Book Feature: Rhonda Cratty’s Family Life Novel, OUR FAMILY QUILT!

Hi, readers!  We have a real treat in store for you today, a spotlight on a book by Rhonda Cratty, a talented author! 

We wish you lots of success on your non-fiction novel, which also has emotional tales about family!
Let's check out the details, shall we?

Here is the book blurb.

Join and experience creativity and nostalgia through Grace, a master quilter, as she shares her creative gifts with her young granddaughter, Audrey. Together their lives unfold around their family quilt. The love between grandmother and granddaughter keep a family’s generations turning despite minor setbacks, disappointments and celebrations of life. As friends and family of this charming mountain town in Colorado come together for life’s moments. Creating an inspirational, heartwarming story to share with those you love.

Our Family Quilt immerses readers in:
•Family Life
•Contemporary Women
•Quilting ideas
•Creativity for everyday living
•The secret world of Grandmothers and Granddaughters and the people they love…


Rhonda is also giving us a peek at her book today!



The quilt folded into the box with the ease of well-worn fabric, the fibers soft from years of use, embedded with memories and love. My hand brushed over this fabric of time as I tucked the tissue gently around it and placed the lid on the box.
Last summer I found the perfect Christmas paper to wrap the quilt in; the paper itself is red, green, and white in a log-cabin pattern. The artist must have been quite the quilter, as tiny stitches could even be seen. I used invisible tape to secure the ends and tied the package with strips of fabric.
Using a piece of red fabric and a piece of green fabric approximately eighteen by twenty-two inches, I began by folding it in half, noticing that my hands now looked like my grandmother’s had the summer we made our quilt. I wanted three red and green flowers for the package. I cut the material at six and a half inches, and then in half again at three and a quarter inches. I could hear her voice reminding me to measure twice before cutting. Now, I had two pieces of fabric, one red and one green, measuring three and a quarter by twenty-two inches.
I started to draw my flower templates, and my eyes blurred as I thought of the hours I’d spent making templates with my grandmother. “Be accurate,” she would say. “Templates are tools, and your work will only be as good as your tools.”
With my fabric folded and all three flower templates pinned into place, I cut out two of each size at once, for a total of six petals.
As I cut out thirty-six flower petals with her scissors, I had to smile. Her sewing scissors were sacred—the only time I ever saw her speechless was when she found my son using them to cut a toy car out of its cardboard package. Her face flushed from white to pink as he busted the car out of the package, running to her with a smile and a hug. He played with his much-loved car all afternoon while I took Grandma’s much-loved sewing scissors to be sharpened.
Getting a needle and thread from her sewing basket, I stacked up four petals for the base of the flower, then took four petals and folded them into a heart shape. I usually don’t use a thimble, but that day I slipped hers over my middle finger as I took one of her needles and thread and tacked down a heart-shaped petal to the petal shape underneath with a simple stitch. The thimble seemed warm as I took another petal and placed it on the opposite side from the first petal and tacked it down. I tacked down the third petal and then the fourth with an X stitch—perfected with handwork we did together while the summer days sped by. Digging into the bottom of the much-used sewing basket, I found the perfect button to stitch on top of the petals.
I stitched all three flowers onto the strips of fabric I had tied around the box. I patted the box. This would be the last time our family quilt traveled between my grandmother and me. A lifetime of memories, good and bad. Would the life of our family quilt continue?
I moved the gift to the table, embedded with three light grains followed by four dark grains on a diagonal, next to my great-grandmother’s framed recipe for apple crisp, with my quilted purse, and I went to get dressed for the hospital.


There's definitely a heartwarming story here!

Purchase Links:

Thanks for letting us know all about your family life novel! It sounds interesting! :)

About the Author:


Living in Colorado, Rhonda enjoys walking, hiking, and cross country skiing in the mountains. When she is not writing, she enjoys traveling, quilting, crocheting, cooking, reading and painting.

Find more information and work by Rhonda @

Author Links:


Rhonda's Books:


Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a poetry spotlight. In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets. These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet and author D.L. Owens. Here is a little taste of her poetry.

Mysteria Prosed Me

She snuck into my thoughts when I’d first learned to write
As I aged, her words began to form through me
Never needing to think what to write, just do it
Inhaling the moods and scents surrounding me
While words splatter to paper like a Picasso

Who is this person in my mind constantly awakening me
Always having something to say, never a dull thought
Where’s your paper, your Underwood, your cell phone
No more excuses not to make our words known
These gathered letters want to breathe your air

The Beginning of Me

The scent of my ink fills each room
Words falling on eggshell paper
With emotions from glee, glory to gloom
Underwood the earnest escaper

Started writing when words were few
When first love of first love had not anew
When lips had not yet touch a heated man
Or my hand grasped gently, walking hand in hand

