We are living in "Groundhog Day," a perpetual winter hell. Every morning the radio wakes us up with predictions of snow, accumulated snow, ice, sleet, and temperatures in the single digits. Schools have been closed so long, the kids will have to relearn their ABCs when they do go back. Next year. To keep from swilling wine vinegar as a numbing agent, I have devised a Survival List:
1. Maintain a Steady Level of Sugar and Carbs:
This is vital to one's well-being. Yes, your waistline will grow but since you only slop around the house in one pair of sweatpants, who cares? Last night my husband needed lunch meat and I leaped at the chance to go to the grocery store (our neighborhood roads are still a mess). I crashed through the doors like a member of a home invasion crew and made a beeline for Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, Ben & Jerry's Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch (one pint left, hidden behind Coffee Heath Bar Crunch--why is every good thing in the world eventually ruined with coffee?), Cheetos, Sun Chips (original flavor), Cinnamon Toaster Strudel (for Elevenses), and Edward's Single-Serve Hershey's Pie. This will tide me over at least two days.
2. Don't Look in the Mirror:
This goes along with maintaining a steady level of sugar and carbs. My face is bloated like a Macy's parade balloon. Worse, my skin is a pale green color, making me resemble a creature found at the bottom of cave pools.
3. Don't Wear White:
Not unless you want to disappear against the background of snowbanks and gray-white sky.
4. Watch Re-runs of "Designing Women":
And wonder why those gals are wearing coats in nearly every episode when they are supposed to be in Atlanta, one of the hottest cities on earth. Switch to a TV show where everybody sweats a lot, like "Miami Vice."
5. Start a New Book:
If you're a reader, pick up something new to read. If you're a writer, get busy on a new project, especially if you've just finished a book.
I am finally able to let my previous novel (finished two weeks ago) go play without worrying over it. Now I'm turning my attention to a new project. The idea for this book came about 6 months ago, while I was working on my previous novel. I have learned to handle Sexy Next Books (Heather Sellers' term for ideas that try to lure you away from your current project--Sexy Next Book usually arrives when Current Book is circling the drain). Sellers recommends ignoring the siren call but if you must answer, spend no more than a day taking notes. I add notes on Sexy Next Book in the notebook of Current Book as they come to me. A good new book idea will build in your head until you know it's viable.
Today I'm going to transcribe those scribbled notebook-notes into a computer file. I'll also begin a typed journal just for this book. Book journals are vital to my process, as important as Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs. In Beyond the Words, Bonni Goldberg talks about distillation, catching the spirit of the project. "The first phase of percolation," she writes, "ruminating internally, is about letting your idea build by containing it."
I use my journal to help contain the ideas of my book. Many writers keep a book-related journal. Goldberg says, "A writer's journal isn't the same thing as a traditional journal . . . [it's] where you distill ideas. You use it to jot down scraps of conversation or a dream . . . jam for a few pages about a topic that sparks your heart and mind."
The journal I kept for Iva Honeysuckle Discovers the World (now slated to come out in summer 2012!) is about 20 single-spaced pages. The journal for the book I just finished is 50 single-spaced pages and is ongoing. I'll add entries about the book's progress and revision process. I'm learning to lean more on my book-journal than other tools.
Today I'll also fine-tune the jacket copy for the new book. That's right. The book I haven't written. I attack new projects from all angles, even from the angle of the book being published. I write jacket copy, one page synopsis, and a longer synopsis from the voice of the main character. A lot of these tools get dropped once the book and I have clicked. But I keep the journal.
6. Set Your New Book in the Summer:
The best way to escape winter short of a Disney cruise. It may be dreary as an open grave outside, but inside my office, I'll be swattin' gnats and sippin' sweet tea . . .
Okay, maybe a little. I've lost count of the snows here in Virginia (the South!) since December 4--at least 4 major snowfalls including the 18 incher right before Christmas and a few piddly ones between. When I left for Fort Myers, a foot of snow was on its way and when I came home Tuesday evening, it was snowing. And now . . . the Great Grandaddy of All Snows has folks here whipped into a frenzy. There are no eggs in any grocery stores. Ditto bread. No books on the shelves in the library. Ditto DVDs.
I was cruely sent to the grocery store yesterday and today. Yesterday at Wegman's was like the last helicopter out of Saigon. Today when I went to the Giant to pick up the things I couldn't find/reach/smack out of someone's grubby paw in Wegman's, it was like rats on a sinking ship. Apparently people here think they will be holed up for weeks on end and will have to break up the furniture for firewood and fix casseroles out of candle stubs and cat food. They say bad weather brings out the best in people. Clearly the person who said that was never in the produce section of Wegman's duking it out for the last banana.
Predictions are running wildly from one foot to five or ten feet, depending on which station you listen to. Me? I'm paying no attention to this horrible weather. The last few weeks I've heard the winter birds (the ones who winter here) singing spring songs. They pay no attention to the weather either and use the lengthening days as their calendar. I've seen robins since January, though they had slightly panicked looks in their eyes. If they could speak English, I'm sure they'd say, "Whose idea was it to head north early?"
But no, I'm not talking about the snow that's flying outside my window (I have my back to it). Instead I'll talk about the few precious days I had in Florida and share some of my lousy photos. I was staying with a good friend, helping her with her novel. Coaching her was the best thing I could have done--I reinforced what I know (and seem to forget with each book). Her husband is an avid photographer. He had a very nice Nikon with a real (detachable) lens. I left my Nikon (with the non-detachable lens) and took my little Sony Cybershot. Her husband told me about a photo editing program he uses that looked much easier than Elements, but I can't remember the name of it. And so my photos are unedited, as usual, and blurry because I was always either in a moving boat or hanging off the rail of the Corkscrew Audubon Refuge about to drop my camera in the swamp because I was trying to photograph a pair of raccoons or an anhinga diving for a minnow.
I have a red dot that's a pileated woodpecker. A white dot that's a white ibis. Another white dot that's a snowy egret. A brown dot that's a grumpy red-shouldered hawk. If I knew the name of this photo editing program, I might be able to blow those dots up into recognizable birds. That's a little blue heron staring into water covered with zillions of teeny little leaves or plants. I added four birds to my Life List--anhinga, little blue heron, white ibis, black-crowned night heron. I began my life bird list when I was nine, scrawling "robin," "crow," "blue jay" in an old advertising address book (like many bird listers, I cheated--I still have that list and know I did not see a Baltimore oriole.)
Still, it was wonderful to walk outside in just a sweater and slip-on tennies. To eat grouper sandwiches outside at the marina. To taste Florida Pink shrimp fresh off the grill with grilled asparagus. To sample my first sea trout with lemon pepper (freshly caught and grilled). I came home with a strong desire to run out and buy a Weber grill and charcoal and drop a chicken neck off a pier to catch crabs for supper. But . . . here comes that darned snow I'm not going to talk about and all thoughts of grilling are fading like the sunset over the Gulf.
If I was a good sport, I'd shift my culinary tastes toward hot chocolate with marshmallows and chicken noodle soup. But I'm not. I'm sick of winter and already sick of the snow I'm not going to talk about.
The novel I've been working on for over a year is finished! I delivered it to my agent yesterday afternoon. Do I feel happy, overjoyed, relieved?
