Summer Fiction

Hello, internet! Isn't it lovely to have some rain again? If it had held out any longer, I was going to do a rain dance!

That got me thinking. Isn't it interesting the little things that get passed down from generation to generation; things that once had great significance but now are only silly superstitions or folklore. They are nothing more than midly interesting stories told when there isn't really anything else to talk about. I find that rather sad, especially since I love plant lore.

I find it fascinating that certain plants, trees, and flowers were considered good or dangerous. For instance, cradles were never to be made from Elder wood because the spirit of that tree would pinch the baby. Bluebells were shied away from since hearing them ring would mean your death was near at hand.

It seems ludicrous now, but at one time these things were practically law. So, here is my little homage to a long forgotten practice.

Post No. 11: Superstitions

July Commemoration

“He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.”

I intended this post for last week, but it works out better today since yesterday was the 50^th anniversary of To Kill a Mockingbird’s release.

Why the fanfare over this book’s birthday?  Why do the characters and their story garner praise during evening news segments yet gain a spot on the list of 2009’s most challenged (banned) books?

Perhaps you know.  Do you remember the first time you read the book?  How did you feel as you sat in Scout’s position in the hot courtroom balcony, feeling the wood of that front row bench cut into your sweating legs as they polled the jury?

When you celebrated July 4^th did you remember Scout’s lesson in Miss Gates’s class? 

“Hitler is the [German] government,” said Miss Gates, and seizing an opportunity to make education dynamic, she went to the blackboard.  She printed DEMOCRACY in large letters.  “Democracy,” she said.  “Does anybody have a definition?”

            “Us,” somebody said.

            I raised my hand, remembering an old campaign slogan Atticus had once told me about. 

            “What do you think it means, Jean Louise?”

            “’Equal rights for all, special privileges for none,’” I quoted.

            “Very good, Jean Louise, very good,” Miss Gates smiled.  In front of DEMOCRACY, she printed WE ARE A.  “Now class, say it all together, ‘We are a democracy.’”

            We said it.  Then Miss Gates said, “That’s the difference between America and Germany.  We are a democracy and Germany is a dictatorship.  Dictator-ship,” she said.  “Over here we don’t believe in persecuting anybody.  Persecution comes from people who are prejudiced….”

And did you question like Scout?

“Jem, how can you hate Hitler so bad an’ then turn around and be ugly about folks right at home--”

Saying no to injustice didn’t begin in the summer, but that’s when it was declared.  And the movement didn’t end with declaration.  To me, July 4^th isn’t about patriotic hymns and a Miss Gates rendition of history.  To me it is a call to the artist -- to everyone -- to look at our nation and write, paint, sing, or speak.  And we join Jefferson and Jem saying, “It ain’t right…It ain’t right.”  

Saturday Evening Post

I hope everyone had a good Saturday! I wanted to share with you some of what I had been up to all day. I've been cleaning my office! I moved into my new apartment way back in April, but had neglected setting up a proper working station. Whether it was lack of motivation, organizational skills, or just pure laziness I always had a distraction to keep me from setting up my writing nook.

Thankfully, today was the day I finally got off my duff and did a proper set up! Last weekend my sister and my dad came with drill in hand to hang a hook from the ceiling for me. (You'll see why in a minute.) After that was done, fixing the rest of the room up was a breeze.

And yes, I do have pictorial proof. Behold!:





Thanks to Adam & Kristi for the photos in the frame. They are pictures from their trip to Dog Pond, where my favorite author, Madeleine L'engle would muse. :)








This painting is my current work in progress. She's turning out lovely, isn't she?

And here's why I needed the ceiling hook:





Everybody loves gypsy curtains! :D

How does your Creative Space look? Do you think it reflects your personality? (I certainly think mine does!)

Lessons From Baba Yaga V

[I've found Baba Yaga! She's been hiding undercover as the Rejectionist's land lady all along! Why I oughtta...]

