tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45417877203686423312024-02-20T08:25:59.596-08:00Oh, Margaret!New Chapter: Life in the CityMaggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-59760597174689810442012-01-24T10:09:00.000-08:002012-01-24T10:59:53.034-08:00ReflectionsOne morning last week I picked up my bottle of Olay moisturizer...to brush my teeth. Fortunately I recognized my mistake before squirting it all over my toothbrush. I haven't always been so lucky. I still have vivid memories of my mouthful of Cortaid. It's surprising the similarity between a tube of travel-sized toothpaste and a tube of my favorite anti-itch cream. Some of the problem may be absentmindedness, but deteriorating vision is a contributing factor, too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4U81-PgZx6xwOWAXhtC0bQ1TuCk6ve_2sNitnUpth4_lgHpX_SXwyNjoqUoQVQFUfzBXS55rJpebsKG1s2QaQ6RqKrDI__GPL8HmtmBaX-CnKXpiV7oQR_dl5Lq7sHRRNdTaqYdspbfU/s1600/mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4U81-PgZx6xwOWAXhtC0bQ1TuCk6ve_2sNitnUpth4_lgHpX_SXwyNjoqUoQVQFUfzBXS55rJpebsKG1s2QaQ6RqKrDI__GPL8HmtmBaX-CnKXpiV7oQR_dl5Lq7sHRRNdTaqYdspbfU/s200/mirror.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7kur4ruGO1WGYnFPi84bv648bO8B6-T7uEOThc0uunnBd9QNQ8UFHpNJeoI86HEB_FpmwIy23_5FSO1-syUeWEv5m3hwlMcato8hIoHx7_L_IW2PwOKTxJA7W2EIqjMtoFND_4ZqbMY/s1600/product1_21603.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7kur4ruGO1WGYnFPi84bv648bO8B6-T7uEOThc0uunnBd9QNQ8UFHpNJeoI86HEB_FpmwIy23_5FSO1-syUeWEv5m3hwlMcato8hIoHx7_L_IW2PwOKTxJA7W2EIqjMtoFND_4ZqbMY/s200/product1_21603.jpg" width="200" /></a>My aging eyes have now led me to an addictive dependence on magnifying mirrors. I don't enjoy looking at enlarged pores and browning age spots from a larger than life perspective, but these days if I want to see the strange eyebrow hairs growing out at right angles to my forehead, or focus on the random ones running amuck on the outer edge of the brow bone I have to have magnification. Without my magic mirror my efforts to dab on a straight line of the black cake eyeliner ( the expensive kind I bought or rather was talked into by the persuasive young cosmetic saleswoman at Nordstrom before Nora's wedding) would be even less successful. After a series of tragic dropping accidents (witness photographic evidence to the left) I am seriously considering giving up mirrors and opting for magnifying make-up glasses with rotating lenses like the charming woman in the photo on the right. I remember mocking the idea of these just a few years ago. Little did I know.<br />
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Sometimes I even have difficulty with my non-magnified reflection. I have two vivid memories, decades apart, of staring at myself in the mirror without recognition. The first time was in 1977 at Wilkes Bashford, a high end clothing store in San Francisco. It was a store designed with lots of glass and mirrored display shelves--creating a lot of light and a lot of Maggies. Each shelf held just one sweater or one shirt, size 0 or 2. If you were a normal size (or an abnormal size in this store) you had to request it from sales staff who would present it with a flourish after a trip to the back room. I wasn't much of a boutique shopper, and this place was foreign territory. To be honest I was as intrigued by the other customers as I was by the merchandise. I was startled to look up and spy a woman who clearly wasn't Wilkes Bashford material. She stood ought for all the wrong reasons. Very ordinary clothing with a wiry halo of badly-permed hair. I remember thinking "<i>that woman doesn't belong here</i>." It took a few seconds for it to register that I was looking at myself.<br />
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It was what I imagine an out-of-body experience to be like. I had never seen myself with such complete objectivity, and I didn't like what I saw. It didn't happen again until a few weeks ago. No trendy boutique setting this time, but I was having another retail experience. That's probably not a coincidence as shopping is when I spend the most time critically evaluating my reflective self. I had gone for a long walk that morning, and after being seduced by the springtime online offerings at the Lands End website I decided to go shopping. An outing to Sears doesn't demand too much wardrobe prep, but I did change into a clean t-shirt before I headed out. Armed with a pile of pants and t-shirts I went into the dressing room. As always I reached for the t-shirts first. I had just pulled my head through the bateau neck of a navy and white striped knit when the stranger arrived.<br />
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She looked out at me from the large mirror screwed onto the wall with plastic clips. Her hair was creased in the outline of a baseball cap, and her pale lips matched the washed out tone of her skin. Deep purple circles ringing the lower lashes of her brown eyes provided the only color on her face. She looked confused and unfocused with her head tilted to the side. The shock of recognition didn't occur until my hand involuntarily reached up to touch her hair. Unbelieving, I learned closer, squinting to see more clearly as the wrinkles at the corner of my eyes appeared on her face. There was definitely something wrong with her. Maybe it was the fluorescent lighting. Maybe it was the inferior quality of the mirror. Yes. Definitely the mirror's fault.<br />
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Not this one, but the one at home. The one I failed to look in before leaving the house. Mirror, mirror on the wall. Why didn't you remind me to apply a little mascara, a little swipe of blush and lip gloss--<i>anything</i> to add some life to the face starring back at me? This time I didn't need a magnifying mirror to see the problem. Magnification probably would have killed me.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-12626110885725767562012-01-17T16:13:00.000-08:002012-01-17T20:50:00.987-08:00January 13, 1982Thirty years ago last week P and I were in Washington D.C.--house hunting and preparing for a new adventure, our move east from California. After exploring options in the District of Columbia and its neighboring suburbs, we found a perfect house to rent in Bethesda, MD just a block away from the DC border, and about five blocks away from the Metro stop at Friendship Heights. Over the course of that week we familiarized ourselves with the area, met P's future coworkers and were hosted at a lovely dinner at his new boss's home. For me the most challenging part of the trip was adjusting to the bitter cold.<br />
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On the final night of our stay we had no heat in our hotel room. We were lying on the bed wearing our coats while wrapped in blankets and watching the NFL playoff game between the San Francisco 49ers and the Dallas Cowboys. The game was so exciting that we kept throwing off the blankets and jumping out of bed to cheer for the Niners. Each time the layer of frigid air hovering about knee-height prompted an abrupt end to cheering and a quick leap back on the bed. Later that night our sleep was interrupted by the persistent bleating of the hotel's alarm system. We were assured by the front desk that there was no fire, but in that cold sleepless night we might have welcomed one.<br />
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Monday morning, January 13th, we woke up to snow. I was enchanted. The icy frosting on the streets and buildings transformed the capital. As a native Californian my exposure to snow was primarily limited to family ski trips. It was my first time experiencing "city" snow. Later in the day riding in the taxicab on the way to the airport I wiped away the condensation on the car window and peered through swirls of snowflakes at pedestrians and cars battling the blizzard. After I lived through 18 years of wintry storms the novelty of snow would wear off, but on that gray afternoon it seemed like nothing more than a beautiful, benign inconvenience.<br />
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The Potomac River carves out the western border of the District of Columbia, with a series of bridges crossing over the river to Virginia. That afternoon our cab traveled across Memorial Bridge to reach National Airport. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and the heavy snow challenged both visibility and manoeuvrability. We had plenty of time to make our flight and we remember chatting with the driver about the weather and our impending move. It wasn't until we left the cab and entered the steamy warmth of the airport that we learned the horrific news. As we had been inching our way across one bridge, a few miles down the river Air Florida's Flight 90 crashed into the 14th Street bridge killing almost everyone on board as well as motorists in cars on the bridge. The plane broke apart in the icy Potomac.<br />
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Everyone in the terminal was terrified. Boarding an airplane is an act of blind faith for me. I know there are scientific explanations of how flying "works," but I have to confess that I still categorize it as a miracle. That day the miracle failed. Within a half hour of the plane crash another tragedy occurred in Washington. Three people died and more were injured in an accident on the Metro. The two disasters paralyzed the airport and all of Washington DC.<br />
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Flights were cancelled, but I'm sure that no one there was eager to consider flying anyway. We couldn't return to our heat-less hotel in the District because of the Metro accident, and in the pre-cell phone era there were long lines of passengers anxious to use the pay phones. Paul waited his turn and somehow, with the aid of a Yellow Pages ad, found us a place to stay in Virginia near the Metro line. We stored our big suitcases in a locker at the airport and walked through the snow to Metro. It was only possible to travel west, away from the epicenter of the dual catastrophes. When we got off the subway in Arlington we had a snowy trudge to reach Scotty's Highlander Motel. I'd never stayed in a place like that before. Thin walls, thin blankets, low opaque plastic dividers between the bed and the toilet--it was a bargain basement hotel. That night it was our sanctuary.<br />
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There was an Italian restaurant next door that sold us greasy slices of take-out pizza. The only reading material available was a copy of the <i>National Inquirer</i>. It was the first and last time I ever read a complete issue (I'll admit to looking at the covers that scream out from the racks at grocery store checkout lines), but that night I was glad for the distraction the tabloid offered. I remember calling my mom back in California. When she answered, I told her right away that we were all right. This tearful announcement was met by bewildered silence. Thirty years ago news, even catastrophic news, wasn't shared as quickly as it is today. If you weren't listening to the radio or the TV, you didn't know anything had happened until you opened up the newspaper the next morning. Unless you got a phone call.<br />
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I was stunned my mom didn't know. P and I were so caught up in the events of the day--couldn't the airline we were traveling on have made the same poor decision not to activate the anti-icing system one more time--that it seemed impossible that everyone else wasn't aware of them, too. It felt strange to have my immediate need to reassure her prove unnecessary. Of course she said all the right things once she understood. And of course it wasn't about hearing her words, it was hearing her voice. A bit of home. A reminder of normal--3,000 miles away. We flew back to Los Angeles the next day.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-79582562977178719152012-01-07T11:37:00.000-08:002012-01-17T20:49:36.161-08:00Stamp of Inspiration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Over the course of three decades P and I managed to accumulate a large (some might say excessive) collection of rubber stamps. The initial impetus for purchasing them was to amuse ourselves and our correspondents with decorative touches on letters, birthday and holiday cards. This was of course a time when people actually wrote letters. Even ordinary brown paper-wrapped packages became more intriguing when adorned with stamped designs. I smugly sensed that customers waiting in line with me at the post office were envious of the fancy and fun packages I was mailing compared to their own Plain Jane versions. As our stamp collection grew I concentrated on making elaborate three-dimensional cards, hand-coloring stamps, embossing with my hot pink heat gun, and stamping with glitter. Eventually my work space diminished, my enthusiasm waned, but I continued to buy rubber stamps. </div>
