BOOK PHOTOS

So okay, here’s the deal. I planned to have twenty photos including maps in Major Fraser’s. I had them all arranged, altered from color to black & white, lined up as I wanted them placed in the book. Captions were written and ready. Permissions to publish them were received. But as the Universe commands, plans go awry.

I spent four days trying to upload the photos into the body of the manuscript where I wanted them to be. Success, well almost. As soon as they were placed and I was worn out from the day’s efforts, I closed my laptop…and lost them all. @!&#*

On the third day I began placing map one in the book and put the caption next to it instead of doing all the photos then adding the captions. Easy. The second map was not so easy, but was placed. I started on the photos and havoc broke out. When the captions were placed, the photos moved around on their own volition or at least that is how it seemed. They moved up and down and sometimes just disappeared. When I settled the photo the captions disintegrated. And I had not even gotten to the pixel stuff yet.

It was time for a life threatening choice. Lose the photos or get ulcers. Another hard lesson. In my next book, now approaching the last third of the manuscript, I’ll have a professional photographer handle that end.

Birthing a Book

Okay, okay. It is all true. Writing a book is like birthing a baby. First forming the creative idea =getting pregnant, going through the nine month gestation (which takes a lot longer with a manuscript) =actually writing, finding just the right name =then exploding into labor =which is the last step of editing, proof reading and all that goes with it; egads, pulling out the hair and all =before holding that little creation in your hands =The Book.

Whew! I’ve had the heartburn, the indigestion, the tossing and turning during the sleepless nights when my characters drove me a bit nutty, the aches, the pains and the final push which brings it all together and comes into a form. Major Fraser's is coming soon, it is in the hands of the printer.

But it is looking good even though the planned photos did not get into the book. Two are posted. And already I am seeing things that I should have done differently……….just like raising kids.

Cats in the Window

Don’t you just love cats in the window…….it’s a welcome sign like some people put a candle in the window. It is a picture of Welcome Home. At least that’s how I feel when I see the girls waiting for me to return from where ever I’ve been. I would often like to take them with me, but my cats just don’t travel well like most dogs do. I notice down here in North Carolina everyone has dogs and they all travel along with their heads out the window or riding along in the back of the pick-up. Neat. I guess cats and dogs are just as different as men and women.

Same Words, Different Meaning

Have you ever read an article or column and then discussed it with a friend or acquaintance only to find that you absorbed such different information from the written words that you question whether you both read the same article?

It is true. We draw from the written words what interests us and the rest often fades away to be picked up by someone else. Sometimes the very same words give different meanings to different people even without the voice inflections when spoken. Again it is probably because we are applying the information to what is familiar to us. Or to what we are seeking.

So just when you think you are writing clearly and precisely, the words can send out messages that readers are reading differently. This can be extremely dismaying when you are trying to send a particular sentiment that you don’t want to be mis-construed. Ah.. …. Language.

Cats Sleeping

When I look at my girls, Mz. Lizzie and Lady Jane, curled up on the bed next to me while I write on the computer, I wonder about all this sleeping they do. They are perfectly content to curl up cozily for an hour, awaken to stretch; look over at me, ho-hum –she-is-still-there and then drift back to sleep. They may purr as if they were happily spending time in deep dreams that they refuse to share but if I stand up to get some herb tea, they are up on their feet with the expression “What is going on?”

When I think about it, maybe my girls had a rough former life and are catching up on their rest in this one in order to energize in preparation for the next one. H-m-m-m. I wonder what their last lifetimes were like. Was their past life working nights? Were they cats then or different animals or people?

Email Forwarding

I am sure my friends think that they are including me in their joy by sharing a Forward message they received from 49,000 other people before them. All with their email addresses listed. This makes it easy for hackers to gather Spam email lists easily, adding mine to their list.

And I wonder what goes through their minds or if even they read all the way to the bottom of the message where it states: You have ten minutes to forward this message to ten people (or 100, or 1,000.) If you do not forward this message in that time period you will be cast down, given bad luck, walk under a rain cloud, be tortured with nightmares for ten years, etc. You get the picture I am sure.

So out of the goodness of their hearts, thinking they are sending me the good luck to win the lottery, make Cinderella wishes, prayers to protect all my family and friends from disasters, and so on, they are instead condemning me to hell.

