This week we welcome Loree Lough to Author Memories.
Loree Lough is an award-winning author of 84 books with nearly 4 million copies in circulation. When she isn't at the keyboard, you might find Loree sketching or painting, in the garden messing with her roses, or hiking the trails near her teeny cabin in the Allegheny Mountains (perfecting "identify the critter tracks" skills). In a modest home shared with her real-life hero, daughters and grandkids routinely gather around "the longest dining room table in the Baltimore suburbs" to taste-test Loree's latest culinary concoctions (which explains her lifetime Weight Watchers membership).
They Called Her Shoog
by Loree Lough
by Loree Lough
Growing up, I lived in a neighborhood where ice skating, and St. Bernard-pulled sleds speeding through the streets were routine winter sights—at least, when the sun was up. After supper, moonlight illuminated elaborate snow forts, where kid-fierce snowball fights might have lasted until bedtime…if soggy mittens and wet socks hadn't driven us inside.
Summers found us sprinkler hopping, hop-scotch scribbling, and riding bikes in the empty school parking lot. After dark, it took some serious concentration to win Statues and Hide-and-seek, because it wasn't easy, standing still and keeping quiet while swatting mosquitoes!
The summer when I was ten, a pretty little redhead moved into the house on the corner. Her parents and older siblings called her Shoog…and it was Shoog who introduced us to a whole new way to spend our summer days: Picking apples in her grandfather's orchard.
Summers found us sprinkler hopping, hop-scotch scribbling, and riding bikes in the empty school parking lot. After dark, it took some serious concentration to win Statues and Hide-and-seek, because it wasn't easy, standing still and keeping quiet while swatting mosquitoes!
The summer when I was ten, a pretty little redhead moved into the house on the corner. Her parents and older siblings called her Shoog…and it was Shoog who introduced us to a whole new way to spend our summer days: Picking apples in her grandfather's orchard.
Shoog looked at lot like this little girl.
Every morning at precisely 7 a.m., Gramps pulled into Shoog's driveway, the smoke from his burled-wood pipe curling from the driver's door window as we clamored for a wall seat in the pickup's bed. (Getting stuck in the middle with nothing to hold onto but the hope you wouldn't end up in Skinny Jimmy's lap made for an adventuresome ride, indeed!) Once there, Gramps doled out flimsy bushels…and a growly reminder that for every full basket we delivered, we'd earn a dime.
Bushels (bushel baskets)
Those first few days, we figured Shoog rode up front in the truck…that she never picked fruit because, well, she was Gramps' granddaughter. From her perch on the hood of the rusty old truck, she'd applaud and cheer as the dimes were doled out. And when Little Bobby (who was a head taller and outweighed us all by fifty pounds) bit into an apple and saw the other half of a worm he hadn't swallowed, it was Shoog who patted his back as he tried valiantly not to throw up.
This looked so much like Gramps' truck, it's spooky!
Leave it to Web-toed Tommy to ask why Shoog never joined in the fun: "Because," Gramps quietly explained, "Shoog has leukemia." Kids being kids, we shrugged it off and went back to climbing trees and shaking apples from the branches. But on the way home that day, there wasn't the usual tomfoolery in the back of Gramps' truck.
Back on familiar turf, we scattered to show our moms the shiny coins we'd earned. After wolfing down bologna or PB&J sandwiches, we took up our customary positions under the big tree in Marty's front yard, playing Telephone and I'm Thinking of a Number Between while listening for the tell-tale jingle of the ice cream man's bicycle. All except for Shoog, that is. While we lapped melting vanilla from our fingers, she was inside, resting up from the morning outing.
It was a sweltering Friday in August when, while gnawing that last bite of chocolate from my frozen treat, I got a bright idea: If we all went home and searched for loose change in our sofas, we'd have enough to buy an ice cream for Shoog on Monday! The kids agreed, but their moms had other plans: Sammy got stuck mowing the lawn and it was Clara's turn to fold the laundry. Bed-making, dishwashing, furniture-dusting and sibling-sitting took precedence over cushion diving. Miraculously, we managed to get our chores finished and collect enough to buy a cold treat for our frail friend.
On Monday, we assembled at the end of her driveway to wait for Gramps' truck, and struck an oath not to tell Shoog about the surprise we'd deliver to her front door when he brought us home again. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. It wasn't like Gramps to be late. Gary, the oldest and bravest of us knocked on Shoog's front door…
…and some nice lady we'd never seen before said "Sorry, kids; Shoog died last night."
Thanks to our mothers' real version of Telephone, we learned that her real name was Grace, and that if she'd lived, Grace would have turned eleven that following Friday. Diagnosed with the horrible disease at the tender age of eight, she remained her sweet, uncomplaining self, no matter what tests or treatments the doctors threw at her, inspiring the nickname that stuck.
