I meant to post to my journal every week, but here at Hollins one's life is overtaken by events. The first two weeks are jam-packed with extra-curricular activities and getting my class underway. I also came with the hope that I would write half of a new novel and research two book projects. Hah! I am teaching and revising student projects and writing the novel. Period. One of the best parts of the Hollins summer is that for two weeks we have a Writer in Residence. Last summer it was Nancy Willard, who cast a spell over everyone she met. The Writer in Residence visits each of the creative writing classes. When Nancy came to mine, I wanted to hand my class over to her forever and go sit in the back and absorb her every word. A wonderful, classy, magical lady who now sends me Christmas cards. I exchange Christmas cards with a Newbery winner! How cool is that!
This year's Writer in Residence was Liz Rosenberg, who just pulled out of the parking lot a few minutes ago, leaving me her basil plant, a beautiful size 8 Talbots skirt, newfound wisdom . . . and a hole in my heart. I miss her already! She is an amazing writer of children's picture books, YA novels, poetry and a brand-new adult novel called Home Repair. I started to read this novel when I found it on the coffee table at the program director's home where we had Liz's welcoming potluck dinner. It's rude to read at parties but I didn't care. The book is that good! When Liz visited my class (I'm teaching the genre and writing of picture books), she gave so much wonderful information. I particularly liked the advice to "write toward the image," invaluable to picture book writers who are not illustrators.
On our 3 1/2 mile morning walks around the campus, she mentioned her theory about "gatekeepers." These are people you will meet on the road in your career. They may tell you to switch to another genre or quit writing altogether. We had both encountered one of these people on our journey. If you make it past your gatekeeper, who is actually an angel in disguise, you discover that you have the grit and determination to do this hard thing after all. Don't you love this theory? I owe a lot to my gatekeeper, an unnamed writer who is connected to Liz too, for making me mad enough to "show him." Thank you, Liz, for the basil plant, which I'm repotting in a McCoy violet pot (one of my recent vintage passions), for the gorgeous size 8 skirt that I actually fit into (all that walking every day is paying off!), and for your warmth, honesty, and friendship. I hope our paths cross again soon.
Yesterday was my birthday. I won't mess around with people guessing my age--I'm 57, look and feel every minute of it. My husband sent me the most beautiful floral arrangement I have ever seen (he does every year and every year I'm surprised!). The officers in the campus safety office, where it was delivered, couldn't believe this arrangement. Even better, my husband drove from Fredericksburg (which means separating the cats, leaving extra food, and feeding Winchester 8 times before my husband leaves and even then Winchester will gobble all his weekend food before my husband is out of the driveway). He arrived just before lunch yesterday, the first time we've been together on my birthday in five years. I was so glad to see him!
We went out to lunch, then browsed through the big antique mall (my husband is such a sweetie, he'll even go "junkin'" with me). I added to my collection of vintage purses (which I actually use), Bakelite bracelets (ditto), and a new passion, vintage dresser jars and compacts. More stuff to dust but I love it. Then we went into downtown Roanoke to the Market Square at had vegetable tempura at a wonderful Japanese restaurant. Later we watched TV in my cozy little apartment and this morning we went out to breakfast before he left. I miss my husband already but it's only three weeks until I see him again. Maybe by then I'll be able to get into the "test" skirt I brought (the zipper doesn't close by an inch). I brought the skirt instead of scales which always depress me because the needle either doesn't move or goes the wrong way.
Enjoy the pics from my walk! I'm sorry they're dark--it was cloudy. Horses from the riding center (Margaret Wise Brown started the horse shows when she was at Hollins) and Carvin Creek where Margaret liked to dip her feet. I watch for great blue herons and the smaller green herons. Till next week!
I've been at Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, a whole week now. It seems like yesterday my husband and I were unloading his truck and my car in sickening humidity and heat (it happens every year on the day I move in). I'm in the same apartment I was in last summer, a guest house used for faculty. I like being upstairs because it's quiet and the big trees outside my windows make me feel I'm in a treehouse. I have two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom (yay! very important after life in a dorm), and a kitchenette. I've turned one of the bedrooms into an office. It's heavenly to work any time I feel like it--after supper, in the afternoon, early in the morning, and not have to get up and put in a load of laundry or feed a cat or clean up a cat mess or sweep or any of the hundred chores we do every day.
This summer I'm teaching the genre and writing of picture books. I have eleven terrific students--a few were in my class last year, some I've known from being on the campus five years, and some are brand-new. A nice mix. We've had our first two classes and I already know I have a terrific group. We did a lot of overview and survey this week. Next week we start analyzing structure.
There have been a number of events, as well. My agent, Tracey Adams, was the first guest speaker. She gave a wonderfully inspiring talk, which is not hard for Tracey to do because she truly loves her work and is passionate about the books she represents and children's books in general. We went out to dinner together with some other people before her talk. Afterwards we sat up in my apartment and talked (too late for both of us!), and then went to breakfast the next morning. I loved having a chance to get to know her better.
Hollins is an all-girl liberal arts university. However, it sponsors co-ed graduate programs, like the one in children's literature. Those take place on campus in the summer, making it convenient for teachers and librarians to attend. The school was founded in 1842 and there is one original building--the springhouse. You can see the founding year engraved on the steps of the main building. The long porch of that building is lined with rocking chairs. I've spent many lunch hours eating my sandwich and reading in one of those chairs.
Yes, it's heaven here, which is why people keep coming back. I told the program director when I applied to the program that I would never leave, even after I graduated. I'd hide out in the attic of one of the buildings if I had to! Fortunately, I don't have to do that!
