Oh, Margaret!

Reflections

2012-01-24T10:09:00.000-08:00

One 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.

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.

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 "that woman doesn't belong here." It took a few seconds for it to register that I was looking at myself.

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.

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.

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--anything 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.

January 13, 1982

2012-01-17T16:13:00.000-08:00

Thirty 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 National Inquirer. 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.

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.

Stamp of Inspiration

2012-01-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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 sentimental favorites 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 two and four-year-old 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.

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. "Please write!...Why haven't you written?..No feeble excuses or artificial explanations of any kind." I may never use these stamps again, but I won't ignore their directive.

Another favorite stamp reads "This is not art." After a long hiatus I'm not striving to create art--I'll settle for creating a habit. Write.

I Love a Parade!

2012-01-02T16:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Lots of bands filled with shining tubas.

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.

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!

New Year, New Adventures!

2012-01-01T20:08:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

Crafty Frustrations

2010-07-07T22:25:00.000-07:00

Well, 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.

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.

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.

Starting a different project tomorrow--wedding flags!

New and Improved!

2010-07-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

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 Oh, Margaret! 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. Oh, Margaret! and pink are simply not compatible.

I'm also sporting a new hat these days. One that seems to be taking over my life--at least for this 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.

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!

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.

Inspiration

2010-05-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

It's time to grow up, Margaret. Make a plan and a promise. Dig deep and...

Loss of Serendipity

2009-11-20T10:15:00.000-08:00

A 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 Pasadena Museum of California Art and the Norton Simon Museum, but had to stay overnight in unexplored territory, Glendale.

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.

The Rose Bowl is tucked into an old Pasadena neighborhood filled with Green and Green Houses (including Gamble House), 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.

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.

First Time Can be the Charm...

2009-10-17T06:07:00.000-07:00

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. Yes, it can be done. People write first books all the time...you can, too.

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.

What the Moon Saw by Laura Resau. I was introduced to this author by a series of interviews with her at Through the Toolbooth. Resau has published several other books, but Moon 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, Red Glass.

The Sweetheart of Prosper County by Jill Alexander. 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.

The Cupcake Queen by Heather Helpler. 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. The Cupcake Queen tells a traditional YA story (divorcing parents, relocation, search for self) but Hepler's writing and characterizations make it unique and cliche-free.

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."

You Don't Have to Run...

2009-09-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

There are countless phrases and idioms about walking.

"...learn to walk before you learn to run."
"...walk the walk ."
"Walk the line."
"Walk a mile in someone's shoes."

It's a word ripe with metaphoric possibilities. It's also just a verb.

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 eight miles) in 2 hours and 10 minutes (but who's counting?) For me, this was a huge accomplishment.

Part of my excitement comes from the doing but to be honest, more comes from the commitment. My commitment to preparing to walk a half-marathon in December. 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!

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.

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 San Diego 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk 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.

Wanted: One Muse

2009-09-13T11:05:00.000-07:00

Lately,I've been noticing a recurring theme in my reading material. Muses. I want one.

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.

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.

A book I just finished reading, Traveling with Pomegranates 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.

But, back to me and my 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.

Are there muse-listings on Craig's List? Here's the job description. Wanted: One Muse (toga optional.) 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. Sense of humor essential. Must be available 24/7 (individuals requiring 8 hours of sleep need not apply.) Muse will be subject to regular performance evaluations.

I think that ought to do it. Now, I'll just sit back and wait...for the muse to strike.

Tennis Anyone?

2009-09-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

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.

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 Los Angeles Examiner) 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.

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.

Spring Cleaning?

2009-08-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

Write Away, Elizabeth George
The Making of a Writer - Journals 1961-1963, Gail Godwin
Writing and Selling the YA Novel, K.L. Going
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
The Elements of Style, Strunk and White
Goal, Motivation and Conflict, Debra Dixon
How I Write, Janet Evanovich
Making a Literary Life, Carolyn See
Art & Fear, David Bayles and Ted Orland
The Pocket Muse, Monica Wood
See Jane Write, Sarah Mlynowski and Farris Jacobs
Rules of Thumb, Edited by Michael Martone and Susan Neville
Take Joy, Jane Yolen
Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg

The Toolkit for Writers, Naomi Epel
The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron
Writing the Breakout Novel, Donald Maass
Writing Tools, Roy Peter Clark
2008 Children's Writers and Illustrator's Market
Crafting Stories for Children, Nancy Lamb
The Weekend Novelist, Robert Ray
Off the Page, Edited by Carole Burns
The Writing Life, A Collection from the Washington Post Book World
Reading Like a Writer, Francine Prose
Steering the Craft, Ursula K. Le Guin
The Making of a Story, Alice LaPlante
Children's Writer's Word Book
The Writing Diet, Julia Cameron
Writing Fiction for Children, Judy K. Morris
If You Want to Write, Brenda Ueland
On Teaching and Writing Fiction, Wallace Stegner
The Art of Fiction, John Gardner
The Right to Write, Julia Cameron
Wild Mind, Natalie Goldberg

The Writing Life, Annie Dillard
One Writer's Beginning, Eudora Welty
The Writer on Her Work, Edited by Janet Sternburn
Creating Characters Kids Will Love, Elaine Alphin
Don't Tell the Grown-ups, Allison Lurie

Je t'aime Julie & Julia

2009-08-13T06:25:00.000-07:00

I loved the movie Julie and Julia. 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.

Nora and I had both read the two books, My Life In France by Julia Child and Alex Prud'Homme and Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen by Julie Powell, 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, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, sharpen their knives and break out the whisks. Personally, I left the movie with an unusual but urgent desire to braise cucumbers.

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.

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, The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food, that Julia fans will enjoy reading, too.

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.

So, here's my new life recipe.

1. Sharpen knives. Purchase new box of Band-Aids.
2. Try some intriguing new recipes, preferably those without copious amounts of butter.
3. Try the Julia Child approach to life...identify passions, embrace them and persevere.
4. Write and blog. Write and blog. Write and blog.
5. Look in the mirror and shout "Bon Appetite!" with gusto everyday.

Processing Portland

2009-07-31T15:35:00.000-07:00

I 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 Pacific Northwest Children's Book Conference. 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.

The "sisters" part of the weekend involved lots of laughter, good food (including hamburgers served on glazed Voo-Doo donuts at The Original) 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.

The Cleary tour and a few visits to the wonderful Powell's bookstore in downtown Portland made the perfect introduction to my week at the Children's Book Conference.

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.

I was fortunate to receive an individual critique from Linda Urban, author of A Crooked Kind of Perfect--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.

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.)

It was a perfect week.

KABOOM!

2009-07-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

Had a beautiful 4th of July in Cambria. The highlight was
a small but brilliant firework display launched from the end of
Moonstone Beach. We stood under an almost full moon
on the wooden boardwalk while we watched and listened to the
whizzing arcs of flowers, planets and bubbles exploding into
vibrant neon colors.

I love fireworks!

I love flags, too.

American flags lined the streets of Cambria and huge flags flew along Highway 101 on the way home. This flag pole stands outside the White Water Inn 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.

Plants that caught my eye this weekend were also variations of red, white and blue with flowers reminiscent of exploding fireworks.

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 Cambria Nursery to add to our garden.

Walking with Thomas J.

2009-06-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before one of my favorite blogs is The Pursuit of Happiness, 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.

One quote from Jefferson that Kalman included in her entry was about walking, a subject on my mind these days.

"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. "

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.

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 Pursuit of Emmett.

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 Gloria. 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.

I can't imagine what Thomas would make of it.

Delightfully Dessen

2009-06-23T05:44:00.000-07:00

At 4:14 this morning I finished reading Sarah Dessen's new book, Along for the Ride. 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 schedule as Ride'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.

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."

Because I am also a regular reader of Sarah's blog, I discovered that her AFTR 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 Great Good Place for Books on Sunday afternoon where I got to meet Sarah, listen to her read a selection from Along for the Ride, 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.

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.

And a Plague on Your House...

2009-06-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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, way down, to put on.

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...

VICTORY!

The Wild Life

2009-06-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

Sliding Standards?

2009-06-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Book Geeks

2009-05-20T06:59:00.000-07:00

Last 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.

The small school district where I work decided to have its own Battle of the Books 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.

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.

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 Val Hobbs. Her delightful book, Sheep, 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 Sheep, signed books and due to school bus schedules finessed an extended period of q & a with eager readers.

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.

Breakfast and Compromise

2009-05-17T09:28:00.000-07:00

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 Cajun Kitchen. 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.

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.

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.

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, Zizzo's. 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.

A Mother's Wish

2009-05-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

When 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.

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.

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.

Perspective Plus

2009-05-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

Once again Mother Nature has intervened to add a new perspective to our lives here in Santa Barbara. The third wildfire in the past nine months erupted this week, exploding across our beautiful canyons and foothills. The power of the fire has been simultaneously horrifying and mesmerizing. These pictures of Friday morning's sunrise were taken after an upsurge in the size and force of the fire on Thursday night.

I've been addicted to the local news station and the live reports from correspondents on site. It's really sensory overload because I can see, from the safety of the backyard, a distant view of the pictures that are being shown on T.V. It's sickening, yet very compelling...almost addictive. I stayed up late, afraid to go to bed for fear that an area closer to us would suddenly explode into flames. The high heat and the powerful winds made any scenario a possibility.

Today brought good news. They announced this morning that there is some containment of the Jesusita Fire, and that certain residents are now able to go back to their homes. Those who return to houses on streets where neighbors' homes have been destroyed must wonder why they were so fortunate. Many of these individuals have experienced the threat of multiple fires this year.

The underlying question is "why." Fires and loss are not the price we have to pay for living in this paradise. I don't understand the cosmic reasons for these events, but the lesson I take away from them is to focus every day on what is truly important.

Perspective

2009-05-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday morning my beloved and I had a discussion about shoes. Specifically, my shoes. A quick count revealed that I had seven pairs of shoes scattered over the floor in our bedroom. I don't, contrary to popular belief, leave them there in a diabolical attempt to inflict injury, but I will admit to abandoning them in a somewhat random fashion. The shoes are usually paired together and their location on the floor is determined by where I was standing when I decided I couldn't bear to have them on my feet anymore. Personally, I think shoe abandonment might be an indication of a highly creative mind. Others do not agree.

On Wednesday morning my beloved and I had a discussion about monopolizing the bathroom when two people both need to get ready to go to work. Normally this isn't an issue for us--two people, two bathrooms, no problem. But this week one of our bathrooms is out of commission so we are back to sharing. Apparently almost 32 years of marriage does not equate to the ability to share bathrooms. Frustrations were expressed and our morning farewells were curt.

On Thursday morning my beloved called me at work. "I'm okay, but there's been an accident." I heard the okay part, but I couldn't seem to process it. I felt sick. I needed to see him, touch him, and hear him in person--not listen over a cell phone with a raspy connection and sirens in the background. I remembered feeling this way when Nora was little. The calls from the school nurse always made me a little panicked. I knew Nora was fine, but I wanted to be there instantly, and take her home. I felt the same way about Paul on Thursday, even though my rational mind knew that critically injured people can't make phone calls.

A 21 year-old drunk driver took out 4 cars at 9:00 a.m. on a busy street near the campus. Miraculously the only injury was an injured toe of a motorcyclist. It was one of those accidents that Paul could see happening, but was powerless to prevent. A horrible slow motion movie unfolding in front of you with a terrifying, but inevitable outcome. All of the people involved in the accident were fortunate to have avoided injury, especially I think, the driver. How could you ever live with the knowledge that your stupidity and careless judgment caused the life-altering injury or death of another person? Would the extra drinks he probably had late Wednesday night be worth years in prison?

I felt better once I got home and hugged Paul. We did all the usual post-accident rituals: insurance, auto-body. car rental but I keep needing to reach over and squeeze his arm. I needed reassurance. His accident changed my perspective. Or maybe it just reminded me about what's truly important...and it's not shoes or bathroom time.

Carlelicious

2009-04-24T08:47:00.000-07:00

The LA Times Festival of Books is happening this weekend at UCLA and even though I won't be in attendance I have devoured all the promotional materials with great enthusiasm. Why you ask? Because Eric Carle is the featured illustrator. I love his art. The style is so distinctive and translates beautifully to many formats. His art makes me happy.

This year Carle is celebrating the 40th anniversary of the publication of the Very Hungry Caterpillar. There is a nice article about him in the LA Times today. I love the anecdote he tells about the origin of the Hungry Caterpillar. It started out as A Week with Will Worm,but there was no ending. By switching the main character to a caterpillar, Carle created the perfect ending...the emergence of a beautiful, colorful butterfly. What a lovely gift he has given us all.

And a final thought for Friday...

Earth Day

2009-04-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

I was a high school senior on the first Earth Day in 1970. As part of a group of budding ecologists, I helped organize an entire Saturday of information sharing about the environment and our individual roles as citizens of the earth. One vivid memory was the lunch we prepared for the event. We served plates of brown rice and cups of soy milk---a meal that would have been typical for us if all the resources in the world were equitable. The meal was memorable but not very palatable.

On the actual day of Earth Day many of us decided to walk to school, forsaking our cars, carpools, and usual bus rides. I just "mapquested" my route and discovered I walked 4.90 miles from my home in Lafayette, CA to Campolindo High School in nearby Moraga, and 4.90 miles back home. We got up very early and walked in the dark along winding roads and hills to get to school before 8 a.m. I remember that the walk back home in the afternoon sun seemed very long.

I'm going for a walk this morning to commemorate my inaugural Earth Day journey 29 years ago. Don't think I'll replicate the distance today, but I'm there in spirit.

Casting Call

2009-04-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

I thought I had a short story, but recent critiques have led me to a different conclusion. Maybe what I have is a summary...of a novel. A middle-grade novel. I've been re-evaluating my manuscript and I think maybe it can be developed into something more. I'm starting to look at the bigger picture.

I've broken the short story into chapters, and I'm adding additional ones. I'm adding new characters, as well. I'm surprised to discover that most of these characters are ones I already know, ones that I created for different roles in different settings--for different manuscripts altogether. I have this mental image of a drawer full of former characters--mothers, fathers, best friends. I'm opening the drawer, sifting through my collection, and plucking out potential cast members eager to escape into a new plot.

It's strange to see how easily my "old" characters can be plunked down into the world of David and his inherited cat. It's almost like they just waiting for me to see their potential. At the moment they are still in the auditioning stage, but I have high hopes that some of them will make the cut.

Out of Context

2009-04-16T15:23:00.000-07:00

Some of the most engaging bits of conversation are the little snippets you hear while eavesdropping. If you were listening to the entire conversation maybe a particular comment would make perfect sense, but out of context the overheard phrase is often very amusing and memorable. Sometimes it can also become the perfect piece of dialogue...maybe even the first line of a manuscript or at least a writing exercise. Two recently overheard snippets:

"Ralph didn't care for the halibut"
"The Dalai Lama is giving my husband a headache"

Not among my favorite lines, but I can see the possibilities. They could even be captions for clever New Yorker cartoons.

I love to eavesdrop. As a little girl, and youngest child, I developed quite a knack for entertaining myself by listening and observing others. My mother did not appreciate this particular talent. The problem was that I also liked to share the information I acquired. The phrase "little pitchers have big ears" was often spoken in my presence to remind everyone that they needed to watch what they said when I was in the room.

I never really thought too much about what that expression actually means. But a quick Google explained it.

"LITTLE PITCHERS HAVE BIG EARS--Children hear and understand more than you think they do. The play here is on the resemblance of the ear to the handle of a pitcher. It is an ancient saying, having been recorded by John Heywood in 1546: 'Auoyd your children, smal pitchers haue wide eares.'" From "The Dictionary of Cliches" by James Rogers (Ballantine Books, New York, 1985).

I might have to disagree a little with Mr. Heywood. While my ears are high functioning, I wouldn't describe them as big. I think they are rather nicely sized and quite in keeping with the scale of my head. I do have rather big lobes, but I simply view those as the perfect platform to show off my earrings. But I digress...

I wonder if most writers are similarly gifted. Eavesdropping skills seem like part of the job description, and frankly, fiction writers might be hard pressed to improve on an overheard real world conversation. We just need to stay alert, keep listening, and keep our notebooks close by.

Back to Reality

2009-04-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

Spring Break 2009 is almost behind me, and I have to say I've had a delightful, stay-at-home vacation. The first weekend spent with Nora and Paul was the perfect kick-off, but the rest of the week was a quieter kind of wonderful. Gardening, sewing, research and writing filled parts of each day, but I also squeezed in lunch and coffee with friends. Even domestic tasks like laundry and cleaning somehow seemed more pleasurable when accomplished on a relaxed schedule.

My week off coincided with the beginning of a new quarter at the university. It was a busy week for Paul, but he did manage to take off Thursday afternoon. He arrived home at lunchtime with a plan. We headed north to Los Olivos and a visit to the Los Olivos Cafe for a delicious lunch and then a walking visit to the new location of the Wildling Museum.

According to Webster's Dictionary, wildling means an uncultivated plant or undomesticated animal, and the museum specializes in the art of America's wilderness. The exhibit we saw was a small collection of Southern California Impressionist paintings from the Irvine Museum. The Wildling is in a new location in the center of town, in a building that houses an interesting combination of art and commerical enterprises.

We walked back to our car through a residential neighborhood. I always enjoy peeking at the way other people live, and fantasizing what my life would be like if I lived there, too. I spotted one house, mostly hidden behind a wooden fence and arched gate, with a perfect second story writer's retreat. I'm sure that I would become a prolific writer in such an inspiring environment, but life in Los Olivos might be too quiet. The town does meet some of my basic needs--a little art, a local coffee shop and a small market within walking distance. But on the negative side my public library requirement wouldn't be satisfied by a local library only open for three hours on Saturday, and then there would be all those annoying wine-tasting tourists to contend with.

