by Bethany Stephens

I was raised by a pirate.

A Frenchman running from the law sold him his vessel, and together we sailed out of Port Royal – the city so wicked it sank into the Caribbean Sea – and out into open waters to circle Dead Man’s Key.

The boat would pitch on the choppy waters, and at high speed it would tip and lean until one side was high above the water, causing my mother to grip the boat white knuckled with one hand while clutching my pudgy infant sister with the other. My mother does not care for the water – much less the open sea.

“Isn’t this fun?” the pirate would grin at me gleefully.

I was raised by a Boy Scout.

His delight on open water was nearly matched by his zest for craggy peaks. He loves to pack his gear precisely and park his jeep at a trailhead to set off wandering in the woods – the farther from civilization the better – especially if a lottery system prevents all but the most intensely committed from accessing a particular wilderness area.

Gathering firewood, pitching a tent, brushing your teeth with creek water and drinking coffee around the campfire – these are a few of his favorite things.

I was raised by an astronomer.

He trained a powerful telescope on Haley’s Comet in 1986, making grand plans and cajoling my nine year old self and his visiting septuagenarian mother and aunt out onto an immense concrete patio overlooking Kingston Harbor.

In the wee, darkest hours of the morning we snickered like errant schoolchildren and watched the bright, blazing tail of the comet cutting its path through our solar system – once every 75 years. The astronomer said that only I might live to see it again.

Years later on clear summer nights in the Pacific Northwest, he and I would sit together on the roof high above the confluence of the mighty Columbia and Wenatchee rivers in the valley below and he would doggedly quiz me on the names of the constellations splayed out above our heads.

And on many summer nights one camping trips in the Cascade Mountains planned carefully to coincide with meteor showers, we’d lay flat on our backs with only our noses protruding into the chilly night air as the Perseids rained down before our eyes.

I was raised by a tinkerer.

An engineer by trade and an Arkansas boy at his core, he loves erector sets and bridge-building competitions. He crafted me a pair of sturdy wooden stilts, and he was as likely to install his own irrigation system on our acreage as to be found seated at Mom’s sewing machine mending his top sail.

I was raised by an outdoorsman.

He took mountaineering classes and gamely signed up for wilderness first aid certification courses with me, where we would merrily bandage massive wounds together and practice rigging a travois to carry one another – if injured – back to civilization.

Now in his 70s himself, he set off a few months ago to drive across the United States, meet an old friend (probably a pirate) to sail together through the San Juan Islands toward Desolation Sound in British Columbia and then drive back to Arkansas. Of course, he made a pit stop to solo hike in Yellowstone for several days, finally sending a single missive to let us know he’d returned to the land of the living (and cell phone signals).

I was raised by an adventurer.

These days I feel every tiny adventure is a testament to my upbringing and a quiet thank you:

Floating side by side in a kayak next to my husband, one foot dipping lazily into the water as we watch for bald eagles.

Biking along a former railroad line meandering through the Missouri Weinstrasse, mile upon mile.

Setting off to tromp around in the woods for our annual New Year’s Day hike.

Plotting a road trip that will allow us to see the absolute maximum expanse of land in a limited number of days.

Laying down in a field near the Buffalo River with the five year old, staring up at the Milky Way.

Watching the pre-teen dance around a backyard fire with the little dog at her heels.

Solo backpacking through Europe at 20 to see what promise and adventure the world may hold.

I am an adventurer.

Bethany Stephens blogs at The Little Magpie, where many more stories about her slightly different childhood hopping from third world countries to the Pacific Northwest are unfolding thanks to a little nudge from Lela Davidson’s recent Second Story Writer’s Workshop. Beth can typically be found taking photos straight into the sunlight or chasing all the words. She and her husband Fred live in a 1905 house in downtown Rogers with their daughters Sophie & Ainsley. By day, Beth runs the Soapbox Insights + Influence division of Kendal King Group.

by Gina Knuppenburg

In the Beginning

The first sentence of any written document is difficult to write no matter if it’s the first line of a book, an article for a magazine or newspaper, or the first sentence of one’s very first blog post. I remember, clearly, sitting at my computer ten years ago to do just that.

My blog, Desperately Seeking Gina, turns ten years old this week. I joke that my blog is my baby, but actually, it was reborn after having been created and named Desperately Seeking Thom. You can read how the blog evolved right here on Arkansas Women Bloggers.

In the beginning, I blogged about a trip to Europe, my niece and nephew, my amazement that people who wrote blogs would take pictures of their food, and little snippets of thoughts that popped into my head during the day. In those days, I didn’t worry about page views, followers, sponsored posts, or likes and comments. Sometimes, the first sentence of every post just flowed from my thoughts to my fingertips without reason or rhyme.

 

I continued documenting my life on the blog as I found myself moving to Arkansas. I joined the Arkansas Women bloggers and attended the first meet up in 2010.

The Middle

I purchased my first camera at this point and practiced taking pictures of everything in sight. I may have stalked our cats. That kitty-cat birthday hat? It was the first blog prop I ever made.

{Insert Photo: Desperately Seeking Gina_Collage 1}

With the new photography habit under development, I ventured into food photography. The blog turned into a place to share those food pics and recipes that I found online. I wondered: was this my niche? It was during this point where I learned about “finding your niche,” writing with purpose, and the importance of the behind-the-scenes fundamentals of blogging.

The Current

They say blogging is dead. I’m not sure who “they” are, but I keep hearing about “them” from other bloggers; professional bloggers who make a living from teaching the business of blogging to those of us who are eager to give up our day jobs and live a work-at-home, get-rich-from-blogging life. Not that I want to do that. Well, partly, I do.

My adventure in blogging has led me to writing with purpose and to being paid for stringing words together on my blog and others. I never did find just one niche. In fact, I’m learning about new ones every day; I started a YouTube channel, I’m playing with craft blogging and I even became a contributing designer for a scrap booking company and an influencer for a wood working company. I’ve worked on campaigns for one of my favorite chocolate companies and was able to work part time from home last month with the dream of leaving my day job almost in sight. If I squint real, real hard, this adventure-dream is becoming clearer and closer.

Adventures in blogging are not nearing an end for me. My blog is not dead, although in blogging-drama-fashion it’s currently down at the moment and I can’t figure out why. I have grand plans of growing Desperately Seeking Gina into an adult this Spring and migrating to a self-hosted site.

Thanks to all of you reading this and to Arkansas Women Bloggers for cheering me on during this adventure and I hope to see more of you in blog land.

How is your adventure in blogging shaping up? Let me know in the comments below.