Under the Honeysuckle Vine

Snowbound, Part II (For Real)

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 18:01:56 GMT

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.

Revisions and Christmas Decorating

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 14:11:37 GMT

I don't know what it is about editorial revisions and me. Even when they are nothing, only a few days of not-very-hard work, I slam them behind a mental door like shutting out a ten-foot tall ogre. It's the same with decorating for Christmas--it has to be done and the house, like the book, will look so much better when I'm finished. But I slam decorating behind the same door. Maybe it's all the up-front preparation:
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.

Snowbound

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 19:38:41 GMT

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.

Happy Christmas, Little Friend

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 19:21:58 GMT

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.

My Holiday Workshop

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 15:30:22 GMT

Last day of November! Like Jama at Alphabet Soup, I'm on the countdown, too. My sister decorated the outside of her house in one manic day. I can't face decorating yet, not while I'm finishing up handmade gifts. This year I'm giving the gift of words--mine or other's people's. Yes, I'm giving lots of books, but also things to encourage people to write, take pictures, and journal.

In the introduction to A Dixie Christmas, editors Charline McCord and Judy Tucker wrote:

"The stories in this collection were e-mailed and snail-mailed, FedExed and UPSed, left in mailboxes, tossed on front porches, and left propped up against unsuspecting garage doors. Finding and experiencing each story, regardless of its packaging or mode of delivery, was like being the undeserving recipient of a gift involving great sacrifice, a gift unselfishly bestowed by one intent on stretching well beyond the comfort of his or her means to offer only their absolute best.

For the best kinds of gifts are words--spoken or written. The right words in the right order at the right time will always exercise a magical charm over their recipient. Long after the festive decorations have been returned to the attic, the mountains of unwrapped boxes have been dragged curbside, and the unadorned tree has been hauled off for recycling, the words of these stories--unaltered by time, undiminished by brevity of event--will continue to enrich their readers."

I can't hope to write a story as wonderful as those in A Dixie Christmas, but I wrote a personal essay for our annual holiday letter and a funny short story featuring the characters in my Iva books. I also made presents to capture words, pictures, and memories--journals, covered pocket folders, picture frames, photo collages, calendars, little chipboard mitten "fill-in" albums, scrapbooks, and a "stashaway" to tuck tags, letters and special photos.

This weekend I addressed my holiday letters (while watching DVDs of "Miami Vice"). I have one present to finish--one that I'm enjoying creating. My friend Connie Van Hoven spent this fall signing her first book. She has sold out of the entire edition already and still has more autographings coming up! Her album will be a memory book of friends and family who supported her.

This week I'll start wrapping presents. I don't believe in those gift bags, even though they can be recycled. I don't buy holiday-themed paper and I pitched my last bag of crumpled stick-on bows years ago. I wrap all my presents in tissue paper--any color--and belt with real ribbon. I tuck vintage photographs in the ribbon or add tags made from my collection of 1920s Christmas cards (they are like announcement cards and don't open), which I color copy and adhere to cardstock.

Don't you love that little ironing board? It's only 22 inches long, probably handmade. Instead of clogging the big-box stores the day after Thanksgiving, I was in an antique mall, far from the maddening crowd. I picked up this ironing board and a bigger red metal child's ironing board that will be pressed into service as a side table in my office (when it's redecorated), and the first of many vintage suitcases that will hold books.

My little workshop will run another week or so and then I'll mail gifts and letters far and wide . . . my absolute best efforts, off to friends and family who will find them in their mailboxes, or tossed on their porches, or leaning against unsuspecting garage doors.

My Sister's Soup

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 18:28:11 GMT

Grilled cheese and soup on Thanksgiving? Of course not. But we had that last night and it made me think of all those Friday-night-paycheck suppers when my mother would fix grilled cheese and tomato soup after we'd come back from the bank and the grocery store. The older I get, the more I crave simple foods: grilled cheese, pie dough roll-ups, chipped beef gravy over toast and home fries, fried squash (yes, I do love anything fried) and brown-and-serve cloverleaf rolls. This week I went to four different grocery stores trying find Pillsbury frozen dinner rolls or brown-and-serve cloverleaf rolls. Today's stores are too tony for such common fare. Sometimes I don't want artisan rosemary and dill flatbread dipped in extra-extra-virgin olive oil. Sometimes I want plain old brown-and-serve rolls!

I've been in a swivet over the rolls for days. I know . . . relax, breathe. It's just bread. But it isn't. I told my husband last night if I had the funds, I open a grocery store that carried all the stuff from the old days we can't find any more. Pecan twirls. Brown-and-serve Parker House rolls. Ice milk and sherbet (not sorbet). Date nut bread in a can. Those little Washington cake mixes (white and chocolate) so you can make a single layer cake or a half dozen cupcakes. Popover mixes. Potato sticks in a can. Dream Whip. Chicken breasts with the ribs--boneless fillets get boring after a while. Fresh bologna. Chef-Boy-R-Dee pizza mixes in the box. You get the idea. Add your own lost favorites. We can have a great store and without a sprig of rosemary in sight!

My sister and I agree that we can skip a lot of products in the stores. The only thing that's vastly improved since our day is ice cream. Our choices were limited to vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry or van-choc-straw if our mother was feeling generous. Unlike me, my sister is a real cook. I'm a fixer, as in, I'm fixing supper (open can, jar, box, etc.). Last week she made a fabulous soup that she made up. If I made up a soup, we'd have to dial 911.

You see, I failed ninth grade home ec. I confessed this before my husband and I got married and he was brave enough to go through with the ceremony. In home ec., I couldn't seem to grasp the fact people used recipes. My mother didn't. She just went in the kitchen and came out with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cream gravy, creamed peas, biscuits, cole slaw, butterscotch pie . . . So when I was assigned to make tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with my hapless partner, I said, "Who makes tomato soup? You just open a can." But there wasn't any Campbell's in the cupboards. I opened a can of tomatoes and poured the tomato water in the pan. Meanwhile, my partner was making our grilled cheese sandwiches in the toaster. No wonder we both got an F and our teacher a migraine.

So when my sister told me she made up the delicious soup I was eating (with grilled cheese), I asked her to send me her recipe. Here it is:

Patricia's Famous Lip Lickin' Chili

1 pound ground beef or turkey
1 pack sliced fresh mushrooms
2 small cans Mexicorn
2 cans petite diced tomatoes
1 can navy beans
1 can kidney beans
1 can pinto beans
1 package Chili-O seasoning (mild)
sugar, salt, pepper to taste

Brown meat and mushrooms, add seasoning mix. Dump other ingredients in and simmer till yummy.

Serve with grilled cheese sandwiches (made with American cheese, nothing fancy) and fond memories of the good ol' days.

Virginia Beach or Bust!

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 12:37:16 GMT

It was one of those trips that started off awful and ending up great. The awful part was my own fault. On my way down to Virginia Beach, where I was scheduled to speak to two schools and a reading council conference, I decided to stop at my sister's in Richmond so she could do my hair. From there I whizzed down I-64 to Williamsburg. Instead of going on by, like a normal person, I located (love the GPS!) an antiques mall. I promised myself I'd only be in there 20 minutes. (I can't even be honest with myself when it comes to antiquing.) One hour later I was at the cash wrap with three items I didn't need. The line was too long and so I left empty-handed. Next I went to the Prime Outlets in search of shoes. Anybody with half a brain knows you can't shop for shoes at a big huge outlet place in 20 minutes. By that time I didn't have a quarter of a brain. I looked and tried on but found no shoes. Nowhere. By then it was 4 p.m. and I had a long way to go. No one warned me that Virginia Beach at rush hour is insane.

Up at 3:00 a.m. the next morning, probably too keyed up from all my lollygagging and driving the day before. I visited my first school, Thoroughgood Elementary, and spoke to all the kids, K through 5. The kids were wonderful! They asked such great questions. I had a blast eating lunch with the PTA presidents (past and present) and the librarian. What struck me the most about this school was watching the kindergartners and first graders file in the cafeteria/auditorium. They are so small, so earnest, so sober. They sat down and stared at me. I noticed the purplish circles under their eyes. They are so fragile, these little people, so precious. I know if I came back at the end of the year I'd find bigger, sturdier children, more confident, starting to become themselves. One boy in the front with messy blonde hair grinned at me and said "HI!" His name was Ben, he said. Naturally all the kids beside him and behind him and in front of him had to tell me their names too. It was a charming moment.

The next day (up at 4:00 a.m. this time), I went to Old Donation Center for the Gifted and Talented. In this wonderful, inspiring school, students from grades 2 through 5 spend their days in enrichment programs such as strings, ballet, and art, along with learning academics. The kids were astonishingly bright, funny, stimulating. They kept me on my toes! In between presentations, I peeked into the dance classroom and gazed at sweet little girls with their hair in buns, exercising at the barre. I popped into a third grade class and was amazed at the words on their blackboard, like "rubric." They were studying the structure of economics! In third grade, I was barely able to grasp simple arithmetic.

