About the Story
I wrote Doughnuts and Prayers more than 5 years ago about a day I will never forget. It happened 51 years ago this month.

I’d had my driver’s license for a month, and my car for a week. Icy roads had been treacherous that morning, but thanks to Dad’s instructions on driving wintry streets, I managed my second-hand, 1962 Chevy just fine. I couldn’t wait to tell him.

Learning to drive from Dad had been tough. He’d taught my older brothers first, and wasn’t ready for a daughter with no apparent clutch/gas pedal coordination. He’d lost his temper more than once when I stalled his station wagon. But I’d learned.

The afternoon roads were clear, and my Chevy handled perfectly. Dad was the one who’d found my car and haggled with the seller for a price I could afford.

I eased into the space in front of our house, but before I grabbed my purse, my two youngest sisters pulled open the door.

“Kathy,” Reene said, “Daddy’s in the hospital.”

“You have to fix supper,” Mary added.

The hospital? I rushed inside, where my oldest brother Bert explained. “Dad had horrible pains in his left arm, and Doctor Williams had Mom take him to the hospital because it might be a heart attack. It was. In the Emergency Room he went into cardiac arrest.”

I couldn’t seem to breathe. “His heart stopped? Is he…?”

“He’s alive—for now. Mom’s staying with him. She said for you to fix supper. Breakfast, too. Oh, yeah, and pray.”

The Prayers

I prayed, but not down-on-my-knees-hands-folded praying. I had supper to cook. OK, I didn’t really “cook.” I slid TV dinners in the oven (lasagna for Bert and Bob, roast beef for Mike, chicken for Reene and Mary, and turkey for Patty and me). I poured seven glasses of milk and set the table.

Random thoughts dropped into my mind. Who will tell me where to change my oil? Who can help me file income taxes? Who will walk me down the aisle when I get married? I need him, God.

Mom called after supper and talked to Bert. After he hung up, he parked the younger kids in front of the TV, and met in my room with Bob and me.

He sat on Patty’s bed, Bob sat on mine, and I stood between them and shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“It’s bad,” Bert said. “They don’t know if he’ll live through the night. If he does, he won’t be the same.”

I stopped shifting. “What do you mean he won’t be the same?”

“His heart stopped for thirty minutes. The heart doctor said he’s never seen someone come back after fifteen. But something made him keep trying to get it going again. And Dad came back. But after five minutes, they expect brain damage.”

What would brain damage look like? No, not Dad.

“Mom’s staying with him,” Bert said. “She’ll call when she knows something. She said for you to take care of the little kids, Kathy.”

Patty and I washed supper dishes together. I noticed the tears that ran down her face and into the sudsy water. I tried to control my own tears and said silent prayers.

Bert had the tougher job. He called Grandma long distance and told her that her son was in the hospital and might not survive. She said she’d pray, too.

I prayed with the little kids and sent them to bed. Please, God, he has to live. Even with brain damage, we need him.

The Doughnuts

Mary couldn’t sleep. “The doughnuts are gone,” she said. “I need doughnuts for breakfast. You know the kind I like. With sugar.” We all knew the kind—the only kind—picky-eater Mary liked.

I checked the bread box and freezer. No doughnuts. I knew I should tell her to eat cereal or toast like the rest of us, but the look on her face reminded me that days ahead might shatter our world, and I wanted her to be able to sleep knowing she’d have doughnuts in the morning—like always.

I tucked her into bed with the promise I would get doughnuts.
I went to neighbors’ houses to see if anyone had doughnuts. They sympathized about Dad and asked if we needed anything.

“Just doughnuts. And prayers.”

One neighbor had cereal. “Do you really need doughnuts?”

How could I make her understand that I couldn’t break my promise to a little girl in the morning, when her afternoon news might be the worst kind ever?

I slid into my Chevy and touched the St. Christopher medal on the dashboard. Dad had given it to me the day we got my car.

He’d secured its magnet to the dash and winked at me. “He’ll protect you, but if you drive over the speed limit, he’ll get out.” Would brain damage destroy that sense of humor?

I drove past the dark, closed-at-six Kroger store and went to Seven-Eleven. The only sugar doughnuts were mini ones, not the size Mary was used to, but they’d have to do.

Dad made it through the night, but we were told to keep praying. I prayed while I packed lunches, grocery shopped, and “cooked” suppers.

Mom came home the second day and hugged us tighter than I could ever remember. She took a bath, changed clothes, and went back to the hospital.

On the fourth day, a neighbor watched Reene and Mary while we older ones were allowed to visit Dad. Five of us trooped down a hall that smelled like PineSol.

Dad had a tube in his throat, more in his arm, and one up his nose. Bags of clear liquid hung on a post, and machines beeped. He didn’t look alive at first, but I saw his chest move.