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Prior to our move to Pasadena we made a major commitment to down-sizing. We gave away, "gifted" and had a massive yard sale. Throughout this process our rolling cart of 12 drawers crammed with about 200 rubber stamps remained unscathed. Even though rubber stamps don't translate well to the virtual communication techniques of emails and texting, we couldn't bring ourselves to part with a single one. Deciding to sell a much beloved table was an easier decision. When moving day arrived I wrapped the cart shut, rolled it onto the moving truck, and a day later rolled it off into our storage unit. Done deal.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> Until now. We recently made another commitment--to divest ourselves of the storage unit. There is no physical space for the cart and no legitimate need for all the stamps. Released from the confines of the cart, the stamps covered the dining room table for a few days while we walked around them, reminisced and thought about their future in our lives. Nora got first choice. She selected enough </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">sentimental favorites </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">to fill up several plastic bags, and I added two special stamps we'd ordered from the back of Cheerios boxes years ago--imprecise but still recognizable images of </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">two and four-year-old </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Nora permanently captured in rubber. A large box of miscellaneous stamps was sent off to a young teacher friend with the hope they might be used by her students. The table was now half empty. I became more brutal with my assessments. Stamps were thrown out, and the ones that made the final cut were fit like puzzles into three smaller plastic boxes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As I packed up the "message" stamps, I noticed a theme and took a picture of ones above. Originally we purchased them to instill guilt in our friends and family. A cute (and slightly passive/aggressive) way of saying "hey, I wrote you, now write me back!" But as I looked at them yesterday I realized they offer a different message now--less admonition and more personal inspiration. <i>"Please write!...Why haven't you written?..No feeble excuses or artificial explanations of any kind." </i>I may never use these stamps again, but I won't ignore their directive. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Another favorite stamp reads </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"This is not art."</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> After a long hiatus I'm not striving to create art--I'll settle for creating a habit.</span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Write.</span>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-34771185540942610532012-01-02T16:44:00.000-08:002012-01-02T16:58:32.856-08:00I Love a Parade!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">Best way to begin the the new year--a parade! Strolled half a block to
Colorado Boulevard this morning and joined the throngs of people lined
up to watch the Rose Bowl parade. We didn't have front row viewing but
we also didn't have to sit in the street all night waiting for the parade to
begin. Another perk of our move to Pasadena.</span></div>
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Lots of bands filled with shining tubas.<br />
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On Friday the ladies on the left were standing on very high scaffolding gluing petals on the elephant's (above) head. Fun to see the before and after.<br />
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I still haven't figured out how to make it on to the Rose Queen's Royal float. I've wanted to be a Rose Princess since I first saw the parade as a little girl. Apparently there is some sort of an age limit!Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-23061624312349795682012-01-01T20:08:00.000-08:002012-01-01T20:46:58.122-08:00New Year, New Adventures!<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">2011 was a year of adventures, but not, alas, a year of blogging. Hope to change that in 2012. In April P and I took a wild leap, resigned from our jobs and moved to Pasadena. The drive from Goleta south to Pasadena is only about two hours down Highway 101, but for us, life here is a world apart.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">We sold a 4 bedroom home with a garage, and downsized to a 2 bedroom condominium with a small storage unit. Life in an urban area has been an adventure, complete with its own soundtrack of car alarms, late night delivery trucks and early morning street sweepers. We were ill-prepared for some aspects of the move, but eagerly embraced the positives--we walk everywhere (many days we never drive a car), have access to a beautiful public library, great restaurants, new friends, and all the excitement that Los Angeles has to offer. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">New Year's resolutions aren't usually my thing, but this year I plan to focus on writing, health, and possibly, employment. Regardless of how my resolutions pan out, 2012 is guaranteed to be another year of adventure. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-11479615156745975662010-07-07T22:25:00.000-07:002010-07-07T23:14:51.262-07:00Crafty FrustrationsWell, Tuesday came and went without burlap dyeing, but I started off this morning with a whistling teakettle to make a giant vat of extra strong tea. I left the sun tea brewing (not sure it can be called sun tea when no sun broke through the gloom, but that was the theory)and started to prepare the burlap. Once I tore off the multiple layers of plastic I began to see the fabric with new eyes. The color was a warmer brown than I thought and I decided to jettison the idea of dyeing the burlap. Big relief, and I think the lawn appreciated the generous tea bath.<br /><br />I started to print the digital Santa Barbara County lemon labels on the fabric sheets I bought for my ink jet printer. In order to size the images, the labels had to be imported into a word document and then printed. Sounds easy, but this is where the nightmare began. Each of the cotton lawn sheets cost three dollars so I didn't want to make too many mistakes, but my printer kept jamming. I hated wasting all that money, so I decided to try having them printed at Staples. Unfortunately, the finished print was very faded--these sheets only work on ink jets. Coming home, I took my printer apart, washed off all of the rollers, notched the top corners on each sheet and pressed masking tape along the leading edge to weigh it down as it went through the printer. Even with all these precautions the printing only worked 60% of the time. I'll have to invest in two more packages tomorrow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQZuiq75cmWrjyg-MWAe4cuJHDMtph-7KzxmaTkRzMUFjBI1lIlR3JK2pXeopyPHH3WaqPPgnxv3Re9VqXpNuAi9OxKtcwn-LSL4NOUUvxITlvcqpMuxYTcUPOjQWgUMdwa9_0q5H0Dw/s1600/llabel.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQZuiq75cmWrjyg-MWAe4cuJHDMtph-7KzxmaTkRzMUFjBI1lIlR3JK2pXeopyPHH3WaqPPgnxv3Re9VqXpNuAi9OxKtcwn-LSL4NOUUvxITlvcqpMuxYTcUPOjQWgUMdwa9_0q5H0Dw/s320/llabel.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491412705066711282" /></a>The fabric labels will be placed on the burlap table runners, a different one for each of the 20 tables. There will be ribbon frames to make it pop on the burlap. I'm going to add a thicker ribbon of a second color in addition to the brown one in the picture. <br /><br /><br />Starting a different project tomorrow--wedding flags!Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-65953815395045873372010-07-04T15:19:00.000-07:002010-07-04T16:25:03.747-07:00New and Improved!When I finally decided it might be time to update my blog I was delighted to find a few new design options. With a point and a click <span style="font-style:italic;">Oh, Margaret!</span> is now sporting a more whimsical look. There were several other templates I liked, but in the end I thought they were just too pink. <span style="font-style:italic;">Oh, Margaret!</span> and pink are simply not compatible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_U1mzWcaUIbo_cRyzlILGqfCdZ2q-QpUASnuDqTRbiC0m4KB7n-MElymMSTpH7Yl9U7edt9KyKLLBYnbiFXIr_XOZdeSaMkc3vOo9L-WqlEocvpJCZpORmSoctWfhaR4gcXjNsU0GCoI/s1600/140477676v9_480x480_Front_Color-White.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_U1mzWcaUIbo_cRyzlILGqfCdZ2q-QpUASnuDqTRbiC0m4KB7n-MElymMSTpH7Yl9U7edt9KyKLLBYnbiFXIr_XOZdeSaMkc3vOo9L-WqlEocvpJCZpORmSoctWfhaR4gcXjNsU0GCoI/s200/140477676v9_480x480_Front_Color-White.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490193895614300850" /></a><br /><br />I'm also sporting a new hat these days. One that seems to be taking over my life--at least for <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> summer. I suppose I could wear a traditional Mother of the Bride chapeau on September 25th but since my dear daughter won't be getting married in an English garden I don't think any ornamental headdress will be required. Considering I have a spectacularly large head I am thankful to be spared the ordeal of trying to purchase a hat for the special day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLxZsbvNjobDV6TkHuizRaftPNupc-TjM32JPWTOH78alid9TgpyqrxaZYE40ErfR1OHfbQn6Xp0v35i6Dxei5-kHrj3KxXXDjc6C-3uI4blLtfaiH5R4u1bYq7H_u1VvgdLwDk_s6Wc/s1600/GiselleDer68-001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLxZsbvNjobDV6TkHuizRaftPNupc-TjM32JPWTOH78alid9TgpyqrxaZYE40ErfR1OHfbQn6Xp0v35i6Dxei5-kHrj3KxXXDjc6C-3uI4blLtfaiH5R4u1bYq7H_u1VvgdLwDk_s6Wc/s320/GiselleDer68-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490183255949436354" /></a><br />I am learning that even simple weddings are of course not that simple. The creative side of wedding planning is very fun, but the execution of all our simple ideas is turning into a very complicated process. At the moment I am surrounded by tulle, burlap, ribbon and lots of yellow, green and brown fabric strips. I can't quite imagine how all this will magically turn into Nora's perfect wedding, but I foresee a lot of material for future blog posts. I also foresee generous assistance from crafty family and friends!<br /><br />On Tuesday my challenge will be to dye 20 yards of natural-colored burlap (future table runners for the reception) into a perfect shade of warm camel/khaki/tan. Unfortunately, this is what one must resort to when one waits too long to order the right color of burlap from the online fabric store. I envision this involving a gigantic vat of sun tea and 2.5 yard lengths of burlap. The process worked with the little 4" burlap square I stuffed into a pyrex measuring cup for 20 minutes...I'm keeping my fingers crossed.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-31055978593751424252010-05-17T11:01:00.000-07:002010-05-17T10:29:27.943-07:00InspirationI've been on a mission, searching for my personal, fail proof fountain of inspiration. It seems an internal spigot should be included with our genetic operating instructions. Just push the button and wait for the fountain to start spurting. Unfortunately,that's not the way it works. At least not for me.<br /><br />Fleeting inspiration comes from words--a quote, a few lines of exquisite writing, a horoscope, a fortune cookie---but these are random sparks, not enduring flames. Sometimes a little positive reinforcement provides motivation---a good critique or a small acknowledgment by peers. But that's an external source and you can only stare at a paper-framed certificate for so long. It's nice, even thrilling in the moment, but it doesn't sustain.<br /><br />Friends with fiery passions and commitment motivate, but also inspire a little envy. Then there are my strong friends who don't have the luxury of procrastinating, and forge ahead despite uncertain futures. They're awe inspiring. Their stories offer perspective and a reality check. But those are their stories. I need to write my own.<br /><br />I've been playing the "I'm too old" card, but my friends have proven me wrong. There are the "Janes" who both jumped back into medical school, and marathoner Judy. Hardworking, focused women who don't succumb. <br /><br />It's time to grow up, Margaret. Make a plan and a promise. Dig deep and...