As you can see from the monumental mess in my office, it's that time again . . . time to leave for Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia (about 4 hours southwest). This is my fifth Hollins summer. I began my MA in children's literature in the summer of 2005. Finished my classes in 2006. Returned to finish my thesis in 2007. I graduated that fall, marched in the May 2008 commencement and was back one whirlwind month later as a member of the faculty in the same program.
This summer I'm teaching a class in the genre and writing of picture books. My students will read, analyze, write, storyboard, write, read, make dummies, write, learn, write and--I hope--have fun. I look forward to seeing some students from last year's class, old friends, and new faces. The summer program is packed with events, lectures, potlucks, and field trips. Me, I tend to stay on campus. I have plenty of work besides my teaching: researching a new nonfiction project, working on my new midgrade novel, finishing the cover of Scrapbooking Just for You (my spring 2010 nonfiction book for girls: my cover may not pass muster--I'm not a designer!), and--if my editorial letter comes--start revising Iva Honeysuckle.
Meanwhile, it's pack, pack, pack, then drive, drive, drive, then unpack, unpack, unpack. My blog will resume next week from Hollins University.
Imagine my surprise last week when I found a mysterious box on my porch. My husband said, "What have you ordered?" I said, "Nothing!" (That week--Amazon deliveries are pretty frequent.) When I opened the box I found this beautiful teacup and saucer and a sweet note from my friend Tamra Wight.
Tamra had read my post about the autograph books I'd found out antiquin' and how women also used to exchange teacups and saucers or pretty handkerchiefs as gestures of friendship. Tamra's husband's aunt Peggo (love the name!) had a collection of teacups. In Tamra's note she said she could hear Aunt Peggo telling her to send me the one with the blue flowers. And that there just happened to be one box in the storeroom that was the right size, already filled with packing peanuts. It was meant to be, she said.
And that's how this delicate teacup arrived on my doorstep. I love the unusual, dainty pattern and the shape of the handle. It fits perfectly in my fingers and the saucer is just the right size for a couple of Pepperidge Farm Brussels cookies. The cup is so special, I'm taking it with me to Hollins University next week. When I sip tea from it, I'll think of Tamra in Poland Spring, Maine, running the Poland Spring Campground with her husband and children. I'll think of friendship, full to the brim.
Tiny Little Librarian (doesn't she sound so cute?) at Tiny Little Reading Room awarded my blog the One Lovely Blog Award. I'm flattered and pleased since Under the Honeysuckle Vine is fairly new (and had three false starts!).
One Lovely Blog Award goes to new blogs and blogging friends.The rules are: Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who granted the award and his or her blog link. Pass the award to 5 other blogs that you've newly discovered.
So I'm passing the award to some blogs old and new that I enjoy:
Jama Rattigan's Alphabet Soup - bears, food and children's books--doesn't get any better!
Checkers and Me - children's books and life in Minnesota
Bear Swamp Reflections - reading, gardening, eating, and life in the country
Pam Garrison - a mixed media artist's blog, mostly about journaling
Scribbling in San Antonio - "everyday" family life. This blogger also has a blog on vintage children's books, Vintage Kid's Books My Kid Loves.
I'm supposed to put the lovely rose-filled teacup picture on my sidebar, but I'm too inept to do that. Maybe someone who uses LiveJournal could advise? Meanwhile, I'm delighted to pass along the roses!
Today The Old Blue Pickup Truck is officially published. I wrote and sold the book in 2002 . . . seven years later, it's finally here! And I'm thrilled. I love illustrator Jenny Mattheson's crayon-bright illustrations. They remind me of drawings I did in third grade of farms with ducks swimming on ponds and pigs rooting in pens.
The Old Blue Pickup Truck is the companion book to the popular The Big Green Pocketbook. Both are based on true events. In The Big Green Pocketbook, the narrator goes to town with her mother. They run errands and the little girl collects small things to put in her purse. But she leaves the purse on the Trailways bus--and her whole morning is lost!
I always felt I wanted to give my stepfather a book, too, about the different sort of errands we did together. So nearly ten years after the publication of Pocketbook, I wrote Pickup Truck. (Books often take a long time to get born!) This time the narrator and her daddy spend one spring morning running errands in the Old Blue Pickup Truck. Old Blue takes on different personas depending on what they are doing (the truck is a restaurant when they eat breakfast in it, etc.).
In real life, my stepfather's '55 Ford was dark green and the inside passenger door handle didn't work. He hopped out to let me out when he dropped me off at school. Once one of my teachers came up and commented on what a gentleman my stepfather was to help me out of the truck every morning. My stepfather and I both cracked up.
This is a book for truck-lovin' boys and girls and for little girls and their daddies everywhere. Keep on truckin'!
When my mother was a girl, she cut off Nancy Marsteller's hair. Also the fur collar of Nancy's coat. I never knew why Mama had it in for the doctor's daughter, except that Nancy had "banana curls" and my mother didn't. When my mother was a young lady, she was said to be "the prettiest girl in Manassas." In 1935, she was elected to Dairy Queen's court at the annual Piedmont Dairy Festival. I've squinted at a faded photograph from The Washington Star, a newspaper evidently desperate for news back then, but couldn't find my mother among the line of princesses.