Well, time to head back to reality.

Beauty In the Eye of the Beholder

2009-04-01T13:55:00.001-07:00

A tomato cage is a simple thing--a few wire circles attached to three long wire prongs. For $1.49 each at K-mart I was able to buy 42" tomato cages for my new "husky" cherry tomato plants. (I'm assuming that in this instance husky translates to sturdy and prolific.) I unstacked about seven cages and picked out two with minimal distortions and with all necessary solderings intact. That probably should have ended my consideration of tomato cages.

However, I have a strange fascination with these wire structures. When we lived near Washington D.C., where my front door planters refused to sustain any plant life in the winter months, I once adorned the planters with upside down tomato cages that were draped with red and green chile pepper lights, and voila...two lovely outdoor Christmas trees. Believe me, my neighbors were very impressed with this creative display. Alas, this feat was not captured on film but I did find a picture of a kindred spirit's effort. I'm sure you get the idea.

But my strange obsession with cages doesn't end there. A few weeks ago when I was visiting Nora I spotted stacks of beautiful brightly colored tomato cages in the garden section of a drugstore. I was immediately drawn to them, and just as quickly repelled by their $24.99 price tag. Alas, as much as I coveted them, I would have to do without these gorgeous yet functional garden sculptures.

But yesterday I had a brainstorm... why couldn't I spray paint my K-mart cages a stunning color? I was already at Home Depot to pick out my tomatoes so it wasn't inconvenient to stop by the Rustoleum spray paint aisle. I considered all the color options and eventually selected a can of Key Lime (one of my new favorite colors). Neon green was too harsh and Apple Green, which was in the running for a while, was just too safe. The cages are hard to pick out in the photo because of the green background, but they are lovely. When they were drying on the lawn I thought how fun it would be to have an outdoor party and fill the yard with all different colors and sizes of tomato cages--maybe add a few ribbons and some little chimes?

Eventually I stopped admiring my cleverness and used the tomato cages for their original purpose. The tomato plants look like they are loving their beautiful new cages, and I am sure I will have they will be inspired to produce a bumper crop this year. I'm not sure how Paul will feel about our Key Lime sculptures, but the flamingos certainly seem to like them. Me, too.

It's All in the Details

2009-03-31T06:07:00.000-07:00

Recipe for a great weekend:
1. Nora home for a visit.
2. No particular agenda.
3. A drive down the 101 to Tutti's Off Main in Ventura for a delicious brunch.
4. Maybe a trip to Target--since we're already in Ventura... (Even though Santa Barbarans, including me, complain about not having a Target in town, we must claim the most beautiful drive to reach a Target.)
5. Cooking together--especially Ina Garten's lemon roasted chicken with croutons.
6. Lots of talking and laughing, with a few lattes thrown in.
7. Morning walk on the bluffs.
8. No agenda.

Last week I read the book, Lost Childhood—By Annelex Hofstra Layson. Published by National Geographic Children's Books it's really an oral history of three years of the author's childhood spent in a Japanese prison camp. Even though the book is nonfiction, I was struck by the impact of the unique details she included. They lent the book authenticity and credibility, added tension and drew the reader more deeply into the story.

Since then I've been on a quest for my own essential details. I've been looking for the perfect descriptions and facts to anchor my story in it's proper time and place--popular music of the 1940's, phrases commonly used on conversation of that time, etc. Yesterday I unexpectedly happened on what I'd been searching for, but it wasn't where I expected to find it. I thought the process would be much for involved, but then on page 22 of the book Impounded my perfect details appeared. Very satisfying. It felt like a huge accomplishment even though all I had done to earn it was turn the page. I now have a few nugggets to incorporate in my story that will inspire the author and intrigue the reader.

Think First, Write Later

2009-03-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

My thoughts aren't consistently as deep as the gentleman I photographed at the musee Rodin in Paris, but I have been doing a lot of productive thinking lately.

My thoughts have been focused on a writing project that I've been toying with for about four years. I've done lots of research including two site visits and field trips to museums, but I wasn't able to figure out how to tell the story. I want to write a middle grade novel about Manzanar, the Japanese Internment Camp in Lone Pine, California, but I was concerned that I couldn't write well enough to tell the story that I wanted to tell.

The internment of Japanese Americans was and still is a very sensitive issue. The racial overtones, and the horrific treatment of American citizens by their own country are volatile issues. Also, every fictional account I've read about this time period has been written by individuals whose family was somehow directly affected by the internment or by authors with Japanese surnames. I was unsure that it was appropriate for me to try to write about it or how I would do it. These issues have stymied my progress.

But in the past few weeks I've been thinking about the story in a different way . I've simplified the structure, one narrator instead of two, and also identified ways to incorporate factual details and portray the real people who will be included in the story. My goal is to create an engaging story and also accurately convey the history of this time. I think Ellen Klages' Green Glass Sea is a terrific example of how to blend historic realities with an emotional story. At a workshop I attended, Klages advised writers to write out a paragraph of someone's writing you admire and then try an exercise of parodying that style. She promised this would enrich our own writing. I have a blank notebook waiting for some of Klages' inspiration.

My research is now organized in crisp new file folders, and I'm working on incorporating all my notes into an outline. This will be the first time I've used an outline to guide my writing. I'm abandoning my usual organic approach for a litle structure. It's not time to stop thinking, but I think it's time to start writing.

Thank You, Dr. Seuss!

2009-03-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

Today was Read Across America or as we refer to it at my school, Dr. Seuss Day. It would have been the 105th birthday of the man who gave The Cat in the Hat to generations of young readers. We celebrate this day at school with guest readers visiting classrooms to share their favorite books with students, some of whom are wearing their pajamas and resting in sleeping bags for marathon read-ins.

I love this day because I get to read aloud. I used to do this all the time when I was the Library Lady, but in the computer lab I don't have too many opportunities to share my favorite books . This year I was scheduled to read to a first grade class and a fifth grade class. For the younger students I read a fun picture book by local author, Marnie McGee, Winston the Book Wolf. It's a fun book about a wolf who loves words, and it sends a nice message to beginning readers.

For the fifth graders I selected an assortment of non-fiction books, but when I was in the shower this morning I had a brilliant idea. Maybe I could read them my recently completed short story. I have never shared my writing with anyone except my favorite first readers, Paul and Nora, and the members of various critique groups--all adults. The idea of sharing the story with its intended audience was terrifying yet oddly thrilling. I wasn't sure I would feel comfortable reading the story to the students of Room 19, but I brought along a copy of "Chalk One Up for Goliath," just in case.

After my successful performance with the first graders I decided to go for it. I explained to the class that I had been writing for a few years and I wanted to share a story with them. The kids were receptive and good listeners. I was eager to get a fifth grade response since the protagonist is a 12-year-old boy. I got some of the laughs I had hoped for as I read the first three pages and just as I was relaxing and starting to enjoy the process, a class of kindergartners arrived to share Dr. Seuss Day with their upper grade Big Buddies. I knew my story was not a good match for wiggly kinders so I stopped reading about Goliath and prepared to repeat the tale of Winston, the word-loving wolf.

I was disappointed, but as I was putting my story back in my bag, one of the fifth graders asked me a question. "That was good. Did you really write that?" I answered yes, and then she responded, "So, you're like a real author?" I couldn't quite give her an unqualified "yes" to that question ( I always think of "authors" as published writers) but I said, "Yeah, sort of." It was the best moment of the day...actually one of the best moments of my writing life so far. And to think I owe it all to Dr. Seuss!

Summer Writing

2009-02-25T19:43:00.000-08:00

Although summer is still many months away, it's time to start making plans for my annual summer writing conference. For the past two summers I've attended writing conferences in Oregon and in Northern California, and it's a tradition I'd like to keep up.

Right now I'm just collecting information about dates, faculty, cost, and locale--a nice location, preferably near a beach, is essential.

3rd Annual Book Passage Children's Writers & Illustrators Conference, June 18-21, 2009. I went to this conference last year and it was great. Book Passages is a wonderful bookstore in Corte Madera, CA, across the bay from San Francisco. Small workshops by notable middle grade and young adult authors like Ellen Klages, Gennifer Choldenko, and Marissa Moss were chock full of writing exercises and valuable information. There were a lot of terrific guest speakers about picture books, self-publishing, agents, and editors...plus Isabel Allende. The hotel I stayed was right next door, and Nora was just across the Bay. A perfect combination. (July 30, 2008 post)

The Oregon Coast Children Writers Workshop July 13- 17, 2009. This workshop is held in beautiful Oceanside, Oregon, a tiny town right on the coast. The locale is fantastic, although a bit of challenge to get to. I combined this workshop with a visit to Corvalis, OR for my nephew George's wedding. I attended OCCCWW in 2007 and enjoyed it very much. The faculty is smaller than Book Passages, but it also included authors, editors and agents. Lots of great personal contact with professionals in the field. The weather was cold and rainy and I loved it. A nice change from my usual warm climate. (July 17-21, 2007 posts)

A new conference I'm considering is T he Tenth Annual Pacific Northwest Children's Book Conference. This conference is also being held July 13-17. It's organized through Portland State University but is held on the Reed College campus. The faculty seems good, including Linda Urban whose book, A Crooked Kind of Perfect, I liked when I read it last year. I like her blog, too. It seems like this program focuses a lot on the act of writing, as well as other aspects of the publishing field. It might be fun to stay on a college campus--it's been a few years.

The Pacific Coast Children's Writers Workshop is held at Pajaro Dunes, August 21-23. "This is a Team-Taught Seminar for 30 Middle Grade and Young Adult Novelists Specializing in Character-Driven Realistic Fiction." The focus of this year's workshop is Vision and Voice. My friend, Laura, went to this conference last year so I will get a critique from her. It's a little hard to figure out how exactly the conference works from the website, but I'm still intrigued. Also, I love Pajaro Dunes. Great beach--I still have sand dollars Nora and I collected there when she was a little girl.

I think these are the front runners for my summer outing. My writer friend, Patty, might be interested in sharing this adventure. We went to the Big Sur Children's Writing Workshop, at Pfeiffer State Park, in late November 2007 and had a great time.

Well, I clearly have things to think about. So many choices--wish I had the finances to indulge in more than one.

The Gift of Reading

2009-02-18T16:52:00.000-08:00

Books to the ceiling,
Books to the sky,
My pile of books is a mile high.
How I love them! How I need them!
I'll have a long beard by the time I read them.

Arnold Lobel

I can still remember the moment I learned to read. It was winter and I had just turned four years old. I was sitting on the davenport that extended across one wall of my childhood living room. The upholstery was heavily textured and flecks of gold were woven into its steely blue background. An elderly woman whom I called Aunt Irene (the sister of my mother's stepfather) was sitting next to me and a large children's book was spread across both of our laps. The light from a table lamp illuminated the pages of colored illustrations and text.

Irene Donahue was a retired, spinster school teacher from Chicago. She was not a favorite of my mother, but for some reason (perhaps to escape the bitter cold of Chicago) she had come to visit us in California. I don't know why she decided to teach me to read, but I remember clearly the sensation of beginning to read. It was exhilarating to point to a word, read it, and understand its meaning as well as its place in a sentence. Even at that young age I sensed that reading was powerful.

Although I don't have any particular memories of anyone in my family reading out loud to me at home, I know that we had bookcases full of books. My older sisters had sets of the Happy Hollisters, The Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Laura Ingalls Wilder books and my personal favorites, the books of Louisa May Alcott. As a non-reader I imagine I liked those books the best because they were filled with delicately painted illustrations. I could barely lift the copy of Little Women, but I could follow the story through the pictures of Jesse Wilcox Smith and pretend I was a reader.

I don't have to pretend to be a reader anymore, but every once in awhile I find a beautifully illustrated book that reminds me of my early favorite from Louisa May Alcott. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo and illustrated by Bagram Ibatoulline. The cost of production makes books like this one a rarity. A gift to be read and treasured.

Fantasy and Other Literary Irritations

2009-02-15T15:07:00.000-08:00

I am not a fan of fantasy. I never spontaneously pick one up to read. It usually takes quite a few recommendations from readers and writers whose opinions I value before I jump out of my 21st century world into one filled with enchantments, wizards and the like. But I know that fantasy is huge in the middle grade/young adult market, and I think I need to open my mind to more of the genre. I've discovered that I do like some realistic/contemporary fantasies...works that could possibly be better categorized as futuristic or new-age fanstasies. It seems like two books I've recently read, The Adoration of Jenna Fox (by Mary Pearson) and The Hunger Games (by Suzanne Collins) might fall into that category.
Both of these books were compelling, thought-provoking and exceedingly well-written. The well-written part is probably what makes me think I could learn to like fantasy. Any beautifully crafted story is preferable to one with so-so writing, even if it is filled with the most fantastical creatures and events ever conceived.

I stayed up late the last few nights finishing the Hunger Games. As promised I found it hard to put down. As I neared the end of the book I was amazed at the complexities Collins kept adding to the plot. I kept thinking that all would finally be well for Katniss only to discover that Collins had written in another obstacle to her happiness. As the number of pages in the book dwindled down I subconsciously wondered how the author was going to resolve all the subplots but I just keep reading. I wanted, no, I needed to see how the story would end.

All the people who had recommended this book (and you know who you are) failed to mention one critical fact in their enthusiastic reviews. No one prepared me. There is not a completely fulfilling conclusion to this book. The last line simply says, END OF BOOK ONE. I wanted to scream. Of course once I read those words I realized that Collins had prepared her readers for this but I simply ignored the warning signs--dangling plot lines, lengthy references to characters only seen at the beginning of the story, etc. I was so caught up in the story that I wanted to know everything by the time I closed the back cover. I feel since I suspended my dislike of fantasy for 374 pages, she could at least have provided me with the satisfaction of learning how it all turns out.

Perhaps I'm overreacting, but the author of another book I read recently also ended her novel in the same way. Laurie Halse Anderson's historical novel, Chains is another great read. Beautifully written, compelling, etc., but she ends it with a historically accurate Notice to Readers that the story will be continued in the forthcoming volume, Forge. I hope these two aren't the forerunners of a trend.

Every writing class I've taken has stressed that each book in a series needs to stand on its own, and an author should never assume that a publisher will be interested in buying a series if one book is purchased. (These rules are probably more true for novice authors rather than previously published ones.) Although both of these books are wonderful and I do want to read the sequels, as a reader (perhaps a naive one) I feel slightly cheated. I'm sure Anderson and Collins are busy writing the sequels as I write this blog entry...or at least they'd better be. Rest assured that before I read the first page of either of those two books I will turn to the very last one to check for the fatal words, END OF BOOK TWO. I won't be suckered again.

Graceful in Their Worlds

2009-02-08T10:32:00.000-08:00

I carry a small brown, blank-paged book with me at all times. I frequently use it to take notes and to write down clever ideas for brilliant (?) plot lines. It also gets used for more mundane purposes: grocery lists, gift lists and random phone numbers. I need to write things down almost immediately after thinking of them or they escape into the sphere of my unconscious, never to be recalled again.

One odd thing about writing in my notebook is that I’ve discovered I’m hesitant to take notes when I'm sitting next to someone I know. I accept that at this point in life I need to write things down or I simply won’t remember them. I know this. But I also find that I'm slightly uncomfortable about taking notes when a friend is seated next to me. I imagine them evaluating the merit of the information I’m recording, and secretly questioning my ability to discern the essential importance of what we are both hearing. In my more rational moments I recognize that this social paranoia is ridiculous, but at times I still find myself to be a reluctant note-taker.

Last week I went to hear a lecture from Sarah Lawrence-Lightfoot, a Harvard professor of Sociology, and author of The Third Chapter: Passion, Risk and Adventure in the 25 Years After 50. The subject matter intrigued me as I am a few years into the Third Chapter of life and am looking forward to discovering what this new phase has to offer. About a third of the way through her lecture I broke out the brown notebook. I wanted to write down Dr. Lawrence-Lightfoot's definition of the Third Chapter–"a season in search of a purpose,” and then went on to tantalize her audience by describing this phase as both “bodacious” and “exhilarating.” Sounds worth getting older.

The possibility of a life filled with “risk-taking collaboration and adventurous learning” is very appealing. She told the completely third generation audience that we are each both teacher and learner. We need to nuture our curiosity and let go of our fear of the unknown and our fear of failure. That seems like a recipe for success. Wish I had wholeheartedly embraced this approach in my first and second chapters.

I think I neglected to mention another small limitation to my note-taking–horrible, undecipherable handwriting. My scrawled notes, especially those taken in a dark auditorium, frequently require me to de-code them with the aid of a magnifying glass. I can never quite make out every word of what I've written. I know the professor stressed "the need to calibrate a balance in our lives," something that might have been missing in the earlier chapters. I also wrote down the phrase "graceful in their worlds." Dr. Lawrence-Lightfoot was talking about the evolution of the individuals she interviewed for the book. I loved those words. They provide both a powerful aspiration and inspiration. I want to become graceful in my world.

February File

2009-02-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately--a number of them heavy on photos and light on text. Can't decide how I feel about that. They're entertaining but it almost seems too easy. Are readers getting their money's worth if they are only reading captions? I like a well-illustrated blog as much as the next person, but I also like some meat with my photos.

Of course, I'm hardly one to talk. I'm about to take the writer's version of the coward's way out--writing a list. When you write a list (with or without the numbers) you don't have to connect the dots. It's easier. But today, writing a list is better than another month long absence from blogging. I'll save my profound essays on life for another time.

