Ashley Giddis – National Writers Series

Author Next Door Spotlight: Tricia Frey

Tricia Frey encourages new writers to “sit down and write.”
By Grace Meyer

While there are a lot of dog books out there, this is one of the best. -The BookLife Prize 2021.

Tricia Frey’s memoir River Love: The True Story of a Wayward Sheltie, a Woman, and a Magical Place Called Rivershire, explores redemption, love, and being enough—just as you are. The 249-page novel also carries a powerful message about the life-altering possibilities that occur when one welcomes a rescue pet into their home and heart.

On the Boardman River, just south of Traverse City, lies a place dubbed Rivershire by its residents. Frey came to Rivershire after buying a home that she envisioned as a vacation spot and an investment opportunity for both her and her sister, Sandra. One day in 2006, Frey noticed movement outside her window and discovered a dog standing in her backyard. As soon as they made eye contact through the window, the dog “took off like a shot to the neighboring property.”

The dog, whom Frey named Sheldon, kept coming back to her property where Frey and her sister transformed a shed into a warm shelter for him and fed him daily. The building supplies for the shed took a bit of haggling from Frey and her sister with a store clerk, who was won over by their story of Sheldon. Even with the shed and daily meals, Sheldon remained timid, skittish, and frightened; it took two years before he even let Frey touch him and six more months before he came into her home.

After being Frey’s dog for quite some time, she discovered during a visit to the veterinarian that Sheldon had both an enlarged heart and a microchip.

My Silver Lining

by Dianne Walker, 08/11/2020, Elk Rapids, MI. Adult Category

Habits and Objects

by Shivranjana R, 07/29/2020, Panaji, GA. Adult Category

1st Place – Pandemic Percussion

by Athena Gillespie, 06/30/2020, Traverse City, MI

High School 9-12 Category

As I lay in bed, the natural light from my window slowly dwindling, I hear them. A cacophony of drums, maracas, pots, pans, and more. I glance at the clock. 8:00 PM on the dot. I wasn’t expecting a tradition that started in March to last all the way to May, but it was something I had adjusted to and learned to appreciate. Every night, my neighbors stood on their porches and banged on drums, etc. for one full minute. No less, and (usually) no more . . .