Most gratifying about this school was watching the kids with their books. They took their library books everywhere. They wanted to read during lunch, but the teachers were concerned about getting food on the books. So the children take their books to the lunchroom, drop them off in baskets, and when they are finished eating, they sit on the carpeted stage steps and read. They read sitting on the floor in line on bathroom breaks. They read. In that third grade classroom, the kids kept their library books on their desks within ready reach. I saw Eragon, Hotel for Dogs, and my own Finding Day's Bottom. The parents supported their kids' love of reading--I signed books and bookplates (for books ordered but not yet arrived) until I thought my fingers would drop off, but it was a good kind of tiredness.

The person who coordinated my Virginia Beach trip asked me if I'd speak to an after-school book club at Old Donation Center. Of course I said yes. I sat on the floor with about ten 8- and 9-year old girls from three different schools. The girls had met at field hockey and when that season was over, they formed their own book club. Mothers bring food, but stay in the background. The girls devised a system of speaking with two colored tennis balls: whoever had the green ball could talk, whoever had the yellow ball was next. They had read my books in preparation of my visit and asked really good questions. I loved them so much, I told them a couple of true ghost stories, just for the fun of it. They applauded! There are pictures of me with these girls. I look tired, but my smile is genuine. I adored these girls!

The next day (yes, I was up at 4:00 a.m. again), I attended the Virginia Beach Reading Council annual conference, held at Larkspur Middle school. I gave the keynote address, a speech I wrote called "Good Morning, Virginia." I took the title from the first line of a board book coming out next year entitled Hello, Virginia. As I signed books, I talked to reading teachers from the vast Virginia Beach school district. They bought books with their own money, an indication of their dedication.

When I hit the road again Saturday afternoon (this time I went straight home), I felt energized. Yes, I'd missed sleep and I spent 3 days talking and signing, but I was with kids and teachers and books. I write the books at home in my (mostly) quiet house. But I do it for them. It's wonderful to have a glimpse into their world.

Two Weekends, One Rainy Week in Between

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:05:32 GMT

About once a year I get a notion to completely redecorate a room over the weekend. I blame this in part on HGTV. When I'm teaching at Hollins in the summer, I have a TV in my apartment. We shut down off our cable 7 years ago when I was in grad school the first time. Although we say we don't miss TV, I turn it on the second I've moved on campus. Mostly I watch HGTV. I'd call my husband and say, Listen, we can add 8 extra square feet in our bedroom just by changing the swing of the door! It only takes a second (in HGTV time). My husband would say it's more complicated than that--you have to buy a new door and doorjamb. Most of my projects turn out like that.

Two weekends ago I decided it was time to create our Beatix Potter bathroom, based on fashion colors from the movie "Miss Potter," cream, robin's egg blue, moss, dark brown, and an old Victorian poster called "Rabbits on a Log" by Arthur Fitzwilliam Tate. For more than a year I'd been acquiring a new shower curtain, candle holders, an old mirrored medicine cabinet-type shelf and other decorative touches. I bought the paint on Thursday and began painting the plain white walls robin's egg blue. If anyone has ever seen the sequence on "Frasier" where Niles is ironing his pants to get ready for a date with Daphne--7 minutes or so of physical comedy--that was me painting. I thought painting would be soothing. I'd think about my book while making over the boring bathroom. I didn't think about anything except painting the walls without getting it on the floors, tub, sink, toilet, and my hair. It took me an entire day. The next day I bounced up ready to tackle the woodwork and install all the new hardware. Did I mention it was 80 degrees that weekend? And that this bathroom has no window? I slapped paint on the inside of the door, eager to get out and get some air. But . . . I'd locked myself in and that was after I unscrewed the doorknobs! My husband came to my rescue. Finally.

The next day, Sunday, was installation day. (See previous post--all we did was shop for and take back light fixtures). My two-day miracle actually took five days. But . . . I transformed the ugly mirror with this nifty framing stuff called Mirr-Edge.

We ditched the ugly chrome hardware and installed bronze, even the knobs on the vanity. I hung the cabinet and added vintage toiletries (Cloverine Salve, anyone?).

I found an old telephone stand about 6 inches wide with a cute pull-out notepad shelf that makes a fun tp holder. Put vintage oversized Golden Books in the phone book slot because you always need something to read in the bathroom.

Last, I cleverly had my husband install the towel bar behind the door so it's mostly hidden. This isn't really one of my "arty" shots--I'm in a heap on the floor after climbing and stretching and painting and scrubbing for five days straight. And the wall isn't really green, but robin's egg blue. Light reflected in the mirror and the huge poster, but you get the idea.

When the room was finished, the rains came. Hurricane Ida's last laugh. It rained and rained and rained and rained and rained. Tuesday night through Saturday morning with no break. Wind and rain. Rain and wind. I don't drink but I was ready to down tumblers of vodka.

This weekend found me giving a library program on Pony Island at a library in North Stafford. I had mostly little kids and I loved watching them color cut-out paper ponies afterward. Made me want to grab a crayon and join them! On Saturday I attended the Mid-Atlantic SCBWI conference where I critiqued manuscripts most of the day. In between I chatted with friends from the Children's Book Guild of Washington, D.C., Vermont College, and Hollins. And on my way home, I could see a line of--was that light?--on the distant horizon, peeking beneath the glowering clouds that sat over us for four days.

Yes, we have sun again! And temps in the 70s! Wednesday I leave for Virginia Beach for two days of school visits and then the Virginia Beach Reading Council conference, where I am the keynote speaker. Better go pack...

Goldilocks Meets Groundhog Day

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 14:53:07 GMT

Never have your house built by Bambi. When we moved to Fredericksburg in 1996, we wound up with Bambi, an"up-and-coming" general contractor who had sweeping eyelashes and was so young he still lived with his mother.  Bambi was very sweet, but had an affinity for hiring low-bidder subcontractors like our electrician who cheerfully announced he was "on the wagon" (I still wince when I turn on a lamp) and the drywall man who actually made his wife hang the drywall (she told me she cried as she hung the drywall over the closet stud where I had written a secret message about what the house meant to its owners).

Our house was built in an astonishing four months. I made a lot of decisions quickly, like cabinets, chandeliers, carpet, vinyl, appliances etc. But then I fell asleep at the switch and let the builder choose things like towel rods, light fixtures, outlet covers, faucets and so forth. He used "builder's grade"--the cheapest of the cheap. At first all those things were bright and shiny and I didn't mind them. But as the years have worn on, so have those builder's grade items.  I began a campaign to replace every single light fixture, outlet cover, faucet, and bath hardware. So far we (meaning I blithely buy the fixture and my husband installs it) have replaced all the fixtures downstairs. My husband replaced three upstairs hall light fixtures last month while I was in Colonial Beach, not telling me he was nearly electrocuted because of faulty wiring until I got home. I wouldn't ask him to install any others for at least a year, figuring light-fixture-installation is on a par with childbirth. One needs time to forget the pain.

Last week I decided to make-over the middle bath. It still wore its original boring builder's grade whitewash. I'll tell the rest of the story of the makeover--and my undoing--in the next post. When I announced my plans the first thing my husband said was, "I'm not changing the light fixture." I'd already bought the fixture. But as I studied the large, hospital-type fixture installed by the builder, I figured the base of the fixture I'd bought wasn't big enough. The electrician had probably chopped a big hole in the wall with an ax.  I went to Lowe's, where I'd bought the first fixture, and studied the offerings.  Yes, that big fixture with a large bronze base would cover a hole the size of a football field.  I went home and told my husband about it. Okay, he agreed, sounding like Custer saying Little Big Horn was a fine place to fight.

Sunday, I said, we will get up and go to Ryan's for a buffet breakfast. Then we'll hop over to Lowe's, return the fixture I'd already bought, and buy the big one. The instructions said it only takes 30 minutes to an hour to install!  Sunday morning found us sitting in the parking lot of Ryan's at 7:30. The place opens at 8:00. We sat there a minute or two, one of us in dire need of coffee, the other wishing she had checked the restaurant's hours. So we went to McDonald's, a poor substitute for the dazzling array of breakfast at Ryan's, but the coffee injection came quickly. Then we hopped over to Lowe's to return the first fixture. I skipped back to lighting aisle and pointed out the large beautiful fixture about 40 feet above us on the display. But none were in stock.   It's the perfect fixture, I said, disappointed. Nothing else would do.

My husband drove to the other Lowe's on the far side of town. Yes! The light fixture was there! We took it home and he pulled off the old hospital fixture. The hole was not gigantic as I expected but the electrician left us a surprise anyway--the box that holds the wires was not embedded in the wall. It was stuck on the outside of the wall like a lichen. My husband held up the heavy new fixture. It wouldn't work. Not only that, I decided the fixture was too big for the bathroom. It had four ponderous glass globes that weighed about 10 pounds each. We would have to return it and get something else.