I have them all fooled. I no longer open any of those forwards. But I would love a simple "hey, how's it going?" email.

Reading On the PC and more.....

Knowing my inflamed reaction to women not receiving equal rights and probably because so much of my writing is of the past when such laws were outrageous, a friend recommended the e-book of Seneca Falls and the Origins of the Women’s Rights Movement by Sally Gregory McMillen. It just so happens that I was also reading Nike is a Goddess, the History of Women in Sports edited by Lissa Smith at the time. Some stories in that book relate the difficulties women suffered while trying to participate in their favorite sports. Connected-ness. That happens all the time. Just like Google, one thing leads to another which leads to another, etc. All connected by an unseen thread. Because then I came across the E-book, the biography of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Eighty Years and More. Immediately I downloaded it into my folder titled BOOKS lest I lose it somewhere.

I love reading from my computer while I’m sitting in bed –which is the only warm spot in my house these nights. It’s easy and restful on the eyes, while reading a hard copy book late at night tires my eyes and puts me to sleep before I’m ready to give up absorbing these printed words.

All this means, is that I’m ready to move, again, into the 21st century and look for an E-reader to buy, to expand my reading experience, to take advantage of ‘out-of-copyright-books to download, so they will not be forgotten just because they are old and out of print. These treasures have so much information in them that should be read and saved and then passed on to someone else.

Late New Year Resolutions

It’s a bit late in the year to be revealing my New Year’s resolutions but here goes: The first and the one that I completed immediately lest I weaken and fail is the reduction of time and work put into volunteering. In short this means my serving on Director’s Boards and committees. I loved what I was doing and the people I was serving with and felt this was a big part of responsibility. But it was taking me away from writing and that is like draining all blood from my body. And who can live without blood?

It isn’t easy to resign from organizations that are important to the area I live in. Feelings of ‘letting people down’ crept over me, sitting on my shoulders and adding weight to my body/mind that I don’t need. But it had to be done. I thought long and hard on the subject, holding the thoughts of serving suspended on a platter like Lady Justice and in the other suspended platter, lay writing counter balancing it. The writing won making my decision necessary.

Still I mourn the loss of these activities as I fight the word ‘guilt’ and knowing that there is always someone to step up and fill that void.

Leaves Falling

Leaves are falling
like huge colored snowflakes,
silent, steady.

Falling in sheets
looking oddly stunning
with their colors.

Adding to the carpet
thick on the ground like
homemade quilts

A patchwork in design
scraps stitched together
in unison.

Keeping the earth warm
until scooped up for bonfires
of memories.

Undressing the trees
leaving dark, bare branches
lifting upward.

It has been noted several times that Jane Austen poked fun at clergymen in her novels. Yet her father was a clergyman and her favorite brother became a clergyman after his bank in London failed. Jane adored both men.

In England, clergymen of the day (late 1700s and early1800s) in small local parishes, were rather casual. They didn’t have the responsibilities of today’s churchmen. There was no counseling of parishioners, devoutly religious sermons personally written or strictness of church guidelines. Their income did not necessarily come from the collection plate but from the surrounding farmers who paid in cash rather than produce.

Positions as parish clergymen were often bought from the wealthy landowner on whose land the parish church stood. He was the man living in the usually huge ‘country manor’ or in a castle. He would have owned the nearby town where the shopkeepers would pay him rent. He also collected rent from local farmers, from land he owned in Wales or Ireland and from land owned in the American colonies until the Revolutionary War ended that hold. Often he would be in parliament.

Jane Austen's Financial Position

Friend Rebecca sent a reference to me from the book At Home about Jane Austen’s family, quoting “that she grew up in what she considered to be an embarrassingly deficient rectory at Steventon in Hampshire, but it had a drawing room, a kitchen, a parlor, a study, library, and seven bedrooms—hardly a hardship posting.”

What Bill Bryson did not note was that the Austens were landed gentry without a large income. It must be noted that she had seven brothers and one sister. After feeding and clothing all of them, the boys needed extended educations, brother George was mentally deficient and was sent to another family nearby to be raised, and two of the boys went into the navy. All these positions had to be paid for.