My Dad died sixteen years ago today, and I didn't even remember that until I saw the date on the newspaper. I miss Big Ern. I've been thinking about him all day.

Today is rainy and gray. I love the sound and the smell of rain. We get so little of it in this part of California that even the sensation of rain is exciting. I also love rain because now I get to use my beautiful new umbrella. It's black, white and shades of gray--all of the subtle colors of a rainy day in Paris.

Which leads me to something else I love. the beauiful city of Paris, and most things French. A newly discovered blog, Paris Breakfasts, has heightened my Paris passion this week.

Sometimes it's the small things in my day that bring joy--like my new water bottle. It's not that the water tastes better but I love to drink from it, hold it and look at it. It's brilliant pansy purple, my official color for 2009.

Love the new drive through coffee place in Goleta, Zizzo's. I went there today in the pouring rain and ordered into a little white box. A disembodied voice greeted me and asked how I was doing. The response to everything I said was "awesome." A few minutes later I was the happy recipient of a nonfat, extra hot latte. An added bonus was the earnest young barrista wishing me an "awesome day" as I rolled up my window and drove off in the rain.

A final new "like" is short stories. Granted, I've only written one, but it's the first piece of fiction that I've actually completed. There is a definite euphoria attached to crossing that elusive finish line.

It's a New Year...

2009-01-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

It has been months since my last entry, but what better day to revive "Oh, Margaret!" than January 1, 2009.

Right now I am indulging in my favorite New Year's Day tradition of watching the Rose Parade. I used to wake Nora up early each Jan. 1 and we would watch it together, both of us fantasizing about wearing the heavily-pearled crown of the Rose Parade Queen. I think that ship may have sailed for us at this point, but maybe we could join the Rotary Club International and walk along with that float someday. Nora and I still share the parade experience but now we watch in our separate residences and call each other up throughout the morning to share our insightful comments--three phone calls so far. Traditions are great, aren't they?

The other traditional activity of the New Year is making resolutions. I posted an entry in August 2007 about how I always make my resolutions at the beginning of the school year, but somehow I missed that deadline in 2008, so here I go.

Health: Knees and Diet

I'm afraid my April knee surgery didn't do the trick. My swollen knee has kept me from walking which was my favorite (and only) form of exercise. Diet is an ongoing dilemma, but this needs to be the year I take control. Instead of relishing the successes of participants on the Biggest Loser, I will begin my own path to better health.

Writing: Sigh...

I am taking another writing class from Val Hobbs. The structure of the class inspires a more committed writing schedule and I always get a lot out of the exercises and discussions. This year I need to add a healthy dose of writing passion. Paul always says, "Don't get it right, get it written." I recognize the truth in that statement, but I still struggle.

Many other areas of my life could benefit from a new approach, but I don't want to lose focus on my "big" resolutions. I know how easily I can justify distractions...like not writing until I have all the Christmas decorations taken down. Hmmm.

My goal for 2009 will be to honor my personal commitments. I'm hoping that this year will be productive and satisfying for my family and friends as well. Happy New Year one and all!

Exciting Monday

2008-10-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

This is my third week of work-free Mondays. I love this schedule. Some Mondays have been dedicated fully to writing. Others have included just a little bit of writing, a trip to Starbucks, a walk, grocery shopping, etc. Each Monday seems like a gift.

Highlights from today...

1. Had the fastest and most frenetic dental hygiene appointment of my life--I think the woman may have been in the midst of a manic episode. My gums are still throbbing, but my teeth are clean and I now fully understand the proper use and benefit of the rubber tip!

2. Took a walk with my jury friend, Tina, along the bluffs and discovered the mysterious "nude" beach in SB. I didn't seek it out, but I did get to see a nude man cruising along the shoreline. He was very tan...all over. The descent to that beach is too treacherous for my still recovering knee, so I will have avert my eyes from afar.

3. Met a woman (on the same walk) who has a very small horse that she attaches to a cart and drives to pick up her son from kindergarten. A very green form of transportation. "Buck," the horse, was quite cute and moves along at a good clip. I bet that little boy is the most popular boy in his class. Everyone will want to come to his birthday parties.

4. Got a pedicure--I have purple toenails! I am feeling a bit wild
these days, even though I probably shouldn't be so extravagant and indulgent in light of the current economic downturn. On the pro side of the "pedi" argument--looking at my purple toenails makes me really happy.

5. Mailed in my absentee ballot (Full disclosure: Paul mailed it in). I filled in the dots very carefully. I want my vote to be counted. Keeping my fingers crossed that Colin Powell and I will both be happy on November 4th.

Books, Books and more Books

2008-09-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

I guess there is more competition for good books than I thought. The sign pictured at left is what greeted people in the parking lot for the 34th Annual Planned Parenthood Book Sale held at the Earl Warren Showground in Santa Barbara. I was a little fearful as I approached the hall full of books but a quick scan of the room convinced me that the bibliophiles filling up boxes of books were neither armed nor dangerous. Further research led me to conclude that the sign was for the attendees of the other event held at Earl Warren over the weekend, the Fall Classic of the Pacific Coast Quarter Horse Association. Apparently the quarter horse crowd is pretty lively and perhaps overly competitive.

Anyway, back to the book sale. I've purchase some gems at the sale over the past four years and we've also donated many books to support Planned Parenthood. Last year Paul's goal was to weed his personal collection and he managed to eliminate the double rows of books in all of his bookcases. I'm hoping that all those books have found happy homes in the double rows of other people's shelves.

I've also donated lots of books but I am a re-reader so I tend to keep books that I might like to revisit at a later date. I have certain books that I read again every summer--the Irish sagas of Maeve Binchy and the English village stories of Joanna Trollope. They're my vacation "beach reads"--my guilty pleasures--even though I'm rarely reading them at the beach. I find something comforting about reading when a safe outcome for cherished characters is assured, and it's relaxing to be immersed in the familiar rhythms of favorite storytellers.

This year I purchased a few children's books as well as some adult fiction. The discovery of a never-opened hardback book with a stiff spine is a special treat. I don't mind paying $7.00 for a "used" book that's really brand new. That seems like a bargain to me. Sometimes I'm on the prowl for specific titles. My mission this year was to find a paperback of The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I wanted to re-read it after I saw a preview of the movie, and Nora has my copy in Oakland. I spotted one copy left on the trade fiction table and $3.00 later it was mine. I love it when things work out that way. Now I can read it again and enjoy the original story and beautiful writing before I see the movie. Movies of books that I love are almost always a disappointment (imagine how the authors must feel) but I have to remind myself that a movie is just a different way of telling the story. My hope is that afterward some moviegoers will be intrigued enough to want to read the book. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for this one.

Creative Spaces

2008-09-03T21:23:00.000-07:00

I was a bit of a peeping-tom (is there a female version of that expression?) over the weekend. Saturday was spent spying on the creative community of Santa Barbara. Armed with a map and a brochure, Paul and I went on the Santa Barbara Studio Artists 2008 Studio Tour. We visited artists from Isla Vista to Montecito, and saw a lot of amazing art and fascinating studios. Some of the homes were pretty outstanding, too. There seemed to be a strong correlation between artistic skill and intriguing interior design.

We started with a visit to Ann Sanders's studio in Isla Vista. She's one of our favorite local artists, and we're the proud owners of a few of her pieces, including her Quail Ridge painting at right. Ann is a plein air artist (as were many of the other artists we visited) and most of each piece is created outdoors. However, she finishes her paintings in the studio and we wanted to see her work environment. Her studio is tucked behind her house in IV and she shares it with her oil-painter husband, Gerry Winant. Paul and I were intrigued by the idea of a shared studio--not sure that our creativity could survive in such close proximity.

We visited eight other artist studios, and found our way through neighborhoods we'd never seen before. We toured grand estates as well as artist studios/residences right next to Highway 101 in downtown Santa Barbara. The art and the studios were all different but there was a strong common thread. Creativity. It was inspiring. I tried to soak it all up to bring it back to my own "studio."

Nora sent along more artistic inspiration on Sunday. She and I both love Maira Kalman, an amazing artist and author. Her children's books (What Pete Ate A-Z, Swami on Rye, etc.) are appealing to all ages and her latest adult book, The Principles of Uncertainty, which first appeared as a blog on the NY Times website, is a unique combination of narrative and portfolio. The fact that she drew a lovely picture of Maggie on her blog has nothing to do with my admiration, but I was pretty excited to discover it. Click on the picture at left to see Maggie in the garden.

Nora's forwarded her favorite Maira quotes from an interview with Ms. Kalman on the blog, Inspiration Boards. If Nora was trying to inspire and encourage her mother, it worked. The message is universal, no matter what the artistic medium.

My secret for drawing is not a secret. It is sitting down and drawing. I do the best I can which means I try not to do it right but just to do it as I feel and as I see.

Getting it right is not a good goal.

The biggest secret is perseverance. Just not stopping no matter what.

I do everything I do because I love to do it, even when I worry or am confused or slightly in despair. Those feelings usually pass. And then the next day is there.

Always a good thing. The next day.

Tomorrow is my next day--a new chance to create and persevere.

Oprah, Wedding Dresses, and the Crafty Mind

2008-08-26T17:58:00.000-07:00

The title of this post seems incongruous at best, but trust me, I can connect the dots. A few weekends ago I read an article in the NY Times about a woman who is living according to all things Oprah for one year. She watches the tv show, reads the magazine and checks out her website for suggestions on how to live the Oprah life. Her blog is Living Oprah. I've visited it several time and I was relieved to note that she doesn't swallow everything Oprah advocates--she seems to maintain a critical eye when appropriate. I started thinking that this could be an interesting idea for a middle grade or ya novel. A 10-year-old trying to live the Oprah life. I think it has possibilities.

Anyway, since I was thinking about Oprah I decided to invite her to join me for lunch. Not the Oprah, of course, but magazine Oprah. I was in Pasadena a week ago and wanted to have something to read while I ate lunch. I knew the thick-spined Oprah magazine would last me through even the most lengthy of meals. This issue had a lot of lists in it, including one about getting organized. Complete organization is a fantasy of mine and I read over the list with great enthusiasm. One item had to do with the dilemma of storing v. recycling wedding dresses. My own wedding dress spent 26 years in a plastic bag in a closet at my mother's house, and since Mom died it has spent the last five years in the same plastic bag in a closet at my house.

I've always held on to the dress because that's what women do--you save it for a daughter or save it to wear again on significant anniversaries. I know that Nora would most likely never wear this dress for any occasion in her future (her distant future) and it seems equally unlikely that I will ever have an opportunity to wear it again. To be honest, I would be hard pressed to fit into the dress. When I pulled it out of the bag, I was startled to see how small the dress actually was. I don't remember being that skinny.

Those considerations are moot at this point because the dress is not actually wearable. It's stained with the remnants of champagne spills down the front. Thirty-one years later those stains have really set. But last week when I was cleaning closets and feeling adventurous I decided to see if the stains could be removed. My wedding dress was a very simple white cotton pique and to my untrained eye it looked washable. The label on the dress said dry clean only, but I knew better. I was sure that a little Shout, a little Tide and the delicate cycle could restore my dress to it's original beauty.

Alas, this was not to be. My dress did survive it's trip to the washing machine but so did the stains. I suppose I could try to bleach them out but I think my 31-year old fabric might disintegrate in the process. So now I have a slightly cleaner wedding dress with slightly lighter stains. But what can be done with it? No one can wear it so donating it is out of the question. This is where the crafty part comes in. Even a disassembled wedding dress has special significance, and the potential for a memorable future as a baby pillow or a ring pillow. If I put my mind to it I'm sure the possibilities are endless. Per Oprah's suggestion it's not going back into a plastic bag in the closet. Do you think she'd mind a box?

Nothing More Satisfying Than a Good Book

2008-08-08T11:03:00.000-07:00

Just finished a new book last night, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. I stayed up late reading and suffered my usual dilemma of finishing the book right then or waiting until I was more wide awake so I could fully appreciate everything I was reading. In the end, I couldn't resist reading it all. I'm not worried that I missed anything, because this is definitely a book I will read again.

Amazingly, given the current trend of my reading, this was not a children's or young adult book. It is a "grown-up" book which happens to be partially written by a very talented children's author, Annie Barrows. Barrows has written the Ivy and Bean series as well as a new book called The Magic Half. I met her briefly at the Book Passages conference when she happened to sit next to me at lunch. While I'd like to think that my magnetic writer personality drew her across the patio to chat with me, I think the fact that I was seated next to one of the only available chairs in the shade may have been the reason. Whatever. Annie didn't identify herself by name and it wasn't until one of the editors from Chronicle Books stopped to say hello to her that I realized who she was. She was talking (modestly) about NPR interviews, Washington Post Book Review interviews and "lay-down" dates, and then it dawned on me that she was involved with something larger than the world of children's book publishing.

First of all, a definition of lay-down date by Jon Kremer. I'd never heard this term before but it sounds as though all aspiring authors would want one. "Lay-Down Date: For major releases, publishers attempt to have books available in all retail outlets on the same date. This is known as the national Lay-Down Date." Another related tidbit about lay-down dates--they are always Tuesdays, but nobody quite knows why. The lay-down date for The Guernsey book was Tuesday, July 29.

The book is wonderful. It's an epistolary novel with more than a dozen letter writers--each with a distinct voice. What a challenge! Looking back through the novel some characters correspond with each other, others just receive or just send letters. Having multiple correspondents gives the book a very creative format. The subject matter is also fascinating. The primary setting is post World War II on the island of Guernsey in the English Channel. I have to admit I was not too familiar with Guernsey but it was occupied by the Germans for five years during the war. This book tells the story of people living under siege, but it is so much more. The ways in which the community and the islander's lives were altered is both horrific and touching. The protagonist is a London author who becomes involved with the islanders through their letters as she conducts research for an article, and eventually comes to Guernsey to write her next novel.

A unique aspect of this book is that it was written by two women. The original manuscript was written by Annie Barrows's aunt, Mary Ann Shaffer. Shaffer became ill shortly after the book was sold and Barrows stepped in to help with revisions, research and editing. Shaffer died in May but she knew the book was about to be published. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society was clearly a labor of love for both of these talented women, and a gift for all of its readers.

Reading, Writing and Earthquakes -- Shaking it Up!

2008-07-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

There is no definite proof, but it's possible that the momentous occasion of my writing in my blog might have been so disruptive to the cosmic forces that it caused an earthquake. Yesterday's 5.4 quake was centered in Chino, CA, about 130 miles away from Santa Barbara, but I definitely felt the long rolling quake.

Whenever an earthquake strikes my initial reaction is that I must be dizzy. Gradually I notice that it's the room that's moving, not me. Yesterday the wooden blinds began to rattle, and the cards in the postcard holder on my desk started to wave back and forth like a strong wind was blowing into the room. I watched in strange fascination as the blue and white ceramic pieces on the shelf began to levitate. I put my hands up to save them, but then it dawned on me that the quake was lasting for a long time. At that point I decided it might be better to save myself so I got up to stand in the doorway. And then it was over. No aftershocks in Santa Barbara.

I just got home from attending the Book Passage Children's Writers and Illustrators Conference at the amazing Book Passage Bookstore in Corte Madera, CA. It was an inspirational four days spent with lots of aspiring and published authors and an incredible faculty. The format for this conference focused on specific genres of writing. Each morning a three-hour session was devoted to picture book, middle grade, or YA writing with a different instructor each time. I took middle grade writing classes from Marissa Moss of Amelia's Notebook fame, and Gennifer Choldenko, the Newbery Honor author of Al Capone Does My Shirts. Ellen Klages, author of one of my favorite new books, The Green Glass Sea, taught a great YA class. In addition, there were large group sessions about the business of publishing with agents, editors, booksellers and web designers. The long weekend was topped off by a conversation with Isabel Allende. She was opinionated, funny and brillant. I had anticipated that hearing her speak would be the highlight of the weekend. But I was wrong. The entire experience was on a par with Allende's appearance.

After an experience like that I need some time to process everything I've learned--need to discover my "take-aways." Most of what I heard, I've heard before but maybe I was just a better listener this time. Every author goes through a different writing process and has traveled a different path to publication. It's reassuring to learn that I've shared some of the same experiences and equally exciting to learn some new techniques. I especially appreciated my manuscript consultation with Gennifer Choldenko. I was nervous before I met with her, but she was encouraging, thoughtful and honest in her evaluation. I came home with specific suggestions and new writing enthusiasm. What more could I ask for?

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer 2008

2008-07-29T13:37:00.000-07:00

Haven't been blogging, but I've managed to justify my lack of written entries, by thinking like a blogger. This is how it works: things happen and I assess their value as future blog entries. I may even lie awake in the middle of the night and plan how I'll write it. Do I have a good hook for the beginning? Do I have any pictures? The only problem with this system is of course the final step, writing the posts! Well, I'm finally in a writing mood so here's a brief recap of summer so far.

Vacation Failure. Rx for a perfect vacation: great location, good weather, peace and quiet. Paul and I were looking forward to a great week in Northern California. After the spring we'd been through we felt entitled.

We planned to stay at an inn near Gualala on the Mendocino coast. Everything seemed perfect until I got an ear infection, discovered I was highly allergic to amoxicillion and became violently ill. We soldiered on anyway, driving 40 winding miles up Highway 1 from Bolinas to the inn. We realized right away this was a mistake, but no refund was possible so we tried to make it work. However, Murphy's law proved stronger than our desire. Several emergency room visits were necessary and just when we thought everything was under control (new meds working, heading to a final two days in civilized Carmel)...a friend called to tell us that Goleta (our hometown) was on fire.