We went back to Lowe's. I frantically scanned the displays of bathroom fixtures. Too big, too small. Didn't like the globes. I found one and this time we opened the box and took it out. It might work, my husband said. Might. The word loomed between us. It was 2:00 and we had done nothing all day except run to Lowe's and fret over fixtures, our own personal "Groundhog Day." The new light fixture looked easy to install. For hours, my husband crouched on the vanity in a hot, windowless bathroom lit by his worker's light, twisting wires.   He needed different screws and went to Home Depot to get the right ones. When he got home, he found the right screws in the box the fixture came in.

Tests showed the wiring wouldn't work any more. He re-wired. Then the fixture, finally attached, wouldn't work. He took it down and re-wired the fixture before realizing I had given him a burned-out bulb to test with.   If I had connected a wire to my husband's head, he could have lit up D.C. At last the fixture was up. Only the three glass globes had to be screwed on. Except we learned that only someone with fingers ten inches long, a quarter of an inch wide, and made of titanium could manipulate the sharp rings in a ridiculously tiny space. We both sweated and fumed until my husband stuck the rings on the burned-out lightbulb with Scotch tape as a makeshift turning device.

At last, it was done. The new light fixture is a world of improvement over the old one. It gives the bathroom (almost, but not quite, completely made-over) the right ambience. But, oh, what a price! An entire day our lives. While I watched my husband twist wires, I thought about all those remodeling stories I'd read about in magazines. Wives who had happily fixed dinner in the bathtub for months and slept in a cardboard box while they and their husbands rebuilt their houses with their bare hands. How did they do it? How did they manage to stay sane/married/out of prison?

All I know is if we build another house (and in a way, we are rebuilding this house from the inside out), I'll be on top of things and choose every single element, down the last outlet cover.

Reader, I Married Him

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 14:29:00 GMT

When we last left the author of this blog, she had been junkin' with her sister in Mechanicsville, Virginia (see previous post). She ended that entry by implying it was okay she didn't get the inspiration board because there wasn't any room in her house and she didn't really need it anyway and we don't always get what we want, etc. Well, she big fat lied. She did want that board! So bad!

When I came back from my week at Bell House, a blissful week of writing, eating, and walking along the river, I walked into my office and nearly burst into tears. Xenia, our 16-year-old cat who has three terminal illnesses, lives in my office during the day. She has never gotten along with Mulan (a previous cat) or Winchester and has always had to be separated from the general population. My office seems more like a hospital ward at a vet's than a place to create. After more than 7 years of having sick cats in residence, my office is depressing.

Very soon, I hope, my new website will be up. I had wanted to include a photo album of my office to let kids see where I work. Then I wondered what angles I'd take photos that didn't show the litter box, water bowl, and numerous paper plates sitting on a plastic painter's cloth. Or the enormous mauled carpeted cat tree. Or the unused exercise equipment. Or the higgledy-piggledy piles of books and papers. Or the beige wall-to-wall carpeting stained with pet accidents that resemble countries on a giant map (upchucked breakfast June 8, 2003--Argentina).

When we built our house in 1996, I finally got a real, not-in-a-bedroom office. 400 square feet over the garage with two dormer windows and a big double window.  I wasn't going to clutter the room with books (!). I'd keep it pristine and business-like.  Pfff! In 2002 the first sick cat moved in. That would be Winchester who tested positive for feline leukemia.  I had two choices--put him down or keep him in total isolation from Mulan and Xenia.  Forever. He was a stray, about a year old, with a winning personality.  He moved into my office.  For ten months he grew and gained weight and demanded constant attention. I could barely write my own name, much less books. We had him retested and again it came out positive. I bought the big cat tree, which Winchester proceeded to shred with is big saber-toothed cat claws (visitors still wonder if we have a cougar somewhere).   Months later I had him tested once more, a more complicated test. The instant it came back negative, I let Winchester out. Mulan dealt with him in two seconds and he learned his place.

Then Mulan got irritable bowel syndrome, treatable in humans but fatal in cats. She had full run of the house and often spent time in my office. She left her mark, as well. After Mulan died in 2007, I brought Xenia into my office. She spent most of her time sleeping in the top bunk of Winchester's cat tree (when she wasn't plotting to kill him). Two strokes later she now spends her time yelling in demented agitation (cats get mental problems just like people) and having illness-related accidents.   I keep a can of Spot Shot and a roll of paper towels within reach on my desk.

So what does all this have to do with that inspiration board? While I was cruising my house, looking for a square inch of wall space, I walked into my office. No place here and it wouldn't go anyway, I thought. It's a vintage piece and my room is, well--a mess. And then I thought, I could hang it in here as inspiration to change this room. When Xenia goes, I'll have my room back. I'll declutter and completely redecorate! I could put swatches and lists and photos of how I want my room to look on the board.

I gazed out the window. My husband was outside raking. I had mentioned the board to him, but did not resort to my usual whining and wheedling. In fact, I never uttered another word about it. But when my husband came in from raking, he said, Let's go get that board you wanted. And so we did. My husband has always been like this. If I want something, no matter how foolish, he gets it for me. Even if we don't have the money.  Even if we don't have room for it. Somehow he finds the money. Somehow I find the room.  Somehow it works out. [On the board now: photo of my great-uncle, photo of my sister's dog Sugar in her purple princess costume, painting/card created by my good friend, children's book illustrator Linda Shute.]

Yes, Reader, I married this man a little over thirty years ago. And I'm so glad I did.

Stolen Day

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:42:08 GMT

Stolen days are best--days snatched from one's schedule, little spur-of-the-moment trips.   Long-range trips often wither under the glare of over-planning and anticipation often exceeds the actual event. I think I'm happiest when I'm someplace no more than two hours from my house. Tucked within that two-hour radius are lots of possibilities.

On Wednesday, I finished my second nonfiction book of the fall and delivered it. I should have started the revisions to Iva Honeysuckle yesterday but I needed a break between projects.  I called my sister in Richmond and asked if she'd go junkin' with me.  My sister Patricia is six years older than me--that was tough when I was six and she was twelve, but we have been best friends since we were both teenagers. Even better, she inherited the junkin' gene from our mother, too. I drove to Richmond and took Pat to a place she'd never been to before.

Through the Garden Gate Antiques is an antique mall. Through the Garden Gate is a separate shop dealing in vintage-y artist creations, vintage stuff, and shabby chic antiques. Through the Garden Gate is pure eye-candy any time of the year but this was my first visit in October. As the pictures show, the shop is a treat in white, cream, and black.   That's my sister above.   She doesn't want her photo on this blog, but I'm putting mine in, too (which I rarely do). She has much better hair than I do and she does it herself (she's been a hairdresser for over 40 years). Her house has more stuff than mine does, too, but we both always seem to find room for more.

I think the owner of the shop repaints these motel chairs for the season. I seem to remember them being light green and robin's egg blue last spring. Don't they look terrific painted black? In the background are metal tractor seats painted a muted glittery orange with wood stakes for stems. Some people are so clever!

This is hard to see but it's a black-painted vintage birdcage heaped with plastic skeletons with glittered and stamped butterfly wings. At first I thought it was icky but then all those little bones and ribs sticking up every which way kind of grew on me.

I have lusted after an old metal porch glider forever, though our porch is crowded already with a geranium-pink porch swing, chairs, a table, a baker's rack, forty-eleven rabbits, and plants. Who would think this white porch glider would make such a statement with a simple "BOO" banner swagged across the back?

Pat wound up buying an enormous U.S. Coaster wagon, green with red wheels, in excellent condition. I've never seen such a big wagon. It could easily hold four kids. She dithered over it a while but I egged her on, agreeing it would make a great coffee table. She could put pictures and collectibles in the deep bed of the wagon and cover it with glass. Which is what she did, about five minutes after she got home. She even had a piece of beveled glass that fit perfectly! She also bought a vintage child's booster seat, probably from a restaurant--dark red metal with metal legs. The booster seat is in her kitchen and she's waiting for it to tell her where it needs to be.

I got off easy but it was close. I told myself (a person I hardly ever listen to) no old lamps or chairs. No old children's books. Small things only. So what do I fall in love with? This gorgeous inspiration board--the picture doesn't begin to do it justice. It's a huge HUGE antique frame covered in linen (I think) and embellished with vintage lace, ribbon, a vintage glove and rhinestone pin. There are a couple of earring-embellished pushpins. I have always wanted an inspiration board to tack up fabic swatches, postcards, notes, photos, bits of vintage jewelry, scraps of paper or sewing trim . . . Oh, I longed for this thing. I came home and did a walk-through. I have no wall space big enough for this board. Not even in my sitting room closet (yes, I hang pictures in closets). It's so massive and heavy I'd be afraid to hang it just any old place. And so, sigh, I passed it up.

My little trick or treat sack was filled with a vintage watch pendant, a navy wool purse from the 50s (I actually use vintage pocketbooks), a vintage picture frame, one of the German glass-glittered Halloween decorations, a vintage traincase (I can't pass these up, ever), a pretty vintage hanky (ditto), an old picture frame, and a "Housewife's Yearbook" from 1937, a pamphlet produced by Kellogg's All Bran with cooking and beauty tips, all relating to the need for a "regular system." Who knew people worried about fiber and bulk back then?