Yes . . . and no. Mostly no.
This is how I feel:
1. Lonely. I carried this novel around in my head, in notebooks, in manuscript form, for months and months. It wasn't far from my mind no matter what I was working on. It entertained me on long road trips, helped me go to sleep (and kept me awake), and distracted me when I did boring ol' household chores. I miss its physical presence. Does it miss me? I hope so.
2. Sad. The characters in my novels never get what they want. They get what they don't want and that turns out to be better for them in the long run. I have high hopes for this book, but suppose my life is like my characters'? I know what I want, but what if I don't get it? I've had books rejected so many times, I put them away forever. I don't want that for this book and I can't imagine rejection being better than being published. Does that make sense?
3. Nervous. The reason I cling to my books as long as possible is that I hate sending them out into the world. That's my child out there where people can make fun of her. Until I hit the SEND button on the email attachment to my agent, the book is mine. All mine. Now other people can take potshots. I don't like this part.
4. Tired. Yes, it's been a long haul. I thought I'd have this book finished by early fall, then by Thanksgiving, then by Christmas, then New Year's . . . It's off my desk mainly because a) it was time, b) I'm leaving for Florida for a few days, and c) I have two nonfiction contract books to write. My house is a wreck. I have a vintage furniture store in the middle of my office. Laundry is piled to the moon. We have been eating "out of the freezer." And clearly I need a haircut and dye job (and wrinkle cream! Crow's feet when my eyes are closed!)
O, I miss you, book! Take care out there. Don't catch a chill. Keep your chin up when people say unkind things about you. And remember, you can come home where you will always be loved.
I've been reading Louise DeSalvo's book On Moving: A Writer's Meditation on New Houses, Old Haunts, and Finding Home Again. It's the perfect book to dip into right before going to sleep. And it's no wonder my dreams have swirled with fragments of the house I grew up in or my cousin's house or my grandparent's house . . . DeSalvo moved into the house of her dreams, but instead of feeling happy, she felt conflicted and unsettled. She studied other writers and their reactions to homes, particularly with regard to working.
I identified with so many of these writers. Marguerite Duras bought a house where she could "hide in order to write books." But the house left her feeling empty and a period of difficult, "naked writing" followed. If she hadn't experienced that difficult time, she believed the books she would have written would have been "facile, inauthentic." When she and the house finally adjusted to each other, Duras wrote novels that "depended on this particular house--the light flooding the house from the garden, the table she sat at to write." And she included those elements in her work.
From the time I was 15, I have had a writing room. I took over my old bedroom, sometimes used as my mother's sewing room, as my "office." My stepfather found an enormously heavy filing cabinet with shallow drawers, probably for machine parts. I painted it turquoise and stuck lime green "mushroom" magnets to the sides (this was the late 60s, after all). My sister gave me a desk and a purple shag carpet I adored. I typed at my Montgomery Ward typewriter, terrible stories and poetry and novels, but knew instinctively if I was going to be a writer, I needed a place to do the work.
Virginia Woolf believed the houses she lived in helped create the type of books she wrote in them. She stumbled on crumbling Round House, in Sussex in 1919. She found it "just the kind of eccentric house she's always desired," DeSalvo writes. "She can already imagine the pathbreaking books she'll write there." Virginia Woolf buys the house instantly. But when she shows it to her husband, they see the cramped bedrooms, the busy streets. Then VW hears of Monk's House nearby. She sells Round House and buys Monk's House, believing her life will change there.
She placed a desk and chair facing the window in her studio. As she wrote in her diary in 1904, "I long for a large room to myself where I can shut myself up and read myself into peace." She used the setting of Monk's House for a novel, but restlessness overtook her again and she decided they should move back to London. She began looking for a house "that will inspire her, transform her art." The house she chose was in Bloomsbury.
DeSalvo's book reminded me of the mid-90s, when I was dissatisfied with our house and neighborhood. I wasn't who I wanted to be there any more. The town had changed; my parents had died. It was time for us to move. I'll spare you the grim details, but in 1996, we moved from our Virginia home to a rental in North Carolina. The rental house and I raged against each other. Although we were going to build "the house of my dreams" I was in the wrong place. Period. So we moved back to Virginia and then built our house, a total of 3 major moves (13000 pounds of stuff, no furniture) in 8 months.
The new house had a room over the garage, connected to the main house, so my office was finally out of a bedroom. I've posted before how I'm redecorating the room because I need a change. I'm buying white vintage furniture, painting the walls an actual color (as opposed to "builder's white") and ripping up the stained carpet for real floors. I am purging books, papers, projects, and other deadwood that I've just been dusting around for years.
This weekend I picked up a small, round club chair that Winchester has claimed for his own because it's cat-sized. And I couldn't resist this chalkboard easel. At first I wanted to put it in the kitchen and write the specials of the day on the blackboard, but I don't cook and there's no room in the kitchen for it anyway. The handles at the top turn, showing the farm animals, sport scenes, and the alphabet (can come in handy when I forget what comes after "g") but I really bought it for this delightful scene when you drop the blackboard down.
I have absolutely no idea where this enamel kitchen table is going in my office. When I saw the fruit decals, I was a goner. I have drawn several floor plans of how to arrange all this furniture in a finite space, but I keep buying new pieces!
I hope the change will feed my writing soul what it's been missing. I don't anticipate any drastic changes in my work--I'm still writing for children. But I sense a shift coming. I'm hoping the new room will inspire me and, more importantly, transform my work. Because our house is new, it lacks a sense of history. I've decided to hang a vintage mirror, the more discolored the better, to remind me of other lives beyond my own. By looking into an old mirror, I might find what I've been searching for in my work . . .
On Christmas Day, at our family gathering, I noticed my sister's outfit. She has been stylish since she could toddle, appearing at age two in a glittery royal blue bathing suit in a blizzard, flouncing around in our mother's aqua net dinner dress at age three, and once, running outside naked, probably because she couldn't find "a thing in her closet."
Me: Cute shoes.
Her: TJ Maxx.
Me: I like your top. Where'd you get it?
Her: TJ Maxx.
Me: Pants? Ring? Bracelet?
Her: Maxx. Maxx. Maxx.
In all the times my sister and I have gone into TJ Maxx (or Marshall's), I wander around with a dubious-looking sequined tee-shirt, say, unable to find a skirt or even a pair of ripped pajama pants to go with it. Meanwhile, my sister has been whipping up and down the aisles, pulling out slacks, a winter coat, shoes, handbag, scarf. Everything looks wonderful on her, fits perfectly, and the whole outfit totals $24.58, for heaven's sake. In all fairness, my sister lives across from (and in) TJ Maxx and scours the merchandise as soon as it hits the floor. I have given up on TJ Maxx and Marshall's.
The same with Goodwill. One of my students came to class last summer wearing Goodwill finds--one day a vintage blouse and pencil skirt with famous department store labels, two bucks. Another day she layered slips (she is tall and thin and can get away with this) under a bed jacket with handmade lace, 50 cents each. I went to the same Goodwill, but after pawing through the racks, I could only find frumpy jumpers. Instead of looking daring and Bohemian like my student, I'd resemble a 1980s Mennonite.