Fire! The fire burned through the foothills above Goleta and into the Los Padres National Forest. We never had to evacuate but friends did. It was odd to even contemplate evacuating. I walked through the house trying to decide what to pack. Obvious considerations were important documents, pictures, computers, art. We couldn't possibly box up our books but they are among our most important possessions. Nora suggested taking some of my favorite Christmas ornaments but getting up in the storage space above the garage and sifting through lots of boxes seemed impractical. In the end, Paul and I both decided the minimal approach was best. We were prepared to let it all go and start over if necessary.

The staging area for the firefighters was right down the street at Dos Pueblos, Nora's old high school. Firetrucks from all over the state and the country filled the parking lot and the tennis court and mulch beds were dotted with little pop-up tents of sleeping firefighters. A group of parents and employees of the school district brought over desserts one night. The tables were piled high with treats--mega sugar rush for the firefighters. Nothing we could we do would be enough to thank them for their incredible work. Amazingly, no one was hurt and not a single home was lost.

Vacation Success. I had one more chance for a "real" vacation in mid-July, but I have to confess I was a little anxious after my last adventure. I left Paul behind in Santa Barbara and drove up to Walnut Creek to meet Nora. We made our traditional pilgrimage to the Nordstrom Anniversary sale, arriving at 7:30 a.m. to ensure the best selection. We've been doing this since Nora was a little girl and we always seem to find some absolute necessities. On sale, of course.

On the weekend Nora and I drove up to Auburn and met up with my brother John and his wife, Anne, and then went to stay with my sister Barbara and her family. It was wonderful to see everyone and especially Madden, Barb's adorable grandson. Madden just celebrated his first birthday and was quite an enchanting playmate and swimming partner. We brought him a board book and discovered his incredible enthusiasm for reading--he literally ate the book. I think the board book companies might want to hire him as a product tester.

Barb and I managed two field trips. The first was to a unique store and cafe in Sacramento called Le Petit Paris . We had a petit dejeuner followed by a sampling of French macaroons flavored with lavendar, rose petal and more traditional flavors as well. Ce bon! We browsed through the store and struck up a conversation with the owner who told us she leads small (10 people) group tours to Paris. Barb and I left with information sheets in hand and the determination to start new travel accounts. I would love to go back to Paris again. Our trip in 2005 was intoxicating. Nora was a wonderful guide, and Barb and I stayed in little apartment near the Place des Voges. That experience would be impossible to replicate, but we know there is still a lot more to see. I'm definitely up for a return visit to the City of Lights.

Our second field trip was more nature-oriented. We went on a pilgrimage to rediscover our old Girl Scout camp, Sierra Woodlands, located near Sierra City off of Highway 49. We were pretty sure that the camp had been sold but we knew our old swimming hole, Sand Pond, and Upper and Lower Sardine Lakes would be easy to find. We drove about 21/2 hours from Auburn through Downieville up to the lakes. A walk and a picnic lunch made for a perfect adventure. The Sierra Buttes towered over the landscape, although the view was a bit hazy due to all the forest fires burning in California.

On the way back we checked out some of the Yuba River resorts near Downieville. Little cabins with decks--perfect spots for reading, writing, and water play. I think I could even realize my secret desire to learn how to fish. Check out the links for Sierra Shangri-la and the Lure Resort. Barb and I may be tempted to plan a longer stay next summer. Clearly, another travel fund is in order.

Rituals

2008-07-28T18:37:00.000-07:00

Our lives are full of important rituals--religious, social and cultural. In times of crisis the predictability of these traditional practices can offer comfort. Our trip to Massachusetts for the funeral of my mother-in-law introduced Nora and I to the rituals of Catholic mourning. It dawned on me as I sat through the open-casket wake, the funeral cortege, the mass and the graveside prayer that neither Nora or I had ever attended a traditional funeral. These events were all based on highly structured Catholic and social ritual, but it seemed to me that somehow the very essence of "Stella" was not acknowledged. The emphasis was on her life in heaven, and not her life on earth among all of us who loved her. The exception to this was the beautiful eulogy that Paul wrote for his mother.

After my father died there was a small memorial service in California followed by internment in a mortuary in Seattle. Both of these events were led by individuals who didn't know my dad, and these rituals failed to provide either comfort or closure. We did better when Mom died. Five months later familiy members met in Seattle for a long weekend. We visited all the places and neighborhoods in Seattle that were important in the lives of both our parents. It was a weekend filled with memories, reminiscences, laughter and a few tears. For all of us, it was a meaningful celebration of their lives.

Stella

2008-06-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Stella died yesterday. She was 87 years old and Stella Dyll Desruisseaux had been my mother-in-law and friend for almost 31 years.

I didn't meet Stella until three days before I married Paul in July of 1977. Stella and Phil lived (as they did their entire lives) in Fall River, MA and flying to California was a big deal. Stella didn't enjoy airline travel but she had been to California once before when Paul first moved to San Francisco, and in the early 1970's she took an adventurous trip to Poland, the land of her ancestors. She was nervous about flying but she wasn't about to miss the wedding of her only son. I think it was the last airplane trip she took.

I imagine that we were both a little nervous when we met for the first time. We were about to embark on a mandatory lifelong relationship and we didn't know much about each other. Stella was friendly right away and by the time our initial visit was over, we had clicked. I knew I had made the grade in her eyes when she put her arm around me and said, "Maggie, you're a hot ticket!"

Paul and I made many visits to Fall River, and when we moved to Bethesda, MD in 1982 Stella and Phil drove down to visit us, too. Initial visits to Maryland involved touring around Washington, DC and one memorably stressful visit dedicated to home repairs and wallpapering the kitchen. I always loved that wallpaper, but I doubt that any of us would ever have attempted a group project like that again.

Once Nora arrived near Christmas in 1984 she became the focus and delight of both her grandparents. I can still see Stella, who chose to be known by the polish endearment of "Babciu" once Nora arrived, rocking back and forth with Nora snuggled on her chest. I think she would gladly have held her all day if asked. As Nora grew up Stella and Phil loved to take her for walks, especially for a swing in the neighborhood park. Stella's signature farewell to Nora always involved a hug and a kiss and a stealthy hand off of a little cash for Nora to buy herself a special treat. It was a sneaky ritual they both loved.

Stella also loved to play games with Nora. I remember the two of them sitting at the kitchen table in their bathrobes playing fish and poker. Nora was stunned when she realized that her Babciu wasn't letting her win, and most of her pennies ended up on Stella's side of the table. I had to laugh because I had had the same experience the first Thanksgiving I spent with Paul's family. Stella and all her sisters lured me into their regular post-feast poker game. Stella, Jane, Marie and Jennie were all deceptively sweet-looking card sharks who showed no mercy for the newcomer. Stella was always loveable, but when it came to cards even her dear little granddaughter had to fend for herself.

Stella's lifelong passion was The Boston Red Sox. She read about them, listened to them on the radio and watched as many games as possible on TV. She loved them, at times she was disgusted with them ("You bums," she'd call out) and no one was more excited when they finally won the World Series in 2004. The local paper even did a story about her devotion to the team accompanied by a cute picture of Stella with a Red Sox cap perched on top of the fresh hairstyle she got once a week at her local beauty parlor. Stella was a true fan.

We are leaving today to fly back to Massachusetts for Stella's funeral. It is a difficulty journey to make but it is important to honor her in the midst of all those who love her. Wife, mother, friend, Babciu... Stella was a wonderful woman. She was most definitely a "hot ticket."

Challenges are what make Life interesting...

2008-06-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

Lunch in the staff lounge is usually lively and frequently hilarious. Sometimes it's even thought-provoking. Our conversations don't normally fall into the intellectual category, but sometimes a little something sticks in my mind for the rest of the day.

Earlier this week we were talking about running marathons--definitely not something I aspire to--but one of Brandon's young teachers had just run the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. Other staffers have run marathons too, but this was Robyn's first. Robyn looks like a beauty escaped from a Vermeer portrait, and her classical looks and gentle manner belie her athleticism and commitment. What I find remarkable about Robyn's experience was that she trained and ran the race by herself. No support group for this young woman. She dragged herself out of bed for months ahead of time, put on her running shoes and took off. There were no companionable footsteps echoing hers during her long training runs. No one encouraging her to keep going. Robyn did it on her own.

When Robyn came back to work after the Marathon she was discussing the physical difficulties of the race. She ran for 4 1/2 hours and when she was done she couldn't even bend down to complete her post race stretches. She told about going out to dinner and having to climb an agonizingly long staircase to reach the ladies room. There was definitely a physical toll--even for a 24 year old. So naturally, the question came up...why? Why did she subject herself to this ordeal?

A lot of us at the lunch table couldn't imagine doing it. But Robyn said that running a marathon was something she's always wanted to do...so she did it. I was ready to chalk this attitude off to youthful whimsy, but then my friend Judy chimed in. Judy is a veteran marathoner (I think if you've run more than one you can be called a veteran!) and long-distance walker. Judy said she does it for the challenge. She doesn't think Americans challenge themselves enough. That line was my lunch time "take-away."

I wonder if the achievement of physical challenges requires different personal strengths than challenges that are more mental in nature? Is the commitment the same? When was the last time I challenged myself, and then followed it through to completion? Hmmm. A hard question to answer. Looking back on this blog I realize I have issued myself a few challenges to myself over the past year, but I haven't been very vigilant about the follow-through. Lots of good intentions, but not enough action. The entire quote that inspired the title of this post tells it all: "Challenges are what make life interesting; overcoming them is what makes life meaningful." The search for meaning continues.

Due North

2008-06-04T22:01:00.000-07:00

I headed north last weekend for a quick visit with Nora. It was wonderful to see her and good to be back in the Bay Area again. Paul was planning to work all weekend and decided to treat me to airline tickets to San Francisco. It was a win-win. I got to see Nora, and Paul could work on both Saturday and Sunday without feeling guilty. Okay. It was more of a win for me. Love that Paul.

Nora and I did lots of talking with a little exploring, napping, and movie-viewing thrown in. Our first stop was the Oakland Rose Garden. Armed with Nora's new camera and my trusty digital Nikon, we attempted to capture the beauty of a garden filled with roses slightly past their prime. We weren't alone.

An ornately attired quinceanera party was posing in tuxedos and green satin ball gowns. The birthday girl had a long white dress topped with an elaborate rhinestone crown. Her date wore a white tuxedo with tails and there were enough smiling attendants to fill up two shiny white Hummer limos. There was wedding photography as well. The groom dictated what shots he wanted--directing both the bride and the photographer. "Walk down the path, look at me, then your flowers, big smile." The photographic process was so orchestrated and unnatural it was uncomfortable to watch. It made me wonder about the challenge of capturing the natural spontaneity of an event as opposed to editing the reality into a perfect, posed fantasy. I doubt that the joyful, spontaneous essence of the wedding or the quinceaneara was captured in any of the staged photographs in the Rose Garden. Seems like there's a writing lesson in here somewhere.

Sunday we drove across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, past San Quention prison, to Corte Madera, the location of a great Bay Area bookstore, Book Passages. Both Nora and I are going to be taking writing courses there this summer. Nora is signed up for a one-day course on How to Write the Personal Essay taught by Jon Carroll, a SF Chronicle columnist. Seems like a perfect class for bloggers, and perhaps future bloggers.

I will visit Corte Madera in July when I attend the Children's Writers and Illustrators Conference. I've been trying to read the work of the instructors before I go. Just finished two Gennifter Choldenko books, If a Tree Falls at Lunch Period, and Notes from a Liar and Her Dog. Gennifer's second book, Al Capone Does My Shirts was a Newbery Honor Book. She is the premier middle grade author at the conference and I think I can learn a lot from her. Her books are great reads for 10 year olds to tweens, and they are also a terrific resource for analyzing what makes a good middle grade novel. Her plots aren't terribly complex, but they are well-woven and rich with strong characters and sustainable conflicts. I'm going to re-read her newest book in order to dissect her plotting techniques. Plots still frustrate me.

Only seven more days of school and only fourteen more days of employment. Can't wait until June 25th. Whoopee!

Joy for You and Me...

2008-05-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

Paul and I saw Young@Heart over the weekend. It's an amazing movie/documentary about a senior citizen singing group from North Hampton, MA. The average age of the performers is 80 years old, but what makes the movie really fun is that they sing rock anthems like "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Stones, as well as songs by Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and Cold Play. None of the songs they sing are from the choir members' generation, but they do incredible renditions anyway. The movie is poignant, humorous but most of all joyful. The choir members sing and move with vibrant energy and make the audience realize the sheer elation of learning and singing new songs at their rather advanced ages. In fact, it is the age of the singers that adds a whole new dimension to their performance. When they sing "Fix You" after the death of one of the choir members the song achieves a depth of meaning that no rock band of 20 year olds could ever accomplish.

I came away humming the songs from the movie and thinking about how much my mom could have benefited from being in a group like that. Mom had a lovely voice but she only sang in church as a member of the congregation. She was a petite woman, but she loved to belt out hymns and then modestly bask in the appreciative looks of churchgoers in nearby pews. It was her secret pleasure. Mom would have been a great addition to a group like Young@Heart. When she was old enough to qualify for membership she no longer had a reason not to join--no excuses about taking care of her husband and her family that constrained her earlier life choices. Even though she lived clear across the country from the Massachusetts singers I wish she could have experienced the joy of the Young@Heart gang.

I've been thinking about joy a lot lately--specifically, about how to add it to my own life. My friend Patty is my joy mentor. Her blog is aptly titled, Capturing Joy, and that's pretty much her life's mission statement. She's identified what she loves, what gives her joy and focuses her life accordingly. She's a good role model.

Paul and I are already testing out the music=joy equation promoted by the movie. Last night we were driving to dinner and listening to an old Jefferson Starship song, We Built This City. Paul turned the volume up and we both sang along with abandon. Maybe in a few decades that can be our audition song for Young@Heart.

Back in the Saddle

2008-05-24T12:23:00.000-07:00

Click on the arrow above and listen to the words of the immortal Gene Autry (or perhaps the words of his slightly less immortal songwriting partner, Ray Whitely). I can relate to this song because "I'm back in the saddle again", too. Or at least I've got one foot in the stirrup. Haven't written a word in more than a month. Not one little word. I've been in a writing funk, a work funk, perhaps a bit of a life funk. But I'm climbing out of the funk, saddling up, and moving on.

The work funk has been resolved with a resignation. I stuck with it for a year but the new job simply wasn't a good fit for me. I will miss being at Brandon, but I recognize that it's time to move on. My first job there was in 2001 as the Library Lady. Two years later I left the library for the computer lab, and after four years in the lab I decided to become the School Office Manager. This was a real job, with real benefits, long days and a whole lot of stress. Within minutes of making my decision to leave I could feel a few of the knots that had been living in my shoulders for the past year start to ease. This was the right choice.

The negative side of leaving is that the people I know best in Santa Barbara are all somehow connected to the school. Lynette, the prinicpal, is certainly the best person I have ever worked for and I feel fortunate to count many of the staff and families at Brandon as friends. I will miss them all very much, but I'm making a vow right now to work hard at keeping in touch. I certainly hope my walking buddies will allow me rejoin our Friday outings once my knee gets back to normal. I promise I'll still wear the regulation Brandon Islander sweatshirt.

The writing funk is another matter. Don't want to resign from writing, but I need to figure out how to make it an easy habit and not view it as an overwhelming challenge. I've committed to a writing conference in July and I'm hoping that the prospect of having to produce material for that will be provide the impetus I need. During my writing "hiatus" I didn't totally avoid the written word. I just focused on reading them as opposed to writing them. In the past five weeks I have done lots and lots of reading. I treated myself to numerous books during my convalescence--once ordering what I call my box-o-books from Amazon. I had to wait for a few of the books to be published so the delivery was delayed and I had plenty of time to build up my anticipation. They were worth the wait. What a delight to know that when I finished one book I only had to walk into another room and select another from the small tower sitting on my desk. Books are definitely an addiction, but certainly not the worse one I could have.

Well, I did it. My first entry in weeks. I guess it's appropriate to conclude with a quote from Mr. Autry, too. It feels good to be "riding the range once more!"

Let the Healing Begin!

2008-04-17T06:53:00.000-07:00

My knee surgery went well. Another meniscus tear was discovered but all tears were cleaned up, as were the crabmeat fissures in my knee cartilage. My doctor delighted in telling me about the white fronds of cartilage, resembling crabmeat, hanging down from the underside of my patella. Fronds? Crabmeat? Who knew medical terminology could be so descriptive?

At any rate the surgery part is over and I suspect that the upcoming physical therapy might be a little more painful than the surgery itself. Now, my knee stiffens and locks in place at any given opportunity and I am reduced to a stooped crab-like shuffle as I move around the house. Hmm...I wonder why the crab imagery keeps popping up. Regardless, I am eager to put in the work so that I can walk normally again. I especially miss my Friday afternoon walks--they are always both mentally and physically therapeutic.

Beautiful flowers, great reading material and delicious treats are helping to speed up recovery! Calories consumed during recuperation don't count, do they? Oh, and of course, the pain killers. They help, too. I truly appreciate all the good wishes.

Dum, da dum-dum

2008-04-14T04:49:00.000-07:00

Yikes! Only a few hours to go before I head off for my meniscus renovation. At this point any hope of further sleep is futile. Although I know this is a simple procedure (how complicated could it be if they send you home a few hours?), I am still feeling anxious.