At one time, Jane and her sister Cassandra were sent away to school so their bedroom could be used for paying students. Mr. and Mrs. Austen ran a boarding school for boys to acquire more income. Jane became so ill that the girls had to return home. She nearly died from the incident so they stayed home after that. More than once she commented that she grew up with all boys, first with her brothers then with the added school boys. Hence she was a tomboy, good at physical outdoor play.

Also, once her father died, their income was cut off completely. Her brothers then became responsible for her, her mother and her sister. She desperately wanted to earn her own money but her brothers did not think it seemly. She was gentry.

A Too Busy Life

Sometimes life gets too, too busy. That’s what October was this year. I allowed myself to get overloaded with committee work which crowded what my goal of being here in beautiful, inspiring Macon, North Carolina to write full time.

October said good-bye with a spooky Halloween night and November entered in with more glorious shocking colors of brilliant reds, rusts, oranges, and golden yellows, standing side by side like soldiers of different armies. I was able to finish wrapping up my latest manuscript. Tidying up five years of work, padding it down and laying it in the drawer to ferment for a month before shipping it off to the publisher is finally here.

Now it’s time to update blog spots and such while the child (manuscript) enters its last month before coming public. Time to put what I’ve recently learned in classes to work. Check out my efforts of bringing photos to my blog starting with my original and revised books of Life & Labyrinth. Side by side. Enjoy.

Yet More Books to Love

And then there are biographies. There are so many fascinating biographies about people from all different generations and countries and reasons to read them. A good writer will tell all, the bad-or controversial- along with the good and let us judge which is which. The writer will let the story unfold with a flowing movement revealing the life, holding our attention. Not easy to do but necessary.

The person need not have been famous to be interesting. I write in past tense because I prefer reading about people who have already passed away. Their lives are over. There is no need to protect or hide anything. The flaws and failures make the final successes even more worthy. No embarrassment is considered. And it is the misadventures that create the fascination.

After all, a person who experienced no challenges, who glides through life with no losses, no pain and no scars is a very boring person indeed.

More About Books

Also I love history. Not the dry, flaky history that used to be taught in high school although I loved history even then. But the history with real people showing particular strengths and weaknesses that I can identify with. Events that happened always had reasons. Like the mystery stories, who, what, where, when and why. Again I don’t need the play by play details of a battle fought and the individual result, i.e. bodies whacked to pieces, eyeballs hanging out, etc. Ugh.

But the inner workings of events, how they came about, the personalities of the key figures and their relationship to each other. Everyone has a story and the players in history had theirs. They are the ones who created the chronicle of their day. History wasn’t necessarily made by physical events but by individuals and their reactions to moments that happened to them. A slight? An embarrassment? An insult? A misunderstanding?

The personal is what brings history to life. The surface must be scratched to find the untold tales. After all it’s what our whole foundation is built on. Because it is a foundation we can learn from the mistakes of earlier leaders, rulers, and the average person who cared.

A Good Book

I love a mystery. A puzzle. A whodunit. Something that I can work along the lines with the author, trying to figure out who, what, where and most important, why. Challenge. But I want believable characters with common sense in settings I can visualize as everyday even if the story is set in Victorian times. Wealthy or not doesn’t make a difference. Gory details of a demented mind are not necessary to tell me when a body is dead. The author can state the weapon of choice but I don’t need a picture drawn for me. I can do that in my own imagination.

If I see the plot line and know the perpetrator of dark deeds early on, the joy is slain. No sense in finishing the story…unless it is a red herring with an unexpected twist. Ahh. The plot thickens.

Further, we are so fortunate to have more women writing novels of all genres today. This happening has all but eliminated the ‘dumb female’ character in stories. I used to choke on that depiction of a woman character, one who was running a household or holding down an intelligent job being portrayed as stupid. Ugh.

Of course even really good interesting mysteries aren’t always remembered. The authors are, particularly when they write many books and I can look for them by the author's name. The pleasure is simply in reading them. But the novels of the originator of the mystery novels Wilkie Collins and present-day novelist Sharyn McCrumb’s stories I remember. And also, of course, Agatha Christie’s.