When Ebay was fairly new, I thought I could find the bargains my friends were scoring--a Bakelite "cherries" pin (normally hundreds of dollars) for a mere $10.50, for example. I signed up and bid on a set of Trixie Belden paper dolls. I watched my bid like a mother hen. Near the very end, someone stepped in and upped the ante! I raised my bid. Again. And again. I had to have those paper dolls! I got them, for $50. They are worth $30. Worse, they're from the 70s, not the highly-sought-after Trixie Belden paper dolls from 1958. I closed my Ebay account and haven't bid since.
When I decided to redo my office, which you can see is in sore need of either redecorating or a bulldozer, I knew I wanted vintage furniture to replace the Target fake-wood bookcases and odd computer tables. People in lifestyle magazines are forever bragging about how they found a dressmaker's dummy on the side of the road or that fabulous Eames chair in a junkshop.
One weekend my husband and I went to Goodwill. I walked straight up to a white dresser with bright green paint spilled all over the top. The dresser was marked $20. My intent is to replace ticky-tacky bookcases with dressers and chests. This one would require some work, but that was okay. I walked up to the counter and said I wanted the $20 dresser. It had already been sold. From there we went to the Salvation Army. In case you wondered, the Salvation Army is where VCRs went to die. Nada. I knew I would have to haunt thrift shops every day, probably throwing myself on a crummy old nightstand to get it first. No. Not me.
The next day we went to my favorite antique/shabby chic shop. I walked in with $540. At Goodwill, I could have bought a houseful of $20 dressers and chests with that money, but it wasn't worth my time to keep looking. Plus I'd have to strip and paint those suck--bargains. In the antique store, I picked out a long, six-drawer dresser, a tall five-drawer dresser, and an armoire. Wonderful vintage pieces with decorative trim and hardware, already painted white. I also bought three more vintage suitcases (to store books), a Brownie box camera (because it was cute), and a 1940s wire dish drainer (for file folders). I walked out with 14 cents. But I got all my furniture in one swell foop.
Last Saturday I met my sister at a new junk/antique shop. I found a comfy club chair for $45, plus a bunch of other things for my office like a vintage green lunchbox (supply holder). The lunchbox had a note inside: "I carried this for many years. My father used it before me and my Uncle Vern has [unreadable] in his shop." Burning with curiosity over what Uncle Vern had in his shop, I snapped up the lunchbox. My furniture/accessory shopping was done in two trips!
So if you are one of those charmed people who can find your trousseau--tags still attached--in Goodwill or on Ebay for pennies, more power to you. Me, I'm sticking with stores where the things I buy are are vintage, not won in a footrace, and come complete with stories about folks like Uncle Vern.
Once (upon a time) I asked my sister which fairy tale she most identified with. She said, "The Princess and the Pea." "Me, too!" I said. I had always been picky and delicate. We were both princesses, though my sister really looked like one whereas I most resembled the scullery wench or the dog-girl. To celebrate our shared fairy tale character, I made us both princess-and-the-pea bracelets.
Clearly I have not found the "jewelry" setting on my camera, but this is the best I could do (be glad you are spared the shot of the bracelet on a vintage black velvet flower pin that showed every speck of dust). The beads are all silver or pink and green glass. You can't tell, but the silver tag next to the green "pea" bead reads princess.
But as time wore on, I decided I wasn't really the Princess and the Pea type at all. I'm Goldilocks! Yes, I'm picky (and no longer delicate at 140 pounds), but I'm also nosy. And wasn't that what got Goldlilocks in the most trouble? She just couldn't keep her schnozzola out of the Three Bears' stuff.
When I was a kid, I went through my mother's dresser drawers the instant she left the house. The contents never changed and there were no secret jewels or diaries, but I kept checking anyway. If you turned me loose in your house, I would have to fight the urge to rummage in your dresser drawers.
But that's what makes me a writer (I tell myself and other people when they catch me red-handed in their medicine cabinet). Curiosity. Not the Alice-in-Wonderland kind of curious (she seemed rather foolish to me), but the Goldilocks kind. Nosy, annoying, and a little destructive (sometimes you have to take things apart to understand them).
Which fairy tale character are you? Be honest . . . and my feelings won't be hurt if you lock your bedroom door when I'm in your house.
Princess and the Pea illustration, Edmund Dulac; Goldilocks illustrations, Jessie Willcox Smith; tee-shirt Cafe Press, Sur La Lune
. . . of my first, illustrated how-to book. Yes, I am the author and the illustrator of Scrapbooking Just for You! Five years in the making. Lots of hair-pulling (you can tell I don't have much), many days of whining, "Why did I agree to this project?," but many more days of saying, "Look what I just made!"
Flash back to spring 2005. My agent is having lunch with Meredith Wasinger of Sterling. Meredith, wistfully over her chopped salad, (Meredith took me to this same restaurant a few years ago and talked about that lunch with Tracey Adams): "I want to do a book for girls on scrapbooking, but I don't know anyone who can do the project." My agent: "I know just the person. She'll be perfect." Now picture me, innocently humming as I work on my little 2 by 2 inch scrapbook album of my stuffed elephant Ellsworth, having no idea of this conversation in NYC.
My agent contacted me. Would I do this book? Welllll, yes, I said, with only a tiny shiver, like a goose walking over one's grave. I had to send in samples. I whipped up an envelope book (made from envelopes) with "trading cards" of my cats, my only photo subjects. After years of "cropping" Friday nights at my local scrapbook store and watching girls who came with their mothers glue their photos in the four corners of their cardstock and add a scattering of stickers (known in the business as a "sticker sneeze"), I knew girls were more artistic. They deserved a book that showed them how to make sophisticated projects. They could learn simple design principles.
All this sounded good and I got the contract. I ran into three obstacles right away: 1) most of the book would consist of layouts for scrapbook albums. I never made layouts. Never worked 12 by 12. My projects were weird little things, sometimes without photographs. 2) Although I had taught journaling and life journey classes at my scrapbook store (where I was also a designer), I never measured anything. Never. My students squawked like scalded turkeys when I said, "Don't try to make it like mine--create your own project using my example as a springboard." 3) And my biggest hurdle: I didn't have photographs of girls age 9 to 13. None.
You know that tee-shirt that says, I Forgot to Have Children? Well, I forgot to have tween-age girls so I could take pictures of them doing fun girl-like things. I couldn't do 60 projects with photographs featuring my cats and stuffed elephant. I put out a call at my scrapbook store and soon had lots of photos of girls. My editor also answered my desperate plea and sent photos. First thing I learned: every person in every photograph not down on all fours had to have a signed model release.
I began work on the book in 2006 (that September day in 2005 I learned the contract was a go, I also learned that I would be writing 6 more Time Spies books--7 books in one day!). I made lots of mistakes and lots of ugly layouts. I wrote my text, describing in detail the principles of design, color, matting photos, supplies, equipment, the history of scrapbooking . . . Each project required me to measure every single little piece. I decided to keep my measurements in quarter inches so I wouldn't lose my mind or have frustrated readers. But still, I wrote stuff like, "Trim card stock strip 4 1/4 by 3 3/4 inches. Place strip 1 1/2 inches from left border . . ." a thousand times, it seemed.