Last night Paul took me to dinner at the Shoreline Beach Cafe, making the ultimate sacrifice of missing most of the Red Sox v. Yankee game on Sunday Night Baseball. What a guy! It was lovely to watch the sunset over the water while having a little calamari and salad. Of course it would have been perfect with a little glass of white wine, but since I had told the nurse at the surgery center that I only drank rarely I thought I'd better abstain. Don't want the people who are going to cut me open (with the teeny, tiny tools) to think I'm a liar.

Turned the light off around 11 p.m. and was just drifting off to sleep when the the nocturnal assault of the local raccoon tribe began. The corner of the house by our bedroom is a favorite launch pad to the neighbor's bushy cypress and the raccoons apparently need a running start to ensure a safe leap.Last night they were feeling especially frisky and the thumping and scramblings seemed very close...like inside-the-attic-instead-of-on-the-roof-close. I got up to investigate and heard growls and hissing when I walked by the open bathroom window. I fully expected to see a pointy charcoal face peering down at me from the attic access in the hallway. Fortunately, the board covering the opening was still in place, but I was wide awake. More reading required before I finally got to sleep sometime after midnight.

My pre-surgery instructions were to avoid drinking or eating after midnight. The no-eating part wasn't a problem, but just knowing that I couldn't have any water has made me incredibly thirsty. I keep having images of crawling across the hot sand dunes I saw in Death Valley. Argh! Now I'm wondering if brushing my teeth is against the rules. I'm sure I can avoid swallowing any water, and frankly I think the doctor might appreciate minty Aquafresh breath over my morning breath. I certainly don't want to irritate the man with the knife. Wondering if some women put on make-up for surgery. Think I'll pass on my usual mascara and lip gloss. I'm hoping the only women who wear make-up in surgical situations are the actresses in ER and Gray's Anatomy.

Thought about getting a pedicure so my toes would look extra nice for the surgery but unfortunately, I didn't have time. I was going to have the words "this leg" painted on the big toe of my right foot but I guess I'll have to just tell them it's the right knee instead of providing a visual clue. Dreamed this past week about putting adhesive colored dots up and down my right leg just to make sure there are no mistakes. Am I being compulsive? Maybe, but better safe than sorry.

Have you ever wondered if there is a medical version of You-Tube? Can't decide if it would be reassuring to preview what is going to happen to my knee in a few hours or so terrifying that I wouldn't be able to leave home. In my case it would probably be the latter. No sense increasing the anxiety level any further. It's clear that a brave heart is in order this morning, but I already feel it pounding in my chest.

Saturday I attended the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) LA Writer's Day with my friends Patty and Laura. Congratulations to Laura (far right in photo) for her honorable mention award in this year's Young Adult Fiction contest! Patty (middle in photo) won an honorable mention last year for her Middle Grade Fiction submission. I feel lucky to know such talented writers. Patricia Gauch, another talented author, crack editor and vice president of Philomel, spoke to about 150 eager listeners about putting our "heart" in our writing. She encouraged all of us to dig deeper and be honest. "Don't Flinch!" she admonished. Believe me, Patricia, I won't be flinching this morning.

Dear Miss Lamott

2008-04-09T17:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Anne Lamott,

For ninety minutes last Sunday I listened to you speak about life, faith, writing, and inspiration. I hate to gush, but your speech was as wonderful and witty as your essays. I think I want to be you when I grow up.

Sincerely,
Margaret

Seriously, I might have to join the Anne Lamott Fan Club. I've just written and subsequently edited to the point of deletion several effusive paragraphs about her writing. It occurred to me that writing inadequately about someone else's fabulous writing is wasted effort. Don't know how those critics do it. Obviously, the best way to discover if you like an author is simply to read their work. I've read some of Lamott's fiction, but I really enjoy reading her collections of essays. Just finished her newest book, Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, and have started to reread Bird by Bird, Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

I seem to be in a nonfiction phase these days. Reading an essay or two before I turn out the light has become my new nighttime routine. Maybe it has something to do with my decreasing ability to recall details. I'm enjoying not having to reread passages to jar my memory about the plot or the names of secondary characters in a lengthy novel. Reading twenty or so well-written pages with a distinct beginning and end isn't an overwhelming bedtime challenge--more like a delicious nightly reward.

Another benefit of reading essays is that I'm able to read several different books simultaneously. Besides Anne Lamott, I've been dipping into Carolyn See's Making a Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers and Maxine Hong Kingston's Hawai'i One Summer. Notice a theme? Gifted authors writing about life and writing. Initially, I started reading their books because I was hoping to find inspiration for my own writing. I got that, but I am continuing to read their work because they're all terrific writers. They are each well-known for their fiction as well their nonfiction. In either genre, these women are powerful and engaging storytellers.

Just remembered one more thing I particularly like about Anne Lamott. She doesn't glamorize the act of writing. She openly admits that writing is a struggle, but still she writes almost every day. She says she writes "shitty first drafts," but she keeps on writing and revising. Toward the end of the lecture Lamott spoke about regrets and taking risks. She doesn't want to turn 75 and feel like she missed out on life. I don't want that either. If I work hard, by the time I'm 75, I''ll have had several more decades of writing "shitty first drafts." Even if I never publish anything other than posts on Oh, Margaret!, my internet version of a vanity press, I will have been a writer.

Highs and Lows

2008-04-04T19:12:00.000-07:00

The Eastern Sierra, Inyo County and Death Valley. Four days. 900 California miles. Freeways, highways, winding mountain curves and dusty one-way gravel roads. Huge mountains overshadowing small towns with the ever present bright, glaring sun bleaching out the beautiful colors of the desert. Add the perfect traveling companion, my sister Barbara, and you have the makings of a great road trip.

Barbara and I set off on our adventure on Sunday morning and six hours later we arrived in Lone Pine, a small town lying in the rain shadow of the Eastern Sierra. Mt. Whitney, with an elevation of 14,495 ft., is the highest point in the contiguous United States. Its tall neighboring peaks in the Sierra Crest tower over the landscape here. It's hard to adjust to the majestic scale and ancient geologic history of these mountains without contemplating how tiny and insignificant we humans are.

The only other time I've been to Lone Pine was in the middle of July a few years ago. The dry dust and 109 degree temperature made for an uncomfortable visit. On this trip the cool mornings and evenings gave a different feel, but the sun on both trips was brillantly relentless. All of my photographs paled in comparison to the real scenery. The sunlight was simply too bright to take good pictures. It would be difficult to live in that sun for months at a time.

The point of our trip was to visit Manzanar and Death Valley. I've learned a lot more about the history and conditions of the Japanese relocation experience since the first time I visited there. For me, this trip was more about "feeling" the place in advance of attempting to write about it. The wind, the sandy dust, the parched landscape dotted with a few spring blooms, the white-flowering apple tree (a startling remnant of a long ago orchard) and the surprising sound of a small creek of running water. For people relocated from the coast, the little stream at the western edge of the camp must have been a soothing antidote to the rest of the arid and foreign environment.

The camp lies near the Alhambra Hills and is bordered on one side by Mt. Williamson, the second highest mountain in California, and across the Owens River Valley by the lower, rounded mounds of the Inyo Mountains. The contrast between the two views is dramatic, but both provided tangible daily reminders to the Japanese Americans of the additional barriers lying outside the barbed wire enclosure of Manzanar.

Death Valley is only about 100 miles away from Lone Pine but the drive is a challenging, twisting route through the Panamint Mountains. The desert scenery is stunning, harsh and filled with canyons and beautifully colored rock formations. Death Valley itself offered sand dunes, a saltwater creek, and Badwater, the lowest elevation of anyplace in the Western Hemisphere--282 feet below sea level. There is some surface water visible at Badwater but it is also possible to walk over the water on top of the salty crust that has built up over time.

Adaptation is the name of the game in this region of California. Many flowering plants bloom only in very early spring, and only if there has been sufficient winter rainfall. There are six unique varieties of Desert Pup Fish that can be found only in Death Valley. We walked along Salt Creek and witnessed the energetic breeding of the Salt Creek Pup Fish. Their activity was frenetic but understandable since there is only a short period of time when there is enough water to support their breeding. The activity doesn't go unnoticed by local birds like this kildeer that was pleased with the plentiful tidbits swimming by. Eventually lucky pup fish find their way into creek channels that retain some water during the summer. The less fortunate ones choose areas that dry up and end up suffocating in the creek's mud.

Adaptation was also essential for Japanese Americans forced to live in Manzanar. The stress of adjusting to a high-desert environment compounded by the cultural disruption of families living without privacy in 20' x 25' "rooms" along with five other families in a single barrack, communal bathrooms and shower areas, a strange new diet of cold Jello scooped on top of hot rice, the interruption of the childrens' education, and the tragic loss of livelihood and property. These citizens only had to endure life in the camps for several years, but the effects of their internment changed the course of their lives forever.

In Japanese there is an expression, "shikata ga nai." It translates as "it can't be helped." This was the attitude adopted by many of the internees, and I suppose it represents the mindset behind adaptation to a life of internment. In retrospect, it seems like an elegant response to a gross injustice. I bought a stone with these words carved into it. It's sitting on the corner of my desk where I can see it as I write. My challenge as a writer will be to create an elegant but accurate depiction of life in that decidedly inelegant time.

I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious." ~ Albert Einstein

2008-03-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

I am a curious person and, I'm not ashamed to admit that I love to "google." Google started out as a proper noun that has evolved into a great verb. It's even been listed in the pages of Merriam-Webster dictionaries since 2006. Personally, I "google" all the time. Whenever I am talking with people (at work, home, or ecen at play) and a question comes up that we don't know the answer to, I say "Let's goggle it." Amazingly, this suggestion doesn't always meet with a positive response.

Apparently not everyone else in the universe embraces this "let's find out the answer, right now" kind of approach. They don't mind wandering through life burdened by unanswered questions. Some of these individuals also dislike the idea that a computer with Internet access can provide an immediate response. The instant accessibility offered by technology displeases them. The LA Times had an article on Apple iPhones this week and how they have come to affect social interactions. Smart phones with speedy Internet access have become piercingly accurate weapons in the battle to settle arguments. Speedily googled answers have even been known to bring conversations to a halt. Imagine that!

For the record, I don't own one of these phones, and I don't google to be a know-it-all or to prove I am right. On the contrary, at least half of the time (okay, maybe two-thirds of the time) when I google something or someone, I discover that my initial assumption is proven wrong. I like to google simply because I like to find out the answer. I view it as an opportunity to learn. And at this point in my life, I find I need to google my questions right away because otherwise I might forget what I thought I wanted to know. Sigh. There's nothing worse than lying awake in the middle of the night struggling to remember what I wanted to google. Immediacy is key for me.

When I was in the fourth grade at Vallecito Elementary School I was tested to see if I qualified to be enrolled in the Gifted and Talented program. I don't remember the exact test I was given, but I remember that the woman who was asking me the questions commented on my inquisitiveness. When I didn't get a question right I always wanted to know the correct answer. Eventually I was selected for that program and I think my curiosity was the swing vote in my favor. I was certainly not one of the stellar (or most successful) students in the class, but I did have an eagerness to learn.

Now that eagerness (stubborness may be more accurate in this case) is reflected in my knitting mission. I've been making some progress but I'm still puzzled by the way my knitting expands from a row of 20 to a row of 26 within a short period of time. I've discovered random holes in my knitting and am totally confounded by what to do with the big loops at the end of the row. More lessons are clearly in order. My amusing daughter sent me the photo on the right. Perhaps she sought to inspire and elevate my knitting pursuits, but more likely she just wanted to give me a laugh. It worked, Nora!

Vacay!

2008-03-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

A second cup of tea and a look at the clock. Big smile. Today, there's no mad dash to make lunch, take a shower and arrive at work by 7:30 a.m. Not for the next nine work days either. Spring Break has arrived. Two beautiful weeks to relax, reflect and enjoy.

This week is dedicated to writing and my quest to master (a gross exaggeration) basic knitting skills. During the break my teacher is a virtual one: Knitting Help. I've never seen her face but my new instructor has talented hands and a reassuring voice. So far I've viewed the Double Cast-On and the Continental and English Methods of Knitting. One is easier for left handers and the other is preferred by those who are right hand dominant. It probably isn't surprising to learn that I show no facility with either technique. I just keep clicking on the replay button. At some point I'll figure out which one works best for me. I'm going to invest in a larger set of needles and a slightly thicker yarn to see if that makes the process easier to handle and easier to see what I'm doing.

I have a legitimate role model for the writing/knitting combo. Sue Grafton, the A-T (so far) Kinsey Milhone mystery writer, is a local resident and was featured on a public access television show, The Creative Community. It was fascinating to hear about her road to success-a long one involving at least six unpublished manuscripts--and her writing process. She also talked about her love of knitting. Knitting requires different skills and "relaxes" the mind. Mechanical creativity as opposed to brain-draining creativity. A nice balance.

Next Saturday, my sister Barbara arrives in Santa Barbara. She's joining me for a road trip. We're leaving on Sunday morning and driving to Lone Pine,a little town in the Eastern Sierra nestled below Mt. Whitney. We're staying at the "historic" Dow Villa motel and are planning visits to Manzanar, the Eastern Sierra Museum and Death Valley. Manzanar is now a National Historic Site, operated by the National Park Service. The museum chronicles the internment of Japanese Americans post-Pearl Harbor. The "relocation" traumatically affected individuals, families and the livelihoods of all Japanese Americans of that era. I don't know why I am so intrigued by this event. It seems like an obvious miscarriage of justice and a devasting act of discrimination perpetrated by Americans toward other American citizens. This subject is a future writing project for me. I am going to immerse myself in "setting" this trip. Lots of pictures and note-taking.

The Owens Valley and Death Valley are both in bloom right now. The restoration of the Owens River has transformed the dry salty soil of that water-deprived valley into a environment which now supports its own flora and fauna. In Death Valley the rain of this past winter has brought a good crop of wildflowers to bloom in the middle of the desert. It's my first visit to Death Valley. Couldn't imagine going there in the triple-digit, super-heated summer but am looking forward to seeing what this season has to offer.

The last time Barb and I went on a road trip together was during my spring vacation three years ago. We went to Paris for ten days to see a beautiful city and visit Nora while she was studying there. Paris was full of springtime blooms, too.

You say meniscus...I say, "Ouch!"

2008-03-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

Meniscus /me·nis·cus/ (me-nis´kus) pl. menis´ci [L.] something of crescent shape, as the concave or convex surface of a column of liquid in a pipet or buret, or a crescent-shaped cartilage in the knee joint.

A few weeks ago I didn't know the exact meaning of meniscus. I didn't know you can tear them, and I didn't know there were such things as meniscectomies. Suddenly, I'm becoming all too familiar with everything meniscus.

Another word I'm becoming too familiar with lately is degenerative. Unfortunately, I've reached a stage in life where many aspects of my physical being seem to be degenerating. The medical world tries to reassure women of a certain age that menopause is an exciting new phase of life, but as I stand on the cusp of the new phase, it seems to be pretty much about degeneration. My eyes started to degenerate (the ophthamologist's term, not mine) shortly after my 40th birthday, my memory has been degenerating for years (ask anyone), and now it's my knees.

It turns out that my great Carmel walking weekend came with a price. By the time I got home from that adventure my right knee was stiff, swollen and painful. A few days of living with that forced me to visit my doctor, which in turn led to an MRI , which in turn led to an orthopedist. My conversation with Dr. Hurvitz, complete with a pointer and assorted MRI images of my degenerating knee and torn miniscus, led to the decision to have arthroscopic knee surgery in a few weeks.

I have to admit to feeling anxious about the operation. I've never had surgery before and although I had many childhood fantasies about walking on crutches, the prospect isn't appealing to me anymore. To reassure myself that this was a good plan, I immediately turned to the Internet and launched a new research project: Operation Margaret.

In just a few minutes I discovered that the surgery will involve three little incisions, an arthroscope and teeny, tiny surgical tools. Depending on the type of anesthesia the doctor chooses I may even be able to watch the surgery on the monitor. Although I'm sure it would be fascinating, I don't think I'll choose that option. Watching someone else's operation might be educational, but watching the real-time version of my own surgery might be more than I can handle.

The Internet gave me a good idea about the rehabilitation process (3-4 weeks) and Operation Margaret also unearthed a lot of information about my doctor. It's odd to meet someone for just twenty minutes and then agree to have him or her operate on you. I needed to know more than my own impression that he was a nice guy. I learned that Dr. Hurvitz is a Fellow in the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons and he's also on the collegiate medical teams for both UCSB and Westmont College athletes. His professional accomplishments, both national and local, comforted me, but I still feel like this is going to require a huge leap of faith. Trouble is, I'm not doing much leaping these days.

I just reread this post. I am honestly not as depressed about the inevitable consequences of aging as it might seem, but making the necessary adjustments--both mental and medicinal--is challenging. Paul and I used to keep a small plastic jar of aspirin tucked in the corner of one of the kitchen cabinets. That space has now expanded to half a shelf filled with our combined prescriptions, iron pills, vitamins, calcium, antacids, allergy medications and Motrin. I guess the good news is that I haven't yet reached the stage of the daily pill dispensers. No, the real good news is that the medicines make me feel better and the knee surgery will too. It's just a big pill to swallow.

St. Patrick's Day

2008-03-16T21:19:00.000-07:00

It's St. Patrick's Day Eve and I'm ready for the big day. I baked four loaves of Irish Soda Bread this afternoon to take to work tomorrow, managed to unearth a container of shiny shamrock confetti to sprinkle all over the staff table, and I'm already wearing pajamas with a little green on them to prevent any early morning pinching attacks. The pajama thing is a leftover tradition from childhood when my older brother and I would lie in wait for each other to walk down the hall and then pinch the one who wasn't wearing the requisite green in homage to St. Pat. Advanced preparation was the key to survival.

