WORDS MATTER
WRITER AUTHOR SPEAKER
SPECIALIZING IN LIFESTYLE, DESIGN, PROFILES ,
Q&A and WEB CONTENT
WRITER AUTHOR SPEAKER
SPECIALIZING IN LIFESTYLE, DESIGN, PROFILES ,
Q&A and WEB CONTENT
Hi and thank you for stopping by! I know you have many, many choices and appreciate you spending some of of your time with me.
I have been passionate about the written word for as long as I can remember and have been privileged to work as a freelance writer for the past 19 years. Sometimes I pinch myself to make sure it's real. I specialize in lifestyle and love the numerous genres it encompasses--everything from business to happiness. In-depth profiles, design and interesting people and places are the components I particularly enjoy bringing to life. Among others, I contribute or have contributed to the following: Sun-Sentinel newspaper USA Today newspaper Washington Times newspaper China Daily USA Harvard Square Editions Florida Design magazine Palm Beach Illustrated magazine Naples Illustrated magazine Palm Beach Media Group Boca Observer Luxe Interiors + Design US Weekly Children's Services Council of PBC Washington Times One current project is my e-book, "The Stranger I Called Mom". I will launch it soon. Some of my favorite things to do when not writing are spending time with family and friends. I love animals--especially Corgis--and flowers and every once in a while (not too often) cook. Lastly I am a huge fan of "Masterpiece Theatre" and some of the reality shows like, "Below Deck" --go figure. By the way, never once has my desk been as neat as the one pictured above but there is often a cup of coffee sitting on it. Mary : ) September 2023 Arthur "Art" Thurman
Once upon a time... Lots of people know about my mother and the debilitating mental illness that plagued her for most of her life. I readily admit that growing up at my house was pretty crazy. So sooner or later almost everyone asks me how I turned out so normal─at least sort of. My answer is always the same. “My Dad.” When I first arrived on the scene, Dad wasn’t around because there was a war going on, and as much Mom and I needed him, the country needed him more. But a little more than a year later, World War II ended and Tootie, as his brothers and sister called him, returned home to us. Dad told me that he and I became good buddies right away. By the time I reached three, he was paramount in my life. One of my fondest memories of my father is listening to the old radio shows with him. Almost every night, the two of us──our faces cupped in our hands──laid side-by-side on the gray, floral carpet in our living room floor in front of our white, marble fireplace listening to shows like “Gene Autry,” a popular cowboy series at the time and the oh-so-scary, “Shadow.” And every night when the clock struck eight, signaling my bed time, I would beg, “Can I stay up for just one more show?” “Alright. But just one more,” Dad always answered. On Saturday mornings, the two of us could be found at Walgreen’s on Main Street in Galesburg, Illinois sitting on the cherry red stools in front of the soda fountain. Each week, Dad treated me to a Coke and a chocolate pastry. He never seemed to mind that I was only interested in the chocolate frosting, and after I licked it off, I left the rest of the roll behind. And he never failed to find a nickel for me to put into the jukebox so we could hear the latest tunes like “The Woody Woodpecker Song” and “Buttons & Bows” sung by the very young Doris Day. Life got really tough after I turned eight. We had just moved back to Galesburg from California. Dad took a big gamble with his career and moved into sales instead of returning to plumbing. He sold commercial heating and air-conditioning equipment. Not only did he have to learn some engineering──that had to be daunting in itself──he also had to travel weekly around central Illinois. At almost the same time, Mom’s mental illness exploded. The fallout from the horrendous and baffling disease impacted every aspect of our lives including Steve’s── my two-year-old brother. Dad had to somehow cope with a wife who was paranoid schizophrenic, two young children, his job, a mortgage and all the other bills and responsibilities all alone. There were no safety nets for families in those days, and for whatever reason, no one helped us. We were on our own. Dad and I became a team of sorts. If Dad’s mother had lived, the story would probably be different, but the previous year, we lost her to leukemia. Dad was thirty-three at the time. As an adult I have often wondered how he coped. Amazingly, he was great at his new job and became one of the top salesmen in the company. Eventually he became a branch manager for several offices. Life at home was hell. Mom screamed and fought and swore at the voices all day and night. Our house was a pigsty. I imagine Dad’s traveling gave him time to regroup and build up his strength so he could return and endure the bizarre life we led. But through it all, Dad was always my best friend. He was my father, my Mom and everything else wrapped up into one. He was always there for my brother too. He taught me to respect all creatures, great and small and that everything had a purpose whether I understood it or not. He also taught me to judge people by their actions not by their wallet. “You’re to respect anyone who does an honest day’s work,” he would frequently remind me. Way before it was fashionable Dad believed that women could do anything. He said, “Women don’t get respect for all the hard work they do.” That wasn’t idle talk on his part. He had a female accountant in the ‘50s. My father encouraged me to be unafraid, to tackle challenges and to take chances. “Mary Kay, you can do and be whatever you want.” But he cautioned, “Always remember, you’re a lady.” When I had a problem, he was there. When a boy in high school broke my heart, Dad listened and gave me sage advice. After my best friend’s four-year-old niece died, Dad went with me to the funeral home to say good-bye to the sweet, little girl. And when I screwed up, like the time I made one-hundred-dollars in long distance phone calls──and that was a huge amount of money in the ‘60s──or when I smashed up his beloved new car, he was still there for me. Naturally he was angry, but he never belittled, berated or carried anger with him. Dad was the original one minute manager. Dad was six-feet-tall and lanky, topped off with black hair and deep, blue eyes. He was movie star handsome, and everyone noticed. I was so proud of him. But he was just as beautiful inside. He was and still is my hero. One day after an especially difficult night with my mother, my husband, John and I sat down and had a heart to heart with him. “Dad, why don’t you leave her?” I asked. She’s never going to get better.” My heart ached for him to have some personal happiness. “I can’t,” he said. “Your mother would be homeless in no time.” I knew that was the end of the discussion. My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was darned close. He died young, at fifty-three, well over forty years ago, but I will always miss him and occasionally, I imagine what it would be like if he was still alive to comfort myself. Thank you, Dad for all the things you did for Steve and me and for being the person that you were. Selfishly, I wish you were still here although I know God made a very special place for you in heaven and nothing I could do, could even begin to compare. If I could have chosen a father, it would have been you. You were the best. I will love you forever. When it is my time, I know you will come for me and once again, we will rock back and forth on the cherry red stools and listen to music while we drink a Coke while I lick the chocolate off a pastry. The only difference is we won’t be at Walgreen’s. *** |
Available for new projects.