His eyes flicked open, and he grunted. The sight of him left me as unable to speak as he was. I just watched his chest rise and fall. He was alive.

The heart surgeon said it was a miracle. But he’d likely be in the hospital for months, and would never go back to work at the Post Office.

I tried to picture life with Dad home all day, lying in bed, needing to be fed, talking in grunts. We prepared ourselves for a different Dad. I’d have to take care of my own oil changes and find someone else to do my taxes. Could he go to my wedding in a wheelchair? It didn’t matter. He was alive.

But the miracle wasn’t finished.

A month later, Dad came home from the hospital. He leaned on Mom as he hobbled up the sidewalk, but he walked. And he talked. His mind was quick with an answer or a joke. His brain was the same as it had always been. He went back to the Post Office three months later.

He took aspirin every morning and ate healthier. We all ate healthier. Even Mary. But Doctor Williams warned us Dad could have a second heart attack—one without a miracle. So we never stopped praying.

Eventually, the second heart attack did come—and killed him instantly. But it came twenty-five years, four months, and six days after the first. Dad had time to teach the younger kids to drive and found Patty’s first car. He helped with my taxes every year until Bert became a CPA. He walked me down the aisle at my wedding and held his grandchildren.

Dr. Williams stopped in my hospital room when I was expecting my second child. He hugged me and said, “I’ve seen two miracles in my medical career. One of them was your dad.”

Dad’s miracle gave his seven kids and twenty grandchildren twenty-five years of great memories.

I recently read Mary Morton Cowan’s book Cyrus Field’s Big Dream. I remembered learning in school that Cyrus Field laid the first transatlantic telegraph cable, but hadn’t known much else until I read Cowan’s book. Her story revealed just how many times he attempted and failed at this feat, losing tons of money, the confidence of his investors, and the faith of American and British citizens, all things I previously didn’t know. But he kept trying. Success came at great length and expense, but he did it. I found his story one of inspiration, as well as one packed with adventure. I interviewed Mary Cowan about her work delving into Field’s life. It’s an interesting read, which I highly recommend. If you have a young history lover in your life or one who thrives on adventure stories, this book will make a great gift.

Read the Transcript

Kathy:As a writer, everything I write begins with what I call “a spark.” You said the Heart’s Content Cable Station Provincial Historic Site captured your imagination. Can you tell us a bit about how that led to this book?

Mary: I had no plans to write a biography of Cyrus Field. But my visit to the cable station in Heart’s Content, on the island of Newfoundland, fascinated me. In addition to hearing docents talk about cable pioneers and seeing lots of cable samples, I spied a model of the ship, Great Eastern, which played a major role in cable-laying. I had crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a hurricane years earlier, and to say it was an adventure is putting it mildly! I thought laying a telegraph cable across that angry sea must have been treacherous. Right away, I started reading about it. I had written an adventurous biography earlier (Captain Mac, about Arctic explorer Donald MacMillan). When my editor, Carolyn Yoder, asked me for another one, Cyrus Field came to mind. He surely lived a life of adventure!

K: In school, the only thing I learned about Cyrus Field was that he laid the first transatlantic telegraph cable. I don’t remember reading anything about all his struggles and failures that preceded his doing it. How much did you know about the man before you began your research?

I knew absolutely nothing about Cyrus Field until I visited the cable station in Heart’s Content. The more I learned, the more compelling his story became.

K: As a writer, I have also dealt with struggles and failures, and I found Cyrus’s journey inspiring. Did you find parallels in your life to his? And did you intend the book to be inspirational to your readers?

Struggles and failures are part of our lives. Cyrus’s were monumental compared to mine, but I have struggled to persevere after failing, when giving up seemed easier. I hadn’t originally intended to write an inspirational biography. I was writing an adventure. But I quickly found Cyrus’s courage, perseverance, and integrity so inspiring, that of course I wanted to portray that to readers.

K: Life in the 19th century seemed more tenuous than today. Your book tells of Cyrus’s search for his brother lost at sea and of the death of his 4-year-old son. Did you find any evidence of how these incidents might have affected Cyrus?

My research revealed that in the 1850s, more than one-half of the children living in New York City died before age five – perhaps due to unclean water, or by raw milk brought in from outlying areas. But no matter whether childhood deaths were common or not, they were huge losses and caused much suffering. Cyrus wrote little about his son’s death. Diving headlong into the cable project helped him cope. One of his daughters later wrote that Arthur’s death brought her parents closer together. When I visited the family cemetery plot in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, I noticed young Arthur’s small gravestone. Cyrus and his wife had it inscribed, “How many hopes lie buried here.” I also found a gravestone of a broken column, depicting Cyrus’s brother Timothy’s life, cut short by drowning at sea. Cyrus’s family was a close one – and he, along with other family members, searched for years for any news of his brother. He followed every lead to learn of Timothy’s fate, which assures me that the subject was never far from the surface of his mind.