March 17th was always significant to our family. Dad's mother and father were born and married in Ireland so I'm not that far removed from the old country, but the real cause for celebration was that Mom was born on St. Patrick's Day. Her mother gave even gave her the middle name of Patricia in honor of her special birthdate. Margaret Patricia Odlin Davis would have been 93 years old tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Mom.

Back to Basics

2008-03-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

Craft: skill in planning, making, or executing . For several years I have been trying to learn the craft of writing. Now, thanks to a casual mention by Robin LaFever at her Architexture workshop, I have a trusty guide...Write Away by Elizabeth George.

George doesn't write for children, but she's an accomplished author who clearly articulates the universals of writing fiction and her own writing process in particular. I get this book. I know I've read and heard much of this information before, but somehow this time I'm understanding it. Maybe I am a slow learner and I just need to read something over and over again before it sinks in, but regardless of the reason, this book works for me.

For example, I have sat in many workshops and heard accomplished writers discuss point of view, but George takes the time to define all the different types and provides examples from published books to illustrate them. Objective narrator, omniscient narrator, shifting first person and narrator as observer. I have heard all these terms, and even thought I had a general sense of what they meant, but I didn't. Now I finally feel like I'm starting to play on a level field with other writers.

Elizabeth George might even have been speaking directly to me when she wrote about first person narration, "Quite a few beginning writers employ this viewpoint because superficially this appears to be the easiest...However, this viewpoint has its disadvantages, the most notable of which is the difficulty that can arise with plotting." Hello! Has she been peering over my shoulder? I know Emelia's story should be told in first person but defining Emelia and her story continues to be a challenge. George is sending me back to the beginning of the process to do more character analysis. She promises the plot will emerge. I'm counting on you Elizabeth!

Just occurred to me that my recent attempts to learn the craft of knitting may be a very tangible metaphor for my writing. I am not a natural knitter. Years ago my sweet mother-in-law, Stella, tried to teach me to knit. After a particularly painful session with the needles, she reached over to me, put her hands on top of mine and said, "Some people just aren't meant to be knitters." Several decades later I am now trying the patience of a new tag team of instructors, Elli and Reanna.

These two teachers are also sweet and patient individuals...so far. I joined their lunch time knitting class for students, and the students are clearly having an easier time of it than I am. First, there was the difficulty with slippery needles so Elli loaned me a bamboo set from her personal collection. Then they suggested that my beautiful yarn had too many strands in it, so they cast on a new row of a different yarn. They have done that several times now. Each time they start me off with 20 stitches, but somehow the number increases and the loops tighten as I go along. My teachers have sympathetically identified all of the beginner problems that are currently plaguing me, but perhaps they are just too nice to identify the real problem...me. I'm a slow learner who lacks nimble fingers and obviously can't count stitches. More unraveling is clearly in my future, but I recognize that this is an essential step in the process. I'm not going to give up.

There's unraveling to be done with my writing, too. Pull apart, evaluate, start over. Repeat. I am slowly learning to hone my craft and knit my story. I'm not going to give up on writing, either.

Due North

2008-03-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

Days are flying by, and I can't seem to catch up. This week has been a tiring blur, but it started off with a wonderful weekend in Carmel. A perfect combination of friends, beautiful scenery, early spring weather, plus great walks, delicious meals, and laughter. Lots of laughter. Can't remember when I last laughed so much or so hard.

The weekend was a walking extravaganza, and the first road trip for the diehard members of the Brandon Walking Club: Melanie, Vicki, Emily, me and Judy. We started our adventure with a walk in the dark on Friday night and picked it up again on Saturday morning with a 5 mile stroll by the Mission, Carmel Point, along the beach and up, up, up the hill back to Judy's house. Later on Saturday we explored Carmel on foot, and on Sunday we did a few short walks at Point Lobos State Park. All our exercise certainly justified our delicious meals, especially the array of amazing cheeses we consumed on Saturday night. At least I hope it did.

I amuse myself by collecting real estate handouts from the residential sections of Carmel. Beautiful homes with beautiful views and not surprisingly, very hefty price tags. One famous beach front property had just had it's price dropped by almost fifty percent : $11,000,000 from $20,000,000. A bargain! We walked by the house my family used to stay in during summer visits to Carmel. Log Haven--a log cabin tucked in a block of more traditional homes. I think it might be the only cabin in Carmel. I loved staying there--especially in the upstairs bedroom with the strawberry bedspreads. These days I dream about owning a house in Carmel--maybe if we win the lottery. Whenever I spend time up there it reaffirms my belief that I am a Northern Californian at heart. I love the weather and the scenery--wouldn't bother me at all to give up the palm trees of Santa Barbara for redwoods and cypress. Foggy summers? I could live with them...happily.

At 6:02 on Saturday night we rushed to see the sunset at the beach. Barely made it in time, but it was worth the effort. More beauty awaited us on Sunday at Point Lobo State Park. Can't believe I'd never visited this park before. Hidden coves, turquoise water, a seal, a hungry sea otter and an osprey--all whet my appetite for another visit soon. Spending time with the lady walkers whet my appetite for more Walking Club adventures, too. We certainly proved the adage that laughter is the best medicine. It definitely makes life more fun.

In Like a Literary Lion

2008-03-02T18:20:00.000-08:00

March has arrived and I just realized that my last blog in February was my 50th post. Nothing too momentous about that particular entry but writing 50 entries in 10 months is a satisfying accomplishment. I like that nice big golden number, 50. Blogging has now become a pleasant habit and much easier to keep up with than journal writing. Although I am the proud owner of many attractive journals, they are mostly lying unused in drawers and on shelves with only a few pages written in some of them. Periodically I go through and rip out the used pages thinking I'm going to start "journaling" again, but I never do.

Honestly, I've never actually "journaled." That verb seems to imply a commitment to daily writing and self-reflection that I have yet to experience. The thought of physically moving my hand across the page, even with a fabulous pen, is not appealing to me anymore. My handwriting has deteriorated so much due to lack of use that even I have difficulty reading it, and the actual sensation of writing is tiring . For better or worse I am much happier writing on my beautiful silver-colored laptop. My favorite feature of computer writing? Easy answer...the delete key. Love it! Now I just have to wean myself from the tendency to covet beautiful notebooks. I need to enter the journal-free zone.

Robin LaFever's writing workshop in San Luis Obispo yesterday was worth the 1 1/2 hour drive. A small group of writers met in the San Luis Obispo Art Center for five hours of writing instruction. I have taken classes taught by Robin before, and she is always well-prepared, articulate, analytical and intellectual in her approach. Had a few "Aha!" moments as the day went on, that resulted in marking my illegible notes and worksheets with asterisks, curling arrows and character names. Now, I have to translate my scribblings into useful information.

Some elements that Robin discussed are things I've done instinctively without consciously putting a name to them. Plot layering (even without benefit of a completed plot), adding dramatic action to enhance and break-up sections of dialog, writing in scenes, and sub-text are all present in my Emelia ms. But my old boogeymen of goal, motivation and conflict continue to haunt me. Now that I've heard some of her suggestions on plotting for the third time, I'm sure more of it will sink in. I'm hoping the old adage "third time's the charm" works for me.

Cheers to February!

2008-02-25T06:03:00.000-08:00

It is the end of one my favorite weeks of the year. The five days of February 21 through February 25 are very special. Allison, my childhood best friend, has her birthday on the 21st, George Washington's birthday is the 22nd (to be honest, this is the least significant of all the dates but I wanted to keep the streak going), Paul's birthday is the 23rd, and my dad's birthday was yesterday. I don't know anyone with a birthday on the 24th of February, but it's a special day, too. That's the date Paul and I got engaged 31 years ago.

I've often wondered about the significance of my strong association with these February days. I checked out the Pisces/Sagittarius connection but unfortunately these two astrological signs aren't all that compatible. Maybe it has something to do with some strange rising sign that occurred on December 2 in a decade long ago. All I know is that three very important people and one incredible event all share the same week. Cheers to one and all!

This year Paul's special day was graced by the presence of a second Sagittarian, Nora. The happy father/daughter duo graciously allowed me to commemorate Paul's birthday breakfast at Fresco with a photo.

Starting to make strides on the writing front again--maybe more like baby-steps than strides. I signed up for a 4-day summer course at Book Passage Bookstore in Corte Madera, CA. I learned about this program during dinner one night at the Big Sur Workshop. I've never been to this bookstore but I have visited their very small branch in the Ferry Building in San Francisco. I was always impressed at the amount of space dedicated to children's books. It seemed like a very high percentage of the total books in the shop. Children's literature is not always valued so highly.

The July dates of this conference fit in with my summer vacation and being able to drive there makes attending the conference very appealing (and much less of an investment than the Oregon Coast Children's Book Writers Workshop of last summer). Once I saw the faculty I was sold. I was thrilled that Isabel Allende would be there. I love her adult books and I think her middle grade adventures are exciting, too. One of the things I find most intriguing about her books is that she writes them in Spanish and then they are translated into English. The collaboration between author and translator intrigues me. It must be very challenging to find the exact English words to capture the essence of Allende's beautiful, lyrical writing. Margaret Sayers Peden has translated her adult and her children's books. Allende must have great trust in Peden's abilities. I'm not going to worry about who will be translating Emelia's story. I still have a long way to go on the English version.

Closer to home I am going to a SCBWI workshop in San Luis Obispo on Saturday with writer pal, Patty. Events like this get me in the writing mode, as did my recent coffee shop rendezvous with another local writer. Even though the two of us are writing in totally different genres it was fun to discuss our different writing processes and helpful to read a bit of her manuscript. A little motivation goes a long way.

Bird Count

2008-02-20T06:03:00.000-08:00

Well, NIBEM has gone by the by. Life intervened. Actually, people intervened. Friends who were coming to our house for a Valentine's Day dinner. We all agreed that in order to make a workweek dinner easy for all of us, we'd order Chinese takeout. This did make things easier for Paul and I , but we had a wee bit of "straightening" to do before the 14th. We aren't slobs but we do have a certain level of chaos and dust that we find tolerable. However, we didn't necessarily want to see if our friends shared our tolerance. Thus a few nights of post-work cleaning ensued. And then my early morning blogging time was sacrificed to important laundry-folding, counter-cleaning, and paper-stacking.

We ended up with a clean house and festively (but still tastefully) decorated Valentine's Day table, but I was sorry to end my blogging streak. I didn't make it for the full month, but as Paul pointed out I did blog every day for a fortnight! National I'll Blog Everyday Fortnight (NIBEF) doesn't have quite the same ring to it as National I'll Blog Everyday Month (NIBEM). I'm disappointed, but the good news is that I proved to myself that I can sit down and write every single day. I'm happy about my twelve-day writing-average of 595 words per day. Now, I just have to carve out writing time each day and get back to life with Emelia.

Road Trip! Friday morning, after our gala Valentine's celebration, I hopped into the car and headed off to Oakland to spend the long President's Day weekend with Nora. I loaded the car with good cds, stopped in Solvang for breakfast with a friend, and then headed north for the next 4 1/2 hours. I actually enjoy the drive up Highway 101. The solitude is always a nice change of pace and on this trip I felt I was actually watching spring arrive in California. The hills were dotted with fat cows happily munching on new green grass with young calves nuzzling against their mothers. Orchards of fruit trees erupted with the first blossoming of pale pink petals and after King City, the fields planted on either side of the road were rich with new growth. I did my usual bird count, too. Spotted five hawks and one slightly confused egret sitting on top of a telephone pole. The trip was mostly uneventful–except perhaps for a few of my fellow travelers who may have been treated to the amusing sight of a crazy lady in a Murano rocking out to Aretha Franklin–until I encountered Friday afternoon traffic delays near Fremont. This slight aggravation was worth it because I knew I had a weekend with Nora ahead of me.

On Saturday Nora and I got up early and went to the Lafayette (my old stomping grounds) Reservoir and made the 2.7 mile loop. Cool temperatures but bright sun and great bird-watching. I was amazed to see white pelicans on the water. According to the local paper this is the first time that Pelecanus Erythrorhynchos has ever wintered there. They are huge, spectacular birds. My sad little picture doesn't do them justice.

During our walk we spotted juncos, stellar jays, titmice and even a pair of mating hawks. We also discovered a cluster of more white pelicans, and had a great blue heron swoop down over our heads. We somehow missed out on the resident Eagle but our bird count was still impressive. In addition to great birding, the paved path along the perimeter of the reservoir has enough elevation changes to make for good exercise and the scenery is terrific. If I still lived in the area I'd make this a regular walk.

We finished off our Lafayette adventure with a visit to a favorite restaurant, Chow, and a trip to one of the best children's bookstore in the Bay Area, The Storyteller. Nora found a copy of a recently re-issued picture book we both loved when she was little, Marshmallow by Clare Turlay Newberry. and I found a copy of Hattie Big Sky a book I'd been meaning to read for awhile. I also bought a few middle grade novels by Alexandra LaFaye and Hilary McKay.

Nora, adventure, good food and great books. All in all, a perfect morning.

NIBEM 12: Heartfelt

2008-02-11T19:57:00.000-08:00

Happy 199th Birthday Abe!

I think I'm beginning to feel the pressure of NIBEM (National I'll Blog Everyday Month). I'm definitely doing a lot of writing, which was one of my goals, but sometimes it's a challenge to find a daily topic to write about. Days like yesterday don't exactly inspire witty commentary. The combination of my cold and a long day at work left me feeling tired and uninspired. Maybe even a little bit cranky.

But just when I thought all was lost, I have come up with the perfect topic as we approach the most romantic day of the year... heart-shaped meatloaf. Heart-shaped meatloaves have played a significant role in our Valentine celebrations since February 14, 1983, our first Valentine's Day in Bethesda, MD. We were having a major snowstorm and the larder was running low. I hadn't lived in Bethesda long enough to know that even the mention of the possibility of snow meant it was time to go to the grocery store and start hoarding food. It's a pre-snowstorm ritual for residents of our Nation's capitol and the surrounding suburbs, but this was my first winter living with snow and ice, and I hadn't honed my survival skills yet.

So, here's the scenario. I'm stuck in the house without too many ingredients for a romantic dinner, but I want to do my part to make Valentine's a special celebration. Although I can't remember the specifics, I'm pretty sure they involved me standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the contents, and feeling slightly desperate. That's when the creative juices must have started to flow. Ground beef, egg, oatmeal, onion, secret spices and ketchup--all the ingredients for a delightful meal. Then I must have experienced a startling creative jolt. Why not make heart-shaped meatloaf? In a single moment, a tradition was born.

I am not one of those cheaters who makes heart-shaped meatloaf using a heart-shaped baking pan. I don't even own one of those. The first Valentine's meatloaf and all subsequent ones have been molded by my own two hands. I think it gives them a certain organic "je ne sais quoi" that is impossible to acheive when using a mold. As an added embellishment I decorated the top of the meatloaf with ketchup hearts. Genius! And very memorable. The Valentine meatloaf has appeared on our Feb. 14 menu many times. It is beloved by all.

But now the amazing part. I have just found out that there are others who are fans of the heart-shaped meatloaf. A simple Google search showed pages of related-links. And all these years I thought the three of us were the sole practitioners of this peculiar ritual. I bet there is even a Facebook group for people who love the loaves. I was delighted to discover there is even a heart-shaped meatloaf YouTube video. Isn't America great?

Should any reader of this blog feel the urge to create their own heart-shaped meatloaf, I feel I must add this cautionary note. Once you get in the holiday loaf spirit it is hard to control yourself. We have had Christmas tree loafs (not for Xmas dinner, but in the preceding days), champagne bottle meatloafs (appropriate for any festive occasion requiring a bit of the bubbly) and the very popular shamrock meatloaves. Maybe a stovepipe hat for Abe! The possibilities are endless, assuming you have a creative spirit, and you like meatloaf.

NIBEM 11: Mind Games

2008-02-11T05:33:00.001-08:00

Nora called yesterday for a Sunday morning chat. It was a beautiful day in the Bay Area and she had already been out for a coffee and the NY Times. Usually she just reads it online, but yesterday she splurged on the authentic, $5.00 version. It's a hefty paper to lug home and a challenge to read through, but as it turned out it her money was well spent. Yesterday, Nora discovered Will Shortz' newest word puzzle, the 3-D Word Hunt.

Will Shortz is a genius enigmatologist (puzzlemaker). He's the NY Times Crossword Puzzle editor, the creator of hundreds of word game and Sudoku books, and a pretty diabolical guy. His mind works in very mysterious ways--or at least they're a mystery to me. There is a great documentary about him called Wordplay which introduced me to the previously unknown world of puzzlemakers and the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament. I will never be part of that world. The completion of Shortz' well-edited NY Times crosswords is beyond me and I usually don't even hunt for a pencil to begin work on the puzzle. I make a mental attempt to determine the clues for the upper left corner before I get discouraged and turn the page.

Nora's call for help with the 3-D Word Hunt was right up my alley. We spent about 35 minutes on the phone together trying to come up with at least 25 words that would put us in the "par" category of word finders. Thirty-seven found words makes you an expert and you're a freakin' genius if you can make 50 words from the 18 letters included in each puzzle. To make it more challenging, each word has to be five letters long. It was amazing how four and six letter words seemed to jump off the page only to be rejected for their numerological deficiencies.

After about 27 minutes, Paul lowered the newspaper he was reading to ask if we were planning to do the whole puzzle over the phone together. Nora and I answered in unison, "Yes!" We were on a roll, but we only aspired to find 25 words. Par was going to be good enough for our first outing. A few minutes later Paul, who wasn't even looking at the letters but just listening to our words, offered a suggestion. "Irk." Hmmm. Was he trying to tell us something or just making a very pathetic three-letter suggestion? What a novice!