That event was held on the grounds of Annaburg Manor (now a nursing home). In its heyday, Annaburg, built by a wealthy German brewer from Alexandria, had a caretaker's gatehouse, a pond with swans, a stone tower straight out of Rapunzel, and beautiful gardens. In this picture, my mother, age 18, is posed in front of the abandoned manor house. She made that two-piece satin dress, hand-stitched that row of looped buttonholes for those slippery gumdrop-shaped buttons. She was slim, pretty, and had marvelous legs (to the end of her life, actually). Her slip is showing, which I find endearing.
When I was ten or so and became aware of my mother as a person and not just my mother, she didn't look anything like the girl in this photograph. She was a hard-working cafeteria lady--hauling huge stainless steel pans of potatoes she peeled and mashed by hand, then serving 600 bratty middle-school kids. She worked alongside my stepfather in our enormous vegetable garden. She sewed our curtains and my and my sister's clothes, and her own, when she had a length of cheap material and a few extra hours. She sewed my Barbie outfits (much to my dismay--I wanted store-bought "ensembles" as shown in the little fashion catalog), staying up late at night to turn tiny sleeves with a pencil. My mother's arms were big and strong, her hips square, but her legs were still attractive, tapering down to "racehorse" ankles.
When my mother died, a little over a year after my stepfather had passed, I was 35, a year older than my mother was when she had me. My mother's death hit me like nothing before or since. I remember when her mother, my grandmother, died. I was ten and my grandmother had been sick for years. My grandmother wasn't a nice person, even when she wasn't sick. But my mother told me time and again that she missed her mother terribly. When I asked why, she said, "You always need your mother."
A few months after my mother's passing, my husband took me to see "Our Town." I knew Wilder's play intimately and knew I'd be in trouble, but he had bought the tickets, hoping to cheer me up. During the last act, I started to cry. Not dainty weeping, but noisy, messy bawling. I melted into my seat, sobbing. The shoulders of an elderly gentlemen in front of me were shaking--he was crying too and I wondered if he had lost his wife. In the play, young Emily has died in childbirth. But she wants to go back to her life, just for one day. The people in the graveyard warn her to pick an ordinary day. Emily chooses her twelfth birthday. But before she can get through the event, she realizes people don't ever "realize life while they live it . . . every, every minute . . ."
It's hard to realize "every, every minute" of life while you're in the middle of it. Most of the time it seems so mundane and some days, downright unpleasant. On those days, I long for my mother. If only I could call her. She was right, like she was about so many things I'm just now figuring out--you always need your mother.
I have given much thought what I would do if I could go back and relive a day in my life. It wouldn't be a specific day, but an ordinary day in June. I would be ten or maybe eleven. I would do all the things I did in the summer after school was out: eat, draw pictures, work on my stories. After supper, I would take an old quilt out in the back yard and read my library book. I would be able to hear my stepfather chopping weeds in the garden and my mother washing dishes in the kitchen. Robins would sing and swallows would swoop overhead until twilight closed in. Then my mother would call me inside.
I'd go in the kitchen and sit down while she checked my head for ticks. Then she'd tell me to wash my feet and go to bed. Sometimes she'd come in after I was in bed. That particular night she wouldn't. But it would be okay. I'd fall asleep, knowing that when I got up the next morning, she would be there.
Friday my husband and I went on a little drive in the country. Well . . . we were headed for one of my favorite places, Through the Garden Gate, in Mechanicsville (near Richmond). Half of the building is an antique mall, the other half is separate shop devoted to all things shabby chic, cottage style, and vintage. As you can see in the photo, there is eye candy everywhere you turn.
I picked up a McCoy fan vase, a pair of braided chair rounds, and some kitchen utensils in the antique part. On shabby chic side I snatched up a pair of autograph books. I have a small collection of these, one dating back to the late 1800s. I had an autograph album in grade school. The pages were different colors and, if a friend wrote something special, she folded her page corner to corner. I had few friends in grade school, so my entries were of the "Yours till Niagra Falls" variety.
The two autograph albums belonged to the same woman, Bessie, who worked in Richmond. The first is dated June 4, 1942, and labeled, "Tea Room Friends, Miller and Rhodes - City." Bessie apparently worked in the tea room in the downtown location of this department store (now long gone). The books are inexpensive, but feel wonderful to the touch. The paper is smooth with rounded corners. Sample entries: "To a very gentle girl, best of luck." "Bessie, it's really been swell knowing you and working with you. Gosh! Who am I going to pick on?" "Remain as sweet as you are and I'm sure good luck will be yours, eventually." (This made me wonder why Bessie was leaving the tea room job.)
The second autograph album is dated 1946-1949, "My Friends of the D.M.V." The flyleaf reads: This book becomes a treasure rare, If but a line or more you'll spare. Eunice wrote, "Isn't it aggravating and don't it get your goat/To get in the bathtub and then forget the soap." And from Mildred, "Leaves may wither/Flowers will die/Some may forget you/But never will I."
All this brings me to a discussion at a scrapbook event I attended last weekend. The subject came up about finding old teacups at yard sales. I said women used to give hand-painted or pretty teacups and saucers to each other as friendship gifts. I remember as a child visiting homes of older women who proudly displayed their friendship cups in a china cabinet. Girls also gave each other fancy handkerchiefs as a token of friendship. What do we give each other now? I asked the ladies at my table.
We text each other, someone replied. An electronic message with no vowels. "Sm may 4get U/Bt nvr will I." Hardly a treasure rare. Please, somebody, send me back to the 1920s. Gosh, that would be really swell.
