You Don't Have to Run...

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.

Sliding Standards?

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.

Out of Context

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.

Exciting Monday

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.

Creative Spaces

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

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?

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.

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!

NIBEM 8: Simple Pleasures

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

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.

So You Had a Bad Day...

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.