Sunday Deer

Sunday night after an early dinner, I decided to go for a walk to replace the morning walk I missed and to change my schedule a bit. It’s my habit, to look deep into the forest as I go along the paved road. It’s always so peaceful, full of something I’m not aware of. My thoughts tend to deepen as I get lost in the moment.

Suddenly a flash of movement lurched through the wood at a high rate of speed. Startled, I jumped. But it was just a doe racing between the trees. Like me, she was alone. Nothing was chasing it. I imagine it was out for a bit of exercise after dinner as I was. It’s delightful and somehow reassuring to see a connection between us.

Puccini for Deer

Favorite Puccini Arias by Marton, Scotto and Te Kanawa was soaring from my sound system this morning at 10 a.m. as I sat at my kitchen table for a coffee break from cleaning the house. The windows were wide open for this fresh, crisp air to flow in. I glanced up to see a doe with her three fawn, heads bent, nibbling the sodden grass. My breath stopped at such beauty, such a sign of peace and gracefulness. One head down, one head up, one looking around, the other in between. Then Te Kanawa peeled out those glorious high notes of O Mio Babbino Caro. All four heads jolted up, eyes looked straight at me, ears twitched straining to hear this heart rending sound.

Mesmerized. The deer stood like statues, listening. They seemed to be as moved by the music as I am. When the aria ended the doe turned and leapt like a ballet dancer from the yard. Her fawn following her lead in dutiful obedience like the echoes of the music itself.

Respect of Title

Equality has long been a strong belief. As a result I cannot imagine calling anyone “Lord” or “Lady” anything. I’m determined to reject the idea of separate classes in society. I left titles behind in my young adulthood with a casual way of talking to anyone and everyone. But living in the south I’m beginning to feel a little differently on my harsh outlines about stated behavior.

I read an article by Denise R. Kaye is Sunday’s New & Observer titled ‘Respect: Please we are not on a first name basis.’ I newly agree with her. I have been greatly impressed by the good manners of the youth that I’ve encountered here in North Carolina. By youth I mean from four years up through the teens and even into the twenty-somethings. I’ve also experienced moments of embarrassment when I’ve called someone by their first name after just being introduced. Especially a person who I think is older than I am. (Just when I think there aren’t any.) I have no idea where that moment of feeling came from. In Jersey I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But here I do. It seems right and fitting.

Today I see Mr., Ms. and Miss as titles of respect not as a mark of difference in class.

Fall Meditation

From guest writer, Jyoti Wind
www.starshine-galaxy.com
www.writes-of-passage.blogspot.com

Go into nature…a backyard, a park, the beach. If you can, put your back up against a tree or sit next to a bush; lay your heart on the earth at the beach or in a garden or meadow. Give to the earth and trees the energy that churns inside of you, either too much or too stuck.

Just let it flow out. The earth will grow flowers with it.
Then receive the earth’s energies, through the trees or the earth herself,
Breathe long and deep, in and out…giving, receiving. Let it heal you.

Changes

Inspired by a newsletter note from Jyoti Wind, I thought about her words on change. Life does knock us unexpectedly sometimes. While we may be dreading the future in one area, a tragedy happens in another. What we do and how we do it comes from deep within us. Often we don’t even know we had such strength but it’s there in all of us. We just have to dig for it.

Sharing our thoughts and feelings do help to heal those deep wounds that life tosses at us. It’s the flow between friends that keep the wound clean so a heavy scab doesn’t settle from that anguish, just a light mark left to keep a memory alive to draw on when we need it.

Women of World War II

What I really wanted to write about two days ago is the book I just finished reading, A Life of Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WWII by Sarah Helm. It’s this story that moved me into thinking about women and our place in the world. The changes for women from the 1940s has been remarkable but weren’t brought about by gentlemen patting us on the head and calling us ‘little ladies.’

A book that can raise my ire, to get me stomping around the house in a rage is a book well-written and factual. It isn’t only that the women (radio operators) dropped behind enemy lines into France during that war were beaten, tortured, of course raped-violent men always rape-and tossed into gas ovens. That was certainly terrible but it was a fate suffered by men also and the women did volunteer for the duty.

After the war was finally ended the men in power wanted to keep the bravery of these women, some in their early 20s, secret. “Brush it under the rug and hide it,” they said. “Don’t let anyone know that we used women.” After all, the women who were allowed into military service uniforms were not allowed to actually carry weapons. Yuck. And the radio operators weren’t military. They were civilians.

