Glorious, breathtaking, awe inspiring! The splendor of the sun-kissed scene that greeted me this morning was indescribable. Overnight, after days of damp gray dullness, golden leaves from the willow oak across the street adorned the ground, sprinkled the street, and sparkled in the shrubs like sequins on a denim jacket. The yellow gingko glistened in the light. I wanted to dance and twirl with leaves borne by the warm wind that lifted my hair and filled me with joy.
The world was blessed with a luminescence that sent me into the house for my camera. I didn’t snatch the camera and run out into that magnificent day as I wanted to. No, I began my yoga stretches, gazing out the window at the reds and golds of Japanese maples and crepe myrtles against the background of Foster hollies with their red berries shining in glossy green leaves. As I stretched, grayness returned and hid the glory of the sun. The trees no longer shone with jewel rich colors. In a matter of minutes, the unexpected marvel of the morning was gone, and I had missed the chance to capture it on film.
During the high that possessed me while the sun did its magic, I thought I wanted those bright, effervescent colors all over my house. Paint the walls with the reds, oranges, golds of exuberance. Then I remembered a previous fall season that seemed to last forever before the autumn colors faded and disappeared. I had loved the glowing colors that delighted my eyes and filled my heart, but after several weeks of such mind-boggling vivid colors, I found myself longing for the serenity of the more common blues and greens of the landscape.
That must be why God in his infinite wisdom gives us glorious mountain peak experiences for only a short while. We just can’t handle more. After the grayness took over this morning and the rain poured down, I was content to sit here in my chair at the computer and write. I’d never get anything done if I were out dancing with the leaves all day.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Original Seven
I thoroughly enjoyed the SCBWI Midsouth Fall Conference in Nashville and was so pumped up afterwards that I could hardly wait to get back home to my computer. That’s why I’ve had to neglect this blog. I was up to my ears in revision of my novel that Kaylan Adair of Candlewick Press critiqued for me. Her interest in my story inspired me to revise it once again. I say once again because the manuscript would not be recognizable now to anybody who read the first lackluster draft. It has changed quite a bit since my critique group saw it.
One of the best things about the conference was being with my group again. Only two of the seven members had met before we were assigned as a critique group at the conference last year. Amazingly, we fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Because we live miles apart in three different states, we have been critiquing by email for the past year.
Why does the Original Seven, as we call our group, work so well? All of the members are good writers and respect each other’s writing. They have the basic skills, knowledge, and an unselfish willingness that makes them good critique partners. They carefully go over a manuscript and make suggestions to improve it in a way that makes the writer want to consider using their suggestions whether it is to improve the flow, correct grammar mistakes, eliminate erroneous information, or spark up the story. Plus, they accept criticism and consider every suggestion from the others without becoming defensive or antagonistic. We all know suggestions or corrections in this critique group are given to help the writer improve the manuscript.
Members of the Original Seven are similar in our love for writing and the desire to write novels for young people, but we are all individuals with different backgrounds, writing styles, and genre preferences. We know the others are always there, as close as our keyboards, and we know they will answer our calls for assistance whether it’s a question about writing, editors, agents, or research. We trust each other, and I love being a part of the Original Seven.
Who are these critique paragons? In the photo at the top, they are: Ruta Sepetys, Grace E. Howell, Christi Atherton, David Jarvis, Beth Dotson Brown, Maria Hurt, and Joyce Lansky.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sliding Along
This morning I woke with a word in my mouth. I love words, take them to heart, adopt them, work with them–but this one woke me from a sound sleep. It lay there on my tongue as I tried to decide whether to spit it out, swallow it, or digest it. I was still half asleep when the word spread its invasive tentacles through my mind. I could think of nothing else.
Slide. That’s the word, a simple five letter one that comes with a hiss, fills your mouth, and ends like the closing of a door. What does it mean? Is it the gradual downward trend of company profits, the sudden out-of-control slipping of an auto on an icy street, or the rush of a runner on the ground speeding into second base?
Some people slide through life on an even keel at a steady pace with little effort, excitement, or tension. They take what they get and are happy to be where they are. Others don’t slide at all. They seize control, have goals and refuse to let anything change their courses or thwart their plans. Sadly, these power-driven controllers may miss the joy of unexpected blessings passed up or ignored along the way.
Then there are others like me who have goals and look to the future, but are firmly anchored in the present. I'm thankful for every day as a time to enjoy being alive in the beautiful world we live in. I appreciate my ever-active, creative mind that makes me curious and eager to know everybody and everything. I love my writing time when I’m alone with thoughts pouring out, but I also crave the company of others and want to share their lives.
Most of all, I want to be what I was made to be and to accomplish all I am meant to do. At times I feel I’m sliding along, not moving fast enough toward completion, like the pineapple pie that my family loves. I make that pie from ingredients waiting in the kitchen or on a pantry shelf. When the pie’s ready, I slide it into the oven. After what seems a long time, its mouth-watering aroma tells me it’s done. The filling is slightly tinged with brown, just solid enough not to jiggle, and surrounded with a lovely brown crust. A pie sure to please my family as much as it does me.