This is my first book for the Southern Reading 2009 Challenge and already I can't follow the rules. I wanted to write about my favorite by Mary Kay Andrews, but I have two favorites, so will post about them both. I discovered Mary Kay Andrews' books recently when my husband and I were planning a trip to Savannah. Instant reading rapture! I gobbled up all her books and am eagerly awaiting the newest, out in a few weeks. I have never read Chick Lit. The women's fiction I read tends to be Elizabeth Berg and Anne Tyler. But these books are fun! Andrews has hit upon a not-terribly-original-but-successful formula: successful-and/or-happy heroine suddenly becomes down-and-out, has a rat fink of a husband/fiance/boyfriend/ex-husband and a new man in her life who is totally "wrong" for her, but is really Mr. Right.
In Savannah Breeze, BeBe (pronounced Bay-Bay) Loudermilk owns a successful restaurant, rental properties, pots of money, but can't seem to pick the right man. At the Telfair Ball, she is swept off her feet by a stranger, Ryan Edward "Reddy" Millbanks III, who is younger and very attractive. BeBe falls hard for him and when she wakes up, she has lost the title to her properties, her money, and her grandparents' money. Her furniture is gone and so is Reddy. All she has left is a run-down motel on Tybee Island, "a drinking village with a fishing problem." The scruffy caretaker, Harry, and BeBe's best friend Weezie, help her fix up the motel into a charming cottage retreat. But BeBe wants her pound of flesh. When she learns that Reddy is in Ft. Lauderdale, presumably bilking his next victim, BeBe charges south in a big ol' Buick with her wheelman Harry and accomplices Weezie and her 82-year-old grandfather to out-caper Reddy Millbanks. Of course she does and recoups her losses, gaining a new sweetie in the process, Harry.
Hissy Fit begins with Keeley Murdock at her rehearsal dinner where she discovers her husband-to-be in a compromising position with her maid of honor. She pitches a hissy fit of seismic proportions, never realizing the ripple effect would quash her interior design business. The new owner of the old bra plant plans to boost Madison, Georgia's sagging economy with innovative ideas. He hires Keeley to redecorate a crumbling antebellum mansion he's restoring for the unlikely love of his life--a woman he's never met. Keely's ex keeps trying to win her back while Will tries to impress the grasping, upwardly-mobile Stephanie. On one of these do-se-does, Keely and Will realize they belong together and to heck with the other two.
What I loved about both books--all of Andrews' books--is her sense of humor and the amount of detail. Andrews is a Southerner, a vintage-binger, and a foodie--like me. Details about clothes, decorating, estate sales, and fabulous meals or simple suppers all ring true. Her books make me want to be 20 (okay, 30) years younger, out there hitting estate sales at dawn, drinking champagne at society events, wearing vintage gowns and high heels. . . well, that's what escapist fiction does. It lets us get away from our real lives. As a children's book writer, my life is far from terrible, but I didn't wear heels at my own wedding, don't drink, I'm in bed by 9:30 most nights, and all vintage clothing is made for size 4s and under. Still . . . Mary Kay Andrews lets me dream, while I'm laughing. I'll be a fan forever.
In Savannah Breeze, BeBe (pronounced Bay-Bay) Loudermilk owns a successful restaurant, rental properties, pots of money, but can't seem to pick the right man. At the Telfair Ball, she is swept off her feet by a stranger, Ryan Edward "Reddy" Millbanks III, who is younger and very attractive. BeBe falls hard for him and when she wakes up, she has lost the title to her properties, her money, and her grandparents' money. Her furniture is gone and so is Reddy. All she has left is a run-down motel on Tybee Island, "a drinking village with a fishing problem." The scruffy caretaker, Harry, and BeBe's best friend Weezie, help her fix up the motel into a charming cottage retreat. But BeBe wants her pound of flesh. When she learns that Reddy is in Ft. Lauderdale, presumably bilking his next victim, BeBe charges south in a big ol' Buick with her wheelman Harry and accomplices Weezie and her 82-year-old grandfather to out-caper Reddy Millbanks. Of course she does and recoups her losses, gaining a new sweetie in the process, Harry.
Hissy Fit begins with Keeley Murdock at her rehearsal dinner where she discovers her husband-to-be in a compromising position with her maid of honor. She pitches a hissy fit of seismic proportions, never realizing the ripple effect would quash her interior design business. The new owner of the old bra plant plans to boost Madison, Georgia's sagging economy with innovative ideas. He hires Keeley to redecorate a crumbling antebellum mansion he's restoring for the unlikely love of his life--a woman he's never met. Keely's ex keeps trying to win her back while Will tries to impress the grasping, upwardly-mobile Stephanie. On one of these do-se-does, Keely and Will realize they belong together and to heck with the other two.
What I loved about both books--all of Andrews' books--is her sense of humor and the amount of detail. Andrews is a Southerner, a vintage-binger, and a foodie--like me. Details about clothes, decorating, estate sales, and fabulous meals or simple suppers all ring true. Her books make me want to be 20 (okay, 30) years younger, out there hitting estate sales at dawn, drinking champagne at society events, wearing vintage gowns and high heels. . . well, that's what escapist fiction does. It lets us get away from our real lives. As a children's book writer, my life is far from terrible, but I didn't wear heels at my own wedding, don't drink, I'm in bed by 9:30 most nights, and all vintage clothing is made for size 4s and under. Still . . . Mary Kay Andrews lets me dream, while I'm laughing. I'll be a fan forever.
Honeysuckle time! Honeysuckle vines are tumbled over fences, at the edge of woods, and are spilling into roadside ditches. This was taken in our neighborhood. Blackberry is blooming as well and the canes are recklessly mixed in with the honeysuckle vines. Can't you tell I love this time of year best?