Like a detective Vera Atkins traced each girl that she recruited from her department who did not return home after the war. She found out what happened to each one, how they died and where they died. She fought for honors and medals for them when the men of the military didn’t want to even acknowledge their existence. Regardless of who or what Ms. Atkins was, she did the right thing by these women. This all happened in England but that patronizing attitude was universal.

We have come a long way.

Jane Austen Calendar

Usually I buy two beautiful-quality- works-of-art-calendars each year online from Pomegranate. They hang side-by-side because I’m always working with various dates. My favorite for a few years now is The Reading Woman depicting various paintings by many different artists. I Love that whole series of calendars and boxed note cards so every year I look for them. Yesterday I was in Barnes & Noble. Since they have always carried the Pomegranate line I headed for the calendar section. I also buy a couple calendars for birthday gifts. Ugh. Not very many calendars offered at all. I’m grossly disappointed because I thought of saving the cost of shipping.

As I was walking away, the corner of my eye caught the words “Jane Austen.” My heart started pumping in excitement. I have looked each year wondering why no one has ever produced a good quality Jane Austen calendar. I mean she has been the hottest thing going, again, for at least fifteen years! Her name is everywhere. The only calendar I’ve ever seen was a puny offering from the Jane Austen Centre in Bath. That one has an exploded dollar amount, or pound really, exchanged into dollars.

My mind raced. Perhaps it will feature Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, Emma Thompson and Hugh Grant or Amanda Root or …………..Egads! The calendar is Jane Austen and the Zombies! That's enough to make me scream!!!!!!!!!

Women of the Western World

In the decades since I came to the adult age (sometimes if feels like 200 years ago and others only two) women have made tremendous strides in taking a rightful place in the leadership and formation of our futures. Since the Dalai Lama stated last summer during his Peace Summit in Vancouver that western women are chosen to save the world I’ve begun to think about how far we have come. It hasn’t been easy for many of us.

Many of those that have taken the dais to balance out the power men have always assumed, are aiming at peace, nurturing, and using the heart as well as the head as guidelines. This is not to say that the world should turn to mush but that intelligence, respect, honesty, and that inner wisdom are utilized in connecting to other cultures and leaderships.

War, aggression, and atomic weapons have not won any country peace for their citizens. Perhaps this is the time for the birth of the Divine Feminine. Think of it. Art, poetry, music, beauty, and learning instead of violence, bombs, the boom of fighter jets and destruction.

What a world we could live in.

Painting the Past

I stand at my easel with brush in hand
facing a blank canvas, ready for the image to emerge.
Today I’ll re-create a scene or castle
or perhaps a medieval doorway I’ve discovered.
Scenes from the past, echoes of another time.

Stories resting quietly just below
the surface, waiting to be told with the brilliant
colors of oil. Or written out,
a painting of written words. Words to accompany
the oils as notes on a page to the musician.

My tale will rest on top of the stories
of men, builders with rock and stone and cast iron.
Monuments left behind to remind us
of triumphs and sorrows of those who loved, lived
and left behind their eternal imprint.

Impressions for me to research, to learn,
to seek, to know their stories are the same as mine.
Heavy, thick, large oaken doors
with black cast iron hardware closing with echoes
bellowing down the stone laden halls.

Announcing that I am here to uncover
the secrets of the past. Though I feel the deep-rooted
emotions vibrating into every room
I stand in ready to absorb. My promise is to enlighten
those that care, but I know…..

the only difference of then and now are the accessories.

Spanish/Portuguese Cod Chowder

Well, autumn is here whether the Weather Gods know it or not. Last week I bought some cod from Trader Joe’s (bless the originator of Trader Joe’s as often as I curse Sam Walton’s business practices) and have been anxious to make some good Spanish/Portuguese Cod Chowder. Today was the day.

I sautéed in olive oil (the gift from the Healthy Skin God) some thinly sliced onions, adding thinly sliced garlic, (please don’t burn) adding some cubed Golden Yukon potatoes, adding some good quality dry vermouth, adding a quart of fish stock (if you don’t make your own from shrimp peels and lobster claws and shells and of fish heads and bones, use water mixed with chicken broth—NOT CUBES) adding some fresh, if possible, or good canned tomatoes, adding a bay leaf, one or two whole cloves, parsley, tarragon, a bay leaf and marjoram. Simmer for approximately an hour.

