Frances Judge

Against all odds, being computer technologically challenged, I created another website/ blog. Welcome my latest: Doodle Stories (& oodles of art) to the World Wide Web. This site celebrates the art and stories of children's literature. I review mostly picture books and middle-grade novels and will try to post at least one new review each week. (We'll see how that goes.) 

Each month I will showcase the books I think are best illustrated. In addition to checking out the books, parents can submit their children's artwork to be displayed in the monthly art gallery section. Each month has a new theme to inspire young artists. I hope to get enough submissions to provide contests, so kids can win prizes for entering. I would love this to become a fun, favorite place for parents and children. 

Pleas...

Someone says:

It’s beginning to drizzle.

Is drizzle past the point of beginning

after one minute or five?

After how many raindrops

is rain past the point of beginning?

Pearls of water

trickle down a window;

It’s raining.

Like everyone, we blinked, and our plans were changed. We went from telling our son he could take the train home for spring break to texting him we were on our way to pick him up. New York colleges had closed for the rest of the semester.

When Gene and I drove upstate to New Paltz University, we had no idea Elijah was sick until we called him to tell him we were there.

“He-ll-o.” Elijah’s voice sounded stuffy and sleepy as if he just woke up.

“Are you sick? You sound sick...

A few months ago, I hopped over the border from introvert to extravert. At least in theory. And I assure you, only temporarily. I clicked on the link to register for the Writer’s Digest Conference in Manhattan and typed in my credit card numbers, even paying extra to meet one on one with agents to pitch my novel. Done. We were married. I was committed to go, now that I gave a large amount of money according to my wallet. Absolutely no turning back.

You may be wondering, “What’s the big deal?” And, I’m sorry to say, “……….” Hear the clichéd crickets chirping? I really don’t know. I just know the words socialize, connect, network, and mingle cause heart palpitations. My mind, body, and soul don’t mingle well with other foreign bodies.

Before this weekend arrived, I did my best to prepare on pap...

Have you ever read a biography and felt the author became a friend you’d like to hang out with at Starbucks? Dima Ghawi is the author I’d like to meet. 

In Breaking Vases, Dima writes about her life growing up in the Middle East in an upper middle-class home under continuous oppression as a female in her country. Reading about her life was an eye-opening experience, transporting me to a place I have only seen in movies. The vivid details she weaves throughout her book are captivating, painting a clear picture of the culture she lived. 

Her writing is both poetic and honest, including her worst experiences and her happiest memories. Dima does not attack her family and culture. She suffered, and doesn’t hide what she felt, but she also remembers and shares what she did love. She persevered and...

I finally devoted some time to redesigning the book cover for my novel Randi’s Steps. Four years of art school didn’t train me for the tools of today. Photoshop is still new to me. I’m sure my sons are glad I finished the cover and won’t be asking them stupid questions about how to fix my mistakes, get the box to disappear, and stop the magic circle from appearing every time my pen touches the pad…until my next project.

I am not a nurse. I wasn’t born with the genes for nursing, but I work alongside nurses each day. They’re busy from the second they clock in at the nursing home until they leave, often working overtime to finish their patient notes or working a double shift. Some residents are demanding and unappreciative, yet the nurses still devote their time to providing the best care. They have bus-size more patience than me.

Last week, I had the surprise of observing from the flipside—from a hospital bed, a humbling position. From the moment the admitting nurse handed me a white cotton gown with the blue diamond print, snaps on shoulders, and open back, I was humbled. The ties, dangling at the side, are completely useless and do nothing to improve the silhouette. One size fits all.

Lying on that hospita...

FROM THE BRANCHES

By Frances Judge

Memories dangle

from the branches of our decked-out tree;

gold bead garland snakes around

treasures hung haphazardly—

Backwards and tangled

Popsicle stick squares,

sprinkled with glitter, frame silly boy smiles,

laughter I could hold forever,

blessings worth tears and trials,

And whispered prayers

Some decorations

span three generations; one Wise Man persevered;

though his orange robe tattered,

his gift will still be revered—

Calls for celebration

Ruby ballet shoes,

trimmed with gold ribbon from the year of pink lace;

Crystal girl angels declare

the great gift of God’s grace.

Share the good news

Displayed at the core,

a special glass ball, painted a violet night;

Messiah sleeps in a stable,

cradled beneath divine light.

“O come let us adore…”

Memories transcend

time, from the branch...

Post-thanksgiving, when the turkey carcass had been thrown away, the grease cleaned off the counters, and hundreds of dishes washed, I couldn’t wait to go to bed and read a book. It was 2:00 AM. I have heard other homes quiet down by that hour. Out of our 4 sons and 1 daughter ages 15-26, only the oldest prefers sleeping before midnight.

I had one more task to accomplish—brushing our little dog’s teeth—a task neither one of us particularly enjoys. As I turned on the faucet to wet Keyra’s scraggly, chewed toothbrush, I found myself victim of my kids’ favorite prank. They wrapped duct tape around the hand-held sink sprayer head, so when the unaware hand washer, me, turns on the faucet, the handle is squeezed and shoots water everywhere. I was not amused. I was too tired and cold to enjoy bein...

If you have ever watched the 1980's movie Terms of Endearment, you must remember that humiliating scene at the supermarket. That was me last night. Tired after work, I drove with my oldest son, Stephen, to CVS for a few items because…you know they did use the word Northeaster for the storm coming. And of course we can never find the fifty flashlights and batteries we bought in the past years. And three gallons of milk might not be enough for our four grown-up sons and teenage daughter.

I prefer using the self-checkout line so I have control, can change my mind, decide I don’t really need a bag of M&Ms, but none of those registers were working at CVS last night. The young blond didn’t look happy that I had about twenty items—I had to get more stuff because…you know when a storm is coming, yo...

Dinner time used to annoy me. I get squeamish touching and smelling raw meat, but I can deal with that phobia. My annoyance had less to do with the food preparation than the family dynamics. We cooked for at least an hour, gathered our five kids, prayed and gave thanks to God, then listened to them joke and tease each other, and in ten minutes waved goodbye as they cleared the table and ran off to their video games or whatever. As they reached the teen years, it was even harder to keep everyone together, unless cake was served of course.

Now dinner is a fun, loud, competitive time. We are not fighting over who gets the biggest meatball or who has to exert energy, stand up, walk to the refrigerator and retrieve the milk. We are playing trivial pursuit. Split into two teams, each team gets a...