimed.
Clinging back,

I am Every Mother,
an all-knowing, all-bestowing,
all-loving, all-forgiving
paragon of matriarchal perfection.
Feeling your sweet, soundless breaths
tease the tangles of hair 
on the back of my neck,
my last trace of irritation
over interrupted sleep
dissipates in a hug, a kiss,
and a smile.
You will never remember 
these midnight moments together;
I will never forget.