Several years ago Estee Lauder's granddaughter launched her first fragrance, Honeysuckle. I haunted the department stores until I tracked it down. Now Bath and Body Works carries Wild Honeysuckle in their signature line. I've loaded up on shower gel, body lotion, hand cream, and after-shower spritzer. It smells very nice, but doesn't come close to the sweet, almost cloying scent of honeysuckle warmed by June sunshine.
Since summer, honeysuckle and the South go together, I'm joining the Southern Reading 2009 Challenge at Maggie Reads. I'm reading three Southern books--for grown-ups! I hope to post the first review tomorrow.
Becky, of Becky's Book Reviews, wondered about the writers who live in our own hometowns. I'm happy to post that there were/are several well-known writers from or living in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Most people don't remember Sloan Wilson, but they might recall his two famous movies from his novels: The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit and A Summer Place. Both books pushed the envelope in their day--one about corporate America and the other about adultery (and who can forget Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee in A Summer Place or that haunting theme song?) Sloan Wilson died a few years ago in nearby Colonial Beach.
Sassy, Southern Florence King is alive and well and kickin' in old-town. I once visited someone and learned that Florence King lived upstairs. I had heard she is very reclusive and meets people at the door with her gun. I was afraid to even talk above a whisper in this person's apartment! Florence King writes mostly political columns, but also collections of essays and novels. I am not a political person myself, so I've never read any of her work. (Please, don't let her read this! She'll track me down!)
Although Troy Howell is an illustrator, he deserves mention in this post. He illustrated the covers of the Redwall books, among many other children's books and other projects, including the design of our little FRED buses. Years ago, before I moved to Fredericksburg, Troy and I did a joint signing at a brand-new store called . . . Borders.
Since I'm a huge fan of Margaret Wise Brown, I'm proud to claim any tiny little connection to her. Her mother's family was "landed gentry" in Spotsylvania County, the county I live in. I have made cursory attempts to look up the genealogy of her grandfather, Berkeley Estes Johnson and Margaret's grandmother, Margaret Naylor Wise Johnson. Margaret's mother, Maude Johnson, attended Hollins College and so did Margaret. And so did I (I teach at Hollins University now). Maybe I'll have time this summer when I return to Hollins to dig more into Margaret's mother's past . . .
Is it fair to mention that I live here? I hardly came from "landed gentry," but I'm a seventh generation Virginian and a writer.
Sassy, Southern Florence King is alive and well and kickin' in old-town. I once visited someone and learned that Florence King lived upstairs. I had heard she is very reclusive and meets people at the door with her gun. I was afraid to even talk above a whisper in this person's apartment! Florence King writes mostly political columns, but also collections of essays and novels. I am not a political person myself, so I've never read any of her work. (Please, don't let her read this! She'll track me down!)
Although Troy Howell is an illustrator, he deserves mention in this post. He illustrated the covers of the Redwall books, among many other children's books and other projects, including the design of our little FRED buses. Years ago, before I moved to Fredericksburg, Troy and I did a joint signing at a brand-new store called . . . Borders.
Since I'm a huge fan of Margaret Wise Brown, I'm proud to claim any tiny little connection to her. Her mother's family was "landed gentry" in Spotsylvania County, the county I live in. I have made cursory attempts to look up the genealogy of her grandfather, Berkeley Estes Johnson and Margaret's grandmother, Margaret Naylor Wise Johnson. Margaret's mother, Maude Johnson, attended Hollins College and so did Margaret. And so did I (I teach at Hollins University now). Maybe I'll have time this summer when I return to Hollins to dig more into Margaret's mother's past . . .
Is it fair to mention that I live here? I hardly came from "landed gentry," but I'm a seventh generation Virginian and a writer.
All good things must come to an end. We woke up to cloudy skies, but it was warm enough to eat breakfast on the big patio. Doesn't this look yummy? It was. Waffles and a tidbit of sourdough French toast--my kind of breakfast! Fresh flowers on the table. I'd seen the manager walking in the gardens in the evenings clipping roses, daisies, greens, peonies for the next day's simple but elegant floral arrangements.
I sat at our table a long time, writing in my journal. I plan to scrapbook this trip (for once I have enough pictures!) and wanted to remember all the delicious details. I'll actually make the album this weekend at a National Scrapbook Day event I signed up for months ago. A whole day of scrapbooking while someone brings in the meals and snacks--almost as good as a trip to the Hope and Glory Inn. Then I wandered around the gardens, snapping final pictures. The innkeepers, Dudley and Peggy, took photos of us for their scrapbook.
Dragging my feet, I went back to our little playhouse of a cottage and packed. Lots of goodbyes and hugs all around. It's amazing how quickly you can make friends at a place like this. And, as much as I love Fredericksburg, I will sorely miss the slow pace and super-friendly people in the small towns we visited.
On our way back, my husband took a detour. We wound up in Colonial Beach, at the top end of the Northern Neck, and ate lunch at the The Happy Clam, one of our favorite places when we stay at the Bell House, the bed and breakfast that was the former summer home of Alexander Graham Bell. We watched an osprey dive for a fish, which two other osprey chased him for. And we watched a pair of osprey in their platform nest in the marina.
Over fried shrimp and Caesar salad and red velvet cake, my husband informed me that he had made reservations to return to the Hope and Glory Inn over New Year's. We'll spend New Year's Eve there and New Year's Day. Two nights instead of three, so we won't have to board the cats. Something to look forward to!
Now, back home, throw our stuff in the house, and I'll go fetch the cats from the vet's.