My life seems to be at the sloshy stage of the pie when the ingredients are all in place but they just haven’t jelled yet. My goal is to reach the point of doneness where I am all my maker planned for me to be.
Slide. That’s the word, a simple five letter one that comes with a hiss, fills your mouth, and ends like the closing of a door. What does it mean? Is it the gradual downward trend of company profits, the sudden out-of-control slipping of an auto on an icy street, or the rush of a runner on the ground speeding into second base?
Some people slide through life on an even keel at a steady pace with little effort, excitement, or tension. They take what they get and are happy to be where they are. Others don’t slide at all. They seize control, have goals and refuse to let anything change their courses or thwart their plans. Sadly, these power-driven controllers may miss the joy of unexpected blessings passed up or ignored along the way.
Then there are others like me who have goals and look to the future, but are firmly anchored in the present. I'm thankful for every day as a time to enjoy being alive in the beautiful world we live in. I appreciate my ever-active, creative mind that makes me curious and eager to know everybody and everything. I love my writing time when I’m alone with thoughts pouring out, but I also crave the company of others and want to share their lives.
Most of all, I want to be what I was made to be and to accomplish all I am meant to do. At times I feel I’m sliding along, not moving fast enough toward completion, like the pineapple pie that my family loves. I make that pie from ingredients waiting in the kitchen or on a pantry shelf. When the pie’s ready, I slide it into the oven. After what seems a long time, its mouth-watering aroma tells me it’s done. The filling is slightly tinged with brown, just solid enough not to jiggle, and surrounded with a lovely brown crust. A pie sure to please my family as much as it does me.
My life seems to be at the sloshy stage of the pie when the ingredients are all in place but they just haven’t jelled yet. My goal is to reach the point of doneness where I am all my maker planned for me to be.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Follow the Leader
Sunday, Frank and I spent a while in the twilight zone, driving up and down one of the busiest roads in Mississippi looking for the turn-off that led to my cousin Erie’s house. You’d think that in a city next door to Memphis you’d see street signs pointing the way to anywhere you wanted to go. There were posts, white concrete posts standing guard at corners, pure white sentinels unblemished by the slightest hint of black or any other color. Could the street names have been washed away by the torrential rains we’ve had for days? To make matters worse, a few naked metal posts meant to bear a street name at the top had lost their identities.
After turning down every road on the south side several times and finding no trace of the house we knew had to be there, Frank finally pulled out his trusty cell phone and announced to our daughter, “We’re lost.” That was a historic first. We’d driven all over the country and he’d never before admitted we were lost. And we were practically in our own backyard. I’d been kicking myself in the head for not bringing Erie’s phone number, and Frank was bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have his maps in the car. I wonder when we’ll get a GPS so we won’t have to worry about getting lost.
When we finally reached our destination, we were hustled to the table where we enjoyed a delicious meal and a delightful conversation about wasp stings and other fascinating topics. Erie’s hand was swollen to twice its size due to an encounter with a yellow jacket.
Meanwhile through the window, a fowl sight met our eyes. Perched on the porch railing, the pickup truck, and the mailbox were a boldly colored rooster and his harem of ladies all attired in various styles and colors of chicken fashion. Chosen for their variety and unique appearance, the chickens were all young, hatched in April. They had joined the family for two reasons, to adorn the landscape and to provide eggs for the family.
After lunch, we toured the backyard, admiring the latest in chicken housing and amenities. Darrell, the Golden Crested Polish rooster, resplendent in his red, black, dark blue plumage gleaming with a touch of gold and a mop a rock star would admire adorning his head, presented his harem for review.
First came the plump, brownish Ameraucanas with their eyes peering over muffs and beards around their faces. Then the Buttercups with their golden necks held high strutted by. A little Japanese Phoenix, her striking silver head and neck feathers contrasting with a black body and tail, seemed to be a loner as did the pretty little Rhode Island Red pecking at the ground here and there to find the perfect tidbit. Cochin puffballs covered with feathers, even their legs, were as sweet and docile as they looked. The most noticeable of the flock and the most active were the White Leghorns with their dazzling white feathers, slim necks and bare yellow legs.
The flock certainly was an entertaining sight. All those of various breeds and temperaments were living together in harmony, guarded and protected by Darrell the magnificent. When he called, the hens came running whether it was to escape a hawk or to feast on a treat of cracked corn. His ladies trust Darrell, rely on his protection, and follow his commands.
When we finally reached our destination, we were hustled to the table where we enjoyed a delicious meal and a delightful conversation about wasp stings and other fascinating topics. Erie’s hand was swollen to twice its size due to an encounter with a yellow jacket.
Meanwhile through the window, a fowl sight met our eyes. Perched on the porch railing, the pickup truck, and the mailbox were a boldly colored rooster and his harem of ladies all attired in various styles and colors of chicken fashion. Chosen for their variety and unique appearance, the chickens were all young, hatched in April. They had joined the family for two reasons, to adorn the landscape and to provide eggs for the family.