The first round of projects were ready to go in 2006, plus the text. I color Xeroxed the entire book (128 pages). Time went by. I wrote lots of other books. Then Meredith sent my projects back with her comments. I threw some out. Created new ones. Revised the text. Many, many times. The book and projects went back again. Now I had 60 projects showing different techniques. In 2007, we went over the book again. Created different projects. Began cutting (I think there are 30-some projects made the final cut). By 2008, the book was scheduled for spring 2009. Then fall 2009. But we were still working on it. Me, Meredith, photographers, designers, technical artists, copyeditors, stylists. They weren't sure how to photograph the projects. I sent Meredith a trade magazine with examples of what I envisioned. The magazine got lost in the mail. I had to track down another copy, send it again. The first photo session was a disaster. Meredith never showed me the results--she said they were too awful.
The book was pushed back to spring 2010. I went over proofs and revised the text again. More proofs. More tweaking. Photos were swapped (in-house with their magic Photoshop) within projects to add variety. The book began taking shape. Last summer I was asked if I wanted to do the art for the jacket. I submitted several ideas to the designer. She choose one. I took my materials with me to Hollins University last summer and created my jacket art the weekend before classes began. Mailed it off. Felt my four-year-old great-nephew could have done better. My design was fine, but I had to create the title and I had no idea what I was doing. Plus Meredith had added a subtitle. Mercifully, the jacket was created by the designer. But--oh!--I did so want to have Jacket Art by Candice Ransom on the inside flap.
I had crafted a color wheel--selecting card stock to represent the primary, secondary, and tertiary colors, then carefully hand-cutting pie-shaped slices to create the wheel. It was decided to go with a more professional-looking color wheel. More proofs. More checking and copyediting and tweaking of color and positioning of elements. And then . . . it was done. Incredibly, the book was finished.
When I received the bound copy yesterday (which Meredith snicked from an upstairs office--the very first copy--and sent to me), I couldn't believe I had done this book. It'll be out March 2. Mark your calendars . . . draw an X in that square 1 and 1/2 inch from the top, 2 and 3/4 inches from the right border . . .
Once upon a time, about a month ago, I walked into Target and bought a DSLR camera. This one:
It was on sale, but still cost $600. That night at supper, I told my husband I had bought a $600 camera. He didn't choke, which was admirable, but he wasn't exactly thrilled either. Neither was I. It was an impulse buy, based on feelings of grief and guilt (I had had Xenia put to sleep that morning). I returned the camera the next day. It didn't feel right for me. Not too big, not too small . . . just not right.
I didn't need a DSLR camera. I've never learned to use the features on my Sony Cybershot 230, the camera I'd upgraded to last spring (from a fewer-megapixel Sony Cybershot and that was an upgrade from my first digital cameral, a Kodak Easy Share, a camera that had to be re-charged by the hour, it seemed). While it was true that I didn't know how to turn off the flash and had never even moved the mode dial from "Easy" to "Automatic," I long to take the kind of pictures I see on blogs and in scrapbook magazines. Mostly I want to take close-ups of things like, say, typewriter keys, with the background blurred. According to my Dummies Guide to Digital Photography for Seniors (I'm not a senior citizen yet, but they don't make a Dummies Guide to Digital Photography for Pre-Schoolers), only DSLR cameras can take those interesting depth of field shots.
Enter Camera #2:
The Nikon D3000 was just the ticket, I thought. I ordered it from Amazon and it was about a hundred dollars cheaper than the Canon. It seemed easier to use. Then I bought a camera case and signed up for classes at Ritz Camera.
When the new camera arrived, it scared the bejabbers out of me. I didn't even take it out of the box for two days. Then I lifted each piece out gingerly. It was big and heavy and it had a separate lens. I set the camera on the table where it seemed to sneer, "I'm way too good for you." I had to agree, especially when I found you can't view through the LCD window on the back--the biggest advantage of digital cameras to me--only the very tiny viewfinder. My vision in my left eye, the one normally used to look through the viewfinder, is 20/600.
After much agony and trying to take pictures with my right eye (the good one for distance) with my hand over my left eye, I decided the Nikon D3000 was too big for me. And so I returned it. Also the camera case and I canceled the classes. By now, my husband was worried about this alarming pattern of buying and returning expensive cameras. I had more important things to do, like write books, but I gave it one more try. Surely there was a Candice-sized camera out there?
Enter Camera #3:
The Nikon Coolpix P90. The lens is built in. I can view through the LCD window. But it has a lot of very neat features and I'm even learning one or two (plus a few on my trusty old Sony Cybershot). I won't be able to take gorgeous portraits like you can with a DSLR, but that's okay. I have two cameras now. One I can throw in my purse and another that elevates me above (in photog lingo) "point-and-shoot-pocket-cam."
Not a great big jump. Just the right size step up for me. My husband, the mailman, and the guy at the UPS store are all relieved.
So many writers have posted their 2010 goals. I used to do that--well, not in a blog because they weren't invented then, but in my DayRunner. Once I had DayRunners in all sizes. In the 1987 New Year's meeting of my writing group, I priggishly extolled the virtues of having a DayRunner system, that all real writers needed some sort of system, and flashed my own neatly-written goals. That year the word for the month of January on my Mary Engelbreit calendar said, Onward. I went "onward," all right, but not in the direction I wanted to go.
Since then I have given up resolutions and kept my goals to myself. Some days it's enough to put one foot in front of the other. One goal I've announced is that I want to be a better blogger and take better pictures (can only go up on that one). But I also want to make an art journal. I've wanted to create an art journal for years. I've drooled over the beautiful journals splashed in the pages of mixed-media magazines. I've collected old photographs and ephemera (that I can never bear to part with); I have vintage ledgers and old books to use as journals; I have a supply of Copic and Pitt pens and watercolor pencils and crayons. But no Golden Gel medium. I refuse to hunt down a special glue I can't buy in Michael's. So why haven't I done an art journal?
Truth? Art journaler's block. I can't mess up those old ledgers with my tawdy little drawings or inept watercolor daubs. Art journals are a hot topic in Blog World these days. Susan is starting a new one. Jessica teaches online classes called Love This Journal, Be an Art Journal Diva in 21 Days. And there is a lively discussion over at Vivian's on what constitutes art in an art journal. I look at the journals of Cathy Johnson and Hannah Hinchman and Vivian Swift and think, "I can draw, but only a little. Anything I add water to becomes a disaster. Who am I kidding? I'm a writer. Why the heck am I so bent out of shape about making an art journal?"
Because I once had a room like this:
Yes, my dirty little secret. That was my studio. I was an avid scrapbooker and mixed-media artist for several years. But I became paper-and-supply greedy (a common scrapbooking disease) and ignored the laws of physics that the only way to transport two tons of canaries in a one-ton truck is that half of the birds have to be in the air. This room became so depressing I couldn't bear to look at it, much less "create." So I shoveled it out and turned it into a sitting room. My art supplies are neatly stowed in a vintage washstand. My scrapbook supplies are tidily put away in a vintage lingerie chest. And my "studio" now occupies half of a small walk-in closet. Do I still scrapbook? You bet. I sit on the floor, using a cedar chest as my worktable, while I watch "Miami Vice." But do I make art journals? No. Maybe because I'm afraid the same thing that happens to my regular journals will happen with my art journal.
