If at First You Don't Succeed...

I apologize for my lack of recent blog posting. I've been going pretty strong for ten years now and I love the motivation that making a monthly post has done for my garden curiosity and know-how. But I have some exciting news to share...

The reason I haven't posted is because I've finally finished the book I began 30 years ago!

I know. Thirty years is a long time to stretch out a project and honestly, I thought I'd never get over the finish line. But I've taken the time to proofread and go through the manuscript one last time. I'm sharing the intro with you below. The title, "Dare to be an American", is a direct quote from Susan Warner's prize-winning essay that helped launch her successful writing career in 1850.

The book is an historical fiction about Susan and her sister, Anna Warner the nineteenth century sisters who lived and wrote, loved and prayed on Constitution Island--where I now garden as a volunteer.

While I haven't gone to print just yet, it is fitting to complete this project in the year that our nation celebrates the 250th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence and the start of the hard-fought war to achieve a better future. I feel the title does more than echo old sentiments, it can be a call for each of us who have a dream they still want to realize. Dont give up--try, try again.

As we were leaving the island last month, I came across this humongous "puff" (above). If I had one wish - one big, American wish - it would be that our country could come together again, roll up our sleeves and remember those who have gone before us who kept the faith and fought for freedom.

(Stay tuned for publishing info)

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Dare to be an American How the Warner Sisters Rebuilt Their Lives One Word at a Time

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“Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter speak earthly things - T here mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter of angel’s wings.” - Anna B. Warner

Author’s Note:

Do you know that still, small voice inside you—the one that speaks undeniable truth? I remember hearing that I would write this book as clearly as a full moon looming large over a pitch-black night in the Hudson Highlands in 1995.

I was a young mother, newly planted at the United States Military Academy, courtesy of my husband’s selection to be an instructor for cadets there—he himself having been one ten years earlier. As we military wives often do, I answered the call to volunteer. Women from a local historical association dressed in Victorian costume introduced us to the island they represented across the river, in need of guides, gardeners, and guests. I was captivated and signed up to be a docent, though I scarcely knew what that even meant.

I went home with a binder and studied the script. Then came my first boat ride over to the island: docking at the old boathouse, walking past Anna Warner’s delightful memorial garden, and opening the preserved home much as the family left it in 1915. I was more than just a visitor—I was staff. I went behind the ropes, opened the rickety windows, latched back the real wood shutters, and climbed the locked back staircase of the old servants’ quarters to choose a dress of my own to wear when I returned as a costumed guide—a docent.

I don’t know about the others, but I felt transformed—an almost mystical connection with the people who really did live, dress, and sleep there more than one hundred years ago. While I still can’t tell you which chair is “Early Empire” and which is a reproduction, I fell in love with that rocky outcrop set in the middle of the Hudson River.

Although much has been written about Susan and Anna Warner, I longed to tell their story from within—to imagine the voices behind the history. And so I set off to try and capture nearly ninety years of history.

Truthfully, the task was overwhelming. I got quite a way into it—nearly fifty thousand words—but submitted it only once before putting it down. Life happened. I lost steam. It wasn’t until we returned to the Hudson Valley as retirees twenty-five years later, when I boarded that ferry boat again and joined the Thursday gardeners, that the voice beckoned anew.

Anna Warner once wrote, “The influence of good lives lived in a house remains there.” Seated quietly by the house today, watching the sun’s descent, one can still catch a spirited breeze sliding down granite pillars, skirting across the shimmering water, sweeping over the emerald carpet—whispering their story.

Hearts that cried.

Cries that were heard.

A tale worth retelling.

Forgive my rendering, insofar as it may interfere with the voice that speaks to you.

Cynthia Ann Thomas