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Jackie Cornwell
Recent Projects
Haunted Encounters: Departed Family & Friends
Life's Spices from Seasoned Sistahs
Projects or Proposals Offered
Whitechapel Hearts: Where Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde and Jack the Ripper meet.
Past Imperfect: Novel
Anything for Love: Mainstream Novel
Lost in Plain Sight: A novel of incest and redemption.
I know little about my background. I feel like parts of me are missing because I don't know where I come from, or at least from where half of my heritage springs. I was adopted within a family and only half my history is mine; the other half is silent.
Being adopted means being a stranger to yourself and to your family because they cannot understand the emptiness that lives inside every time they look through old photos of their family, a family that is yours by choice. The names and faces are like people in a history book, interesting and somewhat familiar, but not connected to you. I am luckier than most because I see my face in a few of those creased and aging pictures, but they are all too few.
One day my mother showed me a letter written by her great grandmother, a heritage that doesn’t belong to me. My adopted family’s roots grew from those flowing lines of fading script on paper yellow and ragged with age, dated just after the turn of the century. "You're the only one who’d appreciate this," my mother said. "You're a lot like Amanda."
Amanda wrote about father coming to America from Europe to build a better life for his family. He continued his family traditions and farmed the dark rich soil of the Midwest. Some of what he grew was unlike anything found in his neighbors’ gardens. Among potatoes and carrots, beans and corn, he planted fruits and vegetables familiar to generations of his people.
As Amanda described her life, the colors and smells of her father's fields sprang to life around me. She wrote about the Hungarian peppers her father grew; how they burned deliciously on her tongue when she sneaked a taste of their fiery liquor from the canning pot. Money was scarce, but Amanda explained there was always plenty to eat because she helped preserve each season's harvest in cans and jars - and in words.
In each sentence and glowing verb she painted her life in brilliant hues of hard work and dreams of the future, tinted by shades of acceptance. Amanda was brought up to be a farmer's wife, to bear strong sons and daughters to tend the farm. She cultivated fields of dreams where I walked beside her picking fruits and vegetables and gathering eggs still warm from the nests. We aimed jets of milk into shining aluminum pails where it steamed on cold mornings and worked through each season.
My mother told me Amanda religiously wrote to her children, sowing the seeds of the past, tending the fruits of the present and harvesting the bounty of the future. Amanda’s words were plain and her sentences simple, but she had a writer’s gift, one her children didn’t share.
Amanda's blood does not flow through my veins. We are related by our love of words like seeds planted in fertile soil, Amanda's seeds. I am heir to her dream.
Copyright , Jackie Cornwell (Expires July 31, 2008)
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