COTTAGE INK PUBLISHING


"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart."   William Wordsworth

Carrie Pepper has been a freelance writer for 20+ years. Her articles have appeared in Entrepreneur, Spirit of Aloha, Globe-Fearon Educational Publishers, Richmond Surroundings, Health and Fitness Magazine and more. She has published stories for HCI Books (Chicken Soup for the Soul).
She is a member of the American Society of Journalists & Authors.
Books to date:
MISSING ON HILL 700

In progress:

WEARING HOPE: Until They Return

Rocky's Road: Lessons from a Tabby

Cottage Ink would love to assist with your writing needs. Whether that be:
Editing

Creative writing

Web copy

Letter writing

Want to write a book but not sure where or how to start? Let's schedule a consultation!




To purchase books, (discounts for veteran's organizations) or book Carrie for a speaking engagement, you can reach her at:
Phone : (916) 342-5668
Email:
carriesuepepper@gmail.com


“Carrie Pepper’s MISSING ON HILL 700 is first and foremost an unsparing memoir about the lifelong search for an older brother, lost to the author at age thirteen, who went missing in action during the Vietnam War.


What makes this book truly extraordinary, however—distinguishing it from the easy categorization of history or autobiography—is the author’s indomitable spirit. In these pages you will find a timeless meditation on faith that recalls the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi: how one woman found gratitude in tragedy, created community out of loss, and nurtured hope in the shadow of grief. A must-read whose beauty lies in its universality and spiritual power.”

  • Daniel Ehrenhaft, Edgar-Award winning and bestselling author








Little House Blog

Carrie Pepper

By Carrie Pepper 15 Feb, 2024
Separate Lives
By Carrie Pepper 04 Feb, 2024
Today, while out on a walk in a very high wind, I spotted a little bird way up in the tip top of a bare oak tree; she was holding on every so tightly as the wind tossed and shook the branches. Hold on, little one, I thought. And just then, this quote came to mind. “A bird sitting on a tree is never afraid of the branch breaking, because her trust is not in the branch, but in her own wings.” ― Charlie Wardle As I watched her, I imagined my own wings and wondered just how hard the wind is going to need to blow in my life for me to loosen them, pinned tightly to my sides, unfurl them—then TRUST as the currents lift me off my (branch) and I soar effortless and without fear.
By Carrie Pepper 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
By Carrie Pepper 29 Nov, 2023
Gratitude for what we have
By Carrie Pepper 28 Sep, 2023
Just when I was about to let the mundane invade my heart, trying its best to take me out of gratitude and into the "must dos" of the morning, I stepped out onto the patio into a soft rush of cool autumn air and my lungs said BREATHE! At that instant, a crispy brown sycamore leaf came floating down. Just the one leaf. It was saying, pay attention to the important things; don't miss these nudges from the Universe, from God, that all is as it should be. Breathe! That's all it took to flip the mood to gratitude. To joy. To anticipation of the coming winter, more leaves falling. Falling in bucketsful, piling up, giving me the gift of pulling on my leather gloves and grabbing my rough-handled rake. That one leaf spiraling down whispered to me and my heart took notice.
By Carrie Pepper 27 Sep, 2023
This is a subtitle for your new post
By Carrie Pepper 26 Sep, 2023
Broken Hearts on the Mend
By Carrie Pepper 22 Jul, 2023
As temperatures climb to 106 ...
19 Nov, 2020
Just an hour on the beach, in the sand, without my shoes, standing in a wash of “pretty rocks,” as a little girl in her blue swimsuit called them as she reached to grab tiny stones and bits of shell, polished, blue and red and slivers of polished green glass. Each wave lapping up and over, exposing new treasures to glisten in the sunlight, the water rushing in with each tide to create that scouring bubbly music of pebbles and foam on wet sand.
By carriesuepepper 21 Sep, 2020
A breeze barely enough to lift leaves on the liquid amber—this September began warm with increasing temperatures to come. Unlike Septembers of my youth, shopping the pages of Sears & Roebuck and JC Penney for back-to-school clothes. Talley-Ho sweaters with covered buttons and wool skirts paired with knee socks and penny loafers, blouses with white collars for wearing under V-necks and dimes—not pennies—in my penny loafers.
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About Carrie Pepper

  • Dream Boards

    Setting goals oftentimes brings up a bit of trepidation and fear.  What if I set these goals and they don’t come to fruition?  What if I don’t make it?  What if I dream and write down those dreams, but they just don’t come true?  Goals need to follow the “SMART” rule, meaning, they should be: Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Timely.  Just thinking about all those areas seems a bit scary.  A dream board on the other hand, can be a great way to start.



    Just what is a dream board and how do you go about making one?  This is the fun part about goal setting – you can dream big, get creative, cut out photos of your favorite houses, vacation spots, animals, cars – whatever comes to mind when you think of your perfect life.  Grab a pair of scissors, some paste (or push pins or tape) and get started this minute!