We wandered this antique mall until our feet hurt, we were dying of thirst and so hungry we bought 2 dozen donuts at Kroeger's. But it was a good day. And we have photos, souvenirs, and memories to prove it.

Slipping In, Slipping Out: In Memory of Norma Fox Mazer

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 12:33:04 GMT

Seasons never arrive when they're supposed to. They sit like trains in a station until the next train comes along and pushes the old one down the track. Fall was officially September 22, but in Virginia, we were still sweating in front of fans. It seemed summer would never leave. And then one night the temperatures dropped so suddenly we grumbled, "It's cold! Winter already!" as we dug out jackets and gloves. The old season lingers and overlaps with the next season. I snapped this photo yesterday of our "fire bushes" and Japanese maple in their fall dress while our roses are still blooming nonstop. Summer bookended by autumn. But soon summer will slip out and fall will take its firm and rightful place.

This weekend I learned that Norma Fox Mazer passed away. I was aware she was critically ill but even that news was a shock. Norma Fox Mazer had been in my life in some capacity for more than 25 years. How could she have slipped out? I started reading Norma's books in the early 1980s, when I was writing Sunfire and Windswept YA romances. Then my editor at Scholastic told me Norma was writing for her. I eagerly read Three Sisters. Norma wrote about girls and family dynamics like nobody else. She had her own mid-grade series: A, My Name is Ami; B, My Name is Bunny; C, My Name is Cal; D, My Name is Danika; and E, My Name is Emily. Then she wrote After the Rain, which became a Newbery Honor and I realized that Norma could break a reader's heart then gently put it back together again. I wanted to be Norma Fox Mazer.

Feverishly, I studied all her books. In 1985, I ordered the very expensive textbook, Literature for Today's Young Adults, because there were several references to Norma and her books. (That was how I learned to write in different genres--by studying a particular author's works and her life.) Two years later, I pounced on the latest in the Twayne Authors Series, Presenting Norma Fox Mazer. I read the print off the pages, but pored over the photographs more. I loved looking at Norma as a child, then a young mother. She was so beautiful.

That fall, Norma was one of the speakers at the Children's Book Guild of Washington, D.C. Book and Author Luncheon. I stood in her long autograph line, wearing a fancy Gunne Sax dress (this was 1987, after all), and had her sign my Presenting book. We met again in New York at a Scholastic party in 1992. Since we shared an editor, we chatted about our projects a bit. I was nervous and overdressed in Laura Ashley; Norma wore corduroy pants and an air of "so it's New York, so what?"

Years passed. I found myself in a not-very-good place, work-wise, and, with my husband's prodding, applied and was accepted to the Vermont College MFA program in writing for children. And there was Norma, on the the faculty. Dewy-faced, fine-boned, her hair in apple-core pigtails, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I knew from my Presenting book the year she was born. No, it wasn't possible this woman with nary a gray hair and the flexibility of a teenager was 71. Good Lord, I thought, I'll have whatever she's drinking. But it wasn't just her youthfulness that enchanted me--like everyone who has met Norma, her smile was captivating--quick and warm. Norma became my advisor that first semester. As I stared at the list posted on the bulletin board, I heard other students murmur, "Norma doesn't take first-time students." She took me. I was honored and petrified.

I had a specific project to work on: a poem-novel/memoir. Norma wasn't called the Structure Queen for nothing. She saw right away my book's structure was on the verge of collapse and had me shore up the beginning and the end. I wrote poem after poem, filling in details, bringing to light the characters' motivations, and going into the basement of my past. Norma sent me into those dark corners knowing my heart would break, but in the writing of the book, she gently helped me put my shattered feelings together again. I never did sell that book even after revising it several times. Then I rewrote it altogether in the form of a straight YA memoir, which became the thesis of my MA in children's literature at Hollins University. And then I put it away.

In last fifteen years, or maybe longer, I have decided that YA is not for me. My niche is with younger kids because I understand them better. And I've stopped trying to "be" another writer. Every day I work on "being" Candice Ransom, though I'll admit it's a challenge because I keep running headlong into my numerous faults and shortcomings.

Today is another summer/fall day: 34 degrees when I got up, but the sky is so blue it hurts to look at and the temps will soar into the 70s. I'll go out and enjoy these last moments of summer--quick and warm--before it slips away entirely.

KidLitCon 2009 - Circles

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:02:40 GMT

I'm embarrassed I don't have more pictures of this event. This is Ellsworth from my other blog, Ellsworth's Journal, listening intently to the conference organizer and fellow blogger, Pam Coughlan of MotherReader. But what I heard and saw and talked about is more important than a bunch of not-very-good pictures I would have taken. (Feeble excuse, I know). Pam did a terrific job hosting this conference, no easy job. But all of us who attended are glad she did.

It was wonderful to see Jama Rattigan again. We haven't seen each other in about 14 years. We always met at the oddest places--at an artist teddy bear shop dinner in Leesburg, at an SCBWI conference . . . so of course it was long past time for us to be at the blogging conference. Jama brought Cornelius, who kept Ellsworth company. (You can see him on my other blog post). I met Tricia from Miss Rumphis, who is as funny and sweet as I'd thought she'd be in real life. I met Pam Coughlan who is younger and way more energetic than I thought she'd be. I talked with Mary Lee Hahn from A Year of Reading who is wise and funny and delightful.

I also met some people I knew from the Children's Book Guild, an organization in D.C. I belonged to for nearly 20 years. A delightful young woman came up and asked me if I had written some of the Sunfire books (Scholastic). She was a big fan of that series. A couple of other people remembered talks I'd given at various events. The wonderful thing about the field of children's books is that so many circles overlap. At this one event, I met people from the Kidlitosphere, reconnected with old friends, and was heartened to know that people remembered me from talks given years ago and books written years ago. All these overlapping circles formed a Venn diagram of this particular conference.

When I left yesterday morning, driving up I-95 in the cold, dark, foggy rain, I wasn't in a very "bloggy place." Since the Time Spies series ended at ten books, I wondered at the validity of keeping on with a blog in the voice of an overweight black cat and a shabby stuffed elephant. As for this blog, I wondered where I was going. Luckily for all of us, Pam gave us an exercise in the first session. She posed questions such as "Why are you blogging?" and "Who am I blogging for?" and "When are you going to revisit your blogging mission?"

I began Ellsworth's Journal to help promote the Time Spies series, but it quickly became more than that. Once Winchester and Ellsworth were let loose, I couldn't bring them back. They ran off with the blog--I simply became the typist.  I started Under the Honeysuckle Vine after a few failed attempts to begin a LiveJournal blog. It wasn't until Iva Honeysuckle sold this year to Hyperion that I decided to follow her journey through revisions and the production process in a different blog.  But who would want to read endless posts about revising and production?  Then I remembered how much I loved writing essays. When I first began writing for publication, I wrote dozens of personal experiences pieces which I sold to small magazines. I loved writing those essays. Once I set up this blog, I realized I had a forum to explore the little moments in life.

So what happened yesterday at the conference? I went in feeling a bit wary, thinking I was going to shut down Ellsworth's Journal. I wanted to learn how I could make my LiveJournal blog work harder to promote my books.  People jumped right in with discussions and panels and most of what they said went--whoosh!--over my head, but it was all very exciting. I took notes about the importance of Facebook and Twitter and Google Reader and Google Alert and how to create a blog community and build "authority" from Technorati and how to pronounce "meme" and what they're for. I learned about avatars and gravatars and Sunday Salon and SEO (search engine optimization). I felt myself getting wired (this often happens at conferences) and thought about how far behind I am. I learned that people are "leaving" their LiveJournal blogs and going to Facebook. But Facebook isn't anything like a blog, I argued. Facebook is flashy and addictive . . . and junky.

Then I grew tired of it all. Maybe it was because I had been up since 4 a.m. But I think it was too much for my pea-brain. As I sat there, some people around me multi-tasked on their laptops, PDAs, and iPhones. They watched a PowerPoint presentation by Greg Pincus (he gave us the link) on their laptops and tweeted and I don't know what-all. Their screens were so cluttered, it gave me a headache just to look at them. It occurred to me that the tweeting, multi-tasking people weren't really paying attention to the presentation. I was reminded of the State Fair a few weeks ago, when a woman riding the carousel a few horses ahead of me talked on her cellphone. That same day I observed two in-love teenagers at a picnic table, sitting as close as two people could sit and still have a couple of molecules between them, with their phones on the table in front of them, both staring at their phones.   Whatever happened to staying in the moment at least a few moments of the day?