Seven Violets
Summer dredged on. Days of gathering water, tending to horses, gardening, and sorting were weighing me down. I had yet to figure out what it was that made Yaga so anxious. The further into Summer, the more crabby she became. I tried my best to stay out of her way and just do as she asked me without question. Sometimes I'd wonder what drew me to her hut in the first place.
Every day I worked myself to the bone. As a reward, Yaga always had a grand dinner ready after I washed up. I'd stuff myself and beg to go to bed. But it was mandatory that we spend at least an hour together. I took this as a sign that she was trying to get to know me better. This stranger that had just wandered off and shown up at her door.
Our night hour together was always enjoyable. She reminded me of the Elders in my village. She'd tell stories, play her flute, try to teach me how to knit, (to no avail). My favorite though was the first time I learned how to play "Seven Violets". A card game, which Yaga had learned from her Elders.
"Seven Violets" was simple as far as card games go. Each player was dealt a hand of seven cards. Each card had numbers in the upper right and lower left corners, and each number had a different picture in the middle. All the cards started out looking exactly the same. Hand painted. Red ink on heavy white paper. 

The purpose of the game was to be the first player to have seven violet colored cards. If two players each had a hand of seven violets, then the player with the higher numbered card would win the round. After the cards had been dealt, each player would lay down a card face up. The ink would either remain the same, or turn to purple, with the illustration in the center turning into a violet flower. If no one had won by the time all the cards had been laid out, seven more cards would be dealt to continue the process.
At first I had thought the game to be rigged as the old woman kept winning. She giggled at my accusations. "I just listen to the cards better than you do. They tell me which to lay down first and which to save until later." I'm still not convinced she wasn't cheating...

Shameless Self Promotion

(I am in an artshow... July 30. The day before I go)

Music For the Road Warrior

As I’ve been getting ready for the road trip of my life I’ve been planning what music I’m going play through each state... and during specific times of the day. Don’t worry I’ve also been thinking an awful lot about where I’m going to live and what I’m going to do for work when I get there. However, while there are still four weeks between my hometown and Missoula, Montana, I’m mostly thinking of road-trip soundtracks.

There is nothing like a good mix of music for long drives, or even short ones. I drive a lot for my current job. As a reporter for the local newspaper I cover seven towns in the western part of my county. These towns are all at least 30 minutes away from my house. I rack up gas mileage and have perfected the road trip CD for the work-a-day traveler.

Some of my favorites are 1979 and Zero by Smashing Pumpkins, E18 by Detektivbyran, Miseria Cantara by AFI, anything by The Mummies and Dick Dale, Third Eye Blind’s self titled album, Surfin’ by Ernest Ranglin, Incubus, Tegan and Sara, Blackalicious, LTJ Bukem, The Rocky Road to Dublin by The Dubliners (Thank you Clara Maxwell)… you get the idea. Road warrior music is vast and varied.

Road music also depends on the mood of the driver, the time of day and the weather.

Talking Heads (thanks Cramey) and Drum and Bass (thanks Dilcon) are perfect to listen to on a sunny drive. The Mars Volta is perfect for speeding (thanks Rya). Andrea Bocelli is perfect for rain drives (thanks Mot) so is And The Devil Makes Three (thanks Sharp). Sarah McLachlan is perfect for when I’m feeling nostalgic (thanks Erika for third grade and sleepovers and introducing me to this music sigh sigh sigh), so is Damien Rice and Songs: Ohia. One More Time by Daft Punk is perfect when you are driving to work at 5:30 a.m. and you are not fully awake.

There are also certain people whose mixed CDs I prize over most anything. I love listening to everything they choose. I also really enjoy getting into new music. I love being introduced to songs and bands I've never heard before by people who are especially enthusiastic about the music.

What songs, bands or singers do you listen to on road trips or while driving to work? Why do you like these specific songs?

If you would like to make a playlist of music for my (and Lucy's) road trip to Montana leave a list of songs and artists in the comments. Tell us why you chose these songs. New music is greatly appreciated. Don’t hold back. I promise I’ll like anything if you're really fired up about it.

(this is sxip shirey. he's good to listen to on a drive.)

