For years I’ve felt inclined to write a family history so that the stories of my own history and that of my eight children (whom I call the Wild Voorhies Pack) were recorded for both them and their children. Turns out, writing a family history is deadly dull. Who on earth wants to know that I was born in 1946 in Las Vegas, Nevada? Only the census takers. On the other hand, my brother always claimed that the fact that I sat in my kindergarten classroom under my desk with my knees to my chest, my hands covering my eyes, and felt the earth shake as an above ground nuclear test took place in the Nevada desert 200 miles away—then was later marched outside to watch the mushroom cloud pass overhead–explained a good deal about my sometimes aberrant behavior (in his eyes, at least!). Now that was a story worth hearing!

Every family has stories which shaped its history. They are sometimes poignant, sometimes hilarious, sometimes racked with hardship, and sometimes universal. The stories included here are neither chronological nor mired in the minutia of detail. They are, instead, the stories I know from the experiences of the heart. Those are the stories I remember. And cherish.

Recently Published Book

When a retired schoolteacher finds a lost child who can’t remember her name, the schoolteacher and her elderly neighbor embark on a quest to discover the child’s identity and return her to her family. They encounter a mystery, foster a romance, rescue a community choir, assist a family in crisis, and witness a miracle. Along the way, they remind their small town of the things which really matter in life: friendship, service, forgiveness, and the strength of family.

I spent the first 20 years of my married life raising 8 rowdy children (6 sons, 2 daughters). At age 40 I became a high school English teacher, working almost 25 years with thousands of equally rowdy students. When I retired, I was elected to two terms of the local school district board of education, where “rowdy” was part of the job description. Writing is the only time I ever find any quiet.