Add chunks of cod (it’s a blessing of Trader Joe’s that I can get this here,) taste and add sea salt and dried hot pepper flakes to suit your self. Simmer for ten more minutes. While you are waiting with a glass of good, chilled white wine that will improve your taste buds, toast a slender slice of bread-I used a rosemary/olive oil bread-brushed with butter or olive oil. Lay this on top of the chowder after it is in your favorite soup bowl.

I don’t use measurements but I made enough-that’s a bowl full for me for at least two or three days because it is even better the next day or day after that. Adjust amounts to your own likings. Go wild! Be adventurous! Put your own personal imprint on it! Enjoy!

Cats

I know why there are so many books to choose from when looking for something to read on cats. I smile when I see Lady Jane stretched out under the cloth-covered center table in the entry room of my house. The folds of the burgundy damask add a graceful look to the room and Jane adds a feeling of home to it.

Chuckles cut loose from me when I see her white paw reaching out from under the guest room bed. She’s found a cool spot in summer and warm one in winter. Not to mention the peace of that room between visits of dear friends.

Laughter fills the room when Jane practically sits up for some treats. Whoever heard of a cat acting like a dog? But she loves food. And she talks now. Really!

Jane comes to me when her bowl is getting low on food. She wouldn’t do that two years ago. She would notify her sister and Lizzie would come after me demanding that I follow her to the bowl. And she would never come to me for stroking or to smell the food I’m about to eat as she always does now.

A few years ago the fur along the back ridge of her body became matted. I thought it was a part of her breed. She’s a big cat, rescued from the wilds of Bordentown, New Jersey. Well, the wilds being that her mom and dad were feral cats. But she is definitely part Manx. The Manx cats I researched on line looked just like Jane's back. My dog-grooming friend Laura suggested that she trim Jane of the matted fur. A new cat emerged! It changed her personality completely. So I brush her nearly every day and watch closely for any beginning of clumps forming.

It seems my pets must suffer from my mistakes just like my kids did. Fortunately they love me just like my kids do in spite of my imperfections.

Nighttime on Lake Gaston

There is something special about riding in a boat on Lake Gaston at night-such as10:00 pm last night. The stars filled the sky just as the poets write about them. They were full of the same sparkle as the diamonds they are always compared to. Pam, Laura and I tried to pick out the different constellations. The Dippers were easy. Pam found the Hunter. Lily just cuddled up and watched/listened to us. I think she was tuckered out from all the earlier activity.

Lights from the houses lining the lake splashed light across the water in streaks. The outline of the trees created a darker than dark vision waiting for the artist to paint it. Not another boat parted the water, only us heading back home after a lovely gathering of friends. It was a magical moment to be tucked away and remembered again at a later date.

Reading Biographies

If you are reading biographies of writers it is so much better if you read their writings and vice versa. Reading the work pulls you in, reading the biography leads you to where the works originated and festered and came out on paper in the form of a story.

Since I’ve learned that, I’ve applied it to reading the biographies of artists. Now that I’m reading the biography of John Singer Sargent I’ve laid out five books that contain pictures of some of his paintings on the table next to where I sit. Unfortunately the same paintings are repeated in a couple of the books. It’s a pity they couldn’t have chosen others from the 3000 plus canvases he painted. I lay the books open to the pages where his paintings are featured. It makes a difference. As I read the background of how the painting came to be, I look at the pictures and it pulls everything together. It’s like getting to know someone inside out.