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ze6MdUH9hzCVsnDO1RbVfa9VvjKXAVecVrlJPzNC_0kUR0-Yv_fyleUlLg4lRa4WjbI8VHnT-2r3QnX3GPkcj7A8I-gg-iNYzVM4jy6mtoVZnHoWhbguhSdG4ZwRelSAAGSlz0wiblo/s1600/nike-just-do-it.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ze6MdUH9hzCVsnDO1RbVfa9VvjKXAVecVrlJPzNC_0kUR0-Yv_fyleUlLg4lRa4WjbI8VHnT-2r3QnX3GPkcj7A8I-gg-iNYzVM4jy6mtoVZnHoWhbguhSdG4ZwRelSAAGSlz0wiblo/s320/nike-just-do-it.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472285824681584306" border="0" /></a>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-64790566101215719972009-11-20T10:15:00.000-08:002009-11-20T10:54:13.436-08:00Loss of SerendipityA few weekends ago I spent a delightful 36 hours in Pasadena and environs. Due to circumstances beyond our control, like a UCLA home football game and The Breeder's Cup, Pasadena hotels were sold out. We spent the day there anyway, shopping and visiting both the <a href="http://www.pmcaonline.org/">Pasadena Museum of California Art</a> and the <a href="http://www.nortonsimon.org/">Norton Simon Museum</a>, but had to stay overnight in unexplored territory, Glendale.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfAbJ369xhtS_2lm5meyu4XA7-Ms46eyPuJ3JQG4mdaRexRt70lwmR_B9psMyfgZR6hZBTPJ6Iwe7_p0ljPNTPWy6RS0cj_OmJhtIWwlpY3li49R-oR7DmVa6UvqtC56r6hUo1cYeyPg/s1600/rose+bowl.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtfAbJ369xhtS_2lm5meyu4XA7-Ms46eyPuJ3JQG4mdaRexRt70lwmR_B9psMyfgZR6hZBTPJ6Iwe7_p0ljPNTPWy6RS0cj_OmJhtIWwlpY3li49R-oR7DmVa6UvqtC56r6hUo1cYeyPg/s320/rose+bowl.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406246135378436690" border="0" /></a>Paul and I usually find our way to new places through a combination of AAA maps, Mapquest and my frequently inaccurate sense of direction. Unfortunately I seem to suffer from directional dyslexia. Our traveling companions for the weekend took a more current approach. Armed with an iPhone, they employed a directional "app" that told them exactly how far and how many turns it would take to reach all of our chosen destinations. The primary complication with their system was the delay in launching the application and getting the directions, but they felt it was worth the wait. They seem mildly obsessed with this technology (perhaps even addicted), and would definitely face a cartographic challenge if the all-knowing iPhone lost its charge in the middle of a trip. But I think they might be missing something. After a Sunday morning drive that ended at the Rose Bowl Flea Market without a single deviation from the prescribed route, I realized exactly what it was.<br /><br />The Rose Bowl is tucked into an old Pasadena neighborhood filled with Green and Green Houses (including <a href="http://www.gamblehouse.org/">Gamble House</a>), large estates and beautiful gardens. I have never arrived there without first getting lost in the surrounding area and enjoying the discovery of a new street, a breath-taking home or a beautiful tree surrounded by a Fall carpet of recently shed red, orange and yellow leaves. My companions never got lost, but something was lacking in the journey.<br /><br />It was serendipity. If you always know exactly where you're going, if you always follow exact directions, you eliminate the element of surprise. Unanticipated moments add rich layers to our existence. How different my life would be without the good fortune that has accompanied random events. Especially at this time of year, I realize that serendipity has given me a lot of reasons to be thankful.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-63824373820725644142009-10-17T06:07:00.000-07:002009-10-17T17:29:13.559-07:00First Time Can be the Charm...One of my sisters is obsessed with birth order. She thinks it's the most significant determinant of our paths in life. Of course, she's the oldest, the first. According to research, "firsts" are goal-setting, high achieving perfectionists. I'm wondering if birth order attributes apply to first novels, too. I've read some high-achieving "firsts" lately, picking them on the basis of blogs I read and some that I've just happened upon. I feel like I get something extra when I read a good first novel. Beyond a satisfying read, I also receive a subliminal inspirational message. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Yes, it can be done. People write first books all the time...you can, too.</span><br /><br />All of the books below do their authors proud. They're not "perfect", but all are engaging and highly readable. With each of them I've found myself rereading intriguing sentences and studying plots, characterizations and techniques for escalating conflict. The imperfections seem to come in the endings, a rush to wrap things up too quickly and a reliance on convenient justifications. These aren't fatal flaws because of the strong and compelling storytelling throughout.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtqV2ZsgfEPQd9NKSAAqo_gQ7KNFIAVNUC2qspSN-vWj4d_1toU-6ZJSihBRsGyxjWETkt2Z3iyj-86xQs3sf98E9RjDYq4043aLBgyHmSQcF85wkLuBa8_WZTh3e4Lziu24rgo_WYKY/s1600-h/whatTheMoonSaw3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtqV2ZsgfEPQd9NKSAAqo_gQ7KNFIAVNUC2qspSN-vWj4d_1toU-6ZJSihBRsGyxjWETkt2Z3iyj-86xQs3sf98E9RjDYq4043aLBgyHmSQcF85wkLuBa8_WZTh3e4Lziu24rgo_WYKY/s200/whatTheMoonSaw3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390071229138288162" border="0" /></a><a href="http://lauraresau.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">What the Moon Saw</span> by Laura Resau</a>. I was introduced to this author by a series of interviews with her at <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/thru_the_booth/136834.html">Through the Toolbooth</a>. Resau has published several other books, but <span style="font-style: italic;">Moon</span> was her first. I found her interview intriguing and her subject matter a bit out of the ordinary so I placed a hold at my library. The book came in a few days and I soon was immersed in the mystical Mexican world of Clara and her abuelita, Helena. I was reminded a little bit of Isabel Allende and her brand of magical realism, but I found this book more engrossing than Allende's young adult books. I liked her style so much that I immediately read her second novel, <span style="font-style: italic;">Red Glass</span>.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXK-Vtr7fxfHqKYfAAB4GZpV-Avbz5R45La0TyuEIpffk5xb2_1DsN63RKidY1qUxLDUiVt_zaekIMyEcqUWReFYsqtBIBhaNVZrxBZBDivgyDhAPYABpsTYthp4WQdGYSUYMKJ_gVZuY/s1600-h/9780312548568.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXK-Vtr7fxfHqKYfAAB4GZpV-Avbz5R45La0TyuEIpffk5xb2_1DsN63RKidY1qUxLDUiVt_zaekIMyEcqUWReFYsqtBIBhaNVZrxBZBDivgyDhAPYABpsTYthp4WQdGYSUYMKJ_gVZuY/s200/9780312548568.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393189127773795762" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.jillsalexander.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Sweetheart of Prosper County</span> by Jill Alexander</a>. I read about this book in an author interview in the October issue of the SCBWI magazine. Jill's path to publication included fortuitous encounters at SCBWI conferences, and of course good writing and hard work. Her contemporary novel is chock full of intriguing, multi-dimensional characters: a marshmallow of a parade princess, a cajun fisherman, cowboys, and a strong but wounded mother and daughter duo. There is also a fabulous chicken named Charles Dickens. To be honest, my current obsession with chickens is what drew me in, but I found myself eager to stay for the rest of the story.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepoIa1wY39ZeBN-An3bNMu0MPMI9ODDff7r3KqEcGsGui0aGR7HCsoLClTvOwYIxZirKdbUY3HjrQBB1y-KxEg9gpcDNyibVnvYQLbd1XCbwuRAy2EPHjh1wZ-PAYhBMRPNs-PnLue5M/s1600-h/n312457.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepoIa1wY39ZeBN-An3bNMu0MPMI9ODDff7r3KqEcGsGui0aGR7HCsoLClTvOwYIxZirKdbUY3HjrQBB1y-KxEg9gpcDNyibVnvYQLbd1XCbwuRAy2EPHjh1wZ-PAYhBMRPNs-PnLue5M/s200/n312457.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390071243748478690" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.heatherhepler.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Cupcake Queen</span> by Heather Helpler</a>. I purchased this book at my school's Scholastic Book Fair. My selection was based on superficial impressions--clever cover art, cute title and a quick read of a few pages...plus a need to support the PTA. I thought I'd found a light read, a perfect antidote for a session of insomnia. but it was much more than that. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cupcake Queen</span> tells a traditional YA story (divorcing parents, relocation, search for self) but Hepler's writing and characterizations make it unique and cliche-free.<br /><br />What these books had in common for me as a reader is that I got more than I bargained for with each of them. They had more weight (and in some case much less froth) than I'd anticipated, and my "take-aways" were more substantial, too. I'd read all of them again... for the story, the technique and the pleasure of savoring successful "firsts."<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-27831306994670905962009-09-28T09:31:00.000-07:002009-09-28T10:13:51.388-07:00You Don't Have to Run...There are countless phrases and idioms about walking.<br /><blockquote>"...learn to walk before you learn to run."<br />"...walk the walk ."<br />"Walk the line."<br />"Walk a mile in someone's shoes."<br /></blockquote> It's a word ripe with metaphoric possibilities. It's also just a verb.<br /><br />Dictionary.com defines walking as "to move about or travel by foot for exercise or pleasure." I like this definition. I've been traveling by foot a lot lately...primarily for exercise but the pleasure quotient is there, too. On Saturday morning, most of the pleasure stemmed from pride. Pride at taking 16,000 steps (the equivalent of <span style="font-weight: bold;">eight </span>miles) in 2 hours and 10 minutes (but who's counting?) For me, this was a huge accomplishment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFc3oeWiRrtes3Jc_oMnuysiuZPDe6cX9NXEWiQg6-EOW0mDC_LsG0xYXjDyxOdAmoHxdsxfG8vLsUJs4xvaFzoyYI7AO0IVWjFAYn8yWX-BH5D7vq_PIFdjJANLaYBRuQSezKPMnZKU8/s1600-h/santa-barbara-logo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFc3oeWiRrtes3Jc_oMnuysiuZPDe6cX9NXEWiQg6-EOW0mDC_LsG0xYXjDyxOdAmoHxdsxfG8vLsUJs4xvaFzoyYI7AO0IVWjFAYn8yWX-BH5D7vq_PIFdjJANLaYBRuQSezKPMnZKU8/s200/santa-barbara-logo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385998799574051906" border="0" /></a> Part of my excitement comes from the doing but to be honest, more comes from the commitment. <span style="font-style: italic;">My</span> commitment to preparing to walk a <a href="http://www.sbimarathon.com/Runner_s_Information/Health___Fitness_Relay_Challenge.htm">half-marathon in December</a>. My friend/walking mentor told me that I should aim for an eight mile walk this weekend. I wasn't exactly looking forward to this solo expedition, but I did it. Yeah!<br /><br />Welcome distractions from the act of putting one foot in front of the other came in bits and pieces along my route--the whirring sound of spinning wheels as fifteen brightly-clad cyclists rode by, birds, bugs and airplanes swooping overhead and collegial interactions with fellow walkers, joggers and cyclists. A nod, a "good morning" and best of all a brief chat with a fellow walker.<br /><br />I passed a slightly older woman walking in the opposite direction on the first half of my trip. We smiled at each other and kept going. At the end of my walk I saw her again, climbing up the final hill by the high school. I decided to challenge myself by catching up and passing her at the top of the hill. Just as I was within a few steps, she slowed down, reached out her hand to tag the bright blue pole of the traffic signal on the corner, and turned around to head back along the same route. I recognized a kindred spirit. There is something about meeting a goal and acknowledging it in a tangible way, even if it's just touching a street sign, that's important to me, too. I smiled at her and said she'd been walking a long way. It turns out her goal on Saturday was to walk ten miles at a pace of three miles per hour. She's training for the <a href="http://www.the3day.org/site/PageServer?pagename=SD_landing">San Diego 3-Day Breast Cancer</a><a href="http://www.the3day.org/site/PageServer?pagename=SD_landing"> Walk</a> in November. That's an ambitious sixty mile walk over the course of a weekend. I wished her good luck and she did the same. I hope our paths will cross again.