When I first moved to Tulsa and began looking for a writing group, I happened upon the Tulsa NightWriters.
“We are an eclectic group of published writers and soon-to-be published writers,” the president said from the podium. And from my first visit, I felt embraced by this group of seekers – sharing craft and promotion ideas, encouraging one another on the third Tuesday night of every month.
Although I’ve forgotten who was president at my first visit, I do remember coming home and saying, “There was this woman. . .”
The Foxy Hens. Peggy Fielding, Paula Alford, and Jackie King
Peggy Fielding was her name, and describing her escaped me – elfish with a cloud of gray hair and a sparkle in her eyes, a seasoned writer, I thought, but one that had a touch of magic about her – someone I wanted to know.
In the years since, I’ve learned that she was, indeed, someone quite special – an icon in the Tulsa writing community, a Foxy Hen, and a woman that I’m honored to call my friend and mentor. Peggy lived and breathed writing and teaching which she did with verve and style. She taught at a local college, but also held sessions in her home for members of our club – rotating topics according to interest. She started on time and began each session with asking everyone if they’d written every day. And for how long. It was a delight to sit in her living room on a velvet sofa from a bygone era and soak in her wisdom and passion. She taught hundreds, if not thousands, of students about writing over the years, and she reserved a shelf along one wall of her living room for books that her students and former students had written. The shelf overflowed.
Peggy’s sessions were sprinkled with stories from her life – living in Cuba in the days before Castro (a place she called Paradise), her life in the Philippines, returning to Tulsa and teaching Sunday School, and playful references to flirting with her handyman or the cute guy at the post office. One never had to wonder what she was thinking because she was quick to tell you and in the next breath, offer a word of encouragement.
As Peggy’s health began to decline, she got out less and less, but the last time I saw her in the hospital, the sparkle in her eyes was still there. She passed away last week, and we are poorer because of our loss. Peggy wouldn’t want people to mourn, but as we gather at her graveside tomorrow, I know we will. And more than likely, if the grave could talk, Peggy’s voice would be heard. “Did you write something today?” And if any would dare to say no, she would say, “And why not?”
She may be gone, but her influence is not. Goodbye, sweet friend.
You can read more about Peggy in this article in the local paper.