Lori Smullen, the first individual on the list to whom I dedicated my novel, is the foremost person on the list primarily because I owe the book's success to her kind patience. Having poetry and short stories accepted by small magazines years ago, I learned that creating a novel was a much different and exhausting undertaking
Being married to a self-centered, self-absorbed, always right and never wrong husband, Lori should be awarded a trophy for being married to me for the past almost twenty three years although I invariably conceded ninety-nine point seven per cent of the time she was correct although I earlier blew my stack, defending my position. I approached her meekly and softly confessed, "I was wrong."
Her answer was invariably a returning smile. Ain't love grand?
Lori used to say to friends, "George is playing with the computer" although I was working on the novel.
At the start, she'd turn on the TV or play music on the stereo. I couldn't concentrate with the boob tube on nor could I think about which direction my writing was heading because music in my case must involve a part of the brain that also comprises the writing process, as well.
I asked her to turn off the electronics. At first, she was a bit put off. Over time, she figured I was serious about the writing.
Lori's a Waupun native. She's the daughter of Leonard and Lenora Stam, whose parents came from Holland and settled in Wisconsin. One of Lori's grandfathers, a sailor, actually jumped ship in New York harbor, swam to shore, found his way to Ellis Island, and became a United States citizen.
Lori's dad, Leonard, served on a battleship in the Navy during WWII. Returning home, he promptly took advantage of the GI Bill and attended a vocational school, majoring in auto body. He worked for a while at a Waupun car dealership and then started his own business in 1948. His sons Larry and Lyle have been part of the business ever since they were young men. Lyle is presently in the process of purchasing Stam Auto Body.
With nine siblings, their first names beginning with "L," Lori was always the serious one of the bunch but she can hold her own with her brothers and sisters' quips. Every one of them has sharp, funny rejoinders in answering anyone who might offer a note of seriousness to a conversation.
Having two grown sons from a previous marriage, Bill and Matt, Lori's a retired second grade teacher. When she first started teaching, a few students would mistakenly call her, "Mom." Before she retired, that changed to "Grandma." She was a dedicated, successful teacher and some of her students who have children of their own will stop at our home on Halloween. They obviously still remember her with a sense of fondness. Sometimes a parent will call for Lori who's in the house retrieving additional candy bars from a mix of boxes. When Lori comes to the door, the person will ask, "Mrs. Smullen, do you remember me?"
I've yet to see Lori stumped for an answer. She remembers every last one of them.
In other areas, Lori's a first class gardener, tending to her flowers day in and day out during warm weather months. She won't even let me mow the lawn unless she's in Colorado visiting with her granddaughters, Sidney and Ryan.
One day while I was shining my 1935 Plymouth coupe street rod, a lady walked by and said, "Beautiful."
"Thanks," I said, "I keep it polished as best as I can."
"No," she said. "Not the car. I was referring to the flowers in your yard, both in front and the backyard. They're absolutely stunning."
"Well," I said, feeling slightly chagrined, "I'll have to tell the wife." And so I did. We both laughed.
Lori also is involved in needlework and for the past ten years has been working on Hardanger, a Norwegian form of needlework in which Lori snips a thread at a time in order to produce lacework in 32-count linen. In other words, there are thirty two threads of linen horizontally and thirty two threads vertically every square inch. Here’s an example of her latest work. And let me tell you, this is extremely exacting work. Beautiful, isn’t it?
Being married to a self-centered, self-absorbed, always right and never wrong husband, Lori should be awarded a trophy for being married to me for the past almost twenty three years although I invariably conceded ninety-nine point seven per cent of the time she was correct although I earlier blew my stack, defending my position. I approached her meekly and softly confessed, "I was wrong."
Her answer was invariably a returning smile. Ain't love grand?
Lori used to say to friends, "George is playing with the computer" although I was working on the novel.
At the start, she'd turn on the TV or play music on the stereo. I couldn't concentrate with the boob tube on nor could I think about which direction my writing was heading because music in my case must involve a part of the brain that also comprises the writing process, as well.
I asked her to turn off the electronics. At first, she was a bit put off. Over time, she figured I was serious about the writing.
Lori's a Waupun native. She's the daughter of Leonard and Lenora Stam, whose parents came from Holland and settled in Wisconsin. One of Lori's grandfathers, a sailor, actually jumped ship in New York harbor, swam to shore, found his way to Ellis Island, and became a United States citizen.
Lori's dad, Leonard, served on a battleship in the Navy during WWII. Returning home, he promptly took advantage of the GI Bill and attended a vocational school, majoring in auto body. He worked for a while at a Waupun car dealership and then started his own business in 1948. His sons Larry and Lyle have been part of the business ever since they were young men. Lyle is presently in the process of purchasing Stam Auto Body.
With nine siblings, their first names beginning with "L," Lori was always the serious one of the bunch but she can hold her own with her brothers and sisters' quips. Every one of them has sharp, funny rejoinders in answering anyone who might offer a note of seriousness to a conversation.
Having two grown sons from a previous marriage, Bill and Matt, Lori's a retired second grade teacher. When she first started teaching, a few students would mistakenly call her, "Mom." Before she retired, that changed to "Grandma." She was a dedicated, successful teacher and some of her students who have children of their own will stop at our home on Halloween. They obviously still remember her with a sense of fondness. Sometimes a parent will call for Lori who's in the house retrieving additional candy bars from a mix of boxes. When Lori comes to the door, the person will ask, "Mrs. Smullen, do you remember me?"
I've yet to see Lori stumped for an answer. She remembers every last one of them.
In other areas, Lori's a first class gardener, tending to her flowers day in and day out during warm weather months. She won't even let me mow the lawn unless she's in Colorado visiting with her granddaughters, Sidney and Ryan.
One day while I was shining my 1935 Plymouth coupe street rod, a lady walked by and said, "Beautiful."
"Thanks," I said, "I keep it polished as best as I can."
"No," she said. "Not the car. I was referring to the flowers in your yard, both in front and the backyard. They're absolutely stunning."
"Well," I said, feeling slightly chagrined, "I'll have to tell the wife." And so I did. We both laughed.
Lori also is involved in needlework and for the past ten years has been working on Hardanger, a Norwegian form of needlework in which Lori snips a thread at a time in order to produce lacework in 32-count linen. In other words, there are thirty two threads of linen horizontally and thirty two threads vertically every square inch. Here’s an example of her latest work. And let me tell you, this is extremely exacting work. Beautiful, isn’t it?
Twenty years I slaved away on that novel. That's not true at all. Sometimes I'd take extended vacations from it and play Bill Gates' Solitaire program on the computer. Then, Lori might have asked, "How's the writing going?"
I had to answer honestly: "It's stuck in Park."
"Well, then, put it in Drive," she said.
And so I did.
Now that I'm working on my second novel, Lori doesn't tell friends I'm playing with the computer. She tells them, "George is on the computer."
So, thank you dear Lori. My hat's off to you.
I had to answer honestly: "It's stuck in Park."
"Well, then, put it in Drive," she said.
And so I did.
Now that I'm working on my second novel, Lori doesn't tell friends I'm playing with the computer. She tells them, "George is on the computer."
So, thank you dear Lori. My hat's off to you.
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