In his introduction to A Life in Hand: Creating the Illuminated Journal by Hannah Hinchman, Geoff O'Gara says,
"For a professional writer, journal-keeping is mercenary. I have tried at times to work through my problems by consulting with myself in writing, and I've tried to regularize my life with a morning tea-cup of record-keeping, but it never works. My journal always resorts to cold-eyed thievery. It thrives inversely to the writing I do for public consumption. I turn to it during fallow periods, and it fills up like water rising in a canal lock; when a kind of equilibrium is reached, the gates open and I turn to an article or a short story; I pick through the journal, steal from it, and otherwise shun it."
The same thing has happened with my journals. I resort to journaling when I have creative constipation. Then the journals become organ donors. So why should I expect any more freedom in my so-called art journal? Why should I let a stupid over-priced jar of Golden Gel medium stand in my way? Maybe because of this year's goals.
At Vivian's blog, we talked about paint chips--you know, the colored samples in Home Depot and Lowe's--as a springboard to a new kind of art journaling. Just reading the names of colors can set you spinning into poetry. This coincides with my big goal this year of remodeling and redecorating my office. It's a 400 square foot dedicated room over the garage, a space I shared with sick cats for 7 years. Like my old studio, this room isn't working for me any more. So I am shoveling books and papers and old-Candice artifacts to make way for something new. I've chosen my colors. The cover of this magazine inspired me. This shade of blue for old treasured furniture, crisp white paint for the other furniture pieces, the vintage red in the magazine's title for accents, a warm butterscotch for the walls.
Even after I've picked my colors, I continue to be fascinated with paint chips and I keep stealing them from Lowe's and Home Depot. The names! The colors! And something small inside me clicked. Why not combine my photography goal with the paint chips? Make my own style of journal--photograph things that remind me of the color names and make a little book with my photos on paint chips. Or something. It's a small, portable project that doesn't involve a drop of Golden Gel medium or desecrating my precious ephemera.
So those are my goals. Let the chips fall where they may.
I'm still too sick/busy/addle-pated to write a real post today. But I want to share the cover of my first board book. Coming out in May from Sterling.
Isn't it cute? I just love my illustrator!
On New Year's Day I woke with one of my notions. These are seemingly wonderful ideas hatched between the hazy verge of wake and not-awake. When I grab the wriggling idea with two fingers and hold it up to the cold light of day, it reveals itself as ridiculous or worse. For example, once I woke with the notion that I would make Margaret McElderry, an esteemed editor I don't even know, a scrapbook of her life. Like she would let me--a big fat nobody--have access to her priceless photos and memorabilia!
The newest notion has roots in something I learned from Patty Lee Gauch, Philomel editor. She told a group that back in the late 60s, she was in a writing workshop led by Jean Fritz. Jean had the group read books which they discussed before critiquing their work. I nearly melted with envy. I couldn't imagine a more perfect writer's group. When I woke on New Year's Day, I thought, "I can lead a workshop like Jean Fritz's! People can come to my house. I'll give them mind-stretching exercises and we'll discuss only the very best children's books. We'll drink tea and eat cupcakes."
While I lay in bed, I mulled over the details. The workshop should be Tuesday mornings. People run errands on Mondays. Tuesday would be good. Did I have enough chairs? Yes, though most weren't comfortable. For some reason, we furnished our house for Munchkins with no sofa, only a loveseat and mismatched vintage chairs, usually occupied by cats.
Then I remembered my one goal for 2010: to strip away extraneous clutter--in my office, in my house, and in my work life. Facilitating a workshop means time away from my work. I turned over in bed and saw the book on my nightstand (beside a vintage Baby Ben clock that doesn't run--okay, some clutter stays). A Writer's Paris: A Guided Journey for the Creative Soul, by Eric Maisel. This is a book about learning to write wherever you are, but Maisel hints broadly that writing in Paris is way more inspirational than writing in, say, Frog Level, Virginia. I'm reading Maisel's book in conjunction with Vivian Swift's Paris trip book-in-progress that she is writing and illustrating and is generously posting on her blog.
Everyone I know has been to Paris. These photos are of a set of watercolors my husband bought from a street artist when he was stationed outside Paris in the mid-50s. We were planning to go to Paris for our 30th anniversary this year, but the trip to Europe turned into a trip to Irvington, Virginia, because of sick cats and various other things. It's not likely I'll get to Paris to write or do anything else. Maisel's book and Swift's blogs remind me that though I live in the suburbs of Fredericksburg, a mile in any direction will take me to rolling farmland, manicured battlefields, a charmingly preserved downtown district, ugly strip malls, my local library, a Big Box development marked with a sign that can been viewed from Landsat, and a pond filled with geese.
It's my choice: where I go and what I choose to see. What I choose to write about. And how I choose to use my time.
And that writing workshop? Do I really want to worry about cat hair and enough chairs? No. I really want to be in a workshop where books are selected thoughtfully and carefully discussed, where I can sample mind-stretching exercises and review the progress on my current project.
So I'm creating the Workshop for One. I'll meet with myself on Tuesday mornings for an hour or so. Sit in any chair Winchester isn't snoozing in. Ignore the fact the den needs cleaning even though some joker wrote "2008" in the dust on the coffee table. I'll sift through promising books to read and discuss them with myself. I'll give myself mind-stretching exercises. I'll review my current novel and decide what needs to be done next. I'll have a cup of tea and a cupcake or a few cookies.
What do you think? Want to start a Writing Workshop for One, as well? Your work will be critiqued by the person you trust most. You can sit in the comfiest chair in your den. And you can slurp tea from the saucer and lick the frosting off your cupcake and no one will think you're gauche.
We intended to spend New Year's Day at the Hope and Glory Inn, the wonderful retreat where we celebrated our 30th anniversary back in May. After arriving there yesterday afternoon, it was obvious I wasn't worth a flit since all I did was sleep, blow my nose and cough. If you have to be sick, I can't think of a better place to be than our beautiful pink and white and green cottage. We had a nice dinner (I woke up long enough to eat) and a blissfully quiet night with no fireworks.
However, we reluctantly decided to come home after breakfast this morning (where we were served black-eyed peas in pot likker!). I didn't get to take all the pictures I wanted, but enjoy these of the Inn's festive decorations.
So, what did we do on New Year's Day that will count toward our daily activities in 2010?
1. Drove from the Northern Neck to Fredericksburg. Spotted one eagle, two deer springing across the road, and dozens of grumpy black buzzards slouched in rows on a radio tower.
2. Stopped at Wal-Mart. Overheard in the cat litter aisle:
Daughter: Do you think he'll like this cat litter mat? Won't it hurt his feet?
Old woman: Not the way they scratch and carry on. How much is it?
Daughter: $4.74.
Old woman, picking up another style of mat: Same price as this one.
Daughter, studying hectic-looking cat face on the mat: I don't know. I think it'll give him the heebie-jeebies.
3. Ate mediocre lunch at Bob Evans. A come-down from scallops wrapped in bacon and chocolate truffle cake at dinner last night and the divine baked French toast this morning at Hope and Glory.
4. Came home, were greeted by half-famished cats (faking since they still had food left in their bowls), put away ten tons of stuff.
