Beginning as a teenager:

Baby sitting


Walking dogs



Flying service – co-operator


Real Estate Promotor

Radio/TV – News reporter, Announcer, Continuity Director, Traffic Director, Producer, station manager, etc.

Advertising and Promotion


            Electronic equipment


            Real Estate


Income Tax Consultant

Employment counselor
"Head Hunter"

Apartment complex manager

Lecturer/consultant – health and nutrition

Communications assistant

Floral arranger



            Motor Scooters

            Music Store Entrepreneur

            Advertising Agency

            Tax Service

            Consignment store

My stories, articles, essays, and poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, newspapers, literary journals, and anthologies world-wide. I have also published six books.  I am most noted for my first book, Fragile Hopes, Transient Dreams and Other Stories, a Southwest Kansas saga, which was chosen during Kansas sesquicentennial year, as one of “150 Best Kansas Books.”



Fragile Hopes, Transient Dreams and Other Stories - A family saga.  (Chosen as one of 150 Kansas Best Books).

Cul de Sac – The life and times of retirees living on a Cul de Sac in Paradise Village.

Caribbean Sunrise – A Romantic/Suspense Novella

7½ 1BIG STEPS - Stories From the Yucatan Peninsula

Charlie—A novel

James and Jack…Young Adult Novel



Ultimate Christian Living:  OK In My Book

For the Love Of God:  OK In My Book

Well Versed:    Isla Aguada.  Going Home Again

Short Stories and Tall Tales

By Line

And others

Hundreds of articles, short stories, essays and poems published in innumerable  magazines, newspapers, journals, etc. worldwide.


Grit*, Woman’s World, Cappers, Flying, American Fitness, Country Woman, Sunshine, KANSAS! Magazine*, The Legend, Looking Back, Spokane Woman, Kansas City Star Magazine, Arkansas Democrat Magazine, various Literary Magazines, numerous senior adult magazines such as Best Times, Senior Beacon, etc.  Too many farm, business and specialized magazines to list.

*Regular contributor to KANSAS! Magazine and Grit Magazine – simultaneously - for over ten years.

NEWSPAPERS: (Feature Articles, Columns, Essays, Poems)

The Kansas City Star, The Spokane Chronicle/Spokesman Review, The St. Louis Post Dispatch, The Arkansas Gazette, The Arkansas Democrat, The Memphis Commercial Appeal, Kansas City View, The Squire, Johnson County Sun, Kansas City Business Journal, Jonesboro Sun, Dodge City Daily Globe, Marysville Advocate, numerous regional and local newspapers.  (Managing Editor and writer for Shawnee Mission Signal, a short-lived Johnson County newspaper.  Wrote flying columns simultaneously for two weekly newspapers.  Weekly business column for Dodge City Daily Globe.  Edited weekly page and wrote news and features for same newspaper.  Weekly “Dateline” column plus features for Jonesboro Sun covering numerous Arkansas towns.  Traveling reporter writing news and feature columns for three other weekly newspapers.  Stringer for various metropolitan newspapers and United Press).



Fiction and poetry.  (First/Second: Kansas Author’s Club, Second: University of Arkansas,  Honorable Mention, KAC, CCMWG, Mind’s Eye, Writer’s Digest. Etc.



Writer of news, features, scripts, commercial advertising copy, public service announcements, etc  for a number of Television and Radio stations.

Other Radio and Television positions held include station manager, on-air personality, announcer, promotion manager, continuity director, traffic director, producer, sales manager and.



Newsletters, brochures, news releases, public service announcements, advertising copy for radio, television, newspaper, magazine and direct mail, business letters, sales proposals, radio and TV scripts and commercials, slide show presentations, setting up business, organization and political conventions and conferences, press conferences, etc.  Represented clients at venues such as Sports, Boat and Travel Shows, etc.

"In Progress" is a memoir, entitled Headwinds (Working title).  (Excerpt on "Works In Progress" page).   Also underway is an autobiography which I add to as time allows.  This I plan to publish as a bildungsroman.

And that, my friends, is me “up to date.”  You’ll find more about the books, as well as other stuff, on my website and



Criticized for having too little information about “me” on my website, particularly what excuse I have to represent myself as a writer, I decided to  add a bit of information about where I am, where I’m coming from and where I’m going—not necessarily in that order—for the benefit of those who might be interested.

First of all, good, bad or mediocre, my work speaks for itself.

I don’t profess to be a “great” writer.  But as a dedicated scriber/scribbler, and considering the quality/quantity of work I’ve put out over the years, I think I’m safe in signing myself off as a bonafide writer/author.

A question often asked is how or when or why I became a writer.  I didn’t “become” a writer. I was born a writer.  I don’t remember when I wasn’t writing.  I don’t know where my writing genes came from.  To my knowledge, no other member of my family, immediate or in the distant past, has shown the slightest interest in putting pen to paper.  I’ve been told that, from the time my chubby hands could negotiate a pencil, my favorite pastime was sitting with pencil and paper deeply engrossed in scribbling.  I wrote my first poem when I was five, a silly, poorly composed, rhymed thing which I still have, forever preserved, in my grandmother’s commonplace book.