I am totally hooked. After we hung up I was forced to call her back a few times over the course of the day to shout a single word into the phone. "Noose!" was the first one, followed by "lilac." I didn't even bother to call her about "canon" and "canal," although they were equally inspired discoveries. I feel a 3-D addiction coming on. I tried to be a Sudoku fan and did manage to complete easy puzzles, but math has never been my thing. I find the word hunt much more enjoyable.

I'm going to spend next weekend in Oakland with Nora. We've already decided to buy next Sunday's NY Times so we can do the puzzle together, and check the answers for our efforts of this week. I think we might need to make a copy of the puzzle on her scanner so we can each work independently as well as collaboratively. I can , on the rare occasion, be very competitive and Nora well knows that the spirit of competition can sometimes override my maternal instincts. Sometimes "Bad Mommy" emerges. I'm hoping I can keep her in check this time.

NIBEM 10: The Plague

2008-02-10T12:42:00.000-08:00

The plague has hit our happy home. Both Paul and I have been stricken by some sort of contagious crud that has us feeling under the weather, and coveting life under the covers. This has been a severe test of my long-held faith in the air-filtering power of my favorite plant, the leafy green pothos. My friend, Rochelle, introduced me to this theory, and I now have them scattered throughout the house and at work, too. This is my first cold of the year so I guess I should be thankful, but I was hoping for a 100% healthy school year. Greedy me. Unrealistic me, too, considering that my job includes daily contact with germ-ridden children.

The arrival of the cold put a definite cramp in my weekend plans. Today was supposed to include a trip to the Rose Bowl Flea Market, but that had to be postponed for another month. I am sad to have missed an adventure with the gals of the Walking Club and also sorry to have missed out on a big bowl of Dianne salad at Green Street. That salad is more than worth the two hour drive to Pasadena.

Instead, I've spent the weekend doing "sick" things. Long hours in my nightgown, web-surfing, sucking on cough drops, and being crafty. I am not without normal crafty urges, but they come in spurts. Crafts are not my life. During my web surfing activities I visited the home by sunset (a site sponsored by Sunset Magazine), clicked through housemartin and eventually found myself at the purl bee. That's where I happened upon a charming valentine craft.

Maybe because I work in a school sending valentines to friends is still enjoyable for me. I happened to have the essential materials on hand, the project wasn't too taxing and it seemed a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. Many hours later I had fifteen handmade valentines. With the addition of a single rubber stamp on the inside, I was done.

Or so I thought. I had cleverly chosen to use paper that didn't have matching envelopes. Part of the mystery of Valentine's Day is wondering who has sent you a card. If the valentine isn't well-packaged the mystery is solved too quickly. I wanted to prolong the experience so I wrapped each card as a gift in pink tissue. Perfect. Now I was satisfied.

Even though Valentine's Day isn't until Thursday, writing about it has made me remember a frequently recited Valentine poem from Nora's childhood. It's a Shel Silverstein poem that's included in The Random House Book of Poetry for Children, one of my family's favorite books.

Valentine

I got a valentine from
Timmy
Jimmy
Tillie
Billie
Nicky
Micky
Ricky
Dicky
Laura
Nora
Cora
Flora
Donnie
Ronnie
Lonnie
Connie
Eva even sent me two
But I didn't get none from you.

I just remembered why we loved this poem. Nora's name is included in the rhyme. Her childhood was spent searching for souvenir trinkets with her name printed on them. Rack after rack she found Nicks and Nicoles, but never Nora. Shel Silverstein unknowingly compensated for all that by giving her a very special Valentine.

NIBEM 9: Digging Up Life

2008-02-09T13:54:00.000-08:00

The local newspaper had a front page article this morning about an archaeological dig at the Santa Barbara Mission. Evidence of a Chumash Indian village from the 1790's had been discovered. Small shards of glass and white English pearl ware, as well as the stone foundation of a house confirmed the long held supposition that a thriving Chumash village existed just yards away from the mission.

This got me thinking about what future archaeologists might discover in a dig at the site of my current home. Imagine a cataclysmic earthquake or worse, a earthquake/tsunami combo (Nora's worst nightmare), wiped out Goleta. Centuries later, I imagine most of our possessions would have decomposed except maybe some of the AA batteries we knew we bought but could never seem to find when we needed them, and probably a few of K-Mart's indestructible plastic storage bins. But I'd like to think that there would also be a few essential remnants to reveal a more personal side of our lives.

China and pottery seem to be popular archaeological finds, and we do have an abundance of that. Our collection of blue-green pottery would leave eye-catching shards in the layers of brown soil. Evidence of my many teapots would probably be unearthed as well. I would hope at least one earnest seeker might uncover a bit of my favorite one, a small brown pot, made in England, and hand-painted with blue, yellow and orange flowers. I bought this pot with Mom sometime in the 1960's at Hink's, a long-gone oak-floored department store in Berkeley. Since bringing it home a few years ago, I use it almost every day.

Of course some of our favorite collections wouldn't survive. The colorful grouping of Eastern European nesting dolls presently lining one shelf in the living room bookcase would have rotted by the time any dig occurred, and our books would be long gone as well. They would have provided the clearest representation of our family culture. Without the numerous children's books, Paul's eclectic personal library, the heavy and beautifully illustrated art books, and my own cookbooks with stained pages and penciled notations it would be hard for anyone to get a true sense of our lives.

Some of our "collections" have very few tangible artifacts, even now. No archaeologist could find evidence of the highly embellished family stories that live only in our memories (and now this blog, I suppose). Our witty collection of potential book titles, great opening lines for novels, and random snippets of dialogue is even more abstract. The products of our clever bantering exist only for a few seconds. We can't seem to remember them any longer than that. I always say I'm going to write them down, but never do. I've been waiting to hear the perfect book title for my Emelia story, but nothing so far. I'll keep listening.

NIBEM 8: Simple Pleasures

2008-02-08T06:29:00.001-08:00

I don't get to spend much time with kids these days. Oh, except for the 421 students I see every day. What I meant to say was, I don't get to spend much time with little kids these days. I have a new great niece and a new great nephew but they live far away from Goleta. My contact with them comes in the form of pictures and occasional ear-splitting shrieks when I'm talking on the phone with their grandmothers. Not quite as much fun as playing with real live babies.

That's why I was so excited to see my friend Heidi yesterday. She has two adorable boys, a 2 month old and an 18 month old. This is a woman who definitely has her hands full. Her older son is lively, energetic and gifted with a terrific sense of balance that allows him to ride a skateboard at a very young age. Maybe this doesn't mean he is the most coordinated baby in the universe, but as a lifelong failed skateboarder, I think it's an impressive accomplishment.

The newest addition to the family is sweet-tempered and also the spitting image of his older brother when he was younger. I have a feeling he'll probably have to toughen up in a hurry to survive the regular affections of his skateboarding sibling, but I think he's up to the challenge. He's already showing off his neck strength as he holds his head up straight to stare out into the world. He looks like a little buddha swaddled onto his mother's chest and contemplating the passing scene.

I had forgotten how observant babies can be. The 18-month old sat, or rather squirmed, in his collapsible stroller as we walked beside the ocean and then around the UCSB campus. His direct line of sight was limited to the knees of passing students but this little guy knew how to maximize the experience. The roaring parade of small planes taking off from the nearby airport always prompted a turn of the head and a finger pointed skyward, and when he figured out that the campus was loaded with fellow skateboarders he was enchanted. Every single student who rolled by him was rewarded with a smile and a comment. He loved the sound of wheels rolling on smooth concrete or the raspier sound of wheels on the asphalt bike paths. When we passed a display rack of skateboards in the bookstore he said shouted "Da" when he saw the bottom of a board that matched the one his dad uses. This kiddo knows his stuff.

I love how Heidi has taught him to use sign language to express himself. He patted his chest to thank her when she picked up this favorite blanket and tucked it in the stroller. He signed when he wanted to drink some water and by tapping his pinched fingers together, "more", he kept me playing a game of toe-kissing for as long as he wanted. It must reduce some of the frustration of childhood when you can communicate specific information. Instead of just crying and waiting for mom to figure out what he means, this little guy signs exactly what he wants. He's already empowered by language.

Our walk ended in the parking lot as seagulls squawked overhead. They probably were looking for the trail of food that follows most strollers. They were out of luck yesterday. No food to snack on, just another pointed finger and a smile from my young friend. Motion is this little guy's passion. He responds to anything that moves--planes, skateboards, birds, the tractor working on the new entry gate to the campus and even the joy of pushing his own stroller. He's a kid on the move. Hope the rest of us can keep up.

NIBEM 7: Geel! Hawl! Dog Sledding at the Beach

2008-02-07T13:51:00.001-08:00

I met a real life adventurer yesterday. A 21st century mix of Thor Heyerdahl, Sir Edmund Hillary and a smidge of Davey Crockett all combined in a energetic Alaska resident named Lorraine Temple. Lorraine is a woman of many talents–licensed boat captain, dog musher, tour guide–the list goes on and on. While I haven't personally experienced most of her career choices, we do have a few random things in common. She grew up in Northern California near my hometown of Lafayette, and she lived in Goleta for a few years while attending UCSB.

I have had a longtime fascination with Alaska. My favorite geography class in college focused on the 49th state and I also had a quirky great aunt, Helen, who made frequent pilgrimages to Alaska, towing her well-traveled Airstream trailer. I think that's why I was so excited to receive Lorraine's phone call about arranging an assembly at school. She explained her program and shared her Alaska Husky Spirit website. I checked it out and I was hooked. It would be neat for the beach-bound kids of Brandon School to meet real sled dogs, see a real sled and be introduced to a woman with a very unique job and an adventurous spirit.

Lorraine and her co-stars Buckeye and his daughter, Cabo, did not disappoint. Okay, Buckeye's tendency to interrupt Lorraine with random barking was slightly distracting, but the dogs were a handsome pair and very tolerant of the adoring pats of about 250 students. We learned a little bit about life in Alaska, the history and reality of the Iditarod and also about Lorraine's former business–dog sled tours across glaciers.
Patrons were helicoptered in, outfitted with the requisite gear and sent out with a team of dogs to travel to the edge of a glacier. The essentials of dog-sledding fashion were modeled by a gracious volunteer, fifth-grade- teacher Hugh Ranson, and included beaver hat, wolf-fur-trimmed parka and huge, paddle-like mittens equipped with a patch of black nose-wiping fabric on the outside of one of the gloves. Lorraine made it clear that she was not condoning the killing of animals for fashion, animal fur is simply much warmer in the freezing Alaskan temperatures. We even learned that the fur trim around the hood serves to deflect howling winds as well as add warmth.

Later, I got to help harness up the dogs to demonstrate how they pulled the sled. I had to put Buckeye's harness on while keeping him in place by straddling his body with my legs. Don't know how much Buckeye enjoyed the experience. He didn't step into the leg holes very willingly even though he has been harnessed hundreds of times. Maybe he sensed a novice musher. Once harnessed, the dogs tolerated a reenactment of sled travel while I demonstrated my braking techniques. We all learned the three most important rules of dog sledding: 1. Never let go of the sled. 2. Never let go of the sled and 3. Never..., well I think rule #3 is obvious. I didn't let go of the sled, and all ended well on my trip across the stage of the multi-purpose room.

From the first moment I met Lorraine in person and was introduced to the dogs my mind starting focusing on how to share this story in a children's book. I asked her if she had ever contemplated writing a book herself, and she nodded. As with all of us, time demands had prevented her from starting a writing project, but she indicated she was now ready for a creative outlet. A quick thought I had was to title a non-fiction, heavily pictoral book, Traveling Dogs. Lorraine's dogs not only sled, they travel in planes, helicopters (the dogs have to get to the glaciers, too) and also a more conventional big red van. The dogs and Lorraine travel all over the western regions of the lower 48 during the harshest months of the Alaskan winter, visiting schools and sharing their story.

As fascinating as it was to learn about dog sledding, I think an equally important benefit of the assembly was to let children know there is life outside the box. Lorraine is an intriguing role model. She's a risk taker, an adventurer, and her life thus far has been spent following her passions. I don't think she's done yet. She's toying with the idea of trading her sleds in for boats, and returning to life near the ocean. Personally, I'm hoping she'll stay in Alaska a little longer. I think Buckeye and I might have an appointment on a glacier.

NIEBM 6: February 5th

2008-02-06T04:19:00.000-08:00

I've been waking up way too early lately. Lying awake at 3 a.m. isn't fun. My body is tired, my eyes are burning but I'm not sleeping. Mystifying...and unpleasant. Hope it's not the pressure of my blog-a-day pledge that's throwing off my sleep pattern.

Since I missed most of the final Super Tuesday results last night (too tired to stay up!) I checked online first thing this morning. Interesting results. I'm glad the democratic campaign will continue with two viable candidates, and I'm glad that California became part of the Super Tuesday primary this year. The process is more exciting when you feel you have a significant stake in it.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend about parents--having them, not being one. We were reminiscing about our dads when I realized that February 5th was the anniversary of my dad's death. It's startling to realize that he died 16 years ago, and distressing to think that the day might have slipped by like any other, if I hadn't been talking to Peggy.

I can still remember the early morning phone call from my mom. We were living on Singleton Drive in Bethesda and I was upstairs in the bedroom. I knew the phone call was probably bad news because Dad had been admitted to the hospital a few days before. I was in my nightgown and seated in the white wicker chair by the phone when I answered the call. The light in the room was dim, winter sunrise filtered through cream-colored roller shades. Mom's voice was almost unrecognizable--a tight monotone reciting a painful script. The phone calls to her children must have been very difficult to make. It was unbearable news to hear.

Paul, Nora and I had just been in California for Christmas 1991. It was the only time we'd celebrated Christmas away from home since Nora was born. Things started to deteriorate with Ern (our affectionate nickname for Dad) during our visit, but those days also gave us some of our best memories. My favorite was sitting around the kitchen table after dinner and singing Christmas carols. We weren't a family prone to spontaneous sing-alongs but at that moment it somehow seemed appropriate. My brother and his family were there, too, and Dad, in his worn Pendelton bathrobe, had come up the hall to join us after dinner. There were candles burning on the table, and Paul was at the sink washing dishes. I don't remember the songs we sang, but I remember the sensation of singing them. We sounded wonderful.

Nora had just turned eight when Ern died. I'm glad that she knew him so well even though we lived 3,000 miles away. She and I always spent a chunk of the summer visiting Mom and Dad in the house I grew up in. Nora loved swimming in the pool, and in her younger years Ern tucked her into an floating disc attached to a rope which he pulled on to bring her back into the shallow end when she started to drift toward the deeper water. He wasn't much of a swimmer but Ern and Miles (the resident mutt) made excellent lifeguards.

Nora also loved to help her granddad eat the strawberries he planted on the hill above the house. She always had telltale red lips after a visit to the garden. One summer they planted carrots together. During the carrot harvest later in the fall, Ern sent her pictures of crooked orange produce and of the sign he had made proclaiming them "Nora's Carrots."

I remember being slightly surprised at how abandoned I felt when Dad died. He had been sick for a long time, and his death was expected. I was a full-fledged adult but my world was irreparably different without my father. Eleven years later when Mom died, I described myself as orphaned. I was adrift without my lifelong anchors.

That Christmas in California was also when Nora found out about Santa. She was probably suspicious at age 8, but her discovery of the Toy's R Us price tag hidden beneath a holiday sticker was the clincher. Learning the truth about Santa is an inevitable rite of passage, a small loss of childhood innocence. The real loss of innocence came six weeks later.

NIBEM 5: "Maggievision"

2008-02-05T04:41:00.000-08:00

Just finished a rousing round of Funny Cat Photos to help me wake up, and now I'm ready to resume my quest of yesterday.

My last entry ended with an explanation of my noble desire to help adolescents survive adolescence. Perhaps I overstated the case. I think that learning to accept ourselves and learning to appreciate the uniqueness of others is an essential part of growing up. There are painful lessons along the way but they are universal ones. Specifics differ but we all have the same types of experiences (even the "pretty" girls) , and if we work through them and achieve even a small amount of self-acceptance, well, as Martha Stewart would say, "It's a good thing."

So...I loved the RE and thought I might be able to write her story, or at least the "Maggie version" of her story. My friend Patty had encouraged me to take a writing class with Val Hobbs, a Santa Barbara young adult author. The date of the first class was looming and I hadn't written a word...hadn't even tried to write a word. Paul and I took an end of the summer trip, and sitting on a beach in Cambria, I started to write about Emelia. Actually, I started to write about Blanca, but a few weeks later she became Emelia...much to the confusion of my favorite first readers, Paul and Nora.

I had a character I liked and I soon discovered that I had a "voice." Emelia's words came out easily, at first, largely because I was recalling the voice of my much younger self . Emelia's facility with words and inclination toward mildly sarcastic observations and sefl-deprecating humor are very "Maggie." Boy, I thought, this writing stuff was going to be easy. Open my mind, think about my two years at Fairview Junior High, write down those uncomfortable memories and months later, a book is born. No.

A character and a voice are essential but what about plot? I didn't have one. Still don't. Plotting perplexes me. I know a good plot when I see it, but I've never seen a good one for Emelia. I've read books about plot, taken workshops about plot and even learned a new vocabulary while searching for a plot. Emelia's goals, motivations and conflicts have been written in charts, on a board covered with post-its and on random scraps of paper filed in my Emelia drawer. But I'm still not satisifed that I have a strong "story."

