by Donna Poole
I knew it; I’d flunked yet another of Mr. Joseph Tedeschi’s history tests, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk, especially if you’re the one who spilled it. Oh well, those dates I couldn’t remember weren’t going to magically appear in the sky, so to fill the rest of the long class period, I flipped the test over and wrote a story on the back.
I flunked alright, and even worse, Mr. Tedeschi scrawled in red ink at the top of the test two dreaded words, “See me.” I could barely sit through the rest of the class. The Piarulli girl stomach my sisters and I are still famous for started making ominous noises.
Please, Lord, I can’t run for the bathroom now. Weren’t you ever an embarrassed girl at Maine-Endwell Senior High? No, He wasn’t, but the Bible says He understands our smallest trials, and somehow, I made it through class without having to raise my hand and beg permission to go to the girl’s room.
I sat in my chair until the other students left then slowly made my way to Mr. Tedeschi’s desk for the well-deserved lecture.
“I read what you wrote on the back of your paper.”
Was he going to scold me for writing a story instead of trying harder to remember all the impossible history dates?
He smiled at me. “You’re going to be a writer someday. Just do me a favor, okay? Don’t try to write any historical fiction.”
And then? He laughed. Not one word about the failed test, no scolding about studying harder.
I walked down the hall in a daze. Me? A writer? I’d loved books since I was a child, the feel of them in my hands, the way each one had its own scent, and the way they carried me to other worlds. Writers must be magical people, but I was just me, Donna Louise Piarulli, one of five kids in our family who lived in a trailer in Maine, New York. I wasn’t magic.
Still, I tucked those six words away in my heart, words a teacher probably forgot as soon as he said them, “You’re going to be a writer someday.”
Then I forgot all about being a writer. Fast forward several years and a variety of jobs that had paid my way through college. John had returned to college for one more degree and was working full time; I was home in a tiny apartment with our new baby and working only weekends.
I worked all day Saturdays, and John babysat. On Sundays I nursed baby Angie, went to church, nursed her again on the way to work after church, and worked until late afternoon. John picked me up and I fed Angie again on the way back to choir practice and the evening service at church. It was a long day, but I loved my job; I loved our church where many college students attended, and we all loved young Pastor and Mrs. Mohr.
With Angie finally asleep one Sunday evening John and I sat with our feet propped up and read our Sunday take home paper. I always anticipated the fiction story in the paper, but that story was disappointing. I sighed.
“I could write a better story than that.”
“Why don’t you?” And John went on a hunt for our old non-electric typewriter.
And so, it began. I sold my first short story to Regular Baptist Press in 1973 and began writing curriculum for Union Gospel Press in 1976. A Michigan Magazine, the Baptist Testimony, carried my “Rainbows and Dustmops” column from February 1978 through July 1980.
In 1980 an editor from The Baptist Bulletin asked me to write a column, and I continued that for twenty-two years.
I’d sold about 3,000 articles and stories and helped a missionary write a book about his adventures in Venezuela, but I didn’t think about writing a fiction book until I read an article our local newspaper, The Hillsdale Daily News, carried, “The Lost Cities of Hillsdale County: Lickley’s Corners.” The author, Steven Howard, wrote, “Lickley’s Corners barely has a physical presence at the intersection it occupies in Wright Township. . . .It has fallen almost entirely off of the map. . . .”
What? We barely have a physical presence? We’ve fallen almost entirely off the map? Guess they forgot to tell those of us whose lives center around these four corners. And so, the idea of a fiction book was born. What if a young pastor and wife, let’s call them Jim and Darlene, come to a church like our church, on the corner of two dirt roads? That idea tumbled in my brain for years, and finally gave birth to a book, Corners Church.
Doesn’t Jim know the country church is dead? Straight from Bible college where his charismatic mentor, Professor Nick Machiavelli, has filled his mind with dreams of success, Jim begins his ministry as pastor of a tiny country church at the corner of two dirt roads. Nothing ever happens where two dirt roads meet, or so says Machiavelli.
But Jim and his wife, Darlene, find Corners Church is alive and well. Its unique congregation and the people who live at the Corners capture their hearts and teach them the joy of community. However, Machiavelli’s maxims still trouble Jim, especially the one that says, “Move up the ladder; bigger is always better.”
Darlene never felt called to be a pastor’s wife, but most of the time she’s too busy trying to adapt to country ways to worry about it. Despite her struggles, the wide-open fields, the sound of the old church bell, and the kindness of the people call to her. They say, “Put on your barn boots, girl. You’re home.”
Join Jim and Darlene in their hilarious and heartbreaking adventures including a homicide, wild dogs, and a slide down a coal chute. Laugh, cry, and feel right at home at Corners Church where no one is a stranger, not even the stray dog that wanders in and walks right up to the pulpit.
Like any new parent, I’m happy to introduce my book-child to the world. If you’d like a copy of the book to read while you’re meandering down your own back roads, you can find it here on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Corners-Church-Where-Dirt-Roads-ebook/dp/B08B8Z73M9
Mr. Joseph Tedeschi would be proud. The historical parts of the novel are accurate. More or less. If any of my readers know if that wonderful teacher is still alive, please contact me. I’d love to give him a copy of my book.