<br /><table style="width: 30px; height: 25px;" class="luna-Ent"><tbody><tr><td class="dnindex" width="35"><br /></td><td><br /></td> </tr> </tbody></table><br /><blockquote></blockquote>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-15524128711070956062009-09-13T11:05:00.000-07:002009-09-13T14:04:42.293-07:00Wanted: One Muse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXQAmS53Uaer62QX1NQq7XN-4IDs1h4bruFjjMPaeoN_RoYbt1277ENbbLSXvhEAwLAH3lEH9cN5yl32DpecTFmLx4NdeodQ6M_zKI-02mgWQTxW03RYXGdVu6BeeDwamXmI7MpNhkS0/s1600-h/mantegn1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXQAmS53Uaer62QX1NQq7XN-4IDs1h4bruFjjMPaeoN_RoYbt1277ENbbLSXvhEAwLAH3lEH9cN5yl32DpecTFmLx4NdeodQ6M_zKI-02mgWQTxW03RYXGdVu6BeeDwamXmI7MpNhkS0/s200/mantegn1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381012599526481906" border="0" /></a>Lately,I've been noticing a recurring theme in my reading material. Muses. I want one.<br /><br />According to Greek mythology, muses were the goddesses or spirits who inspired the creation of literature and the arts. Initially there were three of them, but by 400 b.c. the number grew to nine. I think that's a little excessive. I'm pretty sure I only need one.<br /><br />The world of fashion is always talking about muses. According to an article in the Image section of today's LA Times, Marchessa Luisa Casati inspired the creativity of many artists and designers--from the early 1900's to the 21st century. She wasn't a traditional beauty, but rather a risk-taker who aspired to become a "living work of art." She was passionate and inspirational.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFrIiQ11mfMXUkjs2HVT3MpXbvdtUCjA3s1VrNF2IAIIk0QQBI9tK1Oi9fXNps_kzn-NQtkeBgsUzD2ysItsxfoE7ZWg-BxBcq1lqii9S6aqbc8r9fJER-PeoKpykx_9NiCfQe35OTQE/s1600-h/41rvQc6389L._SS500_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFrIiQ11mfMXUkjs2HVT3MpXbvdtUCjA3s1VrNF2IAIIk0QQBI9tK1Oi9fXNps_kzn-NQtkeBgsUzD2ysItsxfoE7ZWg-BxBcq1lqii9S6aqbc8r9fJER-PeoKpykx_9NiCfQe35OTQE/s200/41rvQc6389L._SS500_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381014048222366434" border="0" /></a>A book I just finished reading, <span style="font-style: italic;">Traveling with Pomegranates </span>by Sue Monk Kidd and her daughter, Ann Kidd Taylor, was full of muses. Athena, Joan of Arc and various incarnations of the Virgin Mary and the Black Madonna capture the creative souls of the authors and inspire their quests to redefine themselves and their writing. The sharing of intimate spiritual journeys doesn't always appeal to me, but this book was different. Probably because a great deal of it focused on both the mother's and daughter's struggle to accept themselves in their evolving roles as women and as writers. It was also appealing since much of the book unfolds over the course of their travels in France and Greece.<br /><br />But, back to <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span><span>and</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> my</span> muse. I don't think someone else's muse would necessarily be a good fit. It seems that Muses should be tailored to the individual. I also wondering if I'm in need of a traditional muse or if simply channeling the mind of an eleven-year-old boy (for my current project only) will do the trick. It's a tough call.<br /><br />Are there muse-listings on Craig's List? Here's the job description. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Wanted: One Muse (</span><span style="font-style: italic;">toga optional.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">) Requirements: Must be creative, nurturing, inspirational, extremely patient and reassuring. Should be willing to tolerate employer's tendency toward procrastination and bouts of self-doubt. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Sense of humor essential</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. Must be available 24/7 (individuals requiring 8 hours of sleep need not apply.) Muse will be subject to regular performance evaluations. </span><br /><br />I think that ought to do it. Now, I'll just sit back and wait...for the muse to strike.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-48219720522618119462009-09-07T13:11:00.000-07:002009-09-07T16:57:38.321-07:00Tennis Anyone?<a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfz7WgU3zVK4eCekWo55ss7H4i7gp3QmhKWBFjLQMWDx26wYA35fDFWhVTfDvPHQsJ7upTPagAbiZBW-GmaNu-STT0JGi3cIV7GjLbPHrCkwBDGnKBHdUk88ZFJQUn1ihXv9i7NA0U6VQ/s1600-h/384518bd-262d-48f8-9cf7-76483d026c08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfz7WgU3zVK4eCekWo55ss7H4i7gp3QmhKWBFjLQMWDx26wYA35fDFWhVTfDvPHQsJ7upTPagAbiZBW-GmaNu-STT0JGi3cIV7GjLbPHrCkwBDGnKBHdUk88ZFJQUn1ihXv9i7NA0U6VQ/s320/384518bd-262d-48f8-9cf7-76483d026c08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378826503116988306" border="0" /></a>I haven't played tennis since high school. Oh wait, there may have been an ill-fated outing with Paul during our early days of marriage, and now I'm also recalling a painful afternoon attempting to volley with a friend about 15 years ago. But basically, I have never been a tennis player and am not interested in becoming one. However, this weekend I fell in love with tennis.<br /><br />Wait, I'm going to revise that statement, too. I'm more in love with the determined new sweetheart of American tennis, 17-year old Melanie Oudin than with the actual sport. She is adorable, feisty and a real fighter. The commentators of the two matches I watched over the weekend kept saying that the outcome of the matches depended on who wanted it more. Melanie wanted both wins, she fought for them and she earned them. The gritty expression on her face (photo from the <span style="font-style: italic;">Los Angeles Examiner</span>) tells the story. When asked after the match if she thought she was a role model for younger players. She answered, "I hope so!" Forget about younger tennis players, she's a role model for all of us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgyyQeZZkZivMvnDLihPFsqMxvYYqnjtXJMce_-fY246YrrM7HFfxYu1KkcRT14LLgnrQQfXg0R7dbDA4NUr4D_elrIUBeu2yK8YOoh8TM0yQiGsMig5kCuLiNurTYSigN7_Tl1pB9b8/s1600-h/Arthur+Ashe+Stadium.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgyyQeZZkZivMvnDLihPFsqMxvYYqnjtXJMce_-fY246YrrM7HFfxYu1KkcRT14LLgnrQQfXg0R7dbDA4NUr4D_elrIUBeu2yK8YOoh8TM0yQiGsMig5kCuLiNurTYSigN7_Tl1pB9b8/s200/Arthur+Ashe+Stadium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378878295875226674" border="0" /></a>I'm aware that writing isn't technically a competitive sport but many of Melanie's tennis skills are definitely transferable to the solitary act of putting words on paper. Determination, resilience, commitment, consistency, desire, practice and dedicated hard work. There are a lot of parallels. I must confess to a little envy that this young woman has found her passion at such a young age, but I'm still inspired by her. She practices backhands and serves, I work on plotting and sentences. She has quick footwork and agility and I can write strong dialogue without using "said" to indicate attribution. They both seem like significant accomplishments. The primary element absent from the writing process is the roaring, supportive crowd at Arthur Ashe Stadium. No one is shouting "Good Subplot!" or clapping when I finally find the perfect synonym. Writers have to be their own cheering sections. That's something I have to work on, too.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-80176634964311669232009-08-22T16:41:00.000-07:002009-08-23T05:58:11.605-07:00Spring Cleaning?I suppose Spring cleaning in August could be considered a bad thing. But I prefer to look on the bright side, at least it's happening in the same year if not the correct season. Cleaning out my dresser drawers usually yields a lost earring, a missing sock, or an old sachet that's lost its scent. In my closet I find shoes ready to be donated to the thrift store, worn out t-shirts and occasionally a piece of clothing tucked into a corner with a price tag still attached. Bookshelves are another matter all together.<br /><br />I have too many books. I love them all, but I have too many. The bookshelves are bowed, double-stacked, and it's a challenge to locate specific titles. My bookshelves are in the guest room/craft closet/writing room. I haven't been spending enough time in here lately and I'm thinking that both the room and my writing could benefit from a good straightening.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEwsqN9DWwHYsAbGo8aJ2Cf9We9MqnB9Fn9eeSsFzqWfxHRZSPpiIVSy3jLu6WBVThRJa7XbHZkGykiVP3hkruuXREmniWsASJN_jOX6lGWSjApsYcxbI1qde919wR2IwQ3MuQ7ShA5w/s1600-h/DSCN0143.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEwsqN9DWwHYsAbGo8aJ2Cf9We9MqnB9Fn9eeSsFzqWfxHRZSPpiIVSy3jLu6WBVThRJa7XbHZkGykiVP3hkruuXREmniWsASJN_jOX6lGWSjApsYcxbI1qde919wR2IwQ3MuQ7ShA5w/s200/DSCN0143.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372944908752826258" border="0" /></a>The bottom shelf of the bookcase closest to the window is dedicated to writing books. I just pulled them all out onto the rug to dust them, and the pile is high. The books aren't all new, many were gifts and a number of them haven't even been read. I have how-to-books, author memoirs and books on embracing creativity. I think I just counted about 40 titles, and I know I have a few more out on loan to friends. I'm writing a list (mostly to avoid duplicate future purchases) and color-coding it (this step might be too anal.) Blue for books I've finished, red for partial reads and green for admired, desired but not read titles.<br /><br />Most of these books are ones that writers I admire have recommended. I realize I've invested money, but more importantly my time, reading these books. I've learned a great deal from them, of course, but I think that on some level I've also allowed the books to become obstacles to my own writing. It's easy to justify reading about writing instead of sitting down and doing the hard work of actually writing. So for now, I'm swearing off reading and focusing on writing. My unread books are newly dusted, repositioned on the shelf and ready to have their spines cracked when I've earned that reward.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Write Away, </span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Elizabeth George</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />The Making of a Writer - Journals 1961-1963,</span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> Gail Godwin</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />Writing and Selling the YA Novel, </span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">K.L. Going</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />Bird by Bird, </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Anne Lamott</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />The Elements of Style, </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Strunk and White</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />Goal, Motivation and Conflict, </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Debra Dixon</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />How I Write, </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Janet Evanovich</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Making a Literary Life,</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> Carolyn See</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Art & Fear</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, David Bayles and Ted Orland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">The Pocket Muse</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, Monica Wood</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />See Jane Write</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, Sarah Mlynowski and Farris Jacobs<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Rules of Thumb</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, Edited by Michael Martone and Susan Neville</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Take Joy</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, Jane Yolen<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Writing Down the Bones</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, Natalie Goldberg<br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Toolkit for Writers, </span></span><span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Naomi Epel<br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Artist's Way, </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Julia Cameron</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Writing the Breakout Novel</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Donald Maass</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Writing Tools, </span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Roy Peter Clark</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">2008 Children's Writers and Illustrator's Market</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Crafting