Our last full day at the Hope and Glory Inn was warm, bright, and sunny. The chef fixed corn biscuits (sort of like fritters), sausage gravy, tender scrambled eggs, and fruit--enough food to last us all day. The peonies opened and shook out their shaggy heads during the warm spell. As much as I love roses--and the fragrance of the masses of rose beds here was enough to make you dizzy--I'm a fool over peonies.We drove south to the Middle Penninsula. In Gloucester Court House, incorporated in 1651 (there are some very old places, particularly in the Tidewater area, though I was shocked to learn Kilmarnock, settled in the mid-1600s too, was incorporated in 1930. 1930?) Gloucester is very charming--all the old buildings wear daffodil wreaths. Settlers brought their daffodil bulbs from England and let the naturalized bulbs spread. In the 30s and 40s, daffodils were the major industry in the "Daffodil Capitol of America." We ate raspberry scones at a sweet little bakery, then had them fix us a sack lunch of salads and sandwiches.
We drove north to Urbanna and ate our lunch in the marina on Urbanna Creek. I did a little junkin' but mostly talked to the townspeople. One lady carried a dachshund puppy into her shop. I followed her in, smitten by the puppy. I held him, enchanted by his warmth (happiness really is a warm puppy!), his solid little body, and quiveryness under his tight skin. He smelled wonderful. Then we headed back to the Inn.
The gardens beckoned. I read and strolled. The Inn has a delightful outdoor clawfoot bathtub painted purple, an old sink, and a rainfall shower, completely enclosed by a high board fence. Inside it's a bower of hanging baskets, potted flowers, vintage mirrors, and a shabby birdhouse where a treefrog lives. The night before they are married, brides take a long luxurious bath under the stars.
On our way out to dinner, I noticed a dove's nest tucked into a wisteria arbor over a doorway of one of the other cottages. Three wary but very cute baby mourning doves stared down at me. Nobody moved, nobody blinked. I could have reached up and touched one. They were pretty big, almost ready to leave the nest they spilled out of. After dinner, we came back to read more. People think that because I work at home I get to read whenever I want. I only read at lunch time and a little before I go to bed. Having huge uninterrupted blocks of reading time is a real luxury!
That night, our last, I left the balcony door and curtains open again and watched the day slowly drain from the sky. It was with great reluctance I finally closed the door on the soft air and the day . . . as I went to sleep I wondered if I could trade that puppy for Winchester.
The next morning the sky was blue with puffy-sheep clouds, luring us to get out and explore. The Hope and Glory Inn is at the end of Virginia's Northern Neck region. We drove through tiny places with names like Pine Tree and White Stone. You would never guess the Chesapeake was any where near. Houses, thick groves of trees, and cornfields surrounded the bay, rivers, and creeks. Most of the waterfront is privately owned but we went to Hughlett's Point Natural Area, parked, and hiked the trail toward the water. The forest was eerily still, except for unfamiliar birdcalls. We could have been in the time of dinosaurs. Boardwalks crossed brackish pools and mosquitoes discovered I was quite tasty.
As a kid and teenager, I often went to Chesapeake Beach and Breezy Point on Maryland's Western Shore. The Virginia side of the bay was nothing like those sunbathing beaches. Bleached bones of trees were shipwrecked at odd angles in the sand. A pair of osprey soared overhead--it was lovely to see them nesting in the wild and not on manmade platforms (which, admittedly, brought the osprey back to Virginia). We continued on the nature trail. A dazzling flash of bright blue zipped ahead of us--an indigo bunting followed by his drab mate. A dark and mysterious creek slid alongside.
I found myself wrapped in the peaceful silence I grew up with and reverted back to the "nature kid." I was keenly interested in odd patches of moss, a web filled with caterpillars, the way the trees grew with their backs to the prevailing wind, the light on the water, the wildflowers and butterflies. I was heartened to know that my child self wasn't buried as deeply as I thought. All it needed was a place to breath and play.
We ate lunch at a no-nonsense seafood packing house with an attached deli. I could hardly carry my huge crabmeat salad outside to the picnic table. Then we went junkin' in Kilmarnock. I found a late 30s typewriter in its case for $28 (it smells musty, like it had been in somebody's basement 200 years--I put it in the sun yesterday but all that did was heat up the stink). Then we went back to the Inn to read, read, read. I switched location three times to take advantage of the gardens. Dinner was at the elegant Tides Inn and Resort. Then back to read, read, read . . . I left the balcony door open to the night air and the last songs of the robins. I thought briefly of the cats, then fell asleep.
It wasn't easy getting away for our 30th anniversary trip. We had downsized our trip from two weeks in Europe (too long,), to a week in Paris, to a week or so in the Scottish Highlands (I was in the mood for celebrating by going someplace ancient), to a week in Edinburgh with day trips (easier), to a 5 or 6 days in Savannah, Georgia. But what it all came down to in the end was that it's too hard to leave when you have three cats, one of which is 16, blind in one eye (due to a recent stroke), wobbly-legged (due to a previous stroke), with kidney and thryoid disease; the next oldest cat, also with thyroid disease; and Winchester, who is in a category by himself. It's expensive to board and with two senior cats, difficult as they are used to their routines.
But we wanted to get out of our routine, so I booked us three days at the Hope and Glory Inn on the Chesapeake Bay in the "fingery" part of Virginia (on the map, I mean). From Europe to Irvington, Virginia, seemed like a big step down, but it really suited us best. This is a famous Inn--Tom Cruise has stayed there and it's famous as a wedding destination. The atmosphere is shabby chic surrounded by a riot of English gardens. We booked one of the two two-story cottages.