5. I cleaned powder room, laundry room, washed a load of sheets, cleaned out closet under the stairs, and one shelf in our bedroom closet. Felt both virtuous and put-upon. Coughed a lot to make that point.
On the minus column of this list, it appears next year I may be doomed to go to Wal-Mart every day and eavesdrop on inane conversations in the cat litter aisle, unpack, scrub toilets, fold sheets, eat mediocre lunches, clean closets, and watch grouchy buzzards. On the plus side, it's equally possible I'll drive quiet back roads, spy an eagle, see leaping deer, and breakfast on baked French toast.
And I'll write. That's Number 6. I'm posting this entry because I want to write every single day next year. Books, love letters, journal entries, blog posts, articles, stories, poetry--good, great, and mediocre. Writing is what I do, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, decade after decade.
The thought of not doing it flat-out gives me the heebie-jeebies.
We are off to Hope and Glory Inn to celebrate the New Year and the last few days of our 30th anniversary year. I am half-dead with a sinus infection, but I've packed baskets with goodies and a huge tote with books. We'll read and nibble and eat out and listen to me hack and blow my nose.
Have a great New Year's, everybody! My next post will be in the next decade!
1. Finishing and revising my novel.
2. Writing the essay I was asked to contribute for the forthcoming scholarly Handbook of Children's Literature (the only time you'll ever read my name and "scholarly" in the same publication).
3. Revising my latest Lerner nonfiction book.
What I Did Yesterday:
1. Went to Michael's 70% after-Christmas sale.
2. Made this winter wreath (grapevine wreath, $4, assorted picks, 17 cents each; I already had the vintage child's skates).
3. Cute, huh? Only cost $8, 10 minutes of time, and 27 glue gun burns.
What I Wish I Didn't Have to Do:
1. Blow my nose--a LOT.
2. Drag around the house with allergic rhynitis (not a cold--I've never had a cold--not as bad as a sinus infection, worse than regular allergies).
3. Try to work with a stuffed-up head that won't squeeze out a single coherent thought.
What I Just Did:
1. Got a call from "Unknown Caller" with toll-free number at the obscene hour of 7:38 a.m.
2. Picked up the phone.
3. Set it down on my desk and let the guy/tape run on for 20 minutes.
What I Wish I Could Do:
1. Write a better blog.
2. Take better photos (oh! those pictures with blurry backgrounds!).
3. Journal about my everyday life in Fredericksburg as if it were an adventure like Eric Maisel did in A Writer's Paris: A Guided Journey for the Creative Soul, but that's hard to do when everyday life consists of trips to Target, Wegman's, or the library, and anyway, the people in my head are more interesting than the soccer moms chattering on their cellphones around here.
What I'm Reading Now:
1. Vivian Swift's daily blog at her home on the Long Island Sound
2. Vivian Swift's France trip blog
3. Andrea's blog at Scout
What I'm Going to Do Next:
1. Order Vivian Swift's book, When Wanderers Cease to Roam: A Traveler's Guide of Staying Put (not that I ever go anywhere--I'm fascinated with illustrated journals).
2. Think more about being a better blogger/journaler/photographer.
3. Blow my nose.
1. Christmas is over. "It's as far away as it ever was," my stepfather used to say.
2. The "Shoes" song keeps going around in my head. You know the one. Sappy lyrics that lodge in one's brain. If I take my tree down, the song will go away.
3. We've had 20 inches of snow in December. Winter is over for me (yes, I know I'm in for a rude awakening the next two months).
4. I am on to the next thing. The fresh start of New Year's, sweep out the old year, etc.
5. I like looking at my New Year's postcards better than my tree--they've graced my dining room for 20 years. Now those postcards are over 100 years old.
6. Yes, I know it's bad luck to take your tree down before New Year's Day and I never have before this year. With our luck, one tree isn't going to make any difference (but we will have black-eyed peas and collard greens!).
Every year I say whatever doesn't get done by Christmas Eve doesn't matter and isn't even noticed. But, like Santa's reindeer, I'm pretty much on course from December 1 on. Not this year. Not with that curveball of a snowstorm last weekend. For most people, any last minute errands and shopping didn't get done.
At first it didn't matter to me the roads and neighborhood streets were a mess and continued that way, day after day. But by yesterday it did. I simply had to get out. You can only do so much via the Internet. The prospect didn't thrill me. Not only did I have to haul a 16-pound cat to the vet, but our Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas Day potluck dishes to carry to my niece's party loomed uncertainly. It didn't help that the paper blared stories about 6 and 10 and 40 mile back-ups to get into our two shopping centers (on the same road, across from each other). That people sat through lights 8 and 9 times. That ice-covered roads were washboard speed bumps. That the police had to escort the plows through stalled mobs of traffic. That it took shoppers 3 hours to get into the mall and 2 hours to get out.
So I braved two grocery stores yesterday after Winchester's check-up (and an emergency run to the library). They were so packed, I couldn't remember my zip code, much less what I meant to buy. But I still had errands to run and the best grocery store to get to--all in the war zone of our shopping district.
Today I got up at 5 a.m. Performed morning chores and was out the door by 7:30 with a packed lunch, books to read, and plenty of water (I wasn't about to sit 3 hours in traffic without a book and chocolate!) and a battle plan. I carefully chose my routes and bam! bam! bam! hit every one of my destinations successfully! (Of course, this meant driving 26 miles round trip to a post office that was in the opposite direction of the mongrel hordes pouring in).
Then I rolled home, delivered neighbors' presents, popped Winchester's pill down his throat (he runs now because I'm either going to stuff a nasty pill down him or shove him in the carrier), put my first-ever ham in the oven, got my family's presents ready to take to Mechanicsville tomorrow . . . except for fixing our Christmas Eve supper, it's all done!
Here's hoping you're ready, too. And if you aren't, nobody will notice what didn't get done. Because Christmas comes anyway, whether we're "ready" or not.
There are disadvantages to not having TV: missing "Dancing With the Stars," "CSI: Miami," and real-time weather reports. Without TV, we often have no idea what's coming our way until it's here, or if we have a whiff of bad weather, we have to rely on rumors fed by hysteria, Internet Weather Channel stories about every place but where we are, and the wildly inaccurate AccuWeather.
Friday we had some idea snow was coming that day (I can read the sky and my bunion hurt) and into Saturday. We ran our usual errands, went to the library and the grocery store where I stocked up on such vital items as Edy's peppermint ice cream, three kinds of put-them-on-the-cookie-sheet-to-bake cookies, our Christmas ham, cat food, Ritz cheese crackers, milk, coffee, and magazines.
Our pantry full of essentials and bedside tables stacked with reading material, we hunkered down to wait for the storm. We didn't have long. It started snowing Friday evening, a "chicken" snow, so called because the flakes are fine and dry, like chicken feed. When I realized this wasn't a big blustery gloppy snow, I knew we were in for it. Did I have enough peppermint ice cream? Thank heavens a friend sent us a two-gallon tin of Garrett popcorn (caramel and cheese).
Saturday we woke up to a winter wonderland and still snowing. In a burst of rare domesticity, I made Snowbound-at-Someone-Else's House Soup, sugar cookies, and banana bread. I fixed a hot lunch and a hot supper for my husband who was in and out all day, trying to stay ahead of the storm, mostly a futile effort. He'd snowblow or shovel the driveway and walk, take two sips of coffee, and it was a white wasteland again.