Pam's questions were actually very helpful. I decided to keep Ellsworth's Journal going. And I decided I would write more about the writing process--which, most days, is not a trip to the beach--and continue to write my little essays. Something from the heart from me to anyone who might be interested in my musings. I also vowed I will not Facebook, Twitter, or do whatever comes along next year and the year after that. I want to write more deeply and truthfully and all those things provide too many distractions. I don't want to wander away from the circle of the children's literature community.  I will stay connected with words, not "tweets" or superficial Facebook quizzes or "presents."  That's my mission on my blog. And in life.

Re . . .

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 22:43:04 GMT

As one commenter astutely pointed out, I should have stretched out in the hammock at Bell House to renew my creative spirit. Besides making a spectacle of myself getting in the hammock, I suspect I would have fallen asleep. I found other ways to refresh and revive my creative spirit. One was by walking. I walked in the mornings to "shake" that day's chapter out of my head (generally the first line of the first scene and the rest would follow). I ambled at lunch time to take in the scenery. And I walked briskly at the end of my writing day to get the blood circulating again.

When I am away from home, I am reminded who I am writing for. Yes, it's for me and for my audience and for my agent and my editor. . . but mostly I write for my husband of more than 30 years. In all the times I've been to Bell House, I am greeted by a beautiful bouquet blooming in my room. This is the gorgeous arrangement he sent this time. He knows I like blues and pinks and whites. The vase sat where I could it first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

When I finished my day's writing, I sat on the sofa in the library across the hall and revised. I also outlined the next day's chapter. Working at a furious pace is like jumping off a cliff. I grab my characters and we leap into the unknown and hope for a soft landing. I found a book by Sandra Scofield that provided the necessary cushion--The Scene Book: A Primer for the Fiction Writer. Since I write scene-to-scene (a good way for me to build a plot), this book was perfect.  It helped me structure quickly and gave me a checklist that reminded me of crucial scene elements.

But the best part of the week away was seeing new things with new eyes. It's hard to do this when you are focused on your own daily life in your writing room in your house in your neighborhood in your town. I relished my walks along the beach, eyes trained skyward for the eagles who have just returned (they leave when the ospreys come back from Florida in the spring--ospreys are smaller than eagles but will chase eagles away and even steal fish from them--who knew eagles were such wimps?). I watched a young eagle carry an enormous fish downriver. He didn't have a good grip and dropped it. He circled back, as if the fish was lying right on top of the water waiting for him, then soared off in disgust. I watched swans in the marina, herons sitting all day on the jetty (I wondered if their backs hurt), comorants that dove into a wave and never resurfaced (if they did, it was miles away!), and mallards that bobbed on the surf like corks.

No matter where I am, I manage to find a place to go junkin'. Gotta recycle! I picked up a few play-pretties for my sitting room, ephemera for my mixed-media collection, and five silverplate spoons commemorating different buildings at the 1933 Chicago World's Fair, the "Century of Progress" fair. The spoons are actually a birthday present for someone special who was born in that year and whose birthday is this week.

Even having different food was restorative! Every morning at home I chow down Newman's Own cereal and skim milk (from that virtuous breakfast you'd think I was silph, but the rest of the day is a slippery slide into chocolate and chips). The innkeeper always discussed the next day's breakfast with me over wine and cheese on the porch after my writing day--she also regaled me with enough stories for ten books.  I'd go to sleep, knowing I'd soon be gobbling pecan pancakes with drawn butter, fresh pineapple, ginger cake, eggs over easy, cranberry juice, and bacon (I told her I don't eat meat, but bacon is in a food group by itself). Wonderfully prepared food, beautifully served on gold-rimmed china and the family sterling.  Now that I'm home, it's back to Almond Crunch in a Corelle bowl.

A week to remember . . .

Back from Bell House

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 20:09:39 GMT

Hard to believe I'm home again, this time with 70 brand-new pages of my novel. 70 pages in 6 days! I'm lucky if I write 4 new pages in a normal workday, and I'm in my office most of the day. That's what lack of distractions can do. At Bell House, all I had to do was roll out of bed, take a walk, eat the fantastic breakfast prepared by me, and go upstairs and work. Eat lunch when and if I wanted. Eat dinner when and if I wanted. I went out a few times, but for the most part I wrote, walked, took notes (and ate).

Since returning from Hollins this summer, where I began the novel, I had floundered on Chapter 6 for weeks. Couldn't seem to finish it. Too many other things going on. The more time between me and that chapter, the worse it got. I had to research and write a whole book during that time. Finally when I got back to the novel, I felt the voice had grown weak and I'd lost my way. I finally finished Chapter 6 and slammed out Chapter 7. I'd hoped to have Chapter 8 written before I left, but that didn't happen.

So when I arrived at Bell House and took all my stuff up the 34 stairs to my third-floor tower (I was going to say "eyerie" but I can't spell it. eierie? eiyrie?), set up my TV table and chair, unpacked my laptop and stuck in the flash drive, I felt wobbly--and not just from making umpteen trips up and down 34 stairs. What if I couldn't do it? What if I sat there? What if the book had deserted me? What if I couldn't concentrate here any better than I could at home? What if I'd spent all this money for nothing? My husband had said to rest and not worry about it, but my feeling is I can rest when I'm dead. I wanted to get this book back on track.

I set a daunting goal--10-12 new pages a day, plus outline the next day's chapter and make changes on the day's chapter. The book and I stared at each other on Friday morning for a while, sizing each other up. Then slowly my character's voice came back and the pages began to pile up. I wrote a chapter a day, edited the same chapter that evening and outlined the next day's chapter. When I arrived I knew the ending of the book but NOTHING about the middle. That's what I accomplished in 6 days at Bell House. I wrote the entire middle. I'm over the hump and am within 4 chapters of finishing the first draft. It needs a lot of work, but I'm hoping to get the rest of the chapters finished this week before I have to tackle yet another nonfiction book.

On my walks, I took pictures. The photo above represents my new "arty" style. That's Bell House and no, I don't have one foot in a hole. The two high-up porches are widow's walks. That's where Alexander Graham Bell and his father, Melville, flew tetrahedonal kites. They were working on their man-powered flight theory and were on to something at the same time the Wright Brothers were working on theirs. I sat on those perches and ate my peanut butter sandwiches and read and watched the endless parade of birds on the river. At night, I left my window open so I could hear the Potomac slapping the rocks below. The river in Colonial Beach is quite wide, as it is preparing to dump into the Chesapeake Bay, so it has waves and whitecaps and currents--and jellyfish, still! The sun rises over the river and each morning I watched a band of pink-orange stain the river before the fiery disk emerged.

This is the hammock on the large wrap-around front porch. I didn't sit in it. I was too busy writing. (Actually, hammocks make me nervous. I have trouble getting in them!)

And this is my supper my first evening there. Fried fish, mashed potatoes, the best applesauce, I've eaten and a squishy white dinner roll with margerine. I had homemade chocolate cherry cake for desert. Yum! I avoided the good restaurants and instead frequented a funky local place called Ola's. I took my book and pretended to read but really I eavesdropped all over the place. Fodder for future books? You bet!

Off to Bell House

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 13:35:02 GMT

Every year or so, my husband gives me the best gift ever: a week at a bed and breakfast called The Bell House. I've probably written about it before. It was owned by Alexander Graham Bell's father, Melville, at the turn of the century (the last one). The house was their summer home. Alex and Melville flew kites off the widow's walks as some sort of experiment. When I go, I stay in the Melville Bell room on the top floor. Next door is a library, open to the other guests, but I pretty much commandeer it for myself. The two widow's walks are accessed from the this floor. I actually crawl outside on the widow's walk (beneath the "witch's hat" tower roof) and eat my lunch and read. I feel like a fly stuck to the building. Although the big holly tree hides me somewhat, people driving and strolling by can still see me.

Bell House provides the ultimate peace. I look out my window at the Potomac in all its daily changes--choppy, white-cappy, dinner-plate calm, greenish-blue, deep green, grayish-green. In the morning, the sun rises here first. (One of the rooms is named Potomac Sunrise). Rays shine through a square window, waking me. I get up and walk first thing. Breakfast (the best part of the day) is at eight. After chatting with Anne Bolin, the innkeeper who is like an older sister to me, I go back upstairs to work. I work until noon or so. Eat lunch and walk again. More work. Break for supper. Another walk. More work. To bed. I totally immerse myself in my novel. No household chores. No laundry. No cooking (such as I do). No dishes. No cats. No TV. No radio. No cellphone (I call my husband in the evenings). And--most important--no Internet. This is a good as it gets for concentrating on a single project.

I have set myself an impossible goal of 75 pages. If I reach 50, I'll be doing good. I haven't outlined the rest of my current novel, so I'll be doing that in the evenings. Outline, write, outline, write. Re-read, write. I must avoid the trap of revising each sentence as I go. Otherwise, I'll never finish. I've become a "polisher," even revising a single word a zillion times before moving on.