After lunch, we toured the backyard, admiring the latest in chicken housing and amenities. Darrell, the Golden Crested Polish rooster, resplendent in his red, black, dark blue plumage gleaming with a touch of gold and a mop a rock star would admire adorning his head, presented his harem for review.
First came the plump, brownish Ameraucanas with their eyes peering over muffs and beards around their faces. Then the Buttercups with their golden necks held high strutted by. A little Japanese Phoenix, her striking silver head and neck feathers contrasting with a black body and tail, seemed to be a loner as did the pretty little Rhode Island Red pecking at the ground here and there to find the perfect tidbit. Cochin puffballs covered with feathers, even their legs, were as sweet and docile as they looked. The most noticeable of the flock and the most active were the White Leghorns with their dazzling white feathers, slim necks and bare yellow legs.
The flock certainly was an entertaining sight. All those of various breeds and temperaments were living together in harmony, guarded and protected by Darrell the magnificent. When he called, the hens came running whether it was to escape a hawk or to feast on a treat of cracked corn. His ladies trust Darrell, rely on his protection, and follow his commands.
The photo at the top is Erie with Darrell
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sneak Attack
Yesterday, I did it again, walked outside on a lovely summer afternoon, unprotected. I didn’t forget my sunscreen, and it wasn’t a guy in a black mask who attacked me or a couple of pit bulls. I was assaulted by villains made bold in their invisibility.
I had strolled into my own backyard to check on a newly planted fig tree. I stopped to admire my latest horticultural interest, a group of sedums in my grandmother’s antique urns. Then I continued on around the garden, pulling a weed or two and dreaming of changing the once sunny garden into a shady one, a necessary project caused by tremendous growth of neighbors’ trees surrounding my little green space and blocking the sun.
A stabbing pain hit my ankle, and I hurried inside, knowing I had been discovered and was considered fair game. Before I could collapse into my recliner, I realized I’d been ravished by unseen carnivorous creatures lurking in secret, primed to attack any warm-blooded being in the vicinity.
I thought I’d escaped with a single bite, but before I could douse it with alcohol, a burning sting erupted up and down both arms around my ankles and my feet. I’d stupidly worn flip-flops and a short sleeve shirt. It was all my fault. I broke my number one personal rule. Never go outside in the summer without spraying or rubbing on insect repellent. Not for a second.
As I sat there watching welts the size of nickels pop up on my arms, I scratched like crazy and wondered why life is so unfair. Some people, my husband Frank for example, are not bothered by mosquitoes. Then I thought how fortunate I am to live now with DEET repellents available and mosquito controls in effect. Not that they always work, and who wants to constantly contaminate our air and water with chemicals to kill mosquitoes?
In the 1800s Memphis was nearly wiped out by Yellow Fever spread by mosquitoes. So few people were left that they had to give up the city charter. Recently we had a scare of West Nile Virus carried by mosquitoes. The vile creatures can carry any number of diseases, but I have to think the ones who bit me are innocent, just hungry.
News flash! Frank just informed me that my bites probably didn’t come from mosquitoes, but from no-see-ums, the tiny, almost invisible flies that set a person or an animal on fire with their bites. I guess I’m luckier than many. My itchy bumps were completely gone in about thirty minutes. Whew! What a relief!
Oh, well, I guess mosquitoes have to eat, and no-see-ums too.
I had strolled into my own backyard to check on a newly planted fig tree. I stopped to admire my latest horticultural interest, a group of sedums in my grandmother’s antique urns. Then I continued on around the garden, pulling a weed or two and dreaming of changing the once sunny garden into a shady one, a necessary project caused by tremendous growth of neighbors’ trees surrounding my little green space and blocking the sun.
A stabbing pain hit my ankle, and I hurried inside, knowing I had been discovered and was considered fair game. Before I could collapse into my recliner, I realized I’d been ravished by unseen carnivorous creatures lurking in secret, primed to attack any warm-blooded being in the vicinity.
I thought I’d escaped with a single bite, but before I could douse it with alcohol, a burning sting erupted up and down both arms around my ankles and my feet. I’d stupidly worn flip-flops and a short sleeve shirt. It was all my fault. I broke my number one personal rule. Never go outside in the summer without spraying or rubbing on insect repellent. Not for a second.
As I sat there watching welts the size of nickels pop up on my arms, I scratched like crazy and wondered why life is so unfair. Some people, my husband Frank for example, are not bothered by mosquitoes. Then I thought how fortunate I am to live now with DEET repellents available and mosquito controls in effect. Not that they always work, and who wants to constantly contaminate our air and water with chemicals to kill mosquitoes?
In the 1800s Memphis was nearly wiped out by Yellow Fever spread by mosquitoes. So few people were left that they had to give up the city charter. Recently we had a scare of West Nile Virus carried by mosquitoes. The vile creatures can carry any number of diseases, but I have to think the ones who bit me are innocent, just hungry.
News flash! Frank just informed me that my bites probably didn’t come from mosquitoes, but from no-see-ums, the tiny, almost invisible flies that set a person or an animal on fire with their bites. I guess I’m luckier than many. My itchy bumps were completely gone in about thirty minutes. Whew! What a relief!