Americn Roots Musical Showcase

Last Saturday proved to be a new experience for me, sort of anyway. The Musical Showcase for the New Harmonies Traveling Exhibit rocked with music affirming the exhibit at the library. Emcee Sherman Johnson happily gathered people together, introduced the performers and kept the show moving like a brook sparkling along. First up were performers for the Haliwa-Saponi with the Native flute, then hand drums. My mind went immediately back to a few rock concerts I attended in my younger years. The Armory (gorgeous in its new look) vibrated with sound. It was exhilarating!
A pleasant softer sound of Colonial music performed a cappella by Dolores Clark brought the movie “The Songcatcher” to mind. Smiles and giggles broke out when she sang “I Wish I Were A Single Girl Again.”
Freida Egerton and many of her regulars represented the Ridgeway Opry House with some Country and Bluegrass. She played the dulcimer and gave a bit of history. Joe B Cutchins poured out the Blues with a smooth bounce to it. The natural progression of American music, which is what this is all about, led us to the Street Genie, Freddie Greene playing Jazz with his soul bleeding through his instruments.
Always enjoyable Steve Hyman sang some Rhythm & Blues. I remembered that he’s appearing at the upcoming Pawfest on May 16 at Magnolia Manor. We wound down with Gospel, actually wound up because the sound was an outburst for most of the groups but creamy when The Royal Jubilee Singers came on stage. These four gentlemen also sang a cappella, are all in their eighty’s and put me in mind of the Ink Spots and the Platters. They were just delightful. As were the Bullocks, Arnetta Yancey, the Ayscues and the Warrenton Echoes who ended the program with style and grace.
It was a grand day. We ran from 3 pm to 7:30. Folks were coming and going, sometimes fitting parts of the program into their pre-scheduled day. I watched Emily Shaw moving from place to place wherever she was needed just like she has done since she dropped into this project. She’s earned high commendations for all her efforts to be so successful.

New Harmonies, American Roots Music

Last Friday was docent training day for us New Harmonies’ volunteers at the library in Warrenton. Now I understand the high excitement Dr. Sue Loper and Emily Shaw have been showing. This is an impressive exhibit to explore as well as look at. Some musical instruments can be played, including a pair of spoons, (my step-father was great with spoons, playing them up and down my arm, on my head, etc.) an old time radio emits music as well as some buttons pushed bring forth music to reminisce. Headphones are also available for listening to the various music venues.

The roots of American music are represented by the various groups who brought music together with backgrounds from Native Americans, West African slaves and early European immigrants. The Blues, Gospel, Blue Grass, Country and Western lead us up to Rock ‘n Roll, Folk and Protest music. It’s all there and more for everyone to enjoy with no more effort than to walk in during library hours Monday through Saturday until the middle of June.

Ancestral Homes

One of the homes on the House Tour has been owned 144 years by the same family! Another was occupied by three different pharmacist’s families (two of them related) beginning prior to the War Between the States followed by a family who lived there for 50 years.

This is awesome to me since I’ve lived in seven different houses in my lifetime and knew none of my relatives older than my mother and father. Esteem for the large portraits hanging proudly on the walls of these historic homes is at the top of my list. Again, I have one photo of one grandmother and grandfather and two pictures of a great-grandmother. All are snapshot size. I long for more. I want history and lineage.

Walls Talk

Houses hold the imprint of families that lived in them for as long as they stand. And when they fall they probably take that imprint back into the ground with them. Sometimes I will get a message when I enter a home but rarely when surrounded by the crowds swarming into the houses with me on the Preservation Warren County, North Carolina House Tour this past Saturday.

I split up my tour and visited a few on Sunday when I seemed to miss the groups. As I sauntered from the ‘newer’ section of a few homes-meaning added on in the 1800s or even 1900s- into the original sections built in the 1700s a different feeling emanated from the rooms.

Walls talk. We only need to listen.

Down Garden Paths

A dear friend blessed me with about seventy books on art that stirred up a new excitement in me. It’s like stepping through a lovely arbor to a magical place full of beauty and wonder and witnessing the perseverance of artists who couldn’t breathe unless the scent of paint, turpentine and canvas was in the air.
It’s difficult to know which book to start absorbing. Somehow ‘Down Garden Paths’ by William H. Gerdts landed on top. So begins my education on American Impressionists and the impact exterior gardens made on artists. The French Impressionists have long been my favorites and I’ve read and watched (on DVDs) about their personal lives as well as their painting ones. One influences the other.
Now I find myself going from the book to the internet to search out Childe Hassam, John Singer Sargent and Celia Thaxter. The art of Winslow Homer wakens me. I knew only of his sea work. Philip Leslie Hale’s ‘The Crimson Rambler’ brings tender moments to my mind.
A thread appears linking me back to Bordentown. In Candace Wheeler’s group of creative geniuses pops up the names of the Century Gilders. This is the same Gilder family that lived on Crosswicks Street, the same family where each child was extremely talented in the arts, in writing and traveling including exploration.