This photo is from a previous trip. That's my good buddy Ellsworth (she has her own blog) sliding down the bannister. A glimpse of the very Victorian hall. Did I mention there are two resident ghosts? Melville Bell's face has reportedly appeared at the back door window. The most active spirit is Bertha, the woman who lived there after the Bells, until her death. She moves her hairpins around and once turned on my cellphone. As on earlier occasions, I will be too busy to fool with ghosts. Bertha, heed my warning.

A Day at the State Fair

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 14:10:12 GMT

When I was a kid, the Prince William county fair was the highlight of the summer. We'd go several days during fair week to check the various exhibits. My mother would enter dresses she had sewed, paper plates of hulled lima beans, glistening peaches canned in Ball jars. I wanted to be a cake judge more than anything. The summer I was ten I entered a drawing of a haunted house. The kids' art categories didn't include haunted houses, apparently, so my little drawing was exhibited with adult oils and watercolors. Imagine my shock when I received a blue ribbon! The prize was a check for $1.25!   Yet in all the years my mother entered, she never won first place, only second or third. I felt bad the year I won the blue ribbon and believed my mother's peaches were just as pretty as the prize winner's.

When I was eleven, we went to the Woodstock county fair in the Shenandoah Valley.  This was a real county fair. My mother warned me to stay close or the gypsies would kidnap me. Secretly, I was hoping to be carried off in a yellow gypsy caravan. My stepfather rode the Merry-Mixer with me, a dizzying ride that made him green around the gills but he gamely got on a second and third time. After our third ride, he was probably hoping I'd get kidnaped by gypsies, too.

But in all my years of county fairs and firemen's carnivals, I've never been to the Virginia State Fair. For the first time in about 150 years, the fair has moved from Richmond to The Meadows, the birthplace of the greatest racehorse ever, Secretariat (if you don't believe me, watch the astonishing 1973 Belmont race). The new fairgrounds are sprawling and rural, with lots of clean restrooms and hand-washing stations. (These things are important to grownup fair-goers.) It rained the morning we went and threatened rain every second we were there, but the skies held back.

I was actually doing research for my new novel. And that meant trying all manner of deep-fried delights: Fried Oreos, Fried Twinkies, Elephant Ears, Fried Dough, Fried Chocolate Chip Cookies. I ordered Fried Oreos first--$5 for six thickly-breaded cookies plunged in a bathtub of grease. The cookies inside are mushy and boiling hot. I felt so awful after those, I couldn't try the other fried things. Next I had the Guessing Man guess my age. This was always an easy prize--nobody's ever guessed my age within ten years. BUT!!! he said I was 58! I'm fifty-seven! I nearly fainted. And then I wanted to smack him. My husband, who is 19 years older than me, had his age guessed and the man said he was 14 years younger. Frank said the man looks at the husband and figures the wife is around the same age. Either my husband is dragging me down or I need a neck lift, one. So far this research business wasn't going so well.

We toured the exhibits next. I was disappointed at the lack of hogs--a great big huge hog filling its pen is always a favorite. But there was a sow with a dozen piglets. They were so cute! I watched a chicken hatch out of an egg. It took ten minutes, with lots of resting in between chipping. The baby ducks were almost as cute as the baby pigs. I like them better than chicks because they can swim right away. We went through the arts and crafts exhibits. The children's art was very good. No haunted house drawings, though. The cakes looked delicious (I still want to be a cake judge) and the quilts were beautiful. I was delighted to see Covert Files, a descendent of Secretariat.

The last thing I did was ride the merry-go-round. I happen to be an expert on the history of merry-go-rounds (the subject of my first YA mystery). Today's merry-go-rounds are poor substitutes for the grand carousels of the early twentieth century that sported hand-carved animals by the artisans in Gustav Dentzel's workshop, real paintings on the boards, and a Wurlitzer organ in the center pumping out "Dixie."  I rode a jerky white fiberglass horse and listened to "Can't Touch This" at five zillion decibels. And, I'm sad to report, a woman riding by herself like me was talking on her cellphone!

The day wasn't a total loss. I got to see a 1931 Model A touring car up close. It was smaller than I imagined and tinnier, compared to cars of today, but it had dash and flair and style that our cars lack. I daydreamed about zooming off in that car, the rumble seat filled with piglets and baby ducks.

I loaded up on hot kettle corn and cotton candy before leaving the gates, a year older than when I walked in. It was fun, but I missed the dusty, straw-covered fairgrounds, the mild threat of gypsies, the wobbly-legged feeling of riding the Merry-Mixer too many times, the anticipation that my mother might have finally won a blue ribbon, and, yes, dirty hands from petting great big hogs.

A Day at Montpelier

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 13:44:20 GMT

I hate Sundays. That's the day reserved for grocery shopping, finishing up the laundry, and doing chores leftover from lazy Fridays and Saturdays. We don't make big plans for Sundays, usually. But yesterday was so pretty and I couldn't face the Giant or the laundry room or the vacuum cleaner. So we went to Montpelier. Since we moved to Fredericksburg thirteen years ago, we have often visited James and Dolley Madison's home. We drove out of Spotsylvania County where it was still summer and 40 miles away, in Orange Country, we found fall.

It was cloudy with a bit of chill in the air. Yellow leaves pelted the ground and walking under the ancient black walnut trees was hazardous. The walnuts were like green baseballs. In the distance a haze blanketed the Blue Ridge, the reason Madison built his home in this particular spot. The house has undergone transformations. When we first came, years ago, we picnicked on the grounds. The tour was folksy. Inside the manor was a hodgepodge of Madison-era furnishings and DuPont items. The DuPonts bought the house in 1900 (I think), added wings and upper stories and painted the brick pink. Back in those days, before the tour became all formal, we could wander at will. My husband, a Madison and Constitution scholar, touched Madison's desk that was standing in an upstairs hall. But in the last few years, the house underwent a major renovation. The DuPont wings were torn off and the house was restored to the way it was in Madison's day. Some people think the renovation is wonderful. Others (like me, secretly) wish they had left it alone.

I preferred the Art Deco sitting room that Marion DuPont Scott (daughter of the DuPonts and wife of Randolph Scott) created from her parents' music room. All the chrome and glass and zillions of photos of horses. Marion DuPont was a great horsewoman, the first woman to ride astride in a famous horse show, and breeder of steeplechase horses. As a lover of the 1920s, I could be quite comfortable sitting in the red club chair with a martini glass of--well, cranberry juice, while gazing at my reflection in the glass and chrome fireplace mantle. The room has been moved to the new visitor's center.

But my husband and I mostly love the grounds, more than 2300 acres of rolling hills and forests and pastures. It is so quiet. We crave real, deep quiet and it's so hard to find. On this trip we discovered the retired racehorse facility, a nonprofit nationwide organization that rescues thoroughbreds from the slaughterhouse. Most of these horses are injured, but they looked beautiful to me as they grazed in the pastures the organization rents from Montpelier. It costs a mere $5 to take care of a rescued racehorse. Every day, at some invisible (to people) signal, the horses take off, running up the mountain for the sheer pleasure of it. The older, more damaged horses trot or walk, but they follow, too. Thoroughbreds were bred and born to run. Even when they can't run, they go up the hill anyway. (A few horses are in the photo, just so far away, you can't see them).

On our way home we stopped at a little family restaurant--our favorite kind of discovery. We would rather eat hot roast beef sandwiches in an old building with pressed tin ceilings and worn vinyl stools than pheasant under glass in a leather banquette at the Ritz. Simple food, falling yellow leaves, walnuts underfoot, and the sight of horses living free at last. And when we got home, I was able to face the grocery store and the laundry and the vacuum cleaner. Sometimes we just need a little break and then we're able to go on up the hill.

Cats and Books

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 11:33:08 GMT

Posting to my blogs has been at the bottom of the list lately. Poor Ellsworth's Journal hasn't been updated since June! I'm sure all five followers have given up in disgust.

We often get overtaken by events--it's called Life. My life mainly consists of cats and books. I have three cats--the remarkable Winchester (remarkable for his appetite, size, and attitude that he is the center of the universe), Persnickety, who is the calico in my user pic, and Xenia, our oldest cat. As for books, I'm working on a book about the Constitution for Lerner (due the end of this month), taking notes for my latest novel, and waiting for a revision letter from Tamson Weston, the Hyperion editor of the Iva Honeysuckle books.

The last few weeks the worlds of cats and books collided, big time. First, the book grew snarly. It's not a long book--about 5000 words--but basically I'm writing about 55 men sitting in one room for four months, talking. Of course, what they had to say is vitally important, but it doesn't make for fascinating action. And second, Xenia became sick. Very sick. Gravely sick.

She has had two strokes already--lost the sight in one eye from the last stroke. She has hyperthyroidism (so does Snick) and chronic renal failure (CRF). And she's old. Almost 16. In people years she's 84. Xenia stays in my office all day because she doesn't get along with Winchester (okay, the understatement of the century--hating Winchester is keeping her alive). When Xenia fell ill, she stopped eating. Drank bowl after bowl of water and emptied her bladder often . . . well, any old place. She lay at my feet for hours with her eyes open, not sleeping, unresponsive. The vet ran tests but we ran into the Labor Day weekend and results were delayed.