Throughout this struggle I've learned something significant. When I write I need to know the destination before the train leaves the station. Although in real life I'm more spontaneous, when it comes to writing I have to know where I'm headed. And while I enjoy creative day trips, I need the reassurance of a strong road map, a sturdy structure, to keep moving forward. The lack of a strong plot has certainly contributed to my obsessive rewriting of the chapters that are already completed. I also think it has contributed to severe procrastination, as well as an addictive need for critiques and validation by other writers. Relying too much on the opinions of others makes it hard to articulate my own, and undermines the confidence that writers need to progress. I think I may be entering a critique-free zone.

I've blamed a lot on plot, or more accurately, the lack thereof. But I'm realizing that there may be other issues as well. Writing about my writing has caused me to wonder how well I really know Emelia. I have written about RE but I think I need to know more about my fictionalized character. If Emelia is channeling my own teenage voice, maybe she is waiting for me to start listening. Maybe it's time to turn on the "Maggievision" and curl up with a few good adolescent reruns. But maybe just a few Funny Cat Photos, first.

NIBEM 4: Rainbows and Ruminations

2008-02-04T05:16:00.001-08:00

Rainbow weather in Goleta yesterday. Woke up to heavy rain that alternated with periods of bright sunshine throughout most of the day. Late in the afternoon after a sudden pounding shower I saw the first rainbow. Vivid arcs of color layered over dark rocky mountains. "Rainbow, it's a rainbow!" I repeated to myself like a mantra as I ran to get the camera. By the time I got outside to take a picture, the rainbow had already started to fade. I stayed outside with my little digital camera until my eye could no longer see any color. About ten minutes later it appeared again and I ran out in my barefeet to take another round of photographs.

The outcome of my attempts photograph the rainbows was less than satisfactory. Rainbows are surprising and wonderful, but they are also fleeting and almost impossible to capture in a photograph. In fact, the very act of trying to take a picture of it, ruined my opportunity to enjoy it. Rainbows surprise and delight. They are elusive gifts and should be cherished for that attribute as well as their beauty.

Speaking of elusive gifts...now I need to address the big issue. The elephant in the middle of the room issue. Writing. For the past four days it has been pretty easy for me to sit down and write 500 word entries for this blog. I am definitely writing more quickly and haven't been obsessing about quality or rewriting–at least not too much. Why can't I do this with my Emelia manuscript?

I don't understand why tackling that writing is so hard for me. I love Emelia. I love the character I've created, and I love the real "Emelia" who inspired me to write the story to begin with. Real Emelia (henceforth referred to as RE) shares a lot in common with my ficitonalized version. She is a latina girl, and at least when she was a student at the school where I work, she was overweight and lonely. RE was the reason I started the lunchtime walking club. I wanted to give her lunch break a focus besides food. The exercise aspect was important, but I also wanted her to have a chance to make some new friends.

Most days I had to hunt her down in the cafeteria and cajole her into walking with the group. She was a slow and plodding walker and I spent a lot of time encouraging her to keep up. We only walked for 30 minutes, but to RE it probably seemed like a marathon. She always gave the impression that there was somewhere else she'd like to be, but she did come with us most days.

I was amazed at the beginning of the next year when a teacher showed me RE's response to a question on a test given annually to English Language Learners. The question was "What makes a good leader?" RE wrote “A good leader for me will have to be my computer teacher cuz last year we join a walking club We did a lot of walking whith her She’s a good leader for me" Her words (with her own punctuation) made me realize that participating in the walking club had actually meant something to her, even though she'd never said anything directly.

Her words are the reason I wanted to write Emelia. I want to capture and embellish her experience and show readers the universal aspects of adolescence. RE's visible obstacles and her emotional struggles aren't that different from other students' seeking to find a level of self-acceptance that will allow them to function comfortably in middle grade society. By sharing RE's experience through the fictionalized world of Emelia I could possibly give readers a reassuring perspective on growing up.

Oops. 6:45 a.m. Time to get ready for work. To be continued later.

NIBEM 3: Mammo Day

2008-02-03T06:43:00.000-08:00

No soap. No lotion, no perfume and especially no deodorant. The packing list for Survivor? No, just pre-mammogram instructions. Abstaining from these items ensures a better x-ray, and I’m happy to comply. No woman ever wants to endure the mammo experience more than once a year. Repeat visits produce way too much anxiety. I’m willing to do everything I can to get a clear image the first time around.

My appointment was for 8 a.m. yesterday. I never sleep-in anyway so I was happy with an early Saturday slot. Also, an entire workday without soap and deodorant would have been trying for me and everyone around me. On the rare occasions that I forget to put on deodorant I’m sure that my anxiety about possible body odor causes me to sweat more that I would normally.

Mammograms are the only Saturday appointment at the Sansum Clinic. I was sure I had the wrong date when I drove up and no one was there but the security guard. I was assured that the “ladies” would be in shortly so I went back to the car and read the newspaper. When I saw the staff arrive I went in and 15 minutes later I was back in the car. In and out. Short and sweet.

Personally, I don’t find mammograms incredibly painful but they are definitely uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. It’s also the only time that I view my own breasts as if they are detached from my body. Breasts are lifted and manipulated by a strange pair of hands, and then the machine takes over. It’s the compression that’s the killer. The clear plastic shield is lowered in jerky increments, and just when you start thinking the whole experience isn’t so bad, the shield smashes your breast more and then just a little bit more. And then you have to do the other breast. My least favorite pose is the one where they lift your arm and drape it over the machine. It seems like you are actually embracing your instrument of torture. Moaning, grimaces, tightened jaws and clinched fists are allowed as long as you stand very still.

Seven years ago was the only time I’ve ever had difficulties with a mammogram. I got a letter from the radiologist saying I needed to come back in for additional screening. At the time we were in the midst of packing to move back to California, and my stress level was very high. My life was in a state of disruption. Why should my breasts have been any different?

The technician was young, sweet and barely competent. She had to redo the x-rays about 4 times, apologizing profusely each time. At some point in the process I burst into tears. She looked bewildered, and then smiled as she asked if I wanted a hug. My very clearly stated, “NO!” didn’t stop her and she threw her arms around me before I could remove my breast from the lower tray and back away. This didn’t comfort me, and I’m sure the tearful tirade that followed didn’t do much for her either.

In the end, an ultrasound determined that everything was fine. As a reward for my healthy breasts I received a large manila envelope of souvenir breast x-rays to carry all the way across America to Santa Barbara. Here’s hoping my good fortune continues.

NIBEM Note: Have camera, will photograph. The radiology technician looked at me strangely when I asked to photograph her x-ray machine. She didn't respond right away so I told her I was going to email the picture to my daughter to prove I got a mammogram. Sorry, Nora, but that won her over. I'm sure my request probably gave her a good story to tell around the lunch table.

NIBEM 2: Matchy-Matchy

2008-02-02T13:30:00.000-08:00

Ahhh. Matching clothes. The golden age of buying matching clothes for all the children in the family coincided with my childhood. Lucky me. My grandmother (one of many Margarets in my family tree, and a woman who really should have known better) delighted in sending boxes of three matching dresses from Washington to California, and my mother delighted in dressing us up. It was probably a source of pride that she had a trio of daughters who could be transformed into fashion clones and paraded to church and out to dinner. Don't know how my brother managed to escape the trend.

I remember two outfits in particular. The most memorable collection had a patriotic inspiration with a slight nautical flair. Three white dresses sprinkled with navy or red tiny polka dots and topped off with a large sailor collar outlined with bands of color-coordinated trim. The full skirt was adorned with bands of trim near the hem and there was a narrow belt at the waist. The other dresses were densely floral. I can’t remember the exact style but they came in turquoise and pink. And the fabric had lots and lots of flowers.

This is the way matching dresses in my family worked. Three dresses, three different sizes, but only two different colors. The dresses of the oldest child and the youngest child were always exactly the same, and the middle child had the same style but in a different color. The lack of individual identity was probably difficult for all the sisters, but especially I think for me, the youngest child. In the great tradition of hand-me-downs (our pre-global warming brand of recycling), the youngest child eventually wore all three dresses. Unfortunately due to the age span of my mother’s daughters, it took about four to five years to work my way through all three of the dresses–a scarring fashion experience. It was like wearing a life uniform. I didn’t think I would ever out grow those damn sailor dresses.

Yesterday it dawned on me that I have once again embraced matching clothes. Not with my sisters, but with my co-workers, specifically the women in my Friday afternoon walking group. Last fall an enterprising PTA mom ordered Brandon Islanders t-shirts and sweatshirts to promote school spirit and support for our new school mascot…an island. An odd choice I know, but preferable to the former one, a vicious, tooth-barring bobcat.

The sweatshirts are not the most attractive color, khaki, or the most flattering style, but there is something wonderful about them. The material is soft, thick and incredibly warm, and despite it’s obvious fashion limitations this sweatshirt has quickly become my favorite. Most of my co-workers feel the same way, and that’s why we wear them every Friday. Jeans and the Brandon sweatshirt have become our end-of-the-week life uniform. Sweatshirt devotees silently acknowledge each other with a knowing smile as we move around campus. Can a secret handshake be far behind?

Within the context of the school environment the sweatshirts are great. The problem occurs in the outside world. As we march through local neighborhoods on our Friday adventures, a gang of boisterous khaki-clad women, I imagine mothers fearfully calling their children inside, locking their doors, and then peeking through the blinds to make sure we are leaving the area.

This Friday our walk ended at Rudy’s. We celebrated with chips, salsa and drinks. I sensed we were attracting a few questioning looks. Maybe we didn’t have a cool gang image after all. Did the other customers think we were members of a bowling team, or perhaps scruffy members of a new cult? Or maybe we just looked like a group of friends, flushed from an afternoon walk, laughing our way into the weekend–friends who match in spirit and fashion.

Announcing NIBEM!

2008-02-01T05:05:00.000-08:00

The ugly black cloud of procrastination is hanging over my head. I'm not doing much writing. I'm not even writing about writing or rather, not writing. Confusing, but true. Maybe it's not a procrastination cloud. Could it be the more ominous cloud of fear? Perhaps, it's a bit of both. My solution? NIBEM.

I just made up NIBEM. It stands for National I'll Blog Everyday Month. Trips off the tongue, doesn't it? I kind of stole the idea from NANOWRIMO–National Novel Writing Month. The idea of NANO is to write a 175 page, 50,000 page novel in one month. This has been going on every November since 1999. 30 days to do a lot of writing,

NIBEM is also a month long, but I have cleverly chosen the shortest month of the year so I will only need to write 28 blog entries. Oops, make that 29. Just realized that 2008 is a leap year. (Didn't know that there are actual Leap Year Rules: 1. Every year divisible by 4 is a leap year. 2. Every year divisible by 100 is NOT a leap year. 3. Unless the year is also divisible by 400, then is it still a leap year. I knew about the divisible by 4 rule, but rules 2 and 3 are new to me.)

Anyway, back to NIBEM. This is the theory. I'll have to write something every day. It will become a habit, maybe even an addiction. I will become infatuated with the process of writing and this will carry over to other projects I want to work on. Sounds logical, but...we'll see.
I'm hoping that this public declaration (public in the eyes of the few readers of "Oh, Margaret!") will prevent me from faltering during the inaugural month of NIBEM.

Just decided I'll try to add a picture per day, too. Might as well work on those photography skills. For the next 29 days I'll carry my little Nikon with me every day and see what grabs my fancy. Not too much to photograph as I write this in my bedroom early in the morning. The shiny gold Buddha with the giant black shadow behind his head, will have to do.

So You Had a Bad Day...

2008-01-31T21:48:00.000-08:00

I can't seem to get a particular song out of my head. Not since I heard a 10 year old boy singing it at the top of his lungs in the principal's office a few days ago. The delinquent boy-singer was having an "in-school" suspension and he was bored. Bored beyond words.

We were told to ignore him. Not to engage him in any way. Every time I walked past the open office door I'd see him out of the corner of my eye, precariously tilted on the two back legs of his chair, arms stretched wide to balance himself. I said nothing, even though I envisoned a trip to the Health Room in his future. In between balancing acts he called out,"I'm bored!" at random intervals. This was before he hit on the idea of serenading the office.

At first I had a little difficulty determining the exact song he was singing. He had a few words right but the rest of the lyrics were replaced with da-da-daa, da-de-duh. And the tune was slightly off. Apparently, this boy and I have something in common when it comes to remembering the words of a song. I can usually recreate the tune, but the lyrics, title and performer often escape me. Eventually I was able to identify the song, and now the student's random musical stylings have been firmly imprinted in my memory. I think I hear him singing in my dreams now. I hope this isn't a permanent condition.

Click on the arrow below to hear the song, but be careful...you could be the next victim.

I didn't actually have a bad day, even though I've come to the conclusion that an "in-school suspension" is definitely more punitive for the supervising adults than the child. I don't think the "suspendee" had such a bad day either. He seemed enjoy his captive audience. And even though we did not "engage" him, we did listen. Over and over, again. And then, a few more times on top of that.

Guess what I just discovered how to do? That's right. Now I can change the color of my text to any of 70 preselected colors. Exciting! Can't decide if this is an enhancement, or just an irritating novelty. I think the latter. I'll be back in my black and white world next time. Without musical accompaniment. Or maybe just a different tune.

Sun, Surf and Snow!

2008-01-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

Paul and I got up early this morning and drove down to Santa Monica to have breakfast with our favorite business traveler. Nora flew down to promote her auction house at Art LA and meet potential clients and vendors. She is strengthening her networking skills, and literally bumped into Steve Martin while looking at a painting. Fun job, Nora!

We have been besieged by torrential rains and cold weather (at least by Santa Barbara standards) and this morning was a sunny break in the gloom. The drive down to Santa Monica was gorgeous–the ocean and palm trees on one side, and snowy mountains on the other. Amazing to see strawberries growing next to the highway against a background of snow. I'm glad we got a chance to enjoy the sun today...heavy rain is supposed to arrive again tonight.

In keeping with my intention to make 2008 the year of positive choices I focused on physical improvements this week. A physical, an eye exam and a mammogram on the schedule for next week. I'd procrastinated about these appointments for a while, so I'm pleased to have them behind me. Unfortunately, I have some icky follow-up tests...

Just finished Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Eat, Pray, Love. Gilbert's spiritual and emotional journey intrigued me, and her statement that "happiness is the consequence of personal effort" struck home. If I were in the market for a mantra, I think that might be a good one. My recent "personal efforts" include continuing this blog and trying to take pictures to illustrate it. Here is my artful attempt to capture the strange beauty of a Santa Monica parking garage. Art LA should be calling any day now.

Hillary!

2008-01-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

When I wrote about Renaissance Women last week I had no idea that I'd have a chance to see Hillary Clinton up close and personal this week. Hillary surprised Santa Barbara with a last minute visit to UCSB. I was excited when Paul called to tell me he was meeting with campus officials and Clinton staff to arrange one of Senator Clinton's "town hall" meetings for Thursday night at the Rec Center on campus. I desperately wanted to be included in the small audience. This was a chance to listen to the woman who might be the first female president of the United States. It was also an opportunity for me to finalize my voting decision for the California Primary on February 5th.

Paul called me Thursday at noon to let me know that I was among the chosen. I met him on campus in the early evening and we walked over to the event with a colleague from his office. We were on the VIP list which basically entitled us to a guaranteed seat and a shorter wait in line. It also meant enduring the disorganization of Clinton's enthusiastic and very young staff. At one point we were all asked "step away from the door" and take five steps back. Not exactly the way donors and "dignitaries" are used to being treated.

Hillary was very late. We were seated shortly after 6 p.m. and she didn't arrive until after 8 p.m. We indulged in a lot of people-watching, and listened to loud music that inspired a few random fans to dance in the aisles. Mildly entertaining, and very Santa Barbara. Students were paraded in and seated behind the platform where Clinton would speak, and just before her arrival they were handed signs--"Women for Hillary," "Clinton Country," and even a selection of hand-made ones that were clearly not made by any of the students holding them. I don't consider myself to be naive but the calculated staging of the event seemed excessive. Especially since all of us in the audience were witnessing everything. The signs weren't meant for us, but they were the perfect manufactured background.

Almost disproportionate to the size of the audience was the media coverage. Enthusiastic student reporters holding their official journalist notebooks and interviewing almost anyone wearing a tie, competed with a platform of videographers and photographers that stretched across the entire back of the room. After Hillary finally arrived a contingent of reporters who must have been traveling with her filed in and took their positions along another wall. I looked today in several papers for mention of her UCSB campaign stop but most of the coverage seemed to be local. I have to admit I was kind of thrilled when a friend told me she spotted the back of my head on the KEYT broadcast.

Now, onto the important stuff. Hillary was impressive. Although I'm sure she'd given this speech or a variation of it many times before she seemed natural, intelligent and articulate. It was pleasing to hear a woman's voice narrating the future of our country, and I could easily imagine her as my president. She was genuinely responsive to the questioners (although several of them were most likely planted in the audience), she was humorous, and at times, inspirational. And, even though I know she probably doesn't appreciate being evaluated this way, Senator Clinton was also very attractive and more petite than she appears on T.V.

The event ended with Hillary doing an exit round of handshakes to the members of the front row. She'd already shaken a lot of hands that day at the two other events she'd completed prior to arriving in Santa Barbara. I didn't attempt to ask any questions and didn't push my way forward to shake her hand. My only outward display of enthusiasm was to take 18 pictures. Unfortunately, only two of them didn't come out looking like I was taking them in the middle of an earthquake. Here's hoping Hillary's leadership skills far surpass my inadequate attempts to capture their essence in a photograph.