Oh, well, I guess mosquitoes have to eat, and no-see-ums too.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wow, Anzac Biscuits!
Yesterday, People of the Book by Pulitzer prize winning Geraldine Brooks was my book club’s book of the month. In the novel, an Australian rare book restorer becomes fascinated with the Sarajevo Haggadah as she begins working with it. Crumbs of evidence in it lead her to trace the book’s history back from its rescue in war-torn Sarajevo to its beginning in 1480 Seville.
Everybody in the book club found something in the book that spoke especially to her. One liked the dramatic stories of the people who created the Haggadah and risked their lives to keep it safe. Another liked the way the author wove the restorer’s emotion-filled personal life into tracing the book’s history. Someone else was impressed with the knowledge she gained from reading People of the Book, experiencing events and the feel of times in the story while unconsciously absorbing such information as the origin of the word vermillion. I was taken by the voice of Brooks and the way she wove the story into an easy, fun-to-read adventure novel. We all agreed the book was a great selection for our group.
I was the hostess and had decided to serve Australian and Mediterranean snacks, such as grapes, hummus with olives and rosemary, and stuffed dates. Since I didn’t know anything about Aussie food, I went to the Net and found that next to beer the most popular diet item was something called Anzac biscuits. The recipe looked easy so I whipped up a batch that turned out to be a kind of coconut oatmeal cookie. The book club ladies raved about the Anzac biscuits and begged for the recipe. So I obliged, and it’s below for you adventurous bakers.
Ever curious, I later did some research and learned that the biscuits are also called “soldiers’ biscuits” and go back to the Gallipoli Campaign of World War I. The name, Anzac, stands for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. The biscuits were adapted from an old Scottish recipe by mothers, wives and sweethearts in Australia who were afraid that their loved soldiers were not getting nutritious food to eat. The biscuits had to be edible after two months travel time to the battlefields, and they were. Anzac biscuits are still used by backpackers and campers for this reason. The rest of us just love the taste of them.
Anzac Biscuits
1 stick of butter
1 overflowing tbsp. molasses
3/4 cu. sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tbsp. boiling water
3/4 cu. flaked coconut
1 cu. quick oats
3/4 cu. flour
Dissolve baking soda in boiling water. In a saucepan melt butter, molasses, and sugar, mixing together. Stir in soda and water. Remove from heat. Add coconut, oats, and flour. Mix well. Drop by large teaspoons onto a greased baking sheet. Bake in 350 degree oven for about 6-8 minutes, until slightly brown around the edges.
Everybody in the book club found something in the book that spoke especially to her. One liked the dramatic stories of the people who created the Haggadah and risked their lives to keep it safe. Another liked the way the author wove the restorer’s emotion-filled personal life into tracing the book’s history. Someone else was impressed with the knowledge she gained from reading People of the Book, experiencing events and the feel of times in the story while unconsciously absorbing such information as the origin of the word vermillion. I was taken by the voice of Brooks and the way she wove the story into an easy, fun-to-read adventure novel. We all agreed the book was a great selection for our group.
I was the hostess and had decided to serve Australian and Mediterranean snacks, such as grapes, hummus with olives and rosemary, and stuffed dates. Since I didn’t know anything about Aussie food, I went to the Net and found that next to beer the most popular diet item was something called Anzac biscuits. The recipe looked easy so I whipped up a batch that turned out to be a kind of coconut oatmeal cookie. The book club ladies raved about the Anzac biscuits and begged for the recipe. So I obliged, and it’s below for you adventurous bakers.
Ever curious, I later did some research and learned that the biscuits are also called “soldiers’ biscuits” and go back to the Gallipoli Campaign of World War I. The name, Anzac, stands for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. The biscuits were adapted from an old Scottish recipe by mothers, wives and sweethearts in Australia who were afraid that their loved soldiers were not getting nutritious food to eat. The biscuits had to be edible after two months travel time to the battlefields, and they were. Anzac biscuits are still used by backpackers and campers for this reason. The rest of us just love the taste of them.
Anzac Biscuits
1 stick of butter
1 overflowing tbsp. molasses
3/4 cu. sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tbsp. boiling water
3/4 cu. flaked coconut
1 cu. quick oats
3/4 cu. flour
Dissolve baking soda in boiling water. In a saucepan melt butter, molasses, and sugar, mixing together. Stir in soda and water. Remove from heat. Add coconut, oats, and flour. Mix well. Drop by large teaspoons onto a greased baking sheet. Bake in 350 degree oven for about 6-8 minutes, until slightly brown around the edges.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Dawn Will Come
What a shock! Two days ago, when I went to my website at www.graceehowell.com, it was gone. In its place was a black and white amateurish mish-mash. I could not believe it! My precious website had vanished, lost in the darkness of cyberspace.