Children playing outside, dirt mud pies
Inside cooking and scribbling notes on the side
Why is my mind taking me here and there
To places of endless make believe dares

I feel I want to go outside today
To hear the marble winner shout hoorah
Ride my bike to the neighborhood store
However, poetry keeps me here for more

Started writing when words were few
When I didn’t know blue from blew
Only understood words inside my little head
Wanting to live outside of me instead

Like a child eager to play
Is how my fingers would shout hoorah
Words would play tag the next word
On sheet after sheet, turn after turn

My humble style of writing started to age
As my view of life was doing the same
Hanging in clubs I’d fall asleep or wait
While friends found potential first dates

Sounds of tennis, basketball, football, too
Filled the air while my hands moved
Left to right on thick notebook spirals
Filling it with highlights of my life

Train ride with strangers
By the end they become friends
As they watch me write their life
On my notebook in pen

Moody writing just like I would paint
Never knowing what it will be
Will it be a short story, novel
Or a few pages of poetry

Endless Excuses

Where is the rain today; I need a certain mood
To work on a novel I’m writing; Mother Nature rude
Last week the rain came before I got off work
Week before that I was tired from dealing with a jerk
If it’d just rain I could finish this chapter called, Muse
Rain finally falling; clouds beautifully vogue the blues
Can’t find my pens and paper; where are they hiding now
Tablet energy zero, laptop adapter nowhere to be found
Guess it’s no writing today; Mother Nature slowing me down

Marking the Heart

Looks are mostly deceiving
They are definitely appealing
Second looks worth stealing
But what is uncontrollably the binding
Is that everlasting feeling worth finding
The one that won't ever leave you sighing
The sticker to the core of the hearts twining
The permanent glue that can never be pulled apart
The one that captures all of you from the very start
Leaving a stain, an embedded memory, a permanent mark
Just from lassoing your soul through the eyes of your heart

Love Is A Spell We All Fall Under

we sometimes just don’t know
how and when the spell is cast
or how and when the spell was broken
we usually know why
we just don’t accept it, for a long while
because the second love reaches its true end
doubts no longer cloud our thoughts, actions
our eyes see what was always there
we feel limp, lost, weak, lonely, foolish
waiting to be found, rescued, renewed
hiding inside and outside ourselves
feeling there is nowhere to go
when that certain love is no more, no more
but there are infinite places, faces, chases
which is why patiently is wished hastily
towards healing, growing for a new journey
with a love truer than the one that didn’t last
that kept adding drama to a once happy past
the true love won’t be from a bottomless sea
or the roughest of the lands damaging weeds
it will be love that weakens knees
with a touch, a smile, a gesture, a kiss
you will see it, feel it, breath it, bliss
it will feed sides of love you didn’t knew existed
and that other whatever every it was
will no longer be missed

Bittersweet, humor

We moved in together
Joined our accounts
Meshed our furniture
He bought the refrigerator
I bought the stove
Grocery shopping together
Friends over on Friday
Movies on Saturday
Church on Sunday
Everyday filled with us
Turn over in bed, he’s there
Shower, he’s there
Breakfast in bed
I wash the clothes
He cleans the stove
He uses my toothbrush
I keep buying new ones
Leaves the seat up or both down
Burns everything he cooks
Losing his manners a lot
He sings to me
I read to him
He prays for me
I pray for me

Thanks for giving us a look at your poems, D.L.! A pleasure to have you visit us on Writing in the Modern Age! :)

Poet Bio

D.L. Owens began writing poetry at the age of eight. She would write on anything she could get her hands on: toilet paper, card stock sleeves from her mother’s nylons, paper bags from the market, even the palm of her hands. This went on for a while until one day her mother realized this was not a phase. This prompted the purchase of a manual typewriter which quickly became her best friend. Years later, when D.L. (Lulu) became a proud mother of a beautiful daughter, she switched gears and wrote children’s stories and poetry.

Her poetry is comprised of the tempers surrounding her, from a baby crying for her mother’s touch to a couple smiling at each while holding hands. Her longer pieces vent from everything engrossed in her mind and from her dreams pouring into the pages like a love story. This “moody writer” writes poetry of all sauces with love and romance as a part of it. However, when it comes to short stories, novellas and longer pieces, she finds herself locked in a mixture of sci-fi, mystery, and fantasy with a taste of romance.

Her addiction to writing and painting takes up much of her time when she’s not spending it with family and friends. Lately, she has been creating illustrations for the books written for her daughter. When she’s not doing this she loves to cook, make greeting cards and take pictures of the glorious nature.



Amazon Author Central:




Featured Post

A Character Interview with Dillon from MOUNTAIN BLAZE, plus a conversation with author Debby Grahl!

Today we're bringing something different to Writing in the Modern Age in the form of a character interview. These character interviews, ...