Category Archives: Family

ESCAPING THE BLOG BOG

Remember the bogs of Ireland or those on the moors of England in old romance novels? The one where the heroine comes to the lonesome manor to be a governess, nurse or maid only to fall for the moody master, his neighbor or maybe the groundsman. She’s lost in the mire of boggish emotions until HE comes to her rescue.

Well, I don’t see HIM rescuing this writer from her blogger’s mind-bog. If you noticed, I’ve been absent for, low, these many months and then I thought there might be hope showing on my horizon. Marlene Cullen, my editor and hostess of the Petaluma(CA) Writers’ Forum, invited local heroine/publisher//teacher Susan Bono to inspire the October gathering by “Illuminating The Essay.” Susan has published personal narratives in her famed  journal, Tiny Lights, for nearly twenty years. She is an expert in the form and offers references, stimulation and inspiration freely.

Susan Bono sees five keys to writing the personal essay:

  1. Character: the self
  2. Problem: give yourself a problem
  3. Struggle: Problem creates conflict
  4. Epiphany: after struggle, a flood of new understanding
  5. Resolution: what you do differently as a result.

Teacher Bono calls on the work of many experts including: Phillip Lopate’s The Art of the Personal Essay; Adair Lara’s Naked, Drunk and Writing; and Louise Desalvo’s Writing as a Way of Healing. Note that many of her references specialize in memoir which Bono finds to be good resources.

As so many good instructors do, Susan had exercises for us to try out. I found them to be great fun and marveled at the variety when students chose to share. These are starter ideas, not quotes, which serve to establish the intent or direction of the essay/narrative.  Here they are with a couple of my answers shared:

  1. I want to tell you how   Steinbeck changed my life (Universal statement) and he did it twice: inspiring me to go into social work to change the world  and to write.
  2. I’m trying to figure out how I feel about______________
  3. I learned about obstinence from my granddaughter-with her threats not to go to sleep, hands on hips, pursed lips…and then dissolving into tears as she gave up.
  4. I never expected to________________
  5. I will always regret not starting to write earlier.
  6. I never thought I’d become a person who_______________________.

I’d like to paraphrase Susan Bono’s “rules made to be broken:”

  1. Reader should know within 3 paragraphs what the essay is about;
  2. Check proportion of scene given over to real action against summary which moves reader thru time rapidly;
  3. Check the frame: sense of being triggered by past (memory of prior beach trip) and ends by bringing back to current event (being at beach now;)
  4. Use of dialogue brings others into the event;
  5. Use restraint when writing difficult themes as with violence, abuse . . .  need not be gory to make point;
  6. End or resolve with action or gesture as opposed to flowery words;
  7. In cover letter, don’t evaluate/praise your own writing nor interpret it.

Challenge yourself

Try answering Susan’s six openers

For more information about Susan Bono and Tiny Lights: www.tiny-lights.com

For Marlene Cullen’s many cheerleading efforts on behalf of writers: http://www.thewritespot.us

 

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FROM THE LAND OF SKY-BLUE-PINK

At sunset tonight, a special treat of sky-blue-pink skies lasted brief moments before turning to candle-orange and magenta and the dark of daylight-murdering skies. So many things in life go fleet-footed away from us in moments, hours and even years that can be too short. A whispered endearment. A smile on granddaughter’s face on receiving balloons.  A breeze sending autumn’s leaves scurrying to the ground.

Today had many such moments for me. Several came as my friend Robin Moore (aka Robin Cleary) read from her NANOWRIMO piece. You know, the 50,000 words in thirty days that leaves writers exhausted, perhaps frustrated and definitely brain-irrigated. Her words leapt about with emotional tension as horse and, then, man, fought to overcome nature’s fierce destructive path. I was there in the eye of the storm, wanting to make things right for the animal and horrified when the man intervenes to the detriment of both. This was very powerful writing: descriptive, bold and energetic. I didn’t gasp for breath but could have easily if the writer had gone on reading her work.

Returning Light: After the Storm by Sandra Merwin

Such is the power of words. To terrify,to entertain, to challenge. To make us laugh, cry,  frown in consternation. To cause us to argue, sympathize or become confused. And to do so much more.

When Mom’s car wouldn’t start this morning, Allie pronounced that it was out of gas…not so with this Hybrid  but how clever of the five-year-old to come up with those words to explain the problem…another function of words.

