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Author of three books, Jean Baur's first two books are career books, and her most recent book, "Joy Unleashed: The Story of Bella, the Unlikely Therapy Dog", is in its third printing. Jean has had short stories and poems published in a wide range of literary journals and she recently won first prize from Mystic Seaport for her poem about the Mystic River. She spent the past year as a volunteer reader for Ploughshares–an amazing education. http://JeanBaur.com.
She gives back to her community with her therapy dog, Rudy. They visit hospitals, schools, and nursing homes and comfort people in crisis. In the past she worked as a corporate trainer and career coach, and now focuses on writing and speaking. Her niche audience is librarians and she designs, develops and teaches professional development workshops to help them with their complex jobs.
HOW A DOG HELPED A WRITER
Feb 02, 2024 9 months agoHere's a video of my first therapy dog, Bella. She was recused from Dead Dog Beach in Puerto Rico and we adopted her when she was four months old. She was super active and my vet suggested that she needed a job. We tried agility but it wasn't the right fit. But when she became a therapy dog at age five, we were all set. Bella was intuitive and curious and knew just what to do whether working with students or visiting patients in the hospital. This volunteer work provided the perfect balance to writing, and I'm still at it, now with my second therapy dog, Rudy. My book about Bella is titled "Joy Unleashed: The Story of Bella, the Unlikely Therapy Dog." It's done really well and is in its third printing. Enjoy!
Devil's Hopyard
Jan 22, 2024 9 months agoDirt paths, angry tree roots. Things that catch your feet, hurl you to the ground. Rotting vegetation, musky and hidden. The half-shade of trembling leaves. No sound. Up the path, I follow my father. We never talk. Not here. I look behind me to see if anyone is following. To see if we can get out. Up a slight hill, down again, the green darkness increasing. Built into a large oak, attached to it like a tumor, is the shed and in it a man with an unpronounceable name. On an orange crate in front of him, honey. Honey in the comb. Oozing sweet honey in square wooden frames. My father says something to him and he grunts a reply. His voice is as twisted as the tree roots, full of darkness and gravel. I cling to my father's shorts, but he ignores me because he likes telling this man how wonderful his honey is–how we put it on a plate and it seeps out from under the wooden frame and we spread the comb itself on our toast, chewy and sweet. My father pays the man whose fingers are short and wide like chopped off carrots. His nails are hooves–bent and black and hard. He gives my father his change and looks at me, screaming crows flying from his eyes. His heavy eyebrows thunder clouds of darkness and wind. I push my face into my father's shorts and he laughs and takes my hand, holding the honey in the other one. When the path descends, I open my eyes. No one says why this place is called Devil's Hopyard and I don't ask. I have seen him and know his name.