For the most part, I lived with my grandparents until I was eleven.  Grandma was a great teacher; she instilled in me a love for the Bible (Grandma was very religious) and a love of reading.  She loved poetry and though she never wrote any herself, I think she hoped I’d turn out to be a poet.  When I was born, Grandma and Granddaddy bought me a “Birth” day present—The Books of Knowledge.  I still have the complete set—well worn—in the original case.  As a child, I spent hours daily, lying on the floor in the living room, one or more of the books open before me.  I virtually devoured the stories and poems, but I also spent a lot of time on astronomy, French and geography.

Grandma and The Books of Knowledge must have educated me well because I skipped both the second and the fourth grades.

However, I evidently used all my stored knowledge in my earlier years because once I became a fifth grader—although I still got lots of A’s—I was just an average student.




In 1926, the summer I was five, my grandparents took me along on an automobile trip to eastern Oklahoma.

“We’re going to visit some of Granddaddy’s kinfolk”, Grandma said.

I remember how excited I was to be journeying so far and as we drove eastward in Granddaddy’s new Model-T Ford, I was as excited as any kid could be.  I watched, enchanted, as the wind-drifted sandy soil of the Oklahoma Panhandle turned red, and the road cut through brick-red cliffs.

The sun was high overhead when Granddaddy stopped at a roadside store and bought white bread and cheese and thick slices of cold boiled ham.  Grandma made sandwiches which we ate sitting on the running board of the car in the shade of a scraggly cottonwood tree.

By the time we resumed our journey, the sun was glaring down and a scorching southwest wind was blowing.  Hot and sweaty, I nodded off wedged between the two adults.

Dusk had fallen by the time we reached our destination—a white clapboard, tree-shaded hotel in a small, eastern Oklahoma town.  A large woman and a tall, wiry man came out to greet us.  I was told to call them Uncle Harry and Aunt Martha.

Inside, the rooms were cool and dimly lit.  The table was set for supper so we sat down to eat.  However, the grown-up conversation was way over a weary child’s head and I nodded off in my chair until Grandma and Aunt Martha led me down the hall to a room that contained only a bed, a chair and a dresser so highly polished it glowed in the dim light.

Grandma dressed me for bed in my white cotton nightgown and took me to the bathroom several doors away before tucking me in.

“We’ll leave the door ajar,” she said.  “Granddaddy and I will be in the next room.  Do you think you can find the bathroom if you have to go again?

I nodded drowsily and was fast asleep before Grandma and Aunt Martha were out of the room.

It was very quiet when I awoke but the dim light from the hall filtered into the room.  I sat up in bed.  After traveling all day in the heat, I’d drank too much water and, just as Grandma had surmised, I had to go to the bathroom.

I slipped quietly out of bed and tiptoed to the door in my bare feet and peeped down the hall.  I walked in the direction Grandma had taken me earlier, but as I passed one closed door after another, I couldn’t remember which one led to the bathroom.

Seeing a light under a door, I opened it and went in.

It wasn’t the bathroom.  It was a room much like mine except there was more furniture.  A very old man, with a white beard, lay propped up by pillows in the four-poster bed.

His beard fascinated me and I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at him.  He opened his eyes.

“Hello little girl,” he said, his voice weak and shaky.  “What is your name?”

“Edna,” I replied.

“Ah yes,” he said.  “Your Granddaddy told me about you.  Well—you are a pretty little thing.  Come over and shake hands with your Cousin John.”

I went forward and timidly held out my hand.

He took it and peered into my face.

“Yes,” he said.  “You do have the Booth look about you.”

“Is your name Booth too?” I asked.”

“It was once—” He smiled as though something amused him.  “A long, long time ago.”

“Your name is the same as my Granddaddy’s,” I said.  “His name is John Booth too.”

“Our middle names are different though,” he said.

At that point, Aunt Martha came into the room.

“I thought I heard voices,” she said.  “Are you two having a nice visit?”

“We were just getting acquainted,” said the man who called himself Cousin John.

“Were you looking for the bathroom?” Aunt Martha asked.

I nodded and she took my hand.

“Goodnight Miss Edna,” the man whispered.

“Goodnight Cousin John,” I said.

A few minutes later, I was back in my room once more sound asleep.

For the next two days, Granddaddy spent long hours behind the closed door.  From the hall, I could hear the sound of voices but I didn’t see Cousin John again.

Many years later, we were discussing family history at a family reunion when someone mentioned the name of our most notorious ancestor.

“Granddaddy once told me that, contrary to historical reports, John Wilkes Booth wasn’t killed in 1865; that he escaped and died an old man in a little town in Oklahoma,” interjected my younger brother.

Granddaddy was long dead and there was no one I could ask but I often think of the old man lying propped up in bed in a dimly-lighted room in a small hotel.

And I’ve wondered—