Stories for Children,</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> Nancy Lamb</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Weekend Novelist</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Robert Ray</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Off the Page</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Edited by Carole Burns</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />The Writing Life, A Collection from the Washington Post Book World</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">Reading Like a Writer</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Francine Prose</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Steering the Craft</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Ursula K. Le Guin</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Making of a Story</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Alice LaPlante</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Children's Writer's Word Book</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Writing Diet</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Julia Cameron</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Writing Fiction for Children</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Judy K. Morris</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">If You Want to Write</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Brenda Ueland</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />On Teaching and Writing Fiction</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Wallace Stegner</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Art of Fiction</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, John Gardner</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Right to Write</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Julia Cameron</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Wild Mind</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, Natalie Goldberg</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">The Writing Life</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">, Annie Dillard</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br />One Writer's Beginning</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">, Eudora Welty</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"><br />The Writer on Her Work</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">, Edited by Janet Sternburn</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Creating Characters Kids Will Love, </span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Elaine Alphin</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Don't Tell the Grown-ups,</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"> Allison Lurie</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-67100629136601273262009-08-13T06:25:00.000-07:002009-08-13T08:18:38.979-07:00Je t'aime Julie & JuliaI loved the movie <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">Julie and Julia</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">.</span> I went to see it with Nora a few days ago on my first visit to her new home in San Clemente, CA. We had hoped to see it together as we share a great love of Julia Child and the timing of my trip coincided nicely with the release of the movie. So often a long-anticipated movie turns out to be a disappointment...but not this time. It was wonderful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjwP9-G3ypMvJ_WX_X1gTBf-zgDOFWt_GNwqrarxQlgU3ibzic3lWD-udYZ0lucPtYk3aFMJKwfufdHhyphenhyphenOCV3i5BdvmdBzK36v5y_43I_bKVBttegei6RVLImHNLgovgbU7mTKpXXz0s/s1600-h/cover.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjwP9-G3ypMvJ_WX_X1gTBf-zgDOFWt_GNwqrarxQlgU3ibzic3lWD-udYZ0lucPtYk3aFMJKwfufdHhyphenhyphenOCV3i5BdvmdBzK36v5y_43I_bKVBttegei6RVLImHNLgovgbU7mTKpXXz0s/s200/cover.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369451527519788930" border="0" /></a>Nora and I had both read the two books, <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">My Life In France by Julia Child and Alex Prud'Homme</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span>and <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen by Julie Powell</span>, that Nora Ephron (or other Nora, as I like to call her) combined elements of to create her brillant movie script. Although I could have watched 123 minutes of Meryl Streep portraying Julia Child, the addition of Amy Adam's character as novice blogger/cook was the perfect counterweight to the Julia Child segments. Julie Powell's aspirations are what is inspiring moviegoers (or at least two of us) to revisit the cookbook, <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">Mastering the Art of French Cooking</span>, sharpen their knives and break out the whisks. Personally, I left the movie with an unusual but urgent desire to braise cucumbers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeu5WDj6ls-awxcA9eJG3Wrle0lRMVzTlF2q6SrFuF24B6CSrVZRXC9PWb8E8weWmaboVgm6wEwqS6ICBprjVQLnOjdDDLjyEh3wtXp8L6Au-j3n7kjE05g_6zkaQV7e2YKGYTKHgGW0/s1600-h/copywr.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 79px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeu5WDj6ls-awxcA9eJG3Wrle0lRMVzTlF2q6SrFuF24B6CSrVZRXC9PWb8E8weWmaboVgm6wEwqS6ICBprjVQLnOjdDDLjyEh3wtXp8L6Au-j3n7kjE05g_6zkaQV7e2YKGYTKHgGW0/s200/copywr.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369451536795261746" border="0" /></a>I have been in possession of this book for more than 30 years. It was a gift from my mother at some point in the early 1970's. Although the cover is torn and the book appears to be well-used I haven't cooked many of the recipes. I have used it more as a reference book than as one of my primary cookbooks, but this will change, soon. The book's foreword with its dedication to the "servantless American cook" and it's gentle admonition to read the entire recipe before beginning the cooking process is both charming and reassuring. Julia and her co-authors have a passion for French cuisine, and their detailed recipes and instruction on specific techniques make it possible for all of us to share their enthusiasm.<br /><br />As an aspiring author I also loved the movie's depiction of the path to publication. Julia, Simca and Louisette suffered many setbacks and chauvinistic rejections. I think there was more than eight years of writing, revising and testing recipes before Knopf agreed to buy the book. I imagine everyone ever associated with Houghton Mifflin will grimace when the meeting where their editors decide to reject the manuscript appears on the screen. Ha! Julia and the girls showed them. Judith Jones, the Knopf editor who helped bring this book and many other well-known cookbooks to publication, has written a charming book, <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food</span>, that Julia fans will enjoy reading, too.<br /><br />Julie Powell's path to publication was certainly the exception rather than the typical experience. Toward the end of her year of "cooking dangerously" her blog (written at a time when blogs weren't as numerous as they are today) caught the attention of food writers. In particular, an article in the NY Times, brought her a lot of publicity and her phone was soon ringing off the hook with offers of agent representation and book contracts. Hmmm. Don't know of too many authors who succeeded with this exact scenario, but blogging has definitely become a necessity for any aspiring author.<br /><br />So, here's my new life recipe.<br /><br />1. Sharpen knives. Purchase new box of Band-Aids.<br />2. Try some intriguing new recipes, preferably those without copious amounts of butter.<br />3. Try the Julia Child approach to life...identify passions, embrace them and persevere.<br />4. Write and blog. Write and blog. Write and blog.<br />5. Look in the mirror and shout "<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Bon Appetite!</span>" with gusto everyday.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-65844873797910446892009-07-31T15:35:00.000-07:002009-07-31T15:53:19.700-07:00Processing PortlandI had the most amazing time in Portland a few weeks ago. So amazing, in fact, that's it's taken me awhile to process it. My original purpose in going to Oregon was to attend the <a href="http://www.ceed.pdx.edu/children/comments.php">Pacific Northwest Children's Book Conference</a>. The conference is sponsored by Portland State University but held at Reed College. Once I committed to attending the conference (and encouraged my friend Patty to join me) I decided to squeeze in a pre-conference "sisters" weekend with Barb and Trish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODvFvj_oZ5cpKEY0e8P9eHuBjMcbDXGx7yJ_gJVRNnLjW7PbhmuGU68B6IDLOhoKYJW1kBLOBHP7HRM1SUSQx3s8us-gFOK5JN0BhtQpFSD_knwir8lc8oRLp2xsPd8okl5C8a2V2P9w/s1600-h/DSCN0079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODvFvj_oZ5cpKEY0e8P9eHuBjMcbDXGx7yJ_gJVRNnLjW7PbhmuGU68B6IDLOhoKYJW1kBLOBHP7HRM1SUSQx3s8us-gFOK5JN0BhtQpFSD_knwir8lc8oRLp2xsPd8okl5C8a2V2P9w/s200/DSCN0079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364742761128433362" border="0" /></a><br />The "sisters" part of the weekend involved lots of laughter, good food (including hamburgers served on glazed Voo-Doo donuts at <a href="http://www.originaldinerant.com/">The Original)</a> and exploration of Portland, which proved to be a very walkable city. We started the weekend with a tour of Beverly Cleary's NE Portland neighborhood where Ramona and Henry Huggins grew up. We saw schools named after Cleary, fountain sculptures of her most famous characters, as well as the streets she wrote about and traveled on in her own childhood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjK7_az4hyphenhyphenqdqxMaM70K-KpBNZqyTZIiiumg9Ui5A-bZsOj-kmhEjIIhwiJLl3wMdWO9WMmG42q0F_PZfCL0c2J0yUSMdLlaQ_xoqLNnjpGZGkVfquGML4GJcudfs11gohDEtM2BX8X8/s1600-h/DSCN0064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjK7_az4hyphenhyphenqdqxMaM70K-KpBNZqyTZIiiumg9Ui5A-bZsOj-kmhEjIIhwiJLl3wMdWO9WMmG42q0F_PZfCL0c2J0yUSMdLlaQ_xoqLNnjpGZGkVfquGML4GJcudfs11gohDEtM2BX8X8/s200/DSCN0064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364741602236072706" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN1WZW9aBZWLJ7W176fipmHe8qMNuZyGXXbCuo12rj_snwx9ZQQiPYltdCZ9tXWuCDj_5IkntMyM6oP19qoghAzaOQ8VF0yFy7mEaOD_JeNeZKoJC1GkgbtcEhnAhPZpU9KAWfRvr40c/s1600-h/DSCN0059.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 125px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN1WZW9aBZWLJ7W176fipmHe8qMNuZyGXXbCuo12rj_snwx9ZQQiPYltdCZ9tXWuCDj_5IkntMyM6oP19qoghAzaOQ8VF0yFy7mEaOD_JeNeZKoJC1GkgbtcEhnAhPZpU9KAWfRvr40c/s320/DSCN0059.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364724675974908674" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJiqzY01CjNi6FVMzG2lxZZIUTayD4R88-DSV76YMuQtPjE4yS8nwLKyQL2G-TqrO0_tjaUS9PBGg_QdlmT9loeahCK9LTyKlBI9RBR3D5pnvxRU5qyqx97Ts57KK6rzOaoFLKcbPpWyk/s1600-h/DSCN0069.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 189px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJiqzY01CjNi6FVMzG2lxZZIUTayD4R88-DSV76YMuQtPjE4yS8nwLKyQL2G-TqrO0_tjaUS9PBGg_QdlmT9loeahCK9LTyKlBI9RBR3D5pnvxRU5qyqx97Ts57KK6rzOaoFLKcbPpWyk/s320/DSCN0069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364724670789091682" border="0" /></a><br />The Cleary tour and a few visits to the wonderful <a href="http://www.powells.com/">Powell's </a>bookstore in downtown Portland made the perfect introduction to my week at the Children's Book Conference.<br /><br />The conference itself was wonderful. A small ratio of faculty to students, shared meals and dorm life gave us lots of opportunities to get to know each other. It was a very intimate and unique experience. I've attended other writing conferences but this was the most beneficial one, yet. There was a great balance of instruction and group critiques. There was a lot of discussion and laughter about our shared passion of writing for children. It was a very witty and generous group, and I feel lucky to have been a part of it. The post-conference dinner at Fratelli in Portland with Suz and Ali was an unexpected and highly enjoyable treat--perfect combination of good friends and good food.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfjFlg_rY80eSIjKwvL4hgX0sdaEJ2JeUGmkKI5z8fx8REEviQzp2DTA-dBVW1s_iJkf0Tgw4kg_wxGirMEHMDugfhPMAvgVkjrsQ6GPCHVCE4exRnI0FaAqP5dCxK2I_8I8Aad-pNI4/s1600-h/dinner.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfjFlg_rY80eSIjKwvL4hgX0sdaEJ2JeUGmkKI5z8fx8REEviQzp2DTA-dBVW1s_iJkf0Tgw4kg_wxGirMEHMDugfhPMAvgVkjrsQ6GPCHVCE4exRnI0FaAqP5dCxK2I_8I8Aad-pNI4/s320/dinner.