    I wasn’t all that keen on dream boards until I listened to a story of a colleague and her dream board.  This is how she explained it:  She was sitting at her desk, gazing out the window at the ocean, when she just happened to fix her eyes on her dream board.  It was sitting right next to the window.  On the board was a photograph of the exact view she was seeing from her very own window!  The photo and the view were so remarkably alike that it took her by surprise!   She also said that she’d always ridden black horses and thought it was rather odd that no matter where she’d go to ride, or rent a horse, it was always a black one.  Then, she went back and looked at her board.  You got it – there was a black horse there!  Since she’d always dreamed of having a white horse, she switched the picture to a white mare.  Very shortly afterward, she found the horse she now owns and rides down that beach.  Yes, she’s white.


    After hearing that story, I knew the power behind dream boards was real.  


    Let's get YOUR Dream Board started! Get your dreams out of the closet, out of their box, out of your heart – wherever you’ve buried them – and put them up there in front of you in full color for you (and everyone else) to see each and every day.  Make them vivid and as specific as possible.  


    Reach out to me at carriesuepepper@gmail.com for tips on getting started, and remember, 


    DREAM BIG!

  • For Hire

    The words “for hire” bring to mind many thoughts. I spent many a year as an “employee,” working for others, loathing the structure, the breaks at precisely 9:00 and 3:00, lunch always at high noon. At each and every opportunity, I would leave the building in which I worked and quickly make my way to the courtyard. There, I would sit in the sun for my allowed time, among huge planters of sweet, blooming jasmine, continually formulating plans. Plans of how I would escape and create income on my own time, with my own rules. Little did I know, I had that opportunity at my fingertips – literally – all the time. So, to me, “for hire” means I am here to create wonderful things with words. I will put all my energies into creating the perfect piece, ferret out ideas and photos, dig, network, research, until I get just the right piece of information to make a piece of writing the best I can make it.



    I put no boundaries on my abilities, but prefer to stay away from highly technical writing. I can, however turn technical jargon into more easily understandable language.


    These are some of the projects I have done, and some I am working on currently. They are only what I have done. What I am capable of, is, I believe, limitless:


    Freelance articles

    Business letters

    Testimonials (for web content)

    Short stories (non-fiction)

    Short stories (fiction)

    Resumes

    Memoirs

    Editing

    Other (open to new projects)

    To quote other believers:


    “Everything you can imagine is real.” (Pablo Picasso)


    “I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” (Albert Einstein)


    “Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try!” (Dr. Seuss)

  • Memoirs

    Spit Shine


     That flimsy metal cabinet with its faded yellow paint, stood up there in the bathroom.  His bathroom.  It held all kinds of things, hidden away from view, things I’d never seen before.  The door stuck and when you’d pull hard, it nearly toppled over.  The linoleum was cool under my bare feet the morning I went in after my father had left for work.  The mirror still steamed over, Old Spice hung in the air.  My mother had said I could take a bath in his tub today, the big one, with the legs.  You could fill it up so deep that you could get in clear up to your neck.  She left a fluffy white towel over the edge for me, the little electric heater glowing in the corner.  Don’t touch the heater while you’re wet she’d always say.  I’m glad I never found out why.



    While water gushed into the big, heavy tub, I stood on the edge and opened the cabinet.  It rocked a little, and inside, I could hear things – bottles and cans clinking together.  From up there I could see onto the very top shelf.  I’d never seen way up there before.  His special bottle of aftershave was there, the one that smelled like spruce trees. He wore it only at Christmastime.  And there, wrapped in a white handkerchief was my dolly’s arm.  The day it had been torn off, he’d wiped my tears away with a white hanky and said he’d rush her straight to the doll hospital and that they’d stitch her up in no time.  Way back in the corner was a little wrinkled photograph.  At first, I thought it was my mother, but when I leaned in close, I saw it was another lady.  She was very pretty, I though, in her riding habit.  And, yes, that was my Daddy standing beside her, holding the reins.  He was smiling.  I never saw him look that happy in photos with my mother – ever.  I remember stories of Australia during the war, and vaguely recall her name as Nancy.  There were horses in the story, too, – Barney and Bill.  In fact, his little Australian show saddle sits quietly in a corner of my living room today, its smooth brown leather and brass conches holding onto secrets of long ago. 


    There were letters, too.  All the letters to Santa I’d mailed right up there behind bottles of brown Kiwi shoe polish.  The only address, printed neatly in purple Crayon:  Santa Claus, North Pole.  I’d always gotten every last thing on all my lists.