Swimming through words of confusion later, I finally understood what was being asked of me…a simple request for help. With my globetrotting daughter, briefly back in Chicago, we caught up on our mutual happenings over her glass of good wine as I did so vicariously. Our words mixed, flowed and sometimes had to be spelled out for the lousy connection we had. But, we waded through the morass of clicks, rattlings, and electronic buzzes until we reached clarity and understanding.

Words, words and more words. They make us, berate us and hammer sense out of us. Floating as sounds through the brain. Visual images to our closed eyes, landing on page or computer site until they finally evolve into sentences, paragraphs, letters, chapters, books and we think we are communicating. We speechify, narrate, listen and contemplate.

About then, a sky-blue-pink sky happens on the horizon and we are at a loss for words, It is too magnificent, transitory and there is no way for us to hold onto the magic. Except in words when we try to share the impact with others. When the poet combines images with emotions and finds the words to capture the essence of the event. The poet records it, we read it and recognize the import of his words.

And so, Robin captured moments from her experience or her imagination, fit them together with words and enticed us along for the ride, actually and figuratively. This is the epitome of the writer’s gift: to bridge reality and imagination with sparkling, emotion-ridden and exquisite language.

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Filed under Family, Poetry, Reflection, Writing

ON THE ROAD AGAIN II

 My heart, head and soul are filled with words and images. so much stimulation to put into the blog to contage you with my energy. The Aurora Colony in Oregon is a town of artistry and history going back to the early 19thcentury.  Old homes dot the roads with markers to tell of the early inhabitants. Art galleries and specialty shops dominate the small downtown. We (Anne Schroeder & I) found a hazelnut chocolate store and ate our fill of samples and took away gifts for ourselves and others.

Alas and alack, the museum we’d come so far to see was closed, readying for a quilt show the next weekend. A need for the “necessary” let us in long enough to glimpse the innards. We may very well stop in again on our way home.

We are heading south, now in Bellingham, WA, but much went on between Aurora and here. Stopping in Oregon City, the end of the historic Oregon Trail, we sought out the historical museum on its beautiful grounds along the Willamette River: “closed due to finances.”  We rode down and up the multi-storied elevator with its tower showing holographs of the city, then and now. Paper manufactories, grain elevators and logging interests have faded where their remnant structures stand like lonely sentries, guarding what was.

When you get to Tacoma, be sure to go to the magnificent Museum of Glass and watch the blowers display their talents and impress you with the process. The incredible displays included a magical, room-sized, clear glass forest I wanted to carry home, and Dale Chiluly’s work stretching across an outdoor bridge so elegantly.

When in Seattle, there are many things to do and you likely know of them, but we went in search of something special and found it.  In his book, THE HOTEL AT THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET, Jamie Ford tells the story of the WWII internment of Japanese Americans through the memories of a young
Chinese American boy and his love for an interned girl. The story is generated when an old hotel, actually the Panama Hotel, is bought years later and the basement is found to be filled with belongings of those so unfairly imprisoned. It is an exquisitely written book and I was eager to find the hotel. The lovely tea room, comfortable with old wicker and quiet visitors, includes a glass covered portion of the floor showing the basement below. Stopping in for tea is both relaxing and poignant.

The Panama then…

Anne and I moved into our elegant President’s Suite at Lynnwood’s  Embassy Suites. Volunteering to run the Women Writing the West’s raffle at the conference had many rewards, not the least of which was this unit. We raised $730 for the WILLA award fund. Thanks to all who participated.

WWW’s conferences get better and better each time I attend and this was the winner. The Seattle area has a great wealth of talent to call on, including our
organizers: Mary Trimble, Heidi Thomas and Randi Platt.  Then, there were agents, editors. a filmmaker, an audio scout and marketers to lend their wisdom, advice and funny lines.  LAURA short story winners were honored, with Anne taking third place.

Readings by WILLA winners were charming, lyrical or intriguing.  Great keynotes were made by NPR personality Nancy Pearl and our own WWW poet Ellen Waterston. My personal big moments were an interview with a funny, perceptive and wise agent. In a new feature, “Pick Me, Pick Me,” first pages were submitted, drawn, read aloud and judged by six agents, editors and all. “My” agent, the film maker and the audio scout all liked the page from HUACHUCA WOMAN…delightful responses of enthusiasm which thrilled me.