Here's what happened. When True Friends was published in 2005, my publisher wanted me to have a website, and they set one up for me. Less than a year later, at my request, they handed the website at Netfirms over to me. My grandson Dave became my webmaster, and I paid Netfirms for hosting. I asked the publisher about paying for the domain, and was told not to worry about it that I'd receive a notice before payment was due. I never received a notice.
Only after someone else was using my domain, did I learn from Netfirms that they did not provide the domain. That's when I heard about Godaddy and Sunil Nandal, who now holds my domain. I don't know who was paying Godaddy for the domain these last four years, and I guess now it doesn't really matter.
The hard lesson I've learned is: Be sure you know who holds your domain, when payment is due, and who will pay. Now I have a new domain that I registered and will continue to pay for.
My old website is actually safe at Netfirms, but it is too hard for me to handle without a lot of help. So for my new domain, I'm planning a totally new website, one I can manage on my own and change without help. Now I'm cramming like a college student before exams trying to learn enough to create a website. Hopefully, before the next century, I'll learn enough to put a simple website on line. Until then I'll see you here at my blog.
Here's what happened. When True Friends was published in 2005, my publisher wanted me to have a website, and they set one up for me. Less than a year later, at my request, they handed the website at Netfirms over to me. My grandson Dave became my webmaster, and I paid Netfirms for hosting. I asked the publisher about paying for the domain, and was told not to worry about it that I'd receive a notice before payment was due. I never received a notice.
Only after someone else was using my domain, did I learn from Netfirms that they did not provide the domain. That's when I heard about Godaddy and Sunil Nandal, who now holds my domain. I don't know who was paying Godaddy for the domain these last four years, and I guess now it doesn't really matter.
The hard lesson I've learned is: Be sure you know who holds your domain, when payment is due, and who will pay. Now I have a new domain that I registered and will continue to pay for.
My old website is actually safe at Netfirms, but it is too hard for me to handle without a lot of help. So for my new domain, I'm planning a totally new website, one I can manage on my own and change without help. Now I'm cramming like a college student before exams trying to learn enough to create a website. Hopefully, before the next century, I'll learn enough to put a simple website on line. Until then I'll see you here at my blog.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A Visit with Eudora Welty
Books on the piano, books on chairs and sofas, books on the dining room table, every shelf overflowing with books. A myriad of them greets visitors to the home of Eudora Welty, the Pulitzer prize winner who came home to write. Her house and garden were her sanctuary, her refuge where she always returned after a bustling trip to meet people, accept awards, or charm another audience.
Yesterday I returned to Eudora Welty’s Tudor style home on a shaded street of vintage houses in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was there five years ago with Kathy James and Rebecca Godwin, plans were underway to open the house to the public, but the yard and the garden were all we could enter.
Since then the house next door has been purchased and turned into the Eudora Welty welcome and visitors’ center with an introductory film and displays of her many awards, keepsakes, correspondence with friends, and lots of pictures. Both Lorna Schmidt and I could have spent ages taking in everything in the visitors’ center, but we were politely informed that it was time for our tour of the house. We had to go back later to see all the fascinating material in the center.
Two well-informed and very enthusiastic docents led us through Eudora’s house, exactly as she left it with all her books, furniture, art, and papers intact. Her plain white walls and tall windows with shades and filmy curtains, her collection of paintings and mementoes from family and friends, her kitchen with not a modern convenience in sight told us that she was a woman who cherished simple things like a note from a friend.
On the dining room table were several typewritten pages edited in her handwriting with strikeouts and arrows, words written in. It was easy to see that she was a writer like the rest of us, changing a first draft again and again. A sample of her writing, with paragraphs cut apart, rearranged, and stapled together to improve the flow, was there to see. I remembered when I used the same old, cut-and-paste method before I became a strict computer writer.
When we visited the garden behind the house, I found that the far back had been cleared of brush and bamboo, and a replica of the playhouse Eudora’s brother built had been placed there where she enjoyed so many quiet times among the plants she tended and included in her stories.
The one thing I missed from my previous visit was a row of bright orange-red flowers beside the garden house. When I asked about them, I was told they’d been dug to separate and replant. Then, gardener that I am, I was delighted to receive a bag of montbretia corms from the garden of Eudora Welty to plant in my own garden.
Yesterday I returned to Eudora Welty’s Tudor style home on a shaded street of vintage houses in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was there five years ago with Kathy James and Rebecca Godwin, plans were underway to open the house to the public, but the yard and the garden were all we could enter.
Since then the house next door has been purchased and turned into the Eudora Welty welcome and visitors’ center with an introductory film and displays of her many awards, keepsakes, correspondence with friends, and lots of pictures. Both Lorna Schmidt and I could have spent ages taking in everything in the visitors’ center, but we were politely informed that it was time for our tour of the house. We had to go back later to see all the fascinating material in the center.
Two well-informed and very enthusiastic docents led us through Eudora’s house, exactly as she left it with all her books, furniture, art, and papers intact. Her plain white walls and tall windows with shades and filmy curtains, her collection of paintings and mementoes from family and friends, her kitchen with not a modern convenience in sight told us that she was a woman who cherished simple things like a note from a friend.