Florida Design -
I am delighted to write for this publication. It is one of many owned by Palm Beach Media Group. I was fortunate enough to interview Jessica Fellowes--the niece of Sir Julian
Fellowes, author of "Downton Abbey". Jessica did not write the show, but she did work closely alongside Sir Julian during production. Insider Info: Lady Mary and Matthew's baby was named George, after Jessica's real-life son, George. Aside from the living room and dining room scenes, the actors worked on a set far from beautiful Downton Abbey. And the often acid-tongued Dowager Countess Lady Violet was based on a real person whose identity I promised not to reveal. PODCAST For fun and do do something different, I started Baby Boomers-the reality blog (click on Baby Boomers.)
Learning to work with video software and sound was quite a departure from the written word but it was also challenging and extremely enjoyable. Everyone has a story to tell and having the opportunity to get to know the people I interviewed was the best! At the bookstore.
A photo I took in Gianni Versace's backyard
Ever wonder what it's like behind the many fabulous gated oceanfront homes in South Florida? Before Gianni Versace's tragic death, this gilt-laden mansion was his home. Sited on A1A across the street from the sprawling Atlantic Ocean in South Beach or SoBe as the in-crowd dubbed it, you can't miss it. Following the apparel magnate's death, his beloved abode was transformed into an uber exclusive hotel, the Barton G at the time. I was there to write a story about the fabulous destination for a now defunct lifestyle magazine. What passersby see is a huge dwelling with a ginormous flight of stairs running up to a very large, beautiful gated, guarded front door. Beyond the gate, the door opens to a lush, open courtyard style villa similar to the ancient Greek nobilities' lavish dwellings. While sitting in the courtyard enjoying tea and appetizers, a butler asked if he could move my car--a surreal experience for someone like me who grew up in Galesburg, Illinois where corn stalks, not butlers are commonplace. Looking around, it was clear Versace liked gold and spared no expense furnishing his over-the-top estate. Like many ultra extravagant mansions, finding another buyer has been difficult as the upkeep on these palatial dwellings is equally over-the-top. One example is the $5,000-a- yard black and white fabric used to create Versace's bedroom draperies. Another striking element is the personal observatory located on the top floor. The hotel marketing person advised me the most fun thing to do happens when visitors leave and walk down the grand outdoor stairway. There's almost always a crowd of people milling about taking photos and countless cars passing by--some even stopping to stare as they imagine what the lifestyle must be like inside the exclusive and now historical site. The marketer was right. As I slowly descended--in part because of my bad knee-- no one knew I wasn't anyone--it was just me. But she was right--it was fun. |
THE STRANGER I CALLED MOM, a memoir, is the heartfelt journey of survival by a young girl coming-of-age. Raw and genuine, it is set in the 1950's and early 60s when a "Leave It to Beaver" family was considered the norm. Coping with a severely mentally ill mother and a father who traveled weekly, this little girl learned quickly to care for and protect her little brother and herself from their mother's unending violent outbursts. Bizarre and confusing as their mother's mental illness was, it could not destroy the strong familial ties that bound this family together. Click on the emboldened book title above or look under book to read the first three chapters. I will be publishing it very soon.
My brother "Frog" and me
Arthur L. Thurman, my dad. This is his senior year high school photo. Below is my mother, Catherine "Kay" Baumgardner Thurman,
at around 25-years-old. A friend and I were playing movie star. We were around eight. Left is me, right is friend.
Dad, me, my cousin Dottie and my friend Carol, my candy partner-in-crime.
Buckingham Palace I was recently telling a friend about how wonderful this Thanksgiving was because everyone made it home and how much I wish they could be here for Christmas until I realized how ungrateful I sounded. Currently Meghan and Harry--who I read are losing their titles and about to become Mr and Mrs. Sussex rather than the prince and countess because the British Parliament is stripping them of their titles--are making all of us acutely aware how ugly ungrateful is. I was once told we are all role models whether it is positive or negative. How ironic Harry's mother, Diana, was the Queen of Hearts and how quickly this privileged couple have managed to become the King & Queen of Ungrateful.
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