On leaving that Sunday, Anne and I headed to Port Angeles to take the ferry over to Victoria, B.C. We drove south to go north, along the Hood Canal. Bright sunshine swept us along.  Varieties of pine, color-changing oaks and maples marked our passage. Coves, bays, the occasional fishing cabin and shifting outlets
and hills took us to our port city and the inn on the top of the hill. The Straits of Juan de Fuca spread before us while Hurricane Ridge rose behind, cloaked in rivulets of snow. Sunset faded to nightlife with ship lights and old-fashioned style lamplights showing the world. What seemed at first like raucous party music faded to a lullaby.

ARLETTA’S TRAVEL TRIP: don’t believe the tour books or the computer, call the museum ahead to see how it fares in these hard times.

How does travel affect YOU & your writing?

 What do you take away from
the experiences?

 

The Panama now…

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ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Before there were blogs, FaceBook and sundry other electronic ways to communicate there was email. In years gone by, I used to labor over journal entries, sometimes transferring them into longish emails accounting for TRAVELS WITH MOSES. Moses was our Basenji, rescued from the  local pound. He was more cat than dog, short haired, pointy eared, silent–a barkless dog breed from Africa who travel on the shoulders of a hunter to find lions! Independent, obstinate and a runner, our Moses stole our hearts and then broke them when he disappeared near Tyler, Texas.

A life time later, I’m on the road again with writer friend Anne Schroeder and we’re in Medford, Oregon for the night. Do you like driving in fog, rain and sunshine? From the flats and rice fields of Sacramento through the wide open spaces of Highway 5’s lonesome hinterlands we sped, slowed, stayed close to the speed limit or not. All depended on the amount of rainfall from minute to minute, how heavy a foot hit the pedal and getting lost in writerly conversation. Then, there were the rivers, streams and arched bridges to drool over.

Passing through towns, villages and hamlets with names like Corning, Red Bluff, Cottonwood, Sweetbriar, we met up with Shasta. A heavy cloud layer sat on Mt. Shasta, the 14,000’ lovely volcanic home of Big Foot (mythic or real?) The mountain, its top half cut-off by clouds,  looked more like Acoma or
another New Mexican mesa…stately, impressive and a bit intimidating. Coffee and blackberry cobbler and pumpkin spice cake at the Hi-Lo Cafe,  in the same family for 60 years, nurtured  us well and we went on our way.

If I had taken the picture I should have, you wouldn’t be seeing so much of Mt. Shasta. ENJOY!

Now what do writers talk about as they skim mountain roads and passes at 55-75 MPH? They talk about anything that strikes their fancy. In our case, we covered family, writing and writers, books we’ve read or are reading, have written or plan on writing. Sharing horror stories about self-centered, non-reciprocating published authors kept us busy for a good little while.  As our stories grew, so did the mountains, trees and hills along our way. The sky cleared and threw out the sun from time to time, warming the cockles of our hearts and lighting our spirits. The trees came taller, wider in the colorful hues of pine, redwood, and cedar with a few autumnal oaks in changing cloaks.

When two friends venture out on the road together for the first time, there are lessons to be learned, communication problems to work through, decisions to make. Finding each other’s style is part of the process…one I last experienced when my son and family moved in with me. It is all about negotiating time, space, feelings and expectations. In the latter, I have too often lapsed in expressing myself, operating instead on assumptions. At this point, all is smooth sailing/traveling  and I fully expect it will continue to be as we head to Oregon’s Aurora Colony which Jane Kirkpatrick has written of so well and wisely.

ANNE’S TRAVEL TIP: when you’ve looked high and low for your telephone charger and it is no where to be found, check with the front desk for lost and left behind chargers. She did and is now a much happier camper.

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Filed under Family, Reflection, Travel, Writing

TIME PASSES

I’ve only seen Midnight in Paris twice, so far. I’m not a fan of Woody Allen or of the theater where the film is showing. But, I broke my self-imposed boycotts
and went the first time, then had to go again. You surely know the plot, the romances, the historical characters, the incredible photography and costumes
and outstanding performances. No need to go into them here.

What I most loved was the message of time passing and our romantic view of what has come before us as we avoid, reject, or dangle in the present.

Salvador Dali

I had a birthday recently, always the start of my New Year. It would also have been our 46th anniversary if Jim had survived the last three years. My granddaughter started kindergarden.  Such is the way I have of measuring the time that passes. Landmarks,. Days on the calendar. Periods of
playing hermit. Shuttering my mind. Avoiding events, the telephone, leaving the house. Or speed-dialing along on full steam, participating fully, actively and
enthusiastically in what life brings and what I seek out.