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364733642744209538" border="0" /></a><br />I was fortunate to receive an individual critique from <a href="http://lurban.livejournal.com/">Linda Urban</a>, author of <span style="font-style: italic;">A Crooked Kind of Perfect</span>--one of my favorite middle grade novels. What a thrill. Linda was thoughtful and constructive in her comments and also a very supportive taskmistress/cheerleader. I left Portland with a specific plan and a much deeper commitment to my writing, and that's a terrific outcome as far as I'm concerned. As an added bonus I won the "Grand Prize" of the faculty donated door prizes. I received an inspiring bag of "writerly" goodies including leopard-printed book clips and a new selection of writing implements.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6kjgHy3m3mD15XDMQJak1o48iGxr9pvJISM-oLZ6BGMEkgyXKmDOs7wccBJF7k3AD5uCFdtyZhVnsEnfmbH6yrW5jZRvS0CzHjaw_KzbkPIuJXydSEohhexIzI1w7CxYknEV2T-QtAM/s1600-h/DSCN0114.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6kjgHy3m3mD15XDMQJak1o48iGxr9pvJISM-oLZ6BGMEkgyXKmDOs7wccBJF7k3AD5uCFdtyZhVnsEnfmbH6yrW5jZRvS0CzHjaw_KzbkPIuJXydSEohhexIzI1w7CxYknEV2T-QtAM/s200/DSCN0114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364752974243701442" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ECqYpD5yB3eixsuHnJqHDBu0CEwSsMoIap1GrTvIeOTvyjDu_Od0LIIUGqLRArMTzHXK9QDe1E_sj6GJnl4E1GQ7Cp9NIXgUXjqAak4-tsfRHIiPl4p8Cdwg4PToJJg7_fRWg9IS8Jg/s1600-h/document-2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ECqYpD5yB3eixsuHnJqHDBu0CEwSsMoIap1GrTvIeOTvyjDu_Od0LIIUGqLRArMTzHXK9QDe1E_sj6GJnl4E1GQ7Cp9NIXgUXjqAak4-tsfRHIiPl4p8Cdwg4PToJJg7_fRWg9IS8Jg/s200/document-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364752979576571026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And as if all that wasn't enough, and it certainly was, on my very first evening at Reed after walking over the beautiful bridge pictured below I spotted a woman who looked very familiar. Before the trip I had tried to locate a former Maryland neighbor, but was unsuccessful. Her Internet profile was so low that I was beginning to wonder if she had joined the Witness Protection Program. But that night when I saw a beautiful silver-haired woman, who I hadn't seen in 21 years, I just took a chance, and asked her if she was Susie. What an incredible coincidence that she would be coming across the campus at the very moment I was walking to dinner. There was screaming and hugging involved, and I learned that she now lives about 2 minutes away from Reed. Later in the week, I had a chance to share dinner and catch up with her and her husband. I know that after this miraculous encounter we won't lose touch again . (Just in case she really is in the WPP, I'm not posting any of the adorable pictures I took of her and Mr. Susie at dinner.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2hjy685BDuR05uHr7pPdIx57URLJ9Lpds3RmtxF2jSprKBuutBGfUKOHuLiezdpKBFQtBAL3PAXwxvBNXmNIj901LEi8nopu9aSdfd0EyGAKb1dyiJ9N2IRb8cGCcR9jwSOtEtQck9s/s1600-h/DSCN0106.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2hjy685BDuR05uHr7pPdIx57URLJ9Lpds3RmtxF2jSprKBuutBGfUKOHuLiezdpKBFQtBAL3PAXwxvBNXmNIj901LEi8nopu9aSdfd0EyGAKb1dyiJ9N2IRb8cGCcR9jwSOtEtQck9s/s320/DSCN0106.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364740415405431538" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >It was a perfect week.</span><br /></div>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-48847050824031357082009-07-05T16:15:00.000-07:002009-07-05T20:02:41.573-07:00KABOOM!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7ZQfAxlxv7IIcuIS_VU3Bwdf3cv2c6b0hICy-yRMtz-QDGtfYdm3IaRhdDwHdWHn2k8eVDczyCuZF2H4Sh3E4dR0BfSy8jm6JI9gnPHYKXH04tLv0jlo48OsrOi6NPr_KhUjBPGHKtk/s1600-h/bluefire.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7ZQfAxlxv7IIcuIS_VU3Bwdf3cv2c6b0hICy-yRMtz-QDGtfYdm3IaRhdDwHdWHn2k8eVDczyCuZF2H4Sh3E4dR0BfSy8jm6JI9gnPHYKXH04tLv0jlo48OsrOi6NPr_KhUjBPGHKtk/s320/bluefire.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355100769419110642" border="0" /></a>Had a beautiful 4th of July in Cambria. The highlight was<br />a small but brilliant firework display launched from the end of<br />Moonstone Beach. We stood under an almost full moon<br />on the wooden boardwalk while we watched and listened to the<br />whizzing arcs of flowers, planets and bubbles exploding into<br />vibrant neon colors.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">I love fireworks!</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3i0K2sfmkO58aIjBLW6qDVaD5VfqBgHQMOo6X7vWQ0DZSoFwV7B7Jeqrroey6VwXMotn19Jgxji-MxkAoCae_DxGOeWCzj7TKbz1VngkNmVIAEgAg20D6PB5GGDnDuvCb58_OdoFh60/s1600-h/flags.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3i0K2sfmkO58aIjBLW6qDVaD5VfqBgHQMOo6X7vWQ0DZSoFwV7B7Jeqrroey6VwXMotn19Jgxji-MxkAoCae_DxGOeWCzj7TKbz1VngkNmVIAEgAg20D6PB5GGDnDuvCb58_OdoFh60/s320/flags.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355103668091379042" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">I love flags, too.</span><br /><br />American flags lined the streets of Cambria and huge flags flew along Highway 101 on the way home. This flag pole stands outside the <a href="http://www.whitewaterinn.com/index.html">White Water Inn</a> where we stayed in Cambria.The British Union Jack flies beneath the American one in tribute to one of the former owners of the inn--beautiful variations of red, white and blue.<br /><br />Plants that caught my eye this weekend were also variations of red, white and blue with flowers reminiscent of exploding fireworks.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJYOGKTg7ro_zlwE60I6NmOrLSJUrOBSn7eq3sTRgah5MWKo7NkTFODSt1R68YtO0X_W4KjceW6kN-9yJ2foqtVpQDyywc6zYFi4H0RSI6DiZAZjnv2WpHw2LxJVkcR-701C45YQjMHg/s1600-h/redflower.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJYOGKTg7ro_zlwE60I6NmOrLSJUrOBSn7eq3sTRgah5MWKo7NkTFODSt1R68YtO0X_W4KjceW6kN-9yJ2foqtVpQDyywc6zYFi4H0RSI6DiZAZjnv2WpHw2LxJVkcR-701C45YQjMHg/s200/redflower.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355105865777872466" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpWCj9V15XBgyKQKX6S-aYUaW0GHF-r9yGv0wIUtgLgN3-fwPzSAA8w165C2soCtqhw768dRvUsghiGpk8iWA-7PcAT_8bZ5sjPTjF0cS4yEyzw3A3uEQsU-t4WYfcTTCWVDoCjbvtfE/s1600-h/DSCN0042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpWCj9V15XBgyKQKX6S-aYUaW0GHF-r9yGv0wIUtgLgN3-fwPzSAA8w165C2soCtqhw768dRvUsghiGpk8iWA-7PcAT_8bZ5sjPTjF0cS4yEyzw3A3uEQsU-t4WYfcTTCWVDoCjbvtfE/s200/DSCN0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355110167733235186" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_SpTun49SV4kZReFG4Zk337iaVNMbRwaVUcb4BFPlwyoe0UZHCWvnD6f6-W_r8scsdW0HPCzE0Tu5ya-NTvsadmkhqKv6IZ6OLEP8nGbFHRvl72QsDo1NjRni7OMC2iktpNVq-FTPVo/s1600-h/DSCN0041.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_SpTun49SV4kZReFG4Zk337iaVNMbRwaVUcb4BFPlwyoe0UZHCWvnD6f6-W_r8scsdW0HPCzE0Tu5ya-NTvsadmkhqKv6IZ6OLEP8nGbFHRvl72QsDo1NjRni7OMC2iktpNVq-FTPVo/s200/DSCN0041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355110167437539938" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> The green papyrus doesn't fit with the patriotic theme (although the container is blue) but I love this feathery plant and bought one at the <a href="http://www.cambrianursery.com/">Cambria Nursery</a> to add to our garden.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5A5zLg2sMkkyzG3mNskJ9ubXQ6ykCxLR9DfOsW-EvYTiJf91o1bp9ObqYFlpWZztcOTgolXm4mo4A62kQySS5KUwSO3VOIjoMkRTMMqfaOFcfGnNL0JLb9j83oWKqMgq86E-ttTIAzs/s1600-h/papyrus.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 98px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5A5zLg2sMkkyzG3mNskJ9ubXQ6ykCxLR9DfOsW-EvYTiJf91o1bp9ObqYFlpWZztcOTgolXm4mo4A62kQySS5KUwSO3VOIjoMkRTMMqfaOFcfGnNL0JLb9j83oWKqMgq86E-ttTIAzs/s200/papyrus.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355105864159902370" border="0" /><br /></a></div>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-5282569846089487872009-06-28T13:00:00.000-07:002009-06-28T13:17:38.007-07:00Walking with Thomas J.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_bPMLmmVuYaufDk3fZGxTJ0Di2MkeQ81F2pAB-lzpdOZRC23nFXKi1g0kgb2YZHrme9Pbs1cr18Opy5sxiHG0qHvqY1FZre0ZQgrrrRgU9jl7dZWactCHBYyigRZluxI6Qi6dw61QWs4/s1600-h/thomasjefferson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_bPMLmmVuYaufDk3fZGxTJ0Di2MkeQ81F2pAB-lzpdOZRC23nFXKi1g0kgb2YZHrme9Pbs1cr18Opy5sxiHG0qHvqY1FZre0ZQgrrrRgU9jl7dZWactCHBYyigRZluxI6Qi6dw61QWs4/s200/thomasjefferson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352448679008990514" border="0" /></a>As I've mentioned before one of my favorite blogs is <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/">The Pursuit of Happiness</a>, by Maira Kalman, an incredible artist and writer. She posts in the NY Times at the end of each month and her June entry was about Thomas Jefferson, his life, his peers and his home, Monticello. When I lived in Maryland I visited Monticello several times and I was amazed at Jefferson's inventions, his creativity and his ability to design a home which so clearly reflected his true self. Of course, Thomas was not without his serious flaws as Kalman acknowledges, but he was also one of the most accomplished and intelligent men of his time.<br /><br />One quote from Jefferson that Kalman included in her entry was about walking, a subject on my mind these days.<br /><br /><blockquote>"The object of walking is to relax the mind. You should therefore not permit yourself to even think while you walk; but divert yourself by the objects surrounding you. Walking is the best possible exercise. "<br /><br /></blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-Av1-ebU6j_aMdUtUoLJ6rNxB-69D8K_52PXBGi2lcBnmhfCyQoZGq1auX7Qd1dkE8RVZ1eYVtzxySm4d39cTxoJcImmt4sxWJe9uVaeUJV7G9OCOZWUk6V4_U25LfX29Oa_sAZ7i7k/s1600-h/bishop_ranch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-Av1-ebU6j_aMdUtUoLJ6rNxB-69D8K_52PXBGi2lcBnmhfCyQoZGq1auX7Qd1dkE8RVZ1eYVtzxySm4d39cTxoJcImmt4sxWJe9uVaeUJV7G9OCOZWUk6V4_U25LfX29Oa_sAZ7i7k/s200/bishop_ranch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352452757700411714" border="0" /></a>This quote struck home with me because I am trying to become a walker...again. Not just the sort of person who enjoys a weekend stroll, but someone who wakes up each day needing to walk. I want walking to become a compulsion, a healthy addiction, an every day occurrence. A few summers ago I was a true walker, but then laziness and a faulty knee got in the way. My walking group outings provide a wonderful incentive (and an added bonus of a laugh-filled good time) but I need to fly solo, as well.<br /><br />Experience has taught me that contrary to Mr. Jefferson, walking doesn't exactly relax my mind. Walking by myself does allow me to carefully observe the world that is blurred when I drive by in a car. I can also focus on things that I postpone thinking about during the regular course of a day. Yesterday as I walked along Cathedral Oaks I came to the realization that I would rather be working on a different writing project than the one I am writing now. I'm not going to give up on my short story/middle grade novel, but I'm also going to work on telling the story of Emmett, a character whose story I loved but who fell to the wayside after a few sessions of writing class critiques. (I wonder if Thomas got distracted by critiques as he wrote the Declaration of Independence? Did he ever want to throw in the towel and just let America remain under British rule?) "Emmett's" critiques weren't all negative, but they were enough to stunt the growth of his story, and wound the fragile writer's ego of his creator. Maybe now is the time to take a page from Ms. Kalman and launch the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pursuit of Emmett</span>.<br /><br />But first back to Mr. J. He obviously hadn't anticipated the advent of iPods and cellular phones when he wrote down his thoughts about walking. Most of the walkers I pass during my local jaunts are listening to something or conducting one-sided phone conversations. I have to admit I am sometimes guilty of indulging in musical distractions as well. Matching my steps to a good beat or a jazzy saxophone certainly amps up my speed. My current favorite is Van Morrison's <span style="font-style: italic;">Gloria</span>. I thumb through the songs on my mini i-Pod, listening to the first few notes of each song, until I hear its familiar rhythmic beats. And then I repeat it. Over and over.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wwiOuhRc-Pg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wwiOuhRc-Pg&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object> <br /><br />I can't imagine what Thomas would make of it.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-38774073905782479872009-06-23T05:44:00.000-07:002009-06-23T07:14:43.427-07:00Delightfully Dessen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwppA8XqLNVhyphenhyphenN7ieiEMU_jitjtjHoFNWF8gIAJeBkfkrpQJBlQr7HkvOu6jfq5x9dXnHxK1lLJUYGdrwz4jHienWhTZfDx9z5Sd5xI6mD_WfgeNjXXm540SktOmJ0mMlNvaDe66aOiJM/s1600-h/along-for-the-ride.