It snowed and snowed and snowed and snowed. We had tickets for the "Nutcracker" in Richmond that night. These tickets are expensive and nonrefundable. Performances are never canceled. But when I called, the evening performance had been canceled. I guess even the dancers and orchestra needed sled dogs.
By suppertime I was tired of sweeping up grit, washing dishes, and listening to Winchester sneeze. Did I mention that all of our animals invariably get sick on a holiday weekend or during a blizzard or national disaster? Winchester has allergic rhinitis--yes, allergies, just like I have because of him. He needs medicine but the vet might as well be on the moon. My fleeting spell of domesticity was in full retreat.
When we woke up this morning, it had finally stopped snowing. I ventured outside wearing my husband's boots and a pair of regular socks and three pairs of slipper socks to make my feet bigger. It wasn't easy lacing those boots up over a plush reindeer head, plush bear head, and plush cat head (those socks are made for lounging, not snow-shoeing). The yardstick measured 15 1/2 inches, but the snow out front and to the side is deeper. I was already up to my knees.
I hope I really don't look like this. It is a big puffy coat, but my face isn't wearing a coat. Maybe all that peppermint ice cream, caramel popcorn, and sugar cookies are catching up.
Today everyone is outside, blinking in the bright sun like moles. I watched the little boys across the street wallowing in the snow like puppies. "It's deeper than the ocean!" one called. It's unlikely the plows will get to us tonight. My husband will manage to get to work tomorrow morning, though. However, I'll be stuck here the next few days with a sneezy cat and unlimited goodies. (This is Persnickety, who is not sick, but impatient to get on with her important cat business that the Blizzard of '09 interrupted.)
But the road is clear for my novel now. I have given myself one month to finish and revise it. I will have plenty of time, so the snow is good for something after all.
Book--idea, nuture, notes, research, write (and write and write), revise for myself. Christmas--presents, wrapping, mailing, letter, cards, addressing, buying (and wrapping and mailing) . . . by the time I get to the editorial revision/decorating the house, I'm in a different mental place. I'm working on another book that needs my absolute attention. I'm finished with Christmas before the actual day arrives.
When I'm stuck in writing, I re-read favorite books or--little known secret of multi-published writer about to be revealed!--read craft books, preferably new ones. Yes, I turn to books on writing and even buy the latest issue of The Writer. Similarly when I need a nudge in the decorating direction, I go someplace inspiring, like Through the Garden Gate, a fabulous shop in Mechanicsville, Virginia, on Route 301.
I'd love to have a holiday-themed house like this--all whites and beiges and tarnished silver (the tarnished part isn't hard to achieve). It's so lovely--like a haunted house softened by snowfall.
While my house isn't studied clutter like this shop, I did decide to decorate around our things this year, instead of clearing off tabletops and hutches and moving furniture as I've done in the past. Our house looked like Macy's windows until I found myself with a December 31 book deadline nearly every year.
I have lots of bottle-brush trees, but keep them with my husband's mother's cardboard village, which is always displayed on the dining room hutch. Still, I like the idea of separating a few and displaying on a platinum-rimmed plate. Why did I pitch my silverplate teapot when it became too tarnished to deal with? Didn't I know that heavily tarnished items would be in vogue?
What I learned from visiting this store is to change-up my decorations depending on my mood, which changes from holiday season to holiday season. This year I unearthed old photographs my husband took with his new Brownie box camera one Christmas day in the late '40s. The little snaps are fanned on a postcard "tree" in our den, on an antique table that displays old cameras and clocks. The vignette creates a moment back in time, similar to this lovely tablescape in the store, and suits my reflective mood this season.
I put out my mother's turkey-bone sleigh. These gold-painted "sleighs" were quite popular in the early 60s. I never liked it, but it was my mother's and it needed to come out this year and be seen. Somehow it seems right sitting on the bottom of our tea cart, resting near my mother's beloved Depression glass, surrounded by vintage ornaments and mercury-glass garlands.
The pink tree went up last night. Instead of shrouding the base in old lace curtains and tablecloths, I used vintage aprons. Change is good. So is revision. Time to shine up those words and polish those scenes in Iva Honeysuckle Discovers the World--Well, Her Part of Virginia, Anyway.
The plan was this: drive to Manassas (about an hour away) to my Aunt Irene's house. My cousin and sister were already there. We'd drive to Strasburg (another hour and a half away) to visit my aunt--my cousin's mother--in the nursing home where she is recovering from a severe stroke. Then we'd come back to Manassas and stay the night in my aunt's house, which is right on the route for the Prince William County Christmas parade. My sister and I hadn't seen the parade in more than 40 years. It would be just like the old days!
Here's what really happened: we got snowbound and it wasn't anything like the old days!
Last Friday was cold and cloudy. We all drove to the cemetery first . . . so many graves to lay wreaths on, so many family members gone . . . then headed for the Shenandoah Valley. My aunt was much improved since I saw her in October. We ate lunch in the gorgeous old Strasburg Hotel, a former hospital, now an inn brimming with antiques and period style holiday decorations. From there we went to the rambling Strasburg Antique Emporium. My aunt rolled along in her wheelchair, enjoying looking at things from her era. She cracked us up when she said, "If I want to see an antique, I just look in the mirror." The Emporium is where all the vintage suitcases went to rest, apparently. I gathered up three and would have bought more except the back end of the Ford Escape was already packed with a wheelchair, walker, and fall flower arrangements from the cemetery. Hours later, we drove in the cold and dark back to Manassas. The air was heavy with moisture.
We woke to driving rain that became thicker and thicker and then turned to snow. The parade has never been canceled due to weather. My sister was so excited she kept going out and coming back inside. She about wore her coat out, taking it off and putting it back on. Finally we heard the tootles of band instruments tuning up. The parade started down Prescott Avenue--the wrong way! In all our years of viewing the parade, it never changed direction! Snow nearly blinded us--wet, globby, frying-pan-sized flakes that soaked immediately. Some of the bands and dancers and floats proceeded gamely, like it was a sunny day. But some of the kids (and grown-ups) huddled miserably under umbrellas and hoods, not even looking up to wave. I enjoyed the therapy dogs and the antique fire engine (natch!). And the horses. The Redskins Marching Band was a surprise. We stood outside as long as we could, then ducked into the car to watch the rest. Just as I did when I was six and ten and sixteen, I waited eagerly for Santa to end the parade from his traditional perch on the fire engine. But he arrived on a utility truck! A utility truck?!? It was more than I could bear.
Back in the house we realized the snow was serious. My cousin and sister had planned to visit my aunt in Strasburg again. I had planned to go home. The Shenandoah Valley already measured several inches of snow. And I wasn't about to spend the day on I-95 with spun-out cars. We were snowbound.
What would we do? We did what women do everywhere--women's work. My aunt's house--the house I had banged in and out of a thousand times as a kid and grownup--had been neglected. We dusted and vacuumed and threw away bags of trash. Did laundry and wrapped presents and raided the basement for Christmas decorations which we put up to make the house feel better. My sister and cousin made soup from what was in the pantry. It was delicious, though my cousin thought it should have pasta and my sister wanted potatoes and onions. Here's the recipe:
Snowbound-In-Somebody-Else's-House-Soup
2 cans tomato soup
4 little cans V-8 juice
2 cans corn
2 cans string beans
2 cans lima beans
2 cans mixed vegetables or peas (you get the idea, clear out the pantry!)