Have you visited elderly friends as their minds retreated into yesterdays and the future held little or no promise? One friend was so delighted with the teenagers we’d brought along that she went to the piano in the dayroom and put it to use. She pounded out segments of songs from the ‘30s and ‘40s while the staff and other residents looked on in amazement. She’d lived there quite a while and no one had ever heard her play. For Bessie, time was now and she made the most of it.

It is too soon for me to withdraw from all that I love: family, writing, traveling, being with friends. As I write, today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. A day of remembrance and judgment. And, I think, of hope. Time to take stock and look to the year ahead. What does it hold? What might I make of it?

I’ll start my new year with a road trip to Seattle for the Women Writing the West Conference. My traveling partner and writing friend, Anne, is coming along. We’re in the throes of planning the trip: what to see and do along the way, in Tacoma/Seattle and on to Victoria. There’s a stop in Battle Ground, Oregon for
tea with friends; the Richard Brautigan library in Vancouver, WA; the WA State Historical Museum in Tacoma; a great conference to attend; exploration of
Seattle’s underground and hills for nostalgia and research; and onto the ferry to Victoria in search of writer-artist Emily Carr, the totems and First
People’s culture.

Emily Carr: Kwakiutl House

Do you smell the adventure in the redwood and red cedar countryside, the grey skies and our sunny expectations? Do you feel the inspiration and joy about to settle on us? The opportunities to see old friends, make new ones and spin our dreams?  Without a doubt, it will be a time to store up remembrances, fill our senses with new energy.

I’ll journal and blog from the road.

How do you
celebrate your New Year?

What do you do
to mark your time and how it passes?

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Filed under Emily Carr, Family, Nostalgia, Opinion, Reflection, Writing

WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

Women’s History Month has its roots here in Sonoma County, CA. In 1978,  the local Commission on the Status of Women called for a week in March to be set aside to acknowledge the struggles and accomplishments of women. By 1980, the Women’s History Project was underway and Congress declared March our month.

Many women have influenced my life but in this day of attacks on the labor movement and hard-won labor rights I want to honor one woman who led the way, often with controversy. I hope you enjoy this tale. 

Excerpt from HUACHUCA WOMAN     Benson, Arizona   July 1917

Wiping her face of rivulets of sweat, she walked away from him and took a shady bench seat under the eaves of the station house, right alongside me. She was a smallish woman, getting on to thirty or thereabouts, fine featured with a full head of soot black hair, her crowning glory. She had the look of too many miles, too few good nights’ sleep and too much bad food. Her color was off and dark circles pooled under her gray blue eyes. She gave a faint smile.

             “Don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to the Arizona sun,” she said, fanning at the heat waves with her bit of the El Paso Herald.

            “I’m Arizona born and bred,” I said. “I’m still not used to it. Name’s Josephine Nichols.”

            “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Elizabeth Gurley Flynn.”

            “The one they call ‘the rebel girl?’”

            “My main claim to fame,” she answered.

            “Believe I’ve read about you. You went out and made speeches for those lady silk workers in New Jersey about three, four year ago. Newspaper picture didn’t do you justice and I ‘spect they didn’t do so well by your speech either.”

            “You have that right. The newsies tend to intentionally garble what I say most of the time. Fortunately, the workers heard my message for themselves. It was a time.”

            “Is that what you do?  I mean, travel around the country and talk folks up?”

            “That and some writing,” Elizabeth answered. “What are you doing in this god forsaken place?”

            I laughed. “That’s my machine and trunks they’re trying to get loose. I’m heading back to my folks’ ranch with my boys.” I watched my sons horse around, in their usual fashion, and smiled when I caught Willy’s attention. He waved back. “Their daddy has gone off to the war.”      

“A soldier?  You’d think men would learn from their women to gather over the back fence or a cup of coffee and settle their differences before rushing off to kill one another.”

            “You sound like my Peter. He’s spent the last year or so saying that to anyone that’d listen. When the United States joined in the fray, he studied on it some more until he found a way to help. He’s gone off to drive ambulance for the Red Cross.”

            “Good for him. I hope he returns safely to you. And soon.”

            Wanting to shift the discussion away from Pete, my constant worry, I asked, “Who’s that man y’all were talking to? Your husband?”

            “No, no. He’s Big Bill Haywood, chief organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World. Some call us ‘Wobblies’ or the IWW. Some call him a ‘rabble rouser.’ There’s no one quite like him for getting the attention of working folks and management alike.”

            “Where y’all headed?”

            “There’s been some ugly business in Bisbee.”

            “Land’s sakes, those mines are so dangerous that it’s big time news when a month goes by without an accident,” I told her.  “Makes the headlines hereabout.”

