FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: LAUREN'S ARRIVAL (PART 51)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

Some of my journal entries in 1978 speak for themselves.

Jan. 16, 1978: Fourteen inches of snow and still snowing.

Jan. 25, 1978: Snowing again, serious business-like snow as if it meant to reach the eaves by twilight.

Feb. 9, 1978: Made sour dough bread today.

Feb. 25, 1978: Stephen called and said, "Hello, Grandma," which was his way of telling me he and Peggy were going to have a baby!

Mar. 1, 1978: Stephen and Peggy up today for celebration dinner of the coming event in September.

April 15, 1978: Foeste's planted Bradford pear tree, north side of triple windows and pinoak in north front yard.

April 18, 1978: Church Circle at my house.

April 19, 1978: The Park workers are cutting down the dead maple overhanging my mailbox.

May 3, 1978: Won first prize in State GFWC contest for crocheted white afghan.

May 14, 1978: Doctoring for poison ivy.

June 26, 1978: Working on baby jacket and cap.

July 19, 1978: Arthur Gordon, editor of "Guideposts" called from New York. Invited me to the annual "Guideposts" workshop at Rye, N.Y. on Long Island Sound for last week in September. Said Marjorie Holmes, Catherine Marshall, Elizabeth and John Sherrill, Norman Vincent Peal and his wife Ruth would be there. I told him I had not entered the contest, but he said he'd put my recently purchased "Thanksgiving Prayers" in the hopper for it and that it was a forgone conclusion it would be a winner. Said he wanted me to come to "add class" to the 14 other writers who would be there! (Such flattery) I told him my first grandchild's expected arrival would be about that week and I didn't want to be away for that event, but that I'd get in touch with him later.

Aug. 1, 1978: First day of bagged trash collected at the curb by the city.

Aug. 21, 1978: Called Mr. Gordon at "Guideposts" and told him I would come. I thought it would be good for my career, but worried still that I'd be gone when the baby arrived.

Sept. 9, 1978: Dan Cotner and I received Dingledein Award for outstanding accomplishments in music and writing.

Sept. 18, 1978: Plane tickets to New York arrived today. Still jittery about missing baby's arrival.

Sept. 22, 1978: Lauren Patricia Mosley arrived at 3:36 p.m. Steve called to say Peggy had gone to hospital. I dropped everything and left for Sikeston immediately. She was already in this world when I arrived. Cute, cute, cute! Little toes, turned up nose, little red, wrinkled bit of humanity, destined to become Miss America, no doubt.

So Lauren cooperated right from the beginning, arriving before I was to depart for New York two days later.

"Guideposts" magazine says of itself: "(It is) a practical guide to successful living, is a monthly inspirational, interfaith, nonprofit publication written by people from all walks of life. Its articles present tested methods for developing courage, strength and positive attitudes through faith in God."

All walks of life. That includes me, I thought. I walk a path too, one that has led me to stop at moments and mentally shout, "Oh, God, how great is life. Thank you for letting me find joy along the way."

The week at the "Guideposts" workshop was a major joy along the way. Although I had been to "The Big Easy," and "The City by the Bay," I had someone along. This trip to "The Big Apple," alone, seemed a big undertaking. "Guideposts" had said they would meet me at LaGuardia airport, just tell them what I would be wearing. What I would be wearing! A hundred other people may be wearing the dark red James Kenrob knit suit that I would be wearing. But there, right at the end of the plane's stairway, was a representative holding up a big placard on a long pole that said, "Guideposts."

The trip had been pleasant. Again I had a window seat and as the "Big Apple's" skyscrapers loomed ahead, at one point I looked down and there right below me was my old friend, the Statue of Liberty. Same old statue I had seen in my Loughboro history books, had written stories about, had drawn pictures of, had memorized Emma Lazarus' inscription on it. My feelings at that moment must have been of some kin to those coming through Ellis Island in the early years.

The workshop, or retreat as some choose to call it, was held in what is known as the Wainwright Mansion on Long Island. Surrounded by a wooded area the rear and spacious lawn slopes down to the sound.

At the far southern part of the Sound which is visible from this spacious rear lawn, sailboards anchor for the night. At sunset, the sails turn pinkish-red and if any of us happened to be on the lawn or walking along the shore, we'd almost spontaneously do a harmonious rendition of "Red Sails in the Sunset" or even a solo if alone.

Aside from the lectures and work sessions, we had free time to use as we wanted, walking about the estate, sitting in little groups discussing our life situations, praying together either aloud or silently. There was a lot of love floating around. By the middle of the week I really felt close to others.

