Loss of Serendipity

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.

Processing Portland

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.

And a Plague on Your House...

There is nothing like an illness to bring out my maternal instincts, even if my lovely daughter is a full-fledged adult. On Sunday night Nora called and mentioned she had some bites on her legs. I asked if she had "bites" on any other parts of her body. Her affirmative response led me to don my "Medical Mom" nursing cap and diagnose Chicken Pox. As the photos below document (I apologize for the poor clarity) Nora already had chicken pox as a four-month-old baby. We hadn't anticipated a second round at age 24.













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!

Breakfast and Compromise

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

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

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.

Oprah, Wedding Dresses, and the Crafty Mind

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?

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer 2008

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

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

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."

Due North

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!

Vacay!

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.

St. Patrick's Day

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.

Cheers to February!

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

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 11: Mind Games

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 9: Digging Up Life

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.

NIEBM 6: February 5th

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.