             “They‘ve been saying the IWW down there is full of traitors and immigrants, people who don’t belong here.”

            “I’ve heard it said,” I responded. “Along the border here, most Mexican laborers come over for a time but go home when they want, and take their money with them.”

            “You might be surprised. The mining companies, at first, recruited Cornish, Welsh and German Austrian miners for their skills.” She took off her jacket and undid a few buttons of her blouse.  I followed suit and found some relief from the heat. “Now, these folks are a long ways from home and, for most, there’s no going back. They’ve settled here, become citizens, own land, have bank accounts, kids in local schools.”

            “German friends of ours just got chased out of El Paso a couple of months ago.”  I could see their sad faces as we saw the Kohls off at the station. “You’re right, there’s no going back to Germany for them. Just back to New York to be with more German Americans, to spare the children not fitting in.”

            “It’s a sad time for some, no doubt about it. Most of us have only a generation or two to look back to for immigration stories. My own family is lace curtain Irish.” She looked blankly into the distance as if seeing her ancestors.       

            “True enough,” I said. “Though to hear some talk, you’d think their people built and rowed the Mayflower across all by theirselves.”

            We both shifted in our seats as the sun moved further west and the shade slid off the bench. We fanned ourselves with more vigor. Late afternoon was coming on quickly toward dusk, still the heat held on. Shimmering light danced off a rock wall across the tracks. Flies hovered over horse patties on the parallel trail while a lizard, long and lean, scurried from under the station platform to begin its trek along the rails.

            Willy and Jim-boy, tired of supervising the repairs, collected coins from the crowd and went in search of cool drinks at the drug store down the road.  I felt drowsiness come on me. Elizabeth’s head lolled to her shoulder, causing her to shake awake. She shifted again in her seat and offered an embarrassed grin.

            “Your sons are quite a nice twosome.”

            “They’re good boys. Do you have children?”

            “I have a son, Fred. We call him Buster,” her face lit up. “He’s seven and spending the summer at the shore with the family. Mama and my sister Kathie look after him since I am away so much.”

            “It must be hard to be so far from him. I mean, if he were to get sick or something.”  I felt I had blundered badly here.

            “You’re right for he’s a thin one and has been sickly. He gets the bronchitis in his lungs and he had appendicitis last fall. Fortunately, I was home at that time. We kept him out of school for the rest of the year, fearing he’d get the infantile paralysis. It’s really bad back in New York.”

            “So I’ve heard. I had a brother die of lung disease,” I said. “Most of the lung problems out this way comes from the mining, but William Ebert didn’t have a chance to burrow under even if he’d a wanted. My first husband was a rock hound, but mostly on the surface.”  She asked after him and I repeated that sad story.

            We talked more of our families and their beginnings. Elizabeth much admired her well-read mother who inspired her daughters to go out into the world and make their mark. She spoke of her son in a wistful way, like a fancy doll she could take off the shelf and hold on special occasions, but didn’t dare get dirty. She worried that Buster would grow to resent her work for keeping her from him. I had no answer to that for I’d never had that particular fear, despite my own work.

            Talking of this and that, in the way women will do, I was interested in how she had traveled all about the country. In my limited experience, few women traveled alone. She had been in the Minnesota mines, the Mesabi Range, that summer, to Seattle and Boston and points in between. I thought she was very brave and told her so.

            “I don’t know that it is bravery, but I thank you. It’s just the way I am. I guess I’ll be fighting for better wages and working conditions until the end of my days. How about you, what do you see for yourself?”

            “I don’t rightly know,” I answered slowly for in contrast, I felt my life to be of  little social worth. “For now, I want to work the ranch. Get up before the chickens, ride the fence line, go on roundup with my daddy and sons, gossip with Mama and be pampered some by her. All the time praying that Peter comes home safe and sound.”

            “I’d say you have your work cut out for you.” She smiled warmly at me, as if knowing my doubts. “What’s Bisbee like?”  Elizabeth asked.

“It’s not hardly like any place else you’ve been, I ‘spect. There’s scarcely a level plain in the whole town. It’s all hillsides and topsy-turvey buildings, a bowl of a town with the houses barely stuck to the sides. And dominating it all are the mines with their sulphur fumes, dust, noise and saloons.”

            “Sounds lively,” said Elizabeth.

            “It’s had fire and floods and horrible epidemics, but it just keeps on thrivin’ and survivin’. One thing about Bisbee, you never know what’s gonna happen next. But something will. That’s Bisbee.”