Tiny and quiet and delicate, Shoog made a bigger and more lasting impression on me than just about anyone I can name. To this day, I wish I'd thought of a way to get closer to her while I had the chance, that I'd come up with the "let's buy her a treat" at the start of summer, that after returning home from a day in her grandfather's orchard, I'd rushed through my chores for no reason other than to spend a little time with her.
They called her Shoog…but her birth name was well-chosen, for she epitomized grace.
Back on familiar turf, we scattered to show our moms the shiny coins we'd earned. After wolfing down bologna or PB&J sandwiches, we took up our customary positions under the big tree in Marty's front yard, playing Telephone and I'm Thinking of a Number Between while listening for the tell-tale jingle of the ice cream man's bicycle. All except for Shoog, that is. While we lapped melting vanilla from our fingers, she was inside, resting up from the morning outing.
It was a sweltering Friday in August when, while gnawing that last bite of chocolate from my frozen treat, I got a bright idea: If we all went home and searched for loose change in our sofas, we'd have enough to buy an ice cream for Shoog on Monday! The kids agreed, but their moms had other plans: Sammy got stuck mowing the lawn and it was Clara's turn to fold the laundry. Bed-making, dishwashing, furniture-dusting and sibling-sitting took precedence over cushion diving. Miraculously, we managed to get our chores finished and collect enough to buy a cold treat for our frail friend.
On Monday, we assembled at the end of her driveway to wait for Gramps' truck, and struck an oath not to tell Shoog about the surprise we'd deliver to her front door when he brought us home again. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. It wasn't like Gramps to be late. Gary, the oldest and bravest of us knocked on Shoog's front door…
…and some nice lady we'd never seen before said "Sorry, kids; Shoog died last night."
Thanks to our mothers' real version of Telephone, we learned that her real name was Grace, and that if she'd lived, Grace would have turned eleven that following Friday. Diagnosed with the horrible disease at the tender age of eight, she remained her sweet, uncomplaining self, no matter what tests or treatments the doctors threw at her, inspiring the nickname that stuck.
Tiny and quiet and delicate, Shoog made a bigger and more lasting impression on me than just about anyone I can name. To this day, I wish I'd thought of a way to get closer to her while I had the chance, that I'd come up with the "let's buy her a treat" at the start of summer, that after returning home from a day in her grandfather's orchard, I'd rushed through my chores for no reason other than to spend a little time with her.
They called her Shoog…but her birth name was well-chosen, for she epitomized grace.
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GIVEAWAY!
Leave a comment with a valid email address by midnight, Feb 5th
to be entered in a draw for one book in Loree's First Responder series.
Winner's choice of:
Book 1 - From Ashes To Honor
or
Book 2 - Honor Redeemed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GIVEAWAY!
Leave a comment with a valid email address by midnight, Feb 5th
to be entered in a draw for one book in Loree's First Responder series.
Winner's choice of:
Book 1 - From Ashes To Honor
or
Book 2 - Honor Redeemed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Honor Redeemed, Abingdon Press, Feb 2012
Honor Mackenzie works as hard to guard the dark secrets of her past as she does training search and rescue (SAR) dogs. As for prize winning reporter Matt Phillips? Well, not even his former SAR work is as important as protecting his motherless twin sons.
Then a jumbo jet crashes onto a major highway at rush hour, and puts them face to face at the grisly scene--and forces Matt and Honor to reconsider the reasons they've been avoiding love. Even amid their blossoming relationship, it's hard for Honor to let go of haunting memories. Matt is still struggling with those issues when he hears that Honor has disappeared during a dangerous rescue effort.
He leads the search team, desperate to find her before a blizzard moves in. But even if he does, will they find their way back to one another...or go back to living alone?
Then a jumbo jet crashes onto a major highway at rush hour, and puts them face to face at the grisly scene--and forces Matt and Honor to reconsider the reasons they've been avoiding love. Even amid their blossoming relationship, it's hard for Honor to let go of haunting memories. Matt is still struggling with those issues when he hears that Honor has disappeared during a dangerous rescue effort.
He leads the search team, desperate to find her before a blizzard moves in. But even if he does, will they find their way back to one another...or go back to living alone?
The First Responder Series:
Book 1 - From Ashes to Honor, Aug 2011
Book 2 - Honor Redeemed, Feb 2012
Book 3 - A Man of Honor, release date TBA
Book 1 - From Ashes to Honor, Aug 2011
Book 2 - Honor Redeemed, Feb 2012
Book 3 - A Man of Honor, release date TBA
You can find Loree online at these sites:
http://www.loreelough.com
http://theloughdown.blogspot.com
Christian Fiction Online Magazine:
Loree is a featured columnist ("Loree's Lough Down").
Some final words from Loree:
I'm not just shootin' the PR breeze when I direct folks to the "Giving Back" tab at my web site (http://www.loreelough.com); I really do want them to share in the satisfied after-effects that last far longer than any contributions--whether roll-up-your-sleeves volunteer hours or dollars and cents--if not to one of the worthwhile organizations listed, then at a charity that's close to their hearts!