On the dining room table were several typewritten pages edited in her handwriting with strikeouts and arrows, words written in. It was easy to see that she was a writer like the rest of us, changing a first draft again and again. A sample of her writing, with paragraphs cut apart, rearranged, and stapled together to improve the flow, was there to see. I remembered when I used the same old, cut-and-paste method before I became a strict computer writer.
When we visited the garden behind the house, I found that the far back had been cleared of brush and bamboo, and a replica of the playhouse Eudora’s brother built had been placed there where she enjoyed so many quiet times among the plants she tended and included in her stories.
The one thing I missed from my previous visit was a row of bright orange-red flowers beside the garden house. When I asked about them, I was told they’d been dug to separate and replant. Then, gardener that I am, I was delighted to receive a bag of montbretia corms from the garden of Eudora Welty to plant in my own garden.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Place of the Muses
I walked today at Gaisman for the first time in years, and memories of slender saplings, too young for shade, came pouring back. The little trees that saw my young cherubs run from slides to swings, where they squealed with delight as I pushed, now spread their leafy arms high overhead.
Dusty softball fields that heard the crack of the bat sending the ball into the outfield and the pop of another strike in the catcher’s mitt are covered with grass. The old bleachers where I sat cheering every strike that Joyce pitched are now grayed and crumbling. But Gaisman is still very much alive with walkers and runners scattered along the track like cars on a Sunday afternoon and families gathered at the new red and yellow jungle gym with its cushioned floor, no longer a place of skinned knees and elbows.
The sun was warm and a breeze lifted my damp hair as I rounded the old brick pavilion. I remembered True Friends (2005) and how the characters came to me while I walked there. That was where I knew Annie Lou Davis had a story to tell. I’ll never forget the day I swiped away a flood of tears, tears for a death that changed Annie’s life.
Another day under the trees at Gaisman, I met King and his owner. My work in progress, Stuck Together, had a pair of huskies in a major role, and I’d never met a Siberian husky. After getting to know King from his blue eyes to his tail curled over his back, I was pleased to see a real husky was exactly as I had written Taka and Yukon, even his behavior, according the man at the other end of his leash.
Today, following doctor’s orders to walk more each day while my back heals from surgery, I rediscovered the jewel in my neighborhood, Gaisman Park. Walking there is not only good for the body but the soul and mind as well. It opens the doors of my psyche, refreshes me and allows me to listen to the characters in my head and give them a story.
Dusty softball fields that heard the crack of the bat sending the ball into the outfield and the pop of another strike in the catcher’s mitt are covered with grass. The old bleachers where I sat cheering every strike that Joyce pitched are now grayed and crumbling. But Gaisman is still very much alive with walkers and runners scattered along the track like cars on a Sunday afternoon and families gathered at the new red and yellow jungle gym with its cushioned floor, no longer a place of skinned knees and elbows.
The sun was warm and a breeze lifted my damp hair as I rounded the old brick pavilion. I remembered True Friends (2005) and how the characters came to me while I walked there. That was where I knew Annie Lou Davis had a story to tell. I’ll never forget the day I swiped away a flood of tears, tears for a death that changed Annie’s life.
Another day under the trees at Gaisman, I met King and his owner. My work in progress, Stuck Together, had a pair of huskies in a major role, and I’d never met a Siberian husky. After getting to know King from his blue eyes to his tail curled over his back, I was pleased to see a real husky was exactly as I had written Taka and Yukon, even his behavior, according the man at the other end of his leash.
Today, following doctor’s orders to walk more each day while my back heals from surgery, I rediscovered the jewel in my neighborhood, Gaisman Park. Walking there is not only good for the body but the soul and mind as well. It opens the doors of my psyche, refreshes me and allows me to listen to the characters in my head and give them a story.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
John Calipari goes, Josh Pastner comes
He abandoned her for one who moved with a more prestigious crowd, and Memphis mourned for John Calipari. She had pledged herself and remained devoted to him. She followed him and depended on him. Every word he said she took to heart. He was her one and only. Then, after he escorted her to the grand ball in March, after he defended her from those who ridiculed her circle of friends, Cal left.
Stunned at his desertion, Memphis sighed and cried. She ranted, raved, and accused him of infidelity. How could he do such a thing after nine years of success and happiness together? How could he leave without an explanation? It seems Kentucky was his first love, and he was flattered that she finally looked his way. Memphis held her head high. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Cal,” she said through her tears.
Determined not to sit and mope, Memphis polished her image and looked around for another shining star. Rejection after rejection ate away at her self esteem until her resilience was crushed. Nobody wanted her; everyone thought she was a has been or a never was. A shot of Calipari confidence was all she needed, but Cal had given that to Kentucky.
Wait, a glimmer of interest sparkled on the bench. Could it be? A replacement for the mercurial John Calipari so close at hand? The eager young face of Josh Pastner, obscured by Cal’s shadow, intrigued Memphis. A flirtation began. Josh was intelligent, likable, competent. Yes, he wanted Memphis, and she wanted him. Brushing aside her tears and hoping for a bright future with Josh Pastner, Memphis was bouncing back. She wondered what it will be like to waltz into next year’s ball, a confident winner, escorted by Josh Pastner.