K: When I research for a book, some incidents don’t make it into the final book. Do you find the same thing in writing non fiction? And would you like to share anything here that isn’t in the book?

It may not happen as often in nonfiction, but there were a number of interesting scenes that couldn’t fit into the book. In nonfiction, the true story has already happened, so right from the beginning, I have some idea what needs to be left out. Cyrus played more of a role in the Civil War than I could include, because it didn’t relate directly to the goal of laying a telegraph cable across the ocean. For instance, when you read historical accounts of a confederate raid on St. Albans, Vermont, you might read that a British official and a commanding Union general were dining together in New York City when the raid happened, and the general received a telegram about it.

What you seldom read is that they were dining at Cyrus Field’s house, that the general received the message via Cyrus’s personal telegrapher, and that Cyrus influenced the general’s response, to avoid further conflict between the Union and Great Britain. There are several interesting anecdotes. Also, Cyrus focused on other ventures after the cable succeeded, but my story stops when the cable is laid.

K: Is there a question I haven’t asked that you would like to answer?

As happened with Captain Mac, young people ask me, “Why did you write a book about that man?”

I answer with a question. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“No,” is the reply, with heads shaking.

“That’s why,” I tell them.

I enjoy learning about unusual topics, and I like introducing young readers to people they don’t know, especially people who have made a contribution to society. I also enjoy “placing” a person in his or her time in history, and since most young readers have some knowledge of the Civil War, and are familiar with Abraham Lincoln, they can fit Cyrus into his place in history, even if they can’t imagine what life was like before cell phones and instant communication!

Who Says Cleaning is Just for Spring?

I have been working at cleaning out my library, my office, and other storage spaces. I have a confession to make: I’m a saver. Not a hoarder, but a saver.

I save certain things for sentimental reasons. Maybe it was a gift from a friend or belonged to my mother or grandmother. Some are also useful things. I have a hammer with a green stripe and a red stripe. Those stripes are how my father marked his tools. Whenever I need a hammer, it’s the one I use, and it always makes me think of Dad.

Somethings Can’t Be Deleted from a Device

I save photos. Not the swipe left kind of photos, but actual photos that I can frame or put in a scrapbook. My favorite Christmas cards are the ones that bring photos of family or friends, and I am thrilled when they are big enough to frame. (The current trend of collage cards makes that more of a challenge, but I have been known to frame the whole collage.) My Grandma’s sideboard (another item I have for sentimental reasons) is covered with photographs. Photographs are on shelves and tables. If I receive more recent photos, I replace the ones in the frames with those and save the old ones in a box or envelope.

And those Christmas cards that bring the photos, I save those, too. I save birthday cards, Christmas cards, Thank you cards, Sympathy cards. I have drawers and boxes filled with cards from various occasions.

I also have letters. All of you who don’t remember a time when letters were handwritten on paper and sent through the mail have missed out on a ritual I treasured. Going through them again has been a journey through my past. My husband served in the Navy and wrote to me nearly every day he was away. I received letters from family members when I lived in another state, and I received letters from friends and family members who lived out of town.

Going through these things and trying to decide what to discard has been time consuming, but it has been time filled with memories. And I have enjoyed every minute of it.

I neglected to write a blog post last month. I kept meaning to, but I was extremely busy, and I had trouble selecting a topic. I actually wrote most of one, and decided I had no good way to end it. With a blog post, I could begin a new one. No big deal. With a novel, not having an ending is catastrophic. Fortunately, I’m not dealing with that right now.

My busy summer included a family reunion. That might not sound too time intensive, but I was in charge of it. Other than the heat (The temps were in the high 90’s.), it was a great success. 105 family members came together to eat, drink, and just enjoy being together. We do these reunions every 3 years, and family members look forward to them eagerly. I am blessed to belong to such a wonderful, caring family, who love getting together. (You can look back to my March blog post to see more about them.)

Just 4 days after returning from the reunion, my husband and I took a trip to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, our first time there. What a beautiful place! We went there to celebrate the life of a young girl, who died much too soon. But sadness was set aside. Music, good food, dear friends, and a gorgeous view made it a lovely experience.

In late July, I received my editor’s comments on my latest novel-in-progress. I had to think through those and rethink about how I might change the novel to address her concerns. I began that in earnest in August. On August 23, we traveled to the Highlights Foundation’s facility in Eastern Pennsylvania. That place is magical and the perfect place for a writer to focus on writing. I revised the beginning of the novel several more times while there. (Getting a novel right is a long process.) I also reconnected with some old friends and met a few new ones.