Summer Fiction

I have to tell you, guys, that I really had a hard time coming up with something to post. You see, on Friday we had to say goodbye to our little dog, Rita. My parents rescued her from the pound and while she wasn't great at keeping the deer out of the garden, she was a great pet. It's been tough getting over loosing her. Needless to say, I've not felt very creative.

But every situation has the potential to spark an idea. So, before turning you over to the story, let me say that if you want a pet, think about getting one from a shelter. You never know how rescuing an animal will change your life.

Post No. 10: Choices

Yes, We Can Can

I had a post in mind all weekend.  I really did.  Scout's honor.  But then we had today off and a kitchen full of produce from my family's farm, and I wanted to try my hand at canning.

My grandmother canned food when I was a young girl.  Rows of snaps, butter beans, preserves, and pickles filled her spare bedroom.  In many ways, she was the most self-sufficient person I've known.  And I've always wanted to emulate that quality.

But I don't think I ever will.  My grandmother lived in a different culture, one that dictated her role as keeper of the house who raised and stored the family's food with little help.  My dad, sister, and brother raised the 25 pounds of tomatoes that went into the tomato sauce.  My mom was on the other end of the helpline and walked me through the process.  My husband and I worked together to core and slice and puree and drain and simmer and can.  Self-sufficiency is great, but it isn't dictated for me like it was for her.  I didn't realize that until today.

So I look at the few cans of tomato sauce cooling and I see a bit of magic a family made.  No one did it alone.  Yet, I can still say I satisfied my longing, experienced a rite of passage, and made a conscious effort to maintain my heritage, and it happened much sooner than I expected.  That is what happens when we don't go it alone.

  

Doing Dreams

I’ll admit I didn’t want to post anything about Independence Day. I didn’t think I could write anything that would have any sticking power as all you fantastic spatulans run off to cookouts and Fourth of July fire works (or as the more thoughtful of you spatulans run off to meditate on justice for all or spend time honoring the men and women fighting for freedom). I wanted to write about doing dreams.

But, the more I wrote, the more I realized doing dreams was a freeing of ones self. Doing dreams is sloughing off your own doubts and can’t-do’s and "being brave on the rocks" (as Sabrina Ward Harrison would say). I realized doing dreams is like a personal independence day. So, happy Fourth of July!

What is "doing dreams"? It's not a sex dream. Get your mind out of the gutter. Doing dreams is accomplishing something you have always wanted to since... whenever. It’s kicking your butt into gear and allowing yourself to soar. Even if the end result is not entirely how you had pictured, it’s realizing, accepting, and then doing another dream. But you have to do before you know.

Doing dreams is saying, “Of course I can run a 5K (3.106 miles). I’ll start training today.” My neighbor said that. After training herself for six weeks, on Thursday she ran three miles straight and is close to reaching her dream of running the Twin Bridges race in Beaufort, N.C. (Runners start in one town, cross over two one-mile-long bridges, and end in another town). She is the mother of two and when I asked her to tell me about her running for an article I was writing on healthy lifestyles she said, “I’m hardly the picture of health.” That just goes to show that you can do dreams even if you think you can’t.

Doing dreams is setting out to finishing a problem, story, painting, or mixed music tape for your friend. Then it's sitting back with post-doing glow on your face and saying, “Hey, I did that. I dreamed. I accomplished.” Veni, vidi, vici.

Doing dreams is not selfish. I believe many people (even us fantastic spatulans) don’t do enough dreams. It’s scary. Maybe we will fail or worse – maybe we will succeed. Doing dreams is frightening, crazy, and glorious.

I know. I’ve been struggling with my own dreams for a long time. Finally, I am doing them. I am moving to Missoula, Montana. One of my dreams has always been to drive there.

It was a tough dream to actually start doing. There were many pros and cons. I’d have to quit my job at the newspaper, which I love. I’d have to get out from under the wings of my editor, whom I love. I’d have to leave my family, my friends, and start something new. I’d have to leave a rut I’d dug for myself. I’d have to be brave, I'd have to be all of me - and that was scary as hell.