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwppA8XqLNVhyphenhyphenN7ieiEMU_jitjtjHoFNWF8gIAJeBkfkrpQJBlQr7HkvOu6jfq5x9dXnHxK1lLJUYGdrwz4jHienWhTZfDx9z5Sd5xI6mD_WfgeNjXXm540SktOmJ0mMlNvaDe66aOiJM/s200/along-for-the-ride.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350509150525868722" border="0" /></a>At 4:14 this morning I finished reading Sarah Dessen's new book,<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;"> Along for the Ride</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">. I loved it...and not just because there happens to be a charming secondary character named Maggie. There is a certain irony in my middle of the night reading</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> schedule as <span style="font-style: italic;">Ride'</span>s main character, Auden, is living life as an insomniac for the majority of the book. This is a condition I can relate to, and I'm glad to have books like this one to keep me company during my sleepless nights.<br /><br />I've loved reading all of Dessen's character-driven, coming-of-age YA novels. Her stories are universal rather then edgy, and relatable to readers of all ages. The storytelling is humorous, poignant and comfortable with a healthy dose of angst, but not dark or disturbing. I can't get through one without shedding a few tears, and I've read many of them more than once. That's my equivalent of "two thumbs up."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjzBPcQRNu7gopD5a9_iHMKndiqvL4gsGRpyrqDHUUFHd2EGinv5olVaomWBQTQMqD8IEkPOEsV1Tz0w31DrJ1oYub6IVq1t7GOHXTIemaR_9pRqm9MKv1rhjiGLxCrIkV8tRCau4acc/s1600-h/DSC00155.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjzBPcQRNu7gopD5a9_iHMKndiqvL4gsGRpyrqDHUUFHd2EGinv5olVaomWBQTQMqD8IEkPOEsV1Tz0w31DrJ1oYub6IVq1t7GOHXTIemaR_9pRqm9MKv1rhjiGLxCrIkV8tRCau4acc/s200/DSC00155.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350514609668681250" border="0" /></a>Because I am also a regular reader of Sarah's <a href="http://writergrl.livejournal.com/">blog</a>, I discovered that her <span style="font-style: italic;">AFTR</span> book tour would be taking her to Montclair Village, a few miles away from Nora's home in Oakland. Although the primary reason I went to the Bay Area was to take care of my stricken child we did manage a few excursions as well, including one to a <a href="http://www.ggpbooks.com/">Great Good Place for Books</a> on Sunday afternoon where I got to meet Sarah, listen to her read a selection from<span style="font-style: italic;"> Along for the Ride, </span>and have my book signed. I felt like a groupie...of course I was the oldest groupie in the room by several decades. Sometimes it's a slightly awkward to be such a fan of YA and children's literature at my advanced age, but I think it's thrilling to meet a favorite author no matter what how old you are.<br /><br />The majority of the attendees at this event matched Sarah's traditional reader profile of adolescent girls. They were excited to meet their favorite author and brought along stacks of books for her to sign. One fan standing in line in front of me lived several hours away but had been determined to meet Sarah. Her books were tagged with tiny color-coded post-its marking her favorite parts, and I bet she had discovered all of the clever inter-book connections Dessen adds to each of her manuscripts. She proclaimed her desire to become a writer and added her fervent wish that things that things that happened to "Auden" will maybe someday happen to her. She was adorable and very passionate. It made me realize that responsibility to readers comes hand-in-hand with an author's popularity. I imagine this is a burden, and a blessing, that Sarah Dessen accepts willingly.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /></span>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-69548026548249145352009-06-18T10:03:00.000-07:002009-06-18T16:14:45.479-07:00And a Plague on Your House...There is nothing like an illness to bring out my maternal instincts, even if my lovely daughter is a full-fledged adult. On Sunday night Nora called and mentioned she had some bites on her legs. I asked if she had "bites" on any other parts of her body. Her affirmative response led me to don my "Medical Mom" nursing cap and diagnose Chicken Pox. As the photos below document (I apologize for the poor clarity) Nora already had chicken pox as a four-month-old baby. We hadn't anticipated a second round at age 24.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSdbU_QYFAeBeHJpj28JnPE4VNn_WMoIEa8_5jfpud9wol7O4tr5uqT8eKWSrnH2ej5NdZrmqJayxVwZWbTmPHRVgujTKpwcBwZn7U8AXxc1Cno6UiQgLHzdqgAhgZ4YWv4aun6b810s/s1600-h/P1000212.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSdbU_QYFAeBeHJpj28JnPE4VNn_WMoIEa8_5jfpud9wol7O4tr5uqT8eKWSrnH2ej5NdZrmqJayxVwZWbTmPHRVgujTKpwcBwZn7U8AXxc1Cno6UiQgLHzdqgAhgZ4YWv4aun6b810s/s200/P1000212.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348715924222456274" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhaR_Zh4yi4IwXx8KOe8SuXwY3jte8cLTTyLzzN6ygVnmivrgJtmWMOsI2bogQpbSNZUFPCIGE06sebTVlctHNCpWiCdpbaIWzwPTCxGkDiD9LfUlvjSgvaqZ-kPCplRUsGnto0NI_WQ/s1600-h/P1000211.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhaR_Zh4yi4IwXx8KOe8SuXwY3jte8cLTTyLzzN6ygVnmivrgJtmWMOsI2bogQpbSNZUFPCIGE06sebTVlctHNCpWiCdpbaIWzwPTCxGkDiD9LfUlvjSgvaqZ-kPCplRUsGnto0NI_WQ/s200/P1000211.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348715686154212210" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I was all set to rush to Nora's bedside but her doctor mentioned that she had recently had a second case of the "pox" herself and cautioned against a quick visit from Mom. I also spoke with a few friends who shared anecdotal evidence of second exposures that resulted in another bout of chicken pox for the care-taking adult. So, I postponed my visit and satisfied my maternal urges through frequent phones calls. Too many, perhaps, for the patient, but I'm pretty sure I was very helpful.<br /><br />Yesterday, while unloading the dishwasher (an act I perform on a regular basis) I pulled a muscle in my back. Was this a sympathetic illness? I iced, walked and felt like I'd dodged a bullet until I tried to get out of bed this morning. Excruciating! More icing, Motrin and sitting in the most uncomfortable chair in the house have made the situation marginally better. I'm hoping that a day of gentle stretching and taking it easy will make it possible for me to drive up to the Bay Area tomorrow to administer some personal TLC to the now less-contagious Nora.<br /><br />Always interested in multi-tasking, I thought that a day spent at home might also be a good time to break in my flashy new walking shoes. That's them, in the picture below. The ones all the way across the room. On the floor. The ones I have to bend down, <span style="font-style: italic;">way down</span>, to put on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWzyPCoZl6T4t3R5Lzerych_Me1z6c-ghkhoi9vOHFYx2gjZFwcrAFkLHzZVQxtAcCx6stkrY_PAxWRFTVRCmatnMlgvubjIqI0F38d5tEsfd8yoSjMi6XfwWj311WnA6922eJPsKsE0/s1600-h/P1000214.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWzyPCoZl6T4t3R5Lzerych_Me1z6c-ghkhoi9vOHFYx2gjZFwcrAFkLHzZVQxtAcCx6stkrY_PAxWRFTVRCmatnMlgvubjIqI0F38d5tEsfd8yoSjMi6XfwWj311WnA6922eJPsKsE0/s200/P1000214.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348722360020971778" border="0" /></a><br />I'm thinking that I might be able to scoop one up with a broom handle. And maybe, with a bit of practice, I'll master the art of tossing one directly on to my foot. Tying the shoelaces will be a challenge. I might have to wait until one of the neighbors hears my desperate cry for help. Or maybe a quick 911 call...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoNzKlZOuGjWmc3sn_lSq107NsEsgmIhZbg52LTux4gx7qVJ1YhR8f3Lk3d94cTYWe7MtgcwB9YMPrrmx9yHNHPMGBtnFS7qS_7KWA5vByx1q0X6R_ILlQqzALlTFPIWF2Zv_0I851P0/s1600-h/shoes.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoNzKlZOuGjWmc3sn_lSq107NsEsgmIhZbg52LTux4gx7qVJ1YhR8f3Lk3d94cTYWe7MtgcwB9YMPrrmx9yHNHPMGBtnFS7qS_7KWA5vByx1q0X6R_ILlQqzALlTFPIWF2Zv_0I851P0/s200/shoes.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348745513485575858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 204, 204); font-weight: bold;">VICTORY!</div>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-47608799023834055682009-06-07T11:20:00.000-07:002009-06-07T21:30:11.364-07:00The Wild Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iBqurryP8dU-h8ADdqdTXMPxbuKMJUdvXD2rQPCmlnJ_pNiW0SyGb5fLEoyA0mawd3IfZEgRCzsliIBL65yysAqfOYMBtXMPBdFfkunhHmzAAL8ddtVhMEdc4DFsixTx9X1SqwTVzhA/s1600-h/seal.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iBqurryP8dU-h8ADdqdTXMPxbuKMJUdvXD2rQPCmlnJ_pNiW0SyGb5fLEoyA0mawd3IfZEgRCzsliIBL65yysAqfOYMBtXMPBdFfkunhHmzAAL8ddtVhMEdc4DFsixTx9X1SqwTVzhA/s320/seal.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344647517829386530" border="0" /></a><br />Last weekend was spent in Cambria. We were witnesses to an incredible array of wildlife--more than we'd seen on any of our numerous other visits . This seal was my favorite with his head popping up randomly among the rocks as he searched for the perfect spot to sun himself. The unidentifiable bird was a surprise addition to the photo--wish I could say I planned it that way.<br /><br />Saturday night as we walked to dinner two sea otters gently floated on their backs dining on local delicacies. Of course I didn't have my camera. P and I frequently think we see otters, but more often than not we are mistaking bulbous kelp heads for bobbing otter faces. Of course the binoculars that would allow us to confirm the identity of these mysterious floating creatures are usually back in our hotel room. I enjoy walking unencumbered by equipment, but I also hate not being able to identify what we're looking at.<br /><br />Sunday morning brought a display of dolphins. They seemed to be trolling this patch of Cambria's coastline as they cavorted in small groups. Fins and sleek bodies were revealed diving through the water. We've never seen any dolphins there before, and even the locals seemed amazed as they gathered along the boardwalk to observe them while a perfect squadron of pelicans flew overhead.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rrrIJqfB_9TYVy77qmQlOd15fmnXVoc2nIofLMI9BLprh1gx7yot435ZLcu3-dtzhRCwazWSCKiZy4Xkeyg7wPn_gI7SPAGfWT7nyy-TRYr6XY5vAs0ycYXI4ZOOZSM77o9WvPNPxUM/s1600-h/pelicans.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rrrIJqfB_9TYVy77qmQlOd15fmnXVoc2nIofLMI9BLprh1gx7yot435ZLcu3-dtzhRCwazWSCKiZy4Xkeyg7wPn_gI7SPAGfWT7nyy-TRYr6XY5vAs0ycYXI4ZOOZSM77o9WvPNPxUM/s320/pelicans.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344647893570000850" border="0" /></a><br />Wildlife encounters continued throughout the week. A morning walk near home yielded hummingbirds zooming into bell-shaped moon flowers suspended over backyard fences. A red-tailed hawk, chased by a pair of unidentifiable but very protective nesting birds, swooped in front of me and landed in a eucalyptus tree. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLAlHF8Yj4eTc_OGKYGPi1vyFF7TLNxX9bAFaOhPeDt-HIIJNeTRehR8PaLwKW7rjVcYfUCRJN5N7UD6t71Rri3et7LrjJN0TakBf_-y8YSYDMtW80it3Z3_0AY9TUmwk7OULlQcDIE4/s1600-h/3476971953_a194d8135f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLAlHF8Yj4eTc_OGKYGPi1vyFF7TLNxX9bAFaOhPeDt-HIIJNeTRehR8PaLwKW7rjVcYfUCRJN5N7UD6t71Rri3et7LrjJN0TakBf_-y8YSYDMtW80it3Z3_0AY9TUmwk7OULlQcDIE4/s200/3476971953_a194d8135f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344642828455543602" border="0" /></a> But the highlight was spotting a male California quail sitting on top of a wooded fence post, his black and white topknot bobbing. I was so delighted to see him that at first I didn't notice the dozen or so baby quail plus his plainer mate scurrying around at the base of the post. I love watching quail. They used to occasionally appear on the deck of my parent's house to eat the bird seed my mom threw out. The arrival of our state bird always warranted an urgent "Maggie, come look!" call from my mom, and we'd stand together to admire them.<br /><br />My last avian sighting was yesterday at UCSB. There is a small fish pond by the back entrance to P's office. Each year a pair of mallards arrive to nest in the reeds. They share the space with at least three very healthy carp. I walked over to see if the ducks were there and suddenly the male mallard flew by me and skidded to a landing in the shallow water. By the time I pulled my camera out of my purse the female had arrived as well. She immediately swam into the reeds to protect her nest while the green-capped male distracted me with dramatic wing displays and loud quacking. I got the message but missed out on a good close-up. I think we'll be seeing baby ducklings soon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULtKCU5ff1xh_Qadev9_cYzGlx6kVA2ldqq7yubyFdB2kNe7y39Hfs226QhDBZEJkEzSVc1_zzro55qG1EGSYrtcNgBvJZ3bDtq_kKzrfIxeZ3X4ApUyt4FmLzko3vZ_bI6YRgmZ5P2o/s1600-h/duckcarp.