Stunned at his desertion, Memphis sighed and cried. She ranted, raved, and accused him of infidelity. How could he do such a thing after nine years of success and happiness together? How could he leave without an explanation? It seems Kentucky was his first love, and he was flattered that she finally looked his way. Memphis held her head high. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Cal,” she said through her tears.
Determined not to sit and mope, Memphis polished her image and looked around for another shining star. Rejection after rejection ate away at her self esteem until her resilience was crushed. Nobody wanted her; everyone thought she was a has been or a never was. A shot of Calipari confidence was all she needed, but Cal had given that to Kentucky.
Wait, a glimmer of interest sparkled on the bench. Could it be? A replacement for the mercurial John Calipari so close at hand? The eager young face of Josh Pastner, obscured by Cal’s shadow, intrigued Memphis. A flirtation began. Josh was intelligent, likable, competent. Yes, he wanted Memphis, and she wanted him. Brushing aside her tears and hoping for a bright future with Josh Pastner, Memphis was bouncing back. She wondered what it will be like to waltz into next year’s ball, a confident winner, escorted by Josh Pastner.
Monday, March 23, 2009
New and Improved
In the last post, I talked about rousing this blog and bringing it new life. Since then I’ve been rousing myself, to create a new me. Not that there was anything drastically wrong with the old me, but I think it’s time for a new and improved model, sleeker, up-to-date, more effective.
All my life I’ve rushed from one thing to another with never a minute to catch my breath. So much to do and not enough time. That was my motto. I’ve finally realized that I don’t have to do everything. I can actually choose what to do and, more important, what not to do.
“Lucky, lucky, lucky me. I’m a lucky son of a gun. I work eight hours, and I sleep eight hours, and I have eight hours for fun.” Those words from an old song may tell how life’s supposed to be. But I seemed to be working all the time except the six, or at a stretch, seven hours I slept, a restless sleep that left me weary in the morning. If I stopped even a minute during the day, my eyes would go to half mast and my brain would follow. Then I’d race around trying to make up for lost time. Sleep deprived, that’s what they call it.
With the new me, I now let my engine stop racing and do a little body work before I pull into the garage at night. I force myself away from the computer at least an hour before my sleep start-time. I think it’s working. My motor is not quite so sluggish in the mornings and I don’t get stalled during the day. Plus I’m actually getting more done.
In this self-directed decluttering of my life, I’m dividing everything into three piles, keep, give away, and throw away. Believe me this is harder than bringing order to a messy house. So far in the keep pile, I have my family, my writing, my gardening, and my church, not exactly in that order. Among the giveaways is my doing everything that somebody else doesn’t do. The throw-aways include living up to expectations of other people and being a perfectionist, both extremely hard to give up.
As I look back at the keeps, I see that I need to prune away my useless, time-consuming, mind cluttering practices and adopt more a more productive modus operandi with my family, my writing, my garden, and my church. Not to neglect any of these, but to bring my best work in each area to a higher level, making me happier and my life more enjoyable. Gardeners know that a little judicious pruning now and then allows much healthier, more fruitful growth.
Stay with me and see what happens.
All my life I’ve rushed from one thing to another with never a minute to catch my breath. So much to do and not enough time. That was my motto. I’ve finally realized that I don’t have to do everything. I can actually choose what to do and, more important, what not to do.
“Lucky, lucky, lucky me. I’m a lucky son of a gun. I work eight hours, and I sleep eight hours, and I have eight hours for fun.” Those words from an old song may tell how life’s supposed to be. But I seemed to be working all the time except the six, or at a stretch, seven hours I slept, a restless sleep that left me weary in the morning. If I stopped even a minute during the day, my eyes would go to half mast and my brain would follow. Then I’d race around trying to make up for lost time. Sleep deprived, that’s what they call it.
With the new me, I now let my engine stop racing and do a little body work before I pull into the garage at night. I force myself away from the computer at least an hour before my sleep start-time. I think it’s working. My motor is not quite so sluggish in the mornings and I don’t get stalled during the day. Plus I’m actually getting more done.
In this self-directed decluttering of my life, I’m dividing everything into three piles, keep, give away, and throw away. Believe me this is harder than bringing order to a messy house. So far in the keep pile, I have my family, my writing, my gardening, and my church, not exactly in that order. Among the giveaways is my doing everything that somebody else doesn’t do. The throw-aways include living up to expectations of other people and being a perfectionist, both extremely hard to give up.
As I look back at the keeps, I see that I need to prune away my useless, time-consuming, mind cluttering practices and adopt more a more productive modus operandi with my family, my writing, my garden, and my church. Not to neglect any of these, but to bring my best work in each area to a higher level, making me happier and my life more enjoyable. Gardeners know that a little judicious pruning now and then allows much healthier, more fruitful growth.