Now here it is September, and Summer is in the rearview mirror. I still work every day on revising the new novel. It’s coming along, getting better, but not “there” yet. Children are back in school, and I have a school visit planned to talk about my books. I will also speak about my writing journey and my process at an SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) meeting later this month.
Summer is over, but the “busy” continues.

Last month I signed books at a book store in Ironton, OH. My novel Not on Fifth Street is set in that town. The novel is about the 1937 Ohio River flood that devastated riverfront towns in thirteen states, including my home town of Cincinnati. Friends ask why I chose to set the story in Ironton, when I have lived my entire life in Cincinnati.

The answer to that is easy. Ironton is where my father grew up. I was born well after the flood, but my father lived through it—in Ironton. He talked of it often when I was a kid.

Going back to Ironton always fills me with memories. My siblings and I spent many summer days in Ironton when we were young, visiting with Grandma Cannon and aunts, uncles, and cousins. Grandma’s house on North Fifth Street is a place I knew well and setting the book there came quite naturally.

I am the third of seven siblings. A family vacation with nine family members was a daunting (and expensive) undertaking when we were kids, so while friends at school talked about summer trips to the Rocky Mountains, Florida beaches, or Disneyland, our annual vacation was to Ironton. If anyone felt we were being short changed, we never did. We anticipated that vacation as much as we did Christmas.

We each had to have our one allotted suitcase packed the night before. We carried them out to the front yard on the morning of departure while Dad assembled the “boat,” our term for the wood luggage carrier he had made for the roof of the family station wagon. We watched excitedly as he lifted each bag into the boat, eyeballing, rearranging, sometimes taking everything out to begin all over again.

Squeezing in every piece took the skill of a jigsaw-puzzle pro, because we often tried to bring along more than would fit in that one allotted suitcase. Dad would ask, “Do you really need that hairdryer?” or “Can you leave your saxophone behind?” (For the record, the saxophone won out over the hairdryer.) Though loading the carrier tried Dad’s patience, it only built up our eagerness.

Once on the road, the drive seemed long, and we played car games like Travel Bingo or license plate hunting. We stopped midway to eat a packed picnic lunch at the same roadside rest every year. One time we were side tracked by carburetor issues and ate in a small grassy area near the garage that handled the repair.

In Ironton, the seven of us were parceled out to different aunts and uncles who had kids our age. We often got together during the day for a trip to Lawco Lake or the farm of a family friend who had a pool.

It wasn’t Disneyland, but our vacations weren’t about what we did. They were about who we did it with. Our close relationships with our Ironton cousins last to this day, and I cherish getting together with them whenever I can.

Good times come to an end, but people we love stay in our hearts forever.

Writing a novel like the ones I write involves a great deal of research, a heavy dose of creativity to plot out a story that dovetails with the historical details, and months and months of putting words on the page and revising them over and over to get them right.

When I have finished all that, I send the manuscript to my editor and wait to see if she is interested. If she is, she takes it to the editorial committee to see if they think it is a project worth investing in.

If everything goes well, they offer me a contract. Once I sign it, I work on another set of revisions with my editor, until we have something close to the final book. There will still be more passes and slight changes, and the book will go to a copy editor. After it goes through copy editing, my editor goes back through the copy editor’s comments and sends it back to me to address whatever issues have been addressed.

Meanwhile, the book designer decides things like font, page set up, and cover art. I am kept apprised of what is happening in all these stages.

Galleys are the next step. These are comprised of the book set up on the page the way it is intended, but the pages are not cut or bound. My editor goes over those with her scrutinizing eye, and sees what else might need to be fixed or corrected.

When we have made any necessary changes, ARC’s (Advance Reader Copies) are the next stage. These are bound paperback versions of the book that are sent to reviewers, bloggers, book sellers, and librarians. We can still tweak things a bit more in this stage if needed.

By the time the launch date comes, the first reviews are in, and I have made arrangements for a book launch event. All three of my books have launched at Blue Marble Books in Fort Thomas, KY. This is a bookstore that has been supportive of my writing long before I was published, and they do a wonderful job of promoting authors. We typically set up two dates (a weekday and a Saturday). I am there for a couple hours to talk about the book and sign copies for customers. Friends and family always turn out to show support.

After that, I arrange other book events, school visits, and interviews (newspapers, radio, and TV) to try to raise awareness of my latest book.

I recently visited a few schools to talk about Not on Fifth Street, my novel that launched in October, 2017. I participated in three Book Festivals and a few bookstore events. My most recent bookstore event was in Ironton, OH, the setting for Not on Fifth Street. It was hugely successful, and the bookstore sold out of copies of the book.

What’s next for me? Last week, I finished a new book and sent it to my editor. If all goes well, the process I just described will begin all over again.