Simmer, add water as needed. Add potatoes, onions, or pasta, if you like. Best enjoyed with toasted bread, a sense of accomplishment, and the happiness that only comes from sharing with family.
When it finally quit snowing, it was dark. We actually went out to get ice cream sundaes! As we sat huddled in our coats in an ice cream parlor on Sudley Road, we looked like we should be in a bus terminal somewhere. Then my cousin drove us around the snowy town. I had come to visit my aunt and to see the parade with my cousin and sister but I had also come in search of the past. I couldn't find it, not in my aunt's house that had changed so much since we were all kids, and certainly not in Manassas. The Methodist church where I went to Bible school (for the fruit punch and butter cookies with jam centers) had been turned into a restaurant. Rohr's Five and Ten was an art gallery. Thankfully, there were still pockets of sameness--the old Victorian houses on Quarry Street, for example.
At my aunt's house again, we lounged in our jammies, leafed through magazines, talked, and watched White Christmas, my sister's and my favorite holiday movie for the last 40 years (the song "Sisters" is our private anthem). The house closed in around us, content to have people talking and laughing and eating in it again. I studied my aunt's photographs, on every wall and table, and her collection of redbirds and realized the past wasn't as out of reach as I'd thought.
On Sunday, it was clear and bright. I swept four inches of snow off my car. Before I left, I noticed a small leatherette book in my uncle's study. My cousin told she had found her mother's teenage diary a while ago. It's from 1945, when her mother first came to Manassas as a teenager to live with her older sister. I asked to transcribe the diary. The house, I could tell, did not mind when I took the diary with me.
It's supposed to snow again this Sunday. I already have the ingredients for Snowbound-In-Somebody-Else's-House Soup. It will be a good time to put on "White Christmas" and read about the life of my aunt as a wide-eyed sixteen-year-old.
We lost Xenia yesterday. People often say "lost" is a euphanism for "dead," and they are right. But we did lose her, or, to be more accurate, we are lost. Here is Xenia's story.
Just after Christmas in 1993, our first cat-child, Alaric, was put to sleep. My husband and I were lost, just as Alaric was. In March of 1994, I couldn't stand being cat-less another second and went to the Fairfax County Animal Shelter (the "pound") where we had gotten Alaric. I looked around but couldn't see any cats! The shelter volunteer told me a kitten had just come in and pointed out the cage. There were food and water dishes and one of those two-inch-high disposal litter pans, but no kitten. He opened the cage, reached behind the litter pan, and pulled out a black and white female kitten. After having had a boisterous black male cat for 14 years, she wasn't what I had in mind, but I held her anyway. Her little heart pounded and she tried to crawl under my armpit. She was so shy (the reason she'd been returned to the pound). A woman came in and saw the kitten I was holding. She had designs on her. "She's mine," I said and the little black and white female went home with me. 
I named her Xenia, not after "Xena the Warrier Princess," as people have long thought, or after the town in Ohio. She was named after Anastasia Romanov's cousin, Xenia. When war broke out in 1914, Xenia and her mother were sent to England. Xenia left Russia with her clothes and a teddy bear her father had brought her back from Germany--a red mohair Steiff bear. Xenia named the bear Alphonse and her nurse made a little outfit for it. Xenia never saw her father again. He was executed during the Revolution. Xenia married an American and lived here the rest of her life. The original Alphonse was put up for auction back in the 1980s. Ian Pout bought it and Steiff created a limited edition of the bear. Years later, Steiff created a limited edition of a companion bear, Xenia, a beautiful soft white bear. Just like Xenia the cat was, soft, white, and pretty. (Yes, I have both bears.)
Xenia was the shyest animal. In all the 16 years she was with us, some people never laid eyes on her. We learned she liked to be under boxes and covers and sofas. She was a good hider. The vet who checked her over said she was not three months as the shelter claimed, but four. She was a petite cat with little springy whiskers. She got in bed with us in the mornings, crouched like a toad, and if Edward G. Robinson meowed, he'd sound like Xenia. "Maow. You dirty rat." To hear this growly voice coming from such a little thing cracked us up. 
I often wondered if she had been raised by a broody hen. Whenever I bent down to get a pan or whatever, Xenia would scoot underneath me. She found the belt of my bathrobe and walked all over the house with it, stepping on it and tripping herself, and "maowing" through her teeth. I think this is related to a mother-cat-moving-her-kittens behavior. She wasn't smart like Alaric, who kept us hopping for 14 years. It took a few years for her to learn her name. But she had smart moments, like the time she typed "xxxxxxxxnnnnnnn" on my computer. I know she was typing her name. After Alaric, Xenia was a relief. She was sweet and undemanding.
When we moved once, we drove 8 hours with Xenia in her carrier on the seat between us. She stood the whole way, joggling and teetering. We smuggled her into a motel overnight. She tried to dive under the bed but the motel beds rested on wooden platforms. The next day we had to leave early and Xenia had not done her business in over a day. I plunked her in the 8 by 8 disposable cake pan that was her traveling litter box, said, "Xenia, we're leaving, so go." And she did.
In Fredericksburg, stray cats noticed our gate was marked (like the signals hoboes left during the Depression) and we soon added Mulan, Winchester, and Persnickety to the household. Xenia, I discovered, was also xenophobic. She did not like foreign cats. Mulan didn't give a fig about any of the other boarders here and Xenia and Winchester gave her a wide berth. But Xenia would not, could not tolerate Winchester. Not in seven long years. It was necessary to keep them separated. This meant Xenia stayed in my office most of the time. As she grew older, her hatred of Winchester became worse. It was like living with a bitter old great-aunt in the attic. 
But she still loved me and enjoyed sitting on my lap when I typed. When I scrapbooked, she often lay between my feet while I worked. She was definitely my cat. She liked my singing and loved it when I picked her up to dance and sing to the radio (the other cats ran). Whenever I pulled into the driveway, I'd look up and see Xenia sitting in the big window of my office, looking down at me. She knew my car and would "maow" in greeting.
As the years rolled on, Xenia had one stroke, then two, then she developed hyperthyroidism and chronic renal failure. I have known for a month or so that her time was getting close. Close, but not yet. Not yet. Despite numerous illness, Xenia's spirit burned bright.
This weekend I was caught in the snowstorm and away from home for two nights. When I got home Sunday afternoon, I was itching to start decorating. All afternoon I dragged boxes in from the garage and decorated the dining room and den. I played one of my favorite CDs, a cheap Target CD that has Rosemary Clooney singing, "Happy Christmas, Little Friend," an odd, sweet little song, like my cat. At one point, I checked on Xenia. She lay right up against the small heater while my office radio played Christmas carols. Xenia had been quiet and a bit lethargic for a few weeks, but I knew something was wrong.
Yesterday morning, we made our final trip to the vet's. It was time.
When I pull into the driveway, I still look up at my window, but she's not there. I hope she's looking down at me now. 
Happy Christmas, my little friend.
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