A good friend of mine sent me this message while I was struggling with this rather big decision:

One of the things that I often see hold people back is that they are not prepared for success and often fear it. Especially in the profession of creative arts. Yet, if “purpose” is realized, it undergirds every river rift that life gives us, gives satisfaction and peace in the process and allows us to go along for the ride.

(P.S. "Undergirds." Good word. Look it up)

Wise words. They helped me remember that I am a "doing dreamer." My last day at work is July 30. There are many more steps before I accomplish this dream, but right now I am not thinking-about-getting-ready-to-commence doing dreams. I am actually doing. And it is so luscious.

I’m not suggesting you quit your job or move 2,600 miles away. I am suggesting that you do some doing dreaming. Whatever it is, whatever the end result, I hope you remember you are a doing dreamer – and go celebrate a little personal independence day.

Callings & Rememberings

Ah, summer. The time when chaos is only soothed by lemonade popsicles and long talks in the evening on the porch. In the small town where I still reside even after having been raised here, (a sign of my own insanity),  there is really not much else to do.

Summer in a small town brings about all sorts of carefree, rebellious, and good natured behaviors. There's swimming and fishing- often in the same pond. Rides thru the back country roads with the windows down and the music blaring. There are backyard barbecues, sprinklers and sparklers ad nauseam, and more cantaloupe than you could ever actually want. Not to mention an entire festival dedicated to the fruit. (And no. I'm not kidding on that one.)

Summer also means a heated kind of madness. Somewhere between the fireworks and the fireflies people just go plum-freakin-insane.

...And I'm related to most of them.
(Just kidding you guys. Sort of. ..I love you.)

Actually, the kind of madness I'm talking about is the mounted frustration that finally gets unleashed after months of harsh winters and even harsher attitudes. Cabin fever has ceased and everyone's off their rocker. It mostly starts out as a visible, nagging fizzle right behind the eyeballs and mounts into something like a bunch of pop-its all going off at once.

For me this means questioning everything. Constantly. Mostly about myself. I get the case of the "Why Do I Even Bother?"s. The whiny, "I'm No Good At This & No one Listens to Me Anyway"s. Or worse, the Soul-to-the-Cheese-Grater Funk. Every Summer it happens. The Mopes & Funk come to visit, make themselves a pot of tea and tell me how No-Good I am. Eventually I kick them out, eat my weight in chocolate ice cream and finally re-tell myself that, YES, I am enough as is and that is that.

What helps me sluff off the slumps the best has actually been a piece of my own writing. Arrogant and snooty as it may sound, whenever I read this I am reminded of where I was when I wrote it. I was in the Summer Slumps, way down deep in the middle of them. From probably what was one of the worst periods of my life to date, I sat down with myself and had a good long chat. In the span of fifteen minutes I wrote something that I needed for myself, and that I needed to express the most to everyone else.

What spilled out then was a poem. Unpolished, messy, imperfect to the core. But it was true, it was honest, it was real. And every time I read it I feel a little bit more whole again. I present it to you here tonight in hopes that it might do the same for you.

Calling

I want to create art that heals. 

Art that you can see, and know, and feel. 

Something from that deep hollow inside of you

I want to give healing knowledge that soothes the gashes,

That smoothes as a balm

Onto all the aching places. 

That hollow, sunken in part between your heart and your gut? 

That's where I want to dwell. 

I want to help you in your healing. 

I want to give you what you crave, 

I want to fill that hollow place

With all that you've needed

and longed for.

I want that bellowing from the hollow to stir you

into believing.

Into taking action for yourself.

I want you to know that the darkness you are going thru

Is only temporary.

But while you are down there, learn from it.

Soak in all that deep, earthy darkness.

But always hold on for the day that the light comes in.

Do not be afraid of your own vulnerability: Wallow in it.

Appreciate it in others when they are willing to show you their 

sin, sorrow, and their own hollow places.

When you do, when you've gone thru that darkness and learned from it,

then you can brush the hair from your eyes,

walk barefoot into the good light,

and grin into the wind.