            “Did you know the miners at the Copper Queen went out on strike?”

            “I been so busy packing up my household, I didn’t get many details,” I said, apologetically. “Is it settled yet?”

            “Far from it. Two thousand good citizens of Bisbee, including company men and spies from the Justice Department, took it upon themselves to run some twelve hundred men out of town, county and state.” Elizabeth stood up and paced on the platform in front of me. “Dragged them out of their beds, and crammed them into boxcars. By sizzling hot noon, they were out in the middle of the desert, at some place called Hermanas in New Mexico. Kept locked up overnight, with little water or bread and no sanitary facilities.” She turned and stared at me.

“Good heavens,” I said. “I’ve heard of pogroms in Europe where they gathered up the Jews and run them off like that. Who’d have thought that could happen right here to home. What’s happened since?”

She took a big breath, came and sat with me again. Her shoulders slumped, perhaps in sorrow, perhaps in fatigue.

            “A few were able to make it back to Bisbee, including our IWW lawyer who was caught up in the transport. Most, though, are sitting it out at the Army base near Columbus with no funds or way to get back here, and under a death threat if they do come.”

            “Now, that ain’t right. I imagine there’s family men amongst them?”

            “Absolutely. Most are citizens. Maybe half registered for the draft, have families and property. There’s even local businessmen caught up among the deportees.”

            “I’m shamed. War or no war, that ain’t right. But you still haven’t said what you’re doing out here, so far from New York.”

            A red capped porter was waving folks to board the branch line, the flatcar affixed in place. Willy and Jim-boy had long since settled down on the platform to wait and were now jumping on board and calling to me. We gathered up our satchels and climbed onto the train.

            “I was headed back east when I got a telegram from Big Bill, asking if I’d come down and speak to the strikers, try to give them heart,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll do that and then be on my way.”

            “All I can say is, you got grit, girly, and out here, that’s saying a mite.”

            She gave me a wide open smile and a pat on my arm. We said our goodbyes as I headed to the forward car and my boys, and she moved to the rear with her escort and the men he’d gathered to him. The boys and I wouldn’t be going as far as Bisbee, but unload at Hereford and head to the ranch. Pity was, I liked that young woman. I think we’d have been fast friends, given the chance.

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Filed under Excerpts, Family, Historical Fiction

A UNICORN ON MY HEAD

 Beware of taking a child to the library or you, too, may find a unicorn on your head.

The children’s writer Lewis Buzbee is coming to town soon to do a writing workshop that promises to appeal to adult writers, also. He’s written a book I wanted to read and ask about: Steinbeck’s Ghost.  In it, he writes of Steinbeck and several of his characters and since the third book in my loosely connected trilogy is entitled Rose of Sharon, you might guess we have something in common.

Last Monday was beautifully sunny with temps nearing 70 degrees, unseasonably warm as they say. The rest of the country was wrapped in wool and down and whatever was available to guard against unseasonable cold. I picked Allie up from pre-school and her speech class but it was too nice to head home.  She will be five in April, has a very active imagination and loves books and being read to. With books inherited from her sister and cousins and those bought specifically for her, her shelves runneth over. She’d never been to a library. It was time.

 We talked of how it is possible to take books home for a while, but maybe they better stay in Grandma’s room so not to get lost in hers. She agreed, though we’d come back to that again…and again. When we entered the library, she looked up and down the long aisles of the adult section with something close to shock on her face. In the huge children’s room, she walked up and down, touching book after book, pulling out the small chairs so much prettier than the ones at school. Posters caught her eye, as did the children using computers and headsets. We were early enough that the after-school crowds hadn’t arrived.

 While the librarian helped locate my book, Allie took her time choosing. She made such delightful choices: Laura Vaccaro Seeger’s ready-to-read Dog and Bear: Two Friends and Three Stories. Her other choice: Where go the Boats? Play-Poems of Robert Louis Stevenson.

 Obviously, the child has an innate sense of Great Literature. I mean, Stevenson’s poetry???  Seeger?

Our reading took on a new depth one night. Allie, that dimpled darling redhead, said that her animals wanted to see the books, too. Nothing would do but that they were placed on and around my lap and head (yes, that’s a unicorn up there on high), the better to see and read.  Mind you, I had a hard time seeing the page with all these critters jostling for seats at the banquet. They all liked the poems and, I think, recognized themselves in Dog and Bear.

 The moral of the story: Take a child to the Library; you, too, will find magic in your life if not a unicorn on top of your head!

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