Within 5 days, Xenia lost a pound, which is like us losing 15 pounds. She barely weighs 6 pounds, down from her normal 11. (She's her normal plumpish self in the photo, taken a few years ago). Her tests showed she didn't have an acute bout of CRF after all. Likely, the vet said, she has lymphoma targeting her digestive system. In other words, stomach cancer. I've had two previous cats die from that--not an easy way to go. But Xenia is taking, along with thyroid medication, antibiotic, and a nausea drug, expensive chicken-flavored liquid Prednisone, which I had to get at one of the few compounding pharmacies left in the D.C. area. Prednisone is truly a miracle drug. Xenia snapped out of her lethargy and developed the appetite of a lioness. She's back to hating Winchester with every fiber of her little self.

So my day goes like this: get up, feed Winchester (always first in line), feed and pill Persnickety, give Xenia her first breakfast with her pill. Make bed, put away dishes, fix breakfast, wash dishes, sweep up cat litter, switch litter boxes (Xenia has a box of her own now so I can keep track of her "biologicals," as they say on "CSI: Miami.") Hit the computer for overnight e-mails. Go to Jazzercise or take my walk. Feed Xenia her second breakfast (she's eating like a hobbit now--lots of mini-meals). Work. Feed all three cats lunch. Work. Feed Xenia her afternoon meal. Work. Think about our supper. Work until the absolute last second before I have to fix supper. Feed all three cats supper. Do dishes. Go back to work a few hours. Relax in my sitting room. Then switch cat boxes again, give Winchester and Snick evening treats. Give Xenia her last meal with Prednisone. Collapse into bed.

Not much time for blogging!

While the Prednisone is making Xenia feel better, it's only a stop-gap measure. She has three progressively fatal diseases. One of them will overtake her soon. Meanwhile, I wait and watch her carefully. At some point I will notice that Xenia's spirit has left her eyes and then we will go to the vet's for the last time.

Someone once said that grief is the tax we pay for our attachment to smaller creatures. When Xenia's time comes, I think I'll be ready. But I won't be. We never are.

The Fruits of My Travails

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 20:45:36 GMT

If you are hanging breathlessly on this blog (and why shouldn't you?), you'll know that yesterday I risked life and limb to go on an unplanned antique junket. (Every time I stopped and called my husband because I couldn't see and there were accidents everywhere and I didn't know when--or if--I'd get home, he told me to quit dramatizing and just drive carefully. This morning I triumphantly showed him the newspaper article reporting yesterday's two and a half hour storm that caused dozens of accidents, delays, and a nearly one hundred mile back-up on I-95.) Needless to say, me and my little Honda stayed put today (bright and sunny, natch!). Here are some of the treasures I snagged:

Two or three posts ago I wrote about the back-to-school clothes I had to have as a ninth grader (or else I'd perish). I snapped up this 1965 Spiegel catalog for 8 bucks. It still has the order blank and envelope in it (zip codes were established in 1964--one of the "markers" I use when dating vintage pieces--and the envelope still reminds people to use their "postal code.") You can order anything from coats to carbines (a Mossberg!), girdles to bend-the-knee Barbies, for oh, so little. Spiegel was the "rich person's" catalog when I was growing up. We received Sears, Roebuck, Montgomery Ward and, one nobody seems to remember but me, Alden's. I would have killed to have a "matching" set on these pages--the yummy powder blue angora cardigan, pleated skirt, shell . . . everything but the stretch pants. I was too skinny for those (is it possible I was ever too skinny to wear anything??) I wonder if I can still order that angora sweater for $8.97?

Here are the two clocks I bought--two more items scratched off my "life list." That's the list I mentally carry around of things I must have and look for years to find: drop-down toaster, Baby Brownie camera, red metal Costco kitchen step stool, stuff like that. I've been hunting for a Baby Ben alarm clock, but never see them (they are snapped up instantly on e-bay, which I never ever use. Where's the thrill of the hunt if I order everything off the Internet?) But I was pleased to stumble on this green metal Keno alarm clock, which is perfect for my 1923 sitting room. The little Westclock travel clock ticks happily among my vintage camera collection. And that's the Bakelite (maybe--I'm learning that Bakelite is made of phenolic resin but not all phenolic plastic is Bakelite) bangle I scored. Still, I love it because it's black, carved, and has fine metal wire twisted in the grooves. Groovy.

Some miscellaneous ephemera. The two unused ledgers--one quite old--are bound for a special project of mine. The Blue Horse school tablets are unused too--a spelling tablet, primary tablet, and a notepad, all from the same company, dating to the early 50s.

Clearly I am interested in anything and everything. Don't you love that tacky old True Confessions? My mother read those and called them her "True Story books." I was never allowed to touch them because they were so "racy," but one day I read a story about a little boy. Not a thing to do with sex. I was nine and bored and the story was good. I got one of the rare spankings in my life. The drawing book is dated 1919 and has an amazing range of lessons, considering how slender it is. By merely copying (once), you can learn architectural drawing, fashion drawing, still life, landscape painting, Art Deco design, animals, lettering, etc. I found a series of old postcards from Fairyland Caverns in Tennessee, where they apparently installed plaster storybook figures among the stalagmites.

Saved the best for last. I won't tell you what I paid for that cardboard "Vacancies" sign. But I love that shade of green and style of lettering and it will go above a Parcheesi board in my laundry room. Those food cards weren't cheap either, but I had to have them. I think they are sort of flash cards used in home economics classes in the 40s and 50s. Nutrition information is printed on the back. I would have taken the whole box, but at $3 a card, I would have had to sell my car. These are destined for my refrigerator.

Like Smaug, I gloat over my findings for a few evenings while watching CSI Miami DVDs (my latest addiction) in my 1923 sitting room (yes, I know the two don't go together), then put up the things that will go on display. The rest will sit quietly in my vintage emphemera box until that project hatches in my brain.

Squashapenny Junction

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 21:31:54 GMT

Julia Cameron, of The Artist's Way fame, advises creative people go on "artist's dates." Of course, Julia Cameron divides her time between New York City and Taos, both places where artist dating places are plentiful. In New York alone, you could windowshop down one street for an artist date. Here in Fredericksburg creative places are a little thin on the ground. Still, I woke this morning feeling the tug to get away from the 'Burg and 'burbs. I've been hankering to start a new mixed media project. An artist's date to some of my favorite ephemera places was just the ticket. "I'm going out," I told my husband as I blithely sailed out the door, "but I'll be back by one or so." As I tooled down I-95 south I noticed the northbound side was very heavy, almost like Labor Day weekend. In some counties, schools start Monday, so there were a lot of vacationers returning home.

My first--and most important--stop was Squashapenny Junction. You have to see this place to believe it, so I'm showing lots of photos. The enormous old building right by the railroad tracks was Campbell's Store back in the 1800s. It was a convenient location then--trains could unload cargo mere yards away. Now, it's a tricky little place tucked between King's Dominion theme park and I-95. Don't you love the big hand?

The name comes from tossing a penny on the railroad tracks to "squash" it. (The price tags are printed on paper pennies.) The outside is eccentric and eclectic. The front porch looks like our garage! There are no amenities. No bathroom, no heat, and no a/c. Today I was nearly "prostate" with the heat (as my mother used to say). The humidity was enough to flatten a Kodiak bear. Squashapenny is more than an antique store. Most of the items are stock from old stores closed in the 1940s or earlier, so you'll often find multiples of, say, Tintex dye (in pink only, but still, the illustrations on the boxes alone are worth the money). The owner scouts up and down the Eastern Seaboard and her one-of-a-kind items are in demand for movie props. You have to turn sideways to negotiate the aisles. The merchandise is heaped to the 25-foot high ceiling. Everything is jammed together--a parasol might be propped beside an amputation saw.

I kept my eyes off the big-ticket items and concentrated on what I came for: ephemera, namely blank journals and tablets. (Can you believe I paid $6 for 10 cent primary tablet, dated 1952)? Even though I spotted a child's Huckleberry Hound sweater, I told myself it was just a sweater from my absolute favorite cartoon when I was a kid but I can't wear it now. (What do you bet that sweater eats away at me until I call the store and ask them to hold it for me?)

I drove further south to two antique malls. For some reason none of the cute little restaurants in Hanover Courthouse were open, so I ate a Twix bar for lunch. I picked up some wonderful emphemera and also a little trinket--a black carved Bakelite bangle (my latest collection mania--and everyone else's. I've seen Bakelite the last 40 years. Why wasn't I buying it then when it was cheap instead of now when it's in great demand?)