That morning Winchester threw up in my office. A really good reason to board the cats and leave! I pre-measured all the cats' meals, snacks, meds, dated, and color-coded by cat, with detailed written instructions. Then we had to capture Persnickety and Winchester, stuff them in carriers and ferry them to the vet. Xenia is a special case. I took her by herself and personally put her in her private, isolation cage because she has sent at least two techs to the hospital. Then we had to pack our own stuff. It was cool and raining. Not a good sign.
It rained all that day. We checked into our dollhouse cottage, painted pink with white trim, and grayish floors. The overstuffed furniture was upholstered in red ticking and toile, the upstairs bedroom bloomed with cabbage roses. Vintage pictures and mirrors covered the Savannah Clay walls (I got the name so I can paint our bedroom the same color). We had a tiny front porch with rocking chairs, a tiny privacy-fenced patio with garden furniture, and a miniscule balcony off our bedroom. It was--as critics have said in numerous accolades--"hopelessly romantic."
Although it rained and was chilly our first half-day there, we settled in to read--my husband with the latest Nevada Barr, me with a Michael Lee West novel. We melted into those overstuffed chairs until dinner time when we were bustled off to Irvington's only restaurant. Two steaks, salads, and one pears flambe later, we were back in the chairs. It didn't matter so much that it was raining any more. We loved our little dollhouse. I had brought Ellsworth, my best friend (next to my husband). And the next day was supposed to be sunny and warm.
This has been the wettest, coolest spring on record. We are all heartily sick of rain but it falls out of the grey skies every single day in the form of showers, drizzle, spit, thunderstorms, gulley-washers, mist, toad-stranglers, and just plain rain. On one of these gray, wet days I received a package from my friend Connie Van Hoven. The box of surprises was meant to celebrate the sale of IVA HONEYSUCKLE, but also our friendship. Connie traveled all winter and spring--Montana, Florida, California--and as she trekked across the country, she picked up things for me.
Tucked inside the box were recent issues of The Horn Book (much appreciated, as I don't subscribe and our library hides their issues), a Pacific-smoothed piece of green beach glass that is wonderful to touch, a bookmark with advice from a tree ("Stand Tall and Proud, Drink Plenty of Water, Enjoy the View," etc.), a charming Cat's Meow journal that I will put to immediate use, a beautifully embroidered tea towel that could double as a small tablecloth, and--be still my vintage-loving heart--a pair of daffodil glasses. My spirits lifted instantly! The box also reminded me of my mother's Sunshine Boxes--shoeboxes she'd fill with pantyhose, shampoo, and other toiletries and send to me back when I was a struggling secretary.
Connie and I met in the airport on our way to Vermont College for our very first residency in the MFA Writing for Children and Young Adults program. We became roommates, close friends, and, after our graduation in July '04, she remains one of my very best friends. This is Connie (in semi-costume) giving her excellent graduate lecture on tall tales. If you want to know anything about tall tales, Connie is your go-to person.
I'm delighted to report that Connie's first picture book, The Twelve Days of Christmas in Minnesota (Sterling) will be published in October of this year. Connie's website is in the works and any day (hear that, Connie?), her blog will be up.
Unexpected gifts. You never know where you'll find them. I didn't know back in July '02 that I'd found one in the Phildelphia airport.
Here in Virginia, May means the end of the misty greening of April and the surprise of new plants and flowers. It's as if someone turned a switch: April = spring; May = summer (only prettier and not as hot). Walking out the door means arming yourself with a machete. Weeds that were easy, almost a delight, to tug in April--tender chickory, pungent onions--become shoulder-high shrubs that grow another foot when you turn your back. I swear they stick out their tongue.
This is the season we mow, mow, mow, pull, pull, pull, lop, lop, lop, trim, trim, trim, but it's a losing proposition. You can't stay ahead of the yard. Especially this May when all it has done is rain (and it all it will do this week--I may use the machete on the weatherman). We have rose bushes to plant, mow, all the shrubs to prune, mow, mulch to spread, mow, four o'clocks to plant around the mailbox, mow . . .
But this past weekend I was tired of the constant tending of the yard (I left it to my husband). Instead, in the gray and spitting rain, I hosed off the back deck and the front porch and behold! discovered they aren't really pollen-yellow but brown! I cleaned all the furniture, rabbit statues, and stuff on the porch as well. Because we have a big porch and because I'm a believer in controlled (barely) clutter, the porch is like a living room. This year I added a new rabbit statue to the covey that live on the porch, a vintage watering can, and a pair of vintage roller skates for whimsy. I washed and scrubbed and spiffed up the potted plants and rearranged everything.
Then the sun came out and I briefly forgave the weatherman. I took my book out on my freshly-cleaned front porch, sank into one of the comfortable chairs . . . and promptly fell asleep. It felt so good to do nothing.
I figured I was owed.
Last fall I closed my art studio. It had gotten out of control, I wasn't feeling well, and, at that point, the room represented more work than creative pleasure. So I sold, donated, and gave away nine-tenths of my supplies, and turned my studio into a 1920s-themed sitting room. I squeezed my old studio into half of a small walk-in closet, my art supplies in an antique washstand, and the rest of the scrapbook supplies in a vintage seven-drawer lingerie chest. If I want to create a project, I can. If I don't, I don't have the "guilt" of piles of new product and half-finished projects glaring at me every time I walk past the doorway.