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULtKCU5ff1xh_Qadev9_cYzGlx6kVA2ldqq7yubyFdB2kNe7y39Hfs226QhDBZEJkEzSVc1_zzro55qG1EGSYrtcNgBvJZ3bDtq_kKzrfIxeZ3X4ApUyt4FmLzko3vZ_bI6YRgmZ5P2o/s320/duckcarp.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344652402649934898" border="0" /></a>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-80669542262343429662009-06-06T18:49:00.000-07:002009-06-07T10:57:14.625-07:00Sliding Standards?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5kO9tRpqT05wq_GCMFPUIP9vGtsyO4Qd4WvtFB3SWkohxyGHalVdIRjEPqDmXJvk0tOPxgvhfGoFb1e41XZiYCiMuRKfADkp2jkoZIEV84JSKBg6nAQMyihI2AAgqLmdFrqSE-Mmw3o/s1600-h/jeopardy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5kO9tRpqT05wq_GCMFPUIP9vGtsyO4Qd4WvtFB3SWkohxyGHalVdIRjEPqDmXJvk0tOPxgvhfGoFb1e41XZiYCiMuRKfADkp2jkoZIEV84JSKBg6nAQMyihI2AAgqLmdFrqSE-Mmw3o/s200/jeopardy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343108134196488482" border="0" /></a><br />I had a horrifying moment early this morning. What if they are dumbing down Jeopardy? One night earlier this week I amazed myself (and my beloved opponent) with my answering, or actually in this case, questioning, prowess. I was on fire. But is it possible that my euphoric success was simply because the questions were surprisingly easy? Has the Jeopardy schedule become like the NY Times Crossword schedule--a system that publishes easier puzzles at the beginning of the week and then adds successively challenging crosswords as Sunday approaches? Or perhaps my small victory is merely the result of some well-meaning television executive who has decided to build America's self-esteem by allowing a nation of frustrated quiz show fans to achieve great success while simultaneously deluding us into thinking we are getting smarter? Hmm. Obviously, I'm going to have to dedicate some more time contemplating this phenomenon. Unless, of course, I manage to occupy my mind with more significant concerns.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-26624323559590507072009-05-20T06:59:00.000-07:002009-05-23T21:27:01.082-07:00Book GeeksLast Monday I spent most of the day in wonderful company--a room full of book geeks. Mondays are my scheduled day off , a fact I foolishly lamented at the beginning of the school year. I was upset there was only funding for me to work four days a week, but now that I have fully embraced the concept of three day weekends I can't imagine a more perfect arrangement... but back to the geeks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBHccF2ugfOD6EDrUjoANAtpP8lATyn1WSEhMQoMwtv-ReHn8V6j9R1-hBA1Zk6d_hp9RGLSKc9XMpdKy5LqnHicCBAizVY_QIu_vewQFak-DhCaLm9iGYNW6qFFvmpISiXnqHhx0mCU/s1600-h/image.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 99px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBHccF2ugfOD6EDrUjoANAtpP8lATyn1WSEhMQoMwtv-ReHn8V6j9R1-hBA1Zk6d_hp9RGLSKc9XMpdKy5LqnHicCBAizVY_QIu_vewQFak-DhCaLm9iGYNW6qFFvmpISiXnqHhx0mCU/s200/image.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339077310190676994" border="0" /></a>The small school district where I work decided to have its own <a href="http://www.battleofthebooks.org/4-62010.html">Battle of the Books</a> this year. Usually our nine schools send teams to the Santa Barbara County "battle" but because of state testing schedules that wasn't possible this year. So on Monday, 80 students and 8 media specialists converged on the Goleta Valley Community Center to challenge each others' knowledge about a pre-selected and pre-read list of books. To reduce school rivalry and encourage students to get to know each other, the organizers made sixteen teams comprised of students from different schools. Team names (e.g. The Random Musketeers, The Awesome Palm Trees, and Inky Readers) and personalized "battle shields" (made from pizza pans) were created before the four rounds of battles began. The excitement was building.<br /><br />The battles were fun. Kids needed to identify the correct title and author (two bonus points) to answer each question. Stealing questions was allowed if a team gave a wrong answer. Competitive spirits blossomed but for the most part honorable behavior prevailed. As motivation, it was announced that a prize would be awarded to the team with the best sportsmanship. Not sure that this bribe was necessary, but the winning team was very delighted with the reward of new books that they received at the end of the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rBraSknPCwvfKrU3aizIOI4QEJCg658zSsdjcWEIg-cjZutiiKjMJj_oxtLx10TTkH1AnxWReg9uNoKN-o6_16J8L364xoOyCcxjMrCmvCMFN3kCElp7WzBSr3e29RChRTt0J_h4hho/s1600-h/sheep_book.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rBraSknPCwvfKrU3aizIOI4QEJCg658zSsdjcWEIg-cjZutiiKjMJj_oxtLx10TTkH1AnxWReg9uNoKN-o6_16J8L364xoOyCcxjMrCmvCMFN3kCElp7WzBSr3e29RChRTt0J_h4hho/s200/sheep_book.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339074918583294738" border="0" /></a>After a morning of preliminary battles, the final battle of the day took place after lunch. The two top teams took to the stage and the questions were read by favorite local author <a href="http://www.valeriehobbs.com/">Val Hobbs</a>. Her delightful book,<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://us.macmillan.com/sheep">Sheep</a><span style="font-style: italic;">,</span> had just been honored by California readers as the winner of the California Young Reader Medal for middle grade fiction and the audience was thrilled to meet her. Val gave a brief speech, including an explanation of how her "almost" pet border collie inspired her to write <span style="font-style: italic;">Sheep</span>, signed books and due to school bus schedules finessed an extended period of q & a with eager readers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvbJGfKAIQlSW9pVeQ291uzqDtXCDVynQrhTgWj_HJYAu3g-Iy7RJLw3DBWhnOflgAiuHwcD06RTT3FcEPDN0sMbjbvy3zAlozx2rwv9PyIssRgcAXERwvITGtD1O8pkS1rcfH39n05s/s1600-h/DSCN1161.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvbJGfKAIQlSW9pVeQ291uzqDtXCDVynQrhTgWj_HJYAu3g-Iy7RJLw3DBWhnOflgAiuHwcD06RTT3FcEPDN0sMbjbvy3zAlozx2rwv9PyIssRgcAXERwvITGtD1O8pkS1rcfH39n05s/s200/DSCN1161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339239160669341074" border="0" /></a>The question and answer session was my favorite part of the day. Every question was thoughtfully asked, and answered respectfully. I know Val Hobbs as a teacher and friend, and I have to admit that I learned a lot of new things about her from her responses to the students. It was a safe environment--no chance of ridicule for being an inquisitive book geek since the room was full of us. The kids were completely engaged. I was, too.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-70673706718978764632009-05-17T09:28:00.000-07:002009-05-17T10:34:04.560-07:00Breakfast and Compromise<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-z5RP9MQI6bN3LSCILm4lddwunCC-brdVfGqzoSTgEPUsZf-SLxncusBKjJg7cJbpBmyqJIINvHg9iVTQmgbeuwUXwhgbGV20j7Ll2Z9c3qCrS3h8YhHvlFg-cbon63KTidfP6A9XN4/s1600-h/cajun-kitchen-goleta-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-z5RP9MQI6bN3LSCILm4lddwunCC-brdVfGqzoSTgEPUsZf-SLxncusBKjJg7cJbpBmyqJIINvHg9iVTQmgbeuwUXwhgbGV20j7Ll2Z9c3qCrS3h8YhHvlFg-cbon63KTidfP6A9XN4/s320/cajun-kitchen-goleta-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336831069765567010" border="0" /></a>My beloved likes to go out to breakfast on Sunday mornings. I do, too. My beloved prefers to go to his favorite restaurant. I do, too. Unfortunately, our favorites are not the same place. Paul loves to go to our local branch of <a href="http://www.cajunkitchensb.com/">Cajun Kitchen.</a> It's a quick drive and he likes the food. Neither of us ever orders anything remotely "cajun", but he thinks their breakfast basics--eggs, steak, bacon and especially the hash browns--are superior to other local restaurants. Paul likes the booths, the diner-like atmosphere, and the regulars.<br /><br />We're not regulars. No one calls us by name, but I like to think that we're not totally unfamiliar faces, either. We have our favorite waitress, a lovely Irish woman, whose lilting accent makes ordinary words a delight. This morning her "toast" was the highlight of our meal. We like to observe, from a distance which prohibits us from hearing their voices, the regulars we find intriguing. The middle-aged man who seeks out fellow customers to engage in loud discussions of sports, and the business owners who meet for breakfast on Sundays to hash out problems in the office. Paul and I keep to ourselves for the most part, reading favorite sections of the newspaper and talking quietly. I doubt that the "regulars" notice us at all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4NFE39Yx9MEC1x-clRG2ggYppZcw8KkFxVUy21Om_CvX1cJmSyIi-F4X_hZWvyaHcDw36wuIAamYWt88AhMFumDMQX8dYnssgKq2wo0CFvZND2OVn8fHnX-tBCnp6UpfpE2h1dkgOrw/s1600-h/2005-november-2-x-058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4NFE39Yx9MEC1x-clRG2ggYppZcw8KkFxVUy21Om_CvX1cJmSyIi-F4X_hZWvyaHcDw36wuIAamYWt88AhMFumDMQX8dYnssgKq2wo0CFvZND2OVn8fHnX-tBCnp6UpfpE2h1dkgOrw/s320/2005-november-2-x-058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336839334323736674" border="0" /></a>My favorite breakfast spot is D'Angelo Bakery and Bread in downtown Santa Barbara. I like the food better, especially their delicious wheat toast and homemade marmalade, and I like sitting outside in their side patio. D'Angelo's has regulars, too, but none quite as memorable or flamboyant as the ones at Cajun Kitchen. But the real reason I love it is the delicious coffee--rich double lattes served in traditional wide cups and saucers. They are hand-warming, hefty servings of caffeine--the perfect way to start a Sunday morning.<br /><br />I stopped ordering coffee at Cajun Kitchen years ago. Their coffee is bitter, flavorless and memorable for all the wrong reasons. I resort to Green Tea when I go there, but in my mind a breakfast without good coffee is a flawed experience. Paul bribes me with the promise a post breakfast visit to Starbucks or now, <a href="http://ohmargaret.blogspot.com/2009/02/ive-been-reading-lot-of-blogs-lately.html">Zizzo's</a>. It's not quite the same as savoring good coffee with a meal, but it's a reasonable compromise. Compromise, like separate checking accounts, is essential in a good marriage. Maybe the true spirit of compromise doesn't entail keeping track of how many times a concession occurs, but rest assured next weekend we won't be heading to Cajun Kitchen.Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541787720368642331.post-55154109834774329352009-05-10T19:52:00.000-07:002009-05-10T20:13:06.365-07:00A Mother's WishWhen your children are little it's hard to imagine you'll some day celebrate holidays without them. The upper grades of elementary school bring a cessation of cute cards and strange ceramic offerings handmade by your child. From then it's just a quick leap until they leave home for college, and holidays like Mother's Days are spent cramming for finals instead of honoring mothers. Nora hadn't been home for a few Mother's Days but thanks to Paul she was heading home this weekend. Her arrival was my 2009 Mother's Day surprise. <br /><br />Unfortunately Mother Nature intervened. Uncertain of what would be happening with the Santa Barbara fire and knowing that Paul's job would keep him busy this weekend, we encouraged her to go visit her boyfriend, Eric, in Orange County instead of trying to come home. We were all disappointed.<br /><br />But then we got lucky. The fire calmed down, it was determined that Paul's work on Sunday morning could be accomplished on his Blackberry, and Nora and Eric were willing to drive north to meet us in Ventura for brunch at a harbor restaurant. Bliss. A Mother's Day dream fulfilled.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4juUxEByH_XuCNcn3gu9L3YJQcysi0tMQVaV9_uzcSKTU_web88iKBQb_LXzJ9R2Xp_AcxZaLg2-TZXAJwMkxzP5Bu4l3_V6qeRXtaZkYjudRI5R_qP6CDBus-hRTwu8iX_bXnwdjnGE/s1600-h/moday09.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 8px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4juUxEByH_XuCNcn3gu9L3YJQcysi0tMQVaV9_uzcSKTU_web88iKBQb_LXzJ9R2Xp_AcxZaLg2-TZXAJwMkxzP5Bu4l3_V6qeRXtaZkYjudRI5R_qP6CDBus-hRTwu8iX_bXnwdjnGE/s400/moday09.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334393477031659890" /></a>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10516515730638489037noreply@blogger.com3