    Oh, the way he’d polish our shoes in that bathroom – always with the door shut.  And leave them sitting in the hall, smartly paired together, gleaming with so much more luster than we could ever achieve.  He’d always put a shiny new dime in the slot of our penny-loafers.  We thought he must have a secret, some special polish; he’d never let on.  Now, as I dash a few drops of water from the faucet onto my own son’s boots and buff it into the leather with the same soft, wood-handled brush he’d used, I can hear the water trickling oh, so faintly, into the basin behind that closed door.

  • My Work

    Oakland’s Redwood Retreat 



    Joaquin Miller Park, Oakland, California – includes related article on nature camp


    (LINK: Publication)


    “The Oakland Hills, being exposed immediately to the influences of the sea winds and fogs, once bore a group of redwood trees . . .” (Written in 1893 by naturalist Dr. William Gibbons)


    So gigantic were those redwoods that mariners steered by them, lining up their ships with the tallest two–from 16 miles out–as they navigated through the Golden Gate.


    For generations the San Antonio Redwoods, a small grove in the East Bay redwood forest, stood in noble splendor on these hills above the sea. Some towered over 300 feet. An overwhelming demand for lumber to build the cities of San Francisco and Oakland between 1850 and 1860 drove prices upward, and away to the woods with their mighty axes went many a fortune hunter. By 1860, all the giant trees had been cut.


    The original forest of coastal redwoods (Sequoia sempervirens) covered an area of about five square miles extending from the western slopes of East Oakland to Moraga Valley. Reforestation was unheard of in that day and age, but these persistent stump-sprouters got things going on their own. Today the second and third generations of San Antonio redwoods grow protected in a lush 500-acre urban forest known as Joaquin Miller Park.


    A redwood forest in Oakland? It is indeed a wondrous thing to look down upon a city of nearly 400,000 people from a vantage point of cool, green, sweet forest. In this peaceful retreat stretching across the hills that overlook the Bay, city dwellers may escape from concrete to soft footpaths.


    The park grew out of one man’s dream. Joaquin Miller, who became known as “The Byron of the Rockies” and “The Poet of the Sierra” for his extensive literary works, came to California around 1850. Dabbling in occupations from Indian fighter to pony-express rider to author to horse thief, he also was a tree lover and planter.


    In 1886, Miller purchased 70 barren acres in the hills above Oakland. Then he planted trees–75,000 of them. The Oakland Parks Department bought this land from Miller in 1919, with the provision that his wife and daughter could live out their lives in homes he’d built for them there.


    Later, in 1928, nearby land was being eyed by developers, but action by the Save-the-Redwoods League helped to protect these trees, and the land was later purchased by the City of Oakland. This acreage, together with Miller’s original property and nearby Sequoia Park, comprise Joaquin Miller Park today.


    Miller envisioned his land as a retreat to nurture his creative spirit. While living in his small home at the foot of the park, he wrote articles on the worth of trees, to inspire public interest in planting. These writings resulted in California’s first Arbor Day, November 27, 1886.


    Miller planted the original 70 acres in Monterey pine, cypress, olive, and, reportedly, the first eucalyptus trees in California. Today’s tree plantings in Joaquin Miller Park, which is owned and operated by Oakland’s Office of Parks and Recreation, involve many national, state, and civil organizations. They include the Sierra Club, California Writer’s Club, California Conservation Corps, East Bay Conservation Corps, and the 415 Society.


    Since 1980, a project to replace non-native eucalyptus with redwoods has gained much support from organizations such as the Save-the-Redwoods League and Health Net, a California health-insurance company. Grants from both groups are helping with the purchase of seedlings, plantings, and drip-irrigation installation. Each year, four acres of eucalyptus come out and 100 redwood seedlings per acre are planted in their place.


    Why all the fuss? Well, the oil in eucalyptus leaves makes them highly flammable, and the trees’ shedding builds up a huge layer of tinder-dry litter. Redwoods, on the other hand, have a high moisture content that discourages fires.


    “The eucalyptus create a fire hazard for the cities in the East Bay,” says John Dewitt, executive director of Save-the-Redwoods.


    Few of today’s residents remember the fire of 1923, when a power line fell on eucalyptus trees in Tildon Park, to the south of Joaquin Miller Park, setting off the worst blaze since the one associated with the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.


    Martin Matarrese, parkland resources supervisor, says the main focus of the program is to remove the largest block of eucalyptus, growing in the fog belt along the upper end of Miller park only about a mile from the largest native redwoods. (The theory is that the redwood groves may have been much larger during prehistoric times, when a moister climate could better support them.)


    To wander through this park among the cool, foggy redwoods and madrone and coast live oak, high above the city of Oakland, is to know why Joaquin Miller was inspired to write here. Did he know the peacefulness his forest would later bring? Perhaps. When Miller Park’s redwoods reach the climax stage centuries from today, will ships entering the Golden Gate still recognize them as sentinels?


    Carrie Pepper, American Forests Magazine

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