When our parents died, I wound up with the family papers from our mother's and stepfather's side of the family. Also a large portion of the old family photos. As keeper of the photos, it's up to me to remember which great-uncle is on our grandmother's or grandfather's side. I thought my sister (my only sibling) should have some of those images, as well. So I created this collage for her upcoming birthday.
The base is one 12 by 12 sheet of scrapbook paper (which is mostly covered). I photocopied all my elements--scrapbook rule #1: never use originals. Some items I reduced 50%. To "age" the old letter and envelope (even color photocopies are on that glaring white paper) I wadded the paper in a tight ball, then ironed it flat. With brown chalk ink, I lightly rubbed the creases. The hardest part was layering the items so they made some sense. I put things in groups, like our grandfather's SSN card and the registration for his '49 Buick (the sight of this brought back memories of Grandaddy backing down his driveway at 100 mph, then poking down the road on the wrong side at 10 mph). The flower swirl in the upper left-hand corner made a handy "family tree."
The frame is about an inch and a half wide. I used rub-on transfers in the upper left corner. The phrase says, "in the blink of an eye . . . ", meaning that life is shorter than we think. Added three smoky "jewels." The bottom right-hand corner is embellished with laser-cut felt (very cool stuff in scrapbooking these days!) and a vintage earring (I snipped off the finding and hot-glued it). I chalk-inked the wooden frame to "age" it.
I think it turned out well (though you'd never know it from this photo--I was backed up against a wall!) I hope my sister likes it!
A few months ago I read about the Wing Haven Gardens in Charlotte, North Carolina. The gardens are lush and beautiful, a sanctuary for birds. I was enchanted by the story of the young bride, Elizabeth Clarkson, who, in 1927, came from Texas to her new house in Charlotte. She had sent her husband-to-be letters describing the house design that would complement the gardens. She planned the gardens before the house!
But when she arrived at her new house, she was dismayed to see a plot of Carolina red clay, a few scrubby pine saplings, and one sad willow oak. They couldn't get in the house, so they crawled through the window where Eddie presented Elizabeth with her wedding present, a grand piano. That was the last conventional present he gave her. Elizabeth started her garden. For birthdays and anniversaries they gave each other bricks, a week's hire of a stonemason, mealworms . . .
But then Elizabeth fell ill with dengue fever. She lay by the window so she could see her garden. The birds cheered her up. When she grew better, she decided to turn the garden into a bird sanctuary. The Clarksons lived a long and happy life together. They deeded the gardens to the city of Charlotte so everyone can enjoy it.
After reading this, I gazed out at our back yard. I'd created a sort of bird sanctuary years ago--a 20-foot oval ringed by stones with a few trees. I preferred the "natural" look so the birds would have cover, but now the area was a jungle. I told my husband we should have a little Wing Haven. We'd been feeding birds all winter. Why not continue to feed them in the summer and provide holly and other berry-producing bushes?
For two straight weekends, my husband pulled, yanked, dug, and hacked at honeysuckle (with runners that seem to grow to Florida), wisteria, and other tough Virginia weeds. He cleared a truckload of vines, sticks, and old leaves. Then we picked out a holly tree, three holly bushes, and a rhodendron. I had already bought a bird bath. I added a birdhouse to the four feeders (suet, thistle, cardinal, and general population). My husband spread bag after bag after bag of top soil and mulch. He raked the area and washed the lava rocks and straightened the stone border. He dragged the bird bath to its new location. He stopped to fill and refill the feeders because the cowbirds had moved in with all their relations.
And when it was all done, I sauntered over with a small bird statue I had bought at Target. I placed it by the bird bath. My husband said it was just the right touch! Of course, I said smugly. So now we can watch the bird activity from our breakast room or from our new motel chairs on the back deck. Just last evening we were rewarded with a rose-breasted grosbeak, the first I've ever seen here.
That's my husband, weary but happy, after his labors. The bird feeders are hanging just beyond camera range. You can't see our blooming dogwoods or one of the holly bushes, either. We'll let a little honeysuckle creep back.
Our bird garden isn't grand enough to call Wing Haven. Maybe Feather Haven? Whatever I call it, it's a sweet present from my husband to me.
Far away!
My middle grade novel--Iva Honeysuckle Discovers the World--Well, Her Part of Virginia, Anyway--is scheduled for summer . . . 2011! The reason? The book will have inside illustrations and my editor wants to find the right illustrator. Of course, I can't complain, but it seems like such a looooong time.
I have plenty to do in the meantime. First up, revisions. Probably more revisions. Maybe even more revising. That's okay. Then I have to write the sequel, tentatively titled Iva Honeysuckle Discovers Her Match. That book will come out summer 2012.
We talk about time like it so far in the future, but truthfully, the weeks and months slip by before I notice. My years are anchored by deadlines and my Hollins teaching gigs in the summers. Next summer I'll teach a picture book tutorial and in 2011 I'll teach writing middle grade novels. Dovetails nicely with the launch of my own middle grade, yes?
I will also have plenty of time to figure out what types of promoting I want to do. An excellent resource for writers of all stripes is Bubble Stampede, expertly run by that dynamic duo, Laura Purdie Salas and Fiona Bayrock. Those energetic gals thoroughly discuss the pros and cons of reader's theater, teacher's guides, cluster events, book trailers, blog tours, press releases, microsites, in-person and online launch parties, and much more.
So . . . it's almost the summer of 2009. My editorial letter will be here in a few weeks. The process that I began with the first sentence of the first draft (more than a year ago), a process that seemed all uphill then, will begin its downhill journey. And downhill is always easier, right?
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