Stay with me and see what happens.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Fulfilling a Dream
Scenes from HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST
February 28, 2009
You may be wondering why this blog seems to have died a natural death from pure neglect. I really don’t know, but it’s not because I have nothing to say. Today I am rousing Gracee’s Blog and giving it new life.
For the past four months I’ve been resurrecting a childhood dream, writing and directing a play. As a teacher, I’ve written many plays for children, but HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST is my first attempt at drama for adults. I said drama, but it takes a real stretch of the imagination to call this two-act comedy with a bit of mystery a drama. Someone called my masterpiece a bit of fluff.
Writing HEIST was the easiest part of the process once I succumbed to a barrage of requests for a play to entertain generous donors while raising funds for The Memphis Church Health Center and Memphis Interdenominational Faith Association food bank.
With help from Marcia, one of the instigators of the play, I found a cast full of eager, energetic actors all ready to put their reputations on the line with mine and Marcia’s. At the first reading, we chose actors perfectly suited for each role. The chief criteria? Voice volume–the louder the voice the better the role. As a result, the audiences heard every word with no speech augmentation, which was good because we had none.
Previously, I had only worked with children so I was pleased to find that my cast of talented actors was exactly like a fifth grade class. At the first practice, I recognized our class clown and several quick learners as eager to please the director as second graders are to please their teacher. Some had done their homework and taken a glance at the script. One lady's main interest was conversation with her friends, and a young man marched to his own drummer. There were some who couldn’t remember a thing from one practice to the next. They were all perfect for the play.
The biggest problem was getting the twenty-one of them on a stage slightly bigger than a postage stamp. The dumb playwright, yours truly, should have known better than to have the whole cast in a single scene. A member of the troupe, not only a fine actor but a real handyman, came to the rescue and constructed an extension as big as the original stage. Then he risked life and limb, rigging up enough light to illumine the stage.
Everything finally came together at dress rehearsal the day of the first performance. The stage was perfect, the props were assembled, and the actors spouted their lines and acted up a storm. Literally. By the time dress rehearsal was over, snow was pouring down.
You have to know an inch of snow in Memphis brings the whole city and everything in it to a screeching halt. Snow kept coming until we had more than six inches all over the city. Who could have guessed our great performance would be cancelled by a blizzard?
In Memphis, snow often goes as fast as it comes, and the next day the roads were clear in time for our matinee and a second performance that evening. We reached our goals. The audiences were amused, laughing almost as hard as the cast, and ticket sales brought in enough for a sizeable donation to our chosen charities. HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST was a success!
Thanks for the memories, CTK Players!
Grace
February 28, 2009
You may be wondering why this blog seems to have died a natural death from pure neglect. I really don’t know, but it’s not because I have nothing to say. Today I am rousing Gracee’s Blog and giving it new life.
For the past four months I’ve been resurrecting a childhood dream, writing and directing a play. As a teacher, I’ve written many plays for children, but HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST is my first attempt at drama for adults. I said drama, but it takes a real stretch of the imagination to call this two-act comedy with a bit of mystery a drama. Someone called my masterpiece a bit of fluff.
Writing HEIST was the easiest part of the process once I succumbed to a barrage of requests for a play to entertain generous donors while raising funds for The Memphis Church Health Center and Memphis Interdenominational Faith Association food bank.
With help from Marcia, one of the instigators of the play, I found a cast full of eager, energetic actors all ready to put their reputations on the line with mine and Marcia’s. At the first reading, we chose actors perfectly suited for each role. The chief criteria? Voice volume–the louder the voice the better the role. As a result, the audiences heard every word with no speech augmentation, which was good because we had none.
Previously, I had only worked with children so I was pleased to find that my cast of talented actors was exactly like a fifth grade class. At the first practice, I recognized our class clown and several quick learners as eager to please the director as second graders are to please their teacher. Some had done their homework and taken a glance at the script. One lady's main interest was conversation with her friends, and a young man marched to his own drummer. There were some who couldn’t remember a thing from one practice to the next. They were all perfect for the play.
The biggest problem was getting the twenty-one of them on a stage slightly bigger than a postage stamp. The dumb playwright, yours truly, should have known better than to have the whole cast in a single scene. A member of the troupe, not only a fine actor but a real handyman, came to the rescue and constructed an extension as big as the original stage. Then he risked life and limb, rigging up enough light to illumine the stage.
Everything finally came together at dress rehearsal the day of the first performance. The stage was perfect, the props were assembled, and the actors spouted their lines and acted up a storm. Literally. By the time dress rehearsal was over, snow was pouring down.
You have to know an inch of snow in Memphis brings the whole city and everything in it to a screeching halt. Snow kept coming until we had more than six inches all over the city. Who could have guessed our great performance would be cancelled by a blizzard?
In Memphis, snow often goes as fast as it comes, and the next day the roads were clear in time for our matinee and a second performance that evening. We reached our goals. The audiences were amused, laughing almost as hard as the cast, and ticket sales brought in enough for a sizeable donation to our chosen charities. HEIST AT HEAVENLY HOST was a success!
Thanks for the memories, CTK Players!
Grace
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