Then I called my husband and said I was on my way home. It was a little after one, a whole hour to be exact and I was 50 miles from home. The first part of my drive, on the back road that leads to the interstate, was fine. But the instant I got on I-95, traffic was at a stand-still. Worse, a thunderstorm broke. Most thunderstorms dump heavy, blinding rain for a few minutes as those bands pass over. Not this time. It was as if someone up there emptied troughs. I couldn't see, but that didn't stop the nuts on the highway from flying along as if it were a sunny Sunday afternoon. A blue pickup that had no rest in his tailpipe until he passed me wound up slid into a guardrail. Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Backwash from tractor trailers. More rain. Accidents. Why did I think it was such a good idea to go junkin' today? Some days (this one for sure!) I shoulda stood in bed, as my mother used to say. I got home a little after one, all right. Three hours and a half hours after one, to be exact.

And now, the you-know-what sun is out!

Southern Reading Challenge 2009

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 16:02:02 GMT

Oh, dear, I'm late, I'm late, I'm one day late to wrap up the three-book Southern Reading Challenge. Good thing I cheated with my first post and reviewed two books!

I meant to review Mary Kay Andrews' The Fixer Upper the minute it appeared in the stores. And I would have, too, if a) I wasn't teaching away from home all summer, and b) I had remembered I was even in this challenge! I did buy The Fixer Upper the second I saw it. It has such a provocative cover--that yummy creamcicle orange paired with turquoise and hot pink. A number of Andrews' fans wanted to know where to buy the model's skirt. I'd like it too, but I also want her shoes and legs to go with it! I'm actually more keen on her vintage luggage, particularly the hatbox. So practical, don't you think, to have a single piece of luggage to carry your cartwheel-sized picture hats?

But what did I think of the book? Well, after all the hype and build-up and waiting and checking on Andrews' blog . . . I was a teensy bit let down. The title led me to think the book would be about fixing up the old house, Birdsong (love the name!), with the usual man problems. And all that's there, but Dempsey Killebrew is more involved in clearing her name (she worked in a high-profile lobby firm) than fixing up the old wreck of a house that belongs to her father. She does work on it, but I craved more details. What I love best about Savannah Breeze and Savannah Blues are the antiquing, decorating, and rescuing of old places.

The Fixer Upper is populated with Andrews' usual mix of funny, interesting, and eccentric characters (the old lady cousin is a hoot!). And I liked Dempsey Killebrew, but not as much as I wanted to. I felt the same about Gina in Andrews' last book, Deep Dish. This book was too much of a Paula-Deen-vs.-Famous-Grill-Guy cooking shows (I know there is a famous grill guy cooking show, but since I don't watch them, I can't remember who he is. I only know Paula Deen because she has her own empire.) The latest books have more of a Chick Lit gloss and less of a down-home Southern feel. That's what bothered me. The books are moving away from their roots and becoming more slick.

Maybe I won't be so quick to buy Andrews' next book in hardcover. Maybe I'll probably put my name on the list at the library instead. But I'll be eager to read whatever she writes because I'm a fan for life.

Back to School

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 13:24:03 GMT

It's that time again.

Stores are filled with backpacks and notebooks and that giddy father in the Staples commercial is gleefully stocking up once more. Most of us who are writers feel back-to-school is the real New Year, eyeing shelves filled with clean blank tablets and the latest gel pens. I remember longing for a slick vinyl notebook with a magnetic "secret" compartment to hold pencils and lunch money, but having to settle for a plain blue cloth binder. I yearned for a pen that wrote turquoise ink (my favorite color), but wound up with ordinary Bics.

In junior high and high school, the fad was cartridge pens. Could we have latched on to a messier and less convenient writing instrument? The pens leaked and always ran out of ink during a test. I still remember quickly changing cartridges during a timed quiz. But more than school supplies, my memories of August run to clothes and the special August issues of Seventeen. All of us girls lugged around our catalog-sized magazines, studying the ads and editorial content. In the late 60s, popular models were Colleen Corby and Twiggy. I was built like Twiggy but desperately wanted to look like Colleen Corby, a "natural" beauty (and a brunette!). (This August 1968 cover shows Cheryl Tiegs).

Money was always tight in our family and my mother made most of my clothes. By the time I was 13, I craved outfits from The Villager Shop. Villager shirtwaist dresses in tiny floral prints. Blouses with Peter Pan collars (where you fastened your circle pin). Shetland twin sets. Cardigans that exactly matched A-line skirts. Anything Madras plaid (a fabric famous for "bleeding" when washed). Ring belts (burgundy leather belts with gold rings at intervals). Melton stadium coats (which we left flapping open no matter how cold). Etienne Aigner purses (down here, we said "Ig-ner"). And, most important, Bass Weejun penny loafers.

The pricey Villager Shop was out. I was allowed to buy a few things from Lerner in downtown Clarendon (which we went to once a year). I could get a blouse and a cardigan. My mother could make the shirtwaist dresses and A-line skirts (without the Villager label, alas). But we couldn't fake the Ig-ner purse, ring belt, and Weejuns. At the end of the summer, my mother and some friends held a big yard sale. In those days yard sales were rare occurrences and well-attended. My mother made brownies and cookies and lemonade for me to sell at my own table. I was extremely shy and a terrible salesperson, but I'd walk over hot coals to get my Ig-ner purse. At intervals during the day, I'd stop and count my money in my little cash box. Enough for a purse? Yes! Enough for the ring belt? Yes! Enough for some make-up? Yes!!!

On the first day of ninth grade, when it was undoubtedly 98 degrees, I put on my new A-line skirt and new blouse and matching cardigan. I fastened my circle pin to the Peter Pan collar just so. I dropped my Yardley blue lipstick (yes, the lipstick was blue!) into my new burgundy leather Ig-ner purse with the brass turn-lock. I slid my new leather-and-ring belt around my very small waist (the last time I was able to wear a belt). I smoothed Max Factor Espresso shadow across my lids, swished the Maybelline mascara wand over my lashes, filled in my dark eyebrows with Max Factor brow powder (even at the age of 13, I didn't ignore my brows), swooped Yardley brown (never black) eyeliner above the roots of my lashes, thickening the end just a bit for depth but never extending the line. Then I slipped my wooden fairycross earrings into my ears (which my sister had pierced the year before with a needle and ice cubes--hey, we did what we could in those days).

I pulled on new knee socks. My shoes waited. They were not Bass Weejuns. They were children's loafers, Buster Brown style. Oh, my shoes were the bane of my existence. For some reason, my feet never grew. In ninth grade, I was still wore a size 1 and 1/2! I stuffed newspaper in the toe of my too-big kid's shoes to make them fit.

And then I walked down the hill to the bus stop with my new blue cloth binder and a new (probably leaking) Schaffer cartridge pen in my Ig-ner purse. Thanks to Seventeen, I was ready to take on high school.

One More Week

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 17:19:18 GMT

It's Sunday again. The last week at Hollins. This week will fly by. My last classes are Monday and Wednesday. On the final class, we're having a party in the gathering room of the guest house I've been staying in. Everyone will read their picture book manuscripts and we'll eat lunch and talk about plans for new writing projects and online classes (which Hollins offers between summer terms). I'll go through their final projects, post grades, and pack. By Friday, we'll be ready to load up my car and my husband's truck. We'll be home by Friday afternoon. I can already anticipate Winchester's reaction after my being gone for six weeks. "You again? My dish is empty. Fill it!"

The last week also brings meetings and other campus busines. I wish I had more time to devote to my novel. (What I really wish is that I could live in that sweet little apartment with my husband--he could use a vacation--for another six weeks and write.) I came with the expectation I would write 5 chapters of my novel and a synopsis. The book and I picked up speed the second week and I decided to write 6, no, 7 chapters. I could do it! I didn't count on the book withdrawing to some pouty place. I spent all of last week revising Chapter 5. The book seems stuck there for the moment. While my book continues to sulk, I will try to win it back by working on the synopsis. But I'm disappointed I didn't get more written.

Writing novels these days is a tedious process for me. The older I get and the more books I write, the less I seem to know. I pull out every trick in the hat to get my novel moving. One thing I do is keep a journal. The journal is from my point of view, a daily record of how things went that day (or didn't go), a place to iron out small problems, and anticipate big ones. In addition, I am writing a synopsis from my main characters POV, letting her tell her story, so to speak. I'm also translating her synopsis into a workable outline. Then there are character sketches from the characters' POV . . . see what I mean about being tedious?

Yesterday was the student-run Francelia Butler children's literature conference. Hollins has been doing this every summer since 1995. It's a ton of work (when I was a student I was on the decorating committee one year and the art committee another), but it's worth it. The very famous children's literature scholar Maria Tatar (professor at Harvard and Radcliffe) was our keynote speaker. She was so impressed that she wants to come back to our little conference every summer. The conferences are themed and critical papers and creative pieces are read. The winners are chosen from a panel of highly-respected judges (this year's creative judges were Lois Lowry and Paul Zelinsky, among others). Maria Tatar gave an excellent and inspirational talk based in part on her new book, Enchanted Hunters: The Power of Stories in Childhood. I am already deep into my copy.

Books, as I've often saved, saved my life as a child. They were my companions and a ticket out of my daily life. I know firsthand the power of stories. That's why I became a children's book writer. My next post will be from home!!