Of the fifteen admitted to the workshop that year, thirteen were women. In addition to these fifteen, four or five various editors from "Guideposts" were there all the time. Because of the beauty and serenity of the place I felt it more of a retreat than a workshop.

The mansion is a large three-story affair. I don't know how many rooms it has. There is the main section, with a wide hallway leading through from front to back with a wing on each side. Each wing, among other things, has a garden room which looks out on the Sound. It was build by General Jonathan M. Wainwright. This is not the Wainwright of Pacific fame, but Jonathan Mayhew Wainwright, a first cousin of Jonathan B. Wainwright. He was billeted in France in World War I and admired his residence there so much that he vowed if he ever got back home he would build another mansion just like it. He did. And I think that he could not have found a lovelier spot.

We had to choose our flight time so that we would arrive at either LaGuardia or Kennedy Airports in time to get to Rye for the 7:00 dinner which would be our first session.

If arrivals were anywhere close together, a station wagon waited until it was filled and then another would take its place. Frank Elam from Arkansas and I were the last ones in to fill one station wagon, so I didn't have to wait at the airport for anyone else like some had to.

There were seven of us in the station wagon, plus all our luggage, so we were cozy. Before we'd gone ten miles we were all on a first name basis.

Rye is only about twenty miles from LaGuardia so it wasn't long before we were turning in through some big stone gates that led to the mansion.

Mrs. Wainwright outlived her husband, and after his death she donated the house and grounds to be used as a Center for Human Development.

All meals were served buffet style, with the food set up on long tables in the hallway. We formed a circle and held hands for the blessing. Each time a different person gave the blessing.

After dinner and about a fifteen minute break we went to the lounge for an official welcome and workshop instructions. Some time, as we were assembling, Dr. Peale and his wife, Ruth, came in as did Arthur Gordon and his wife. Arthur Gordon was, at that time, editorial director of the "Guideposts" magazine.

Dr. Peale and his wife went around to each one, shook hands and talked briefly.

Van Varner, Senior Staff Editor, introduced himself and said that he was to be our "Den Mother." He was one of the most affable and quick-witted persons I have ever met. He asked each of us to introduce ourselves and give just a few personal facts -- where we were from, our family, and something about our writing careers. Then he officially introduced Ruth and Norman Vincent Peale. Both spoke to us, giving the history and aims of "Guideposts."

Dr. Peale said that writing in the "Guideposts" style was not easy, which puffed all of us up a little, for we wouldn't have been there unless we had written for "Guideposts."

The general format of each day was this: A big brass gong at the foot of a long winding staircase was sounded about an hour before breakfast. Breakfast was at 8:30. At 9:30 we gathered in the lounge for a general workshop assembly. At 11:15 we gathered for smaller workshops sessions wherein we criticized manuscripts. At 1:00 we had lunch and then free time until 4:00. I spent most of this free time walking the grounds or just sitting down by the water. Sometimes someone would join me. Lots of others spent their time reading and studying the manuscripts to be discussed the next day. I found that I did this better in the early morning hours before anyone else was up. I'd creep out of bed, get to the bathroom, dress, and go to the music room for my study. I don't know how many I awakened at what they must have considered the middle of the night. But then I had to put up with inconveniences, too. We lived dormitory style. I shared one huge bedroom with four other ladies and the one in the bed next to mine was from Hawaii and was a chain smoker.

At 4:00 p.m. some editor from "Guideposts" would speak to us on some facet of writing.

The first 4:00 p.m. general meeting was conducted by Arthur Gordeon, the second by Catherine Marshall. We knew that she would be there, so we ladies decided to dress in our long dresses for the occasion, only to find Catherine was dressed in a street length, shirtwaist pink crepe de chine.

Each one of us got to chat briefly with Catherine and have our picture taken with her.

One evening as I entered the dining room, Marjorie Holmes arose from her seat and came, almost running, to hug me. "Oh, Jean Bell Mosley, I've wanted to meet your for so long." It was exactly what I was going to say to her. She said that she had once written me a fan letter and that I had so graciously replied. My, I was glad I'd answered that letter! To be so greeted and hugged by Marjorie in front of all the others set me up a little in the eyes of others. (Never in the "scenes" Lou and I had did I ever have one like this).

As always, in such glittering moments, I thought of the little girl who went, after dark, to close the hen house door, or at 4:00 p.m. summertime, riding Old Nell, the mare, up some Ozark mountainside to find the cows and bring them home, and, most especially, walking home from school when I felt such a sweet nearness to God.

It was a wonderful week and when I got back home, there was little, one week old Lauren, lying in her yellow crib, ready to be loved by Grandma.

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.