Newly Retired

The other night I overheard a conversation while I was sitting in a restaurant. The woman had recently retired. She said rather forlornly, “I can’t get out of my nightgown in the morning.” I glanced across the aisle to see her dazed expression. Like a slap across the face to wake me up, it forced me to think of when I first sold my bookshop.

I was in the habit of working 5 ½ to 6 days a week. In December it was always seven days of ten-hours-a-day with only Christmas Day off. The day after was just as busy as the day before. No complaint. I loved it. And then I sold the business with plans to start a brand new adventure by moving out of state.

In the meantime I woke in the morning with no destination, no demands on my time, no need to be anywhere in particular. I woke in the morning without having to jump into the shower and rush to get ready. I was in shock without knowing it. All these great blocks of time were in front of me and I didn’t know how to respond to them. It was like being in the middle of a joyful festival then being plunked away and put into solitary.

O f course it passed. Soon memorable lunch dates, dinner parties and outings came before the frenzy of packing up, closing accounts, etc. but it was that shock of ‘dead time’ that I vividly remember.

Battle of the Waxhaws

This past weekend I attended a seminar in Lancaster, South Carolina on the debate of the Battle of the Waxhaws also known as Buford’s Defeat/Massacre/Battleground. A “massacre or not” was the question. That question raised passionate responses from opposing thoughts and beliefs at the conference. But the passion that resulted from this battle back during the Revolutionary War brought many Patriots off the fence and into uniform. It also tagged Lt.Col. Banastre Tarleton with the nickname ‘Bloody Ban’ that he carried the rest of his life.

Aside from all the information I learned, it was great to discuss the Revolutionary War with like-minded people at the Friday night Reception. It isn’t easy to find to folks discuss the eighteenth century on an everyday basis. I also came away with a packet jammed full of relevant reading/research material and, of course, a few more signed books to add to my constantly growing collection. I also drooled over the beautiful art work available for purchasing. Alas, sometimes one has to choose………. Many thanks to the folks at the Andrew Jackson State Park for this interesting day. I'll be returning to the area for some more exploring.

Cards

I love cards. Selecting the perfect card to send, reflecting my personality to the personality of the eventual receiver is a joy. Not every friend of mine would appreciate an Edward Gorey card. But a few of them get it……..the minute they see the image they’ll turn to the back and read the little comment that goes with it.

Some of my friends are lovers of art as I am. Still there are those that I’ll send a card from my box of Monet while others will receive a Van Gogh. Yet others will get a card from my assorted “Woman Reading” box with images from several different artists. The right picture to fit the occasion and the receiver. A-h-h-h.

As I finally tie up my 2009 Christmas cards with a pretty satin ribbon today, I look them over getting pleasure a second time from a card once dispatched. Most cards I can tell who sent it to me without even opening the card just by looking at the image and by knowing my friend well.

They are all treasures to be put away for a time then brought out later to enjoy again, like a love letter but one without the romance. They are reminders of one who lived at a certain time in a certain place in my life. A recorder of events as sure as the log of a ship or the facts of a biography.

Snowbound

It is the beauty of snow that stays with me. The soft snow bringing peace outside the window sent me into my library to pick the “Snow Falling on Silence” by Marina Raye CD off my shelf. Her music enhances the feminine voice of beauty in winter. Nature sounds float out from my computer penetrating my skin; settling inside where it is needed most.

Even though my experience of life is very different, I seek the book of John Greenleaf Whittier poetry on the shelf. I couldn’t possibly watch the snow filtering down from the white sky without thinking of Snowbound the poem learned in high school. It was truly learned so that it rises to the surface at times like this, so many years since I first read the poem.

Being snowbound is good for reading, thinking, cooking, and writing. Actually I even found time to clean out my closet in response to the message from the universe to be “letting go of stuff you no longer need…clothes, household items, attitudes and beliefs that no longer serve you.” I quote from Jyoti Wind’s Astro Update.
Paintings appear in front of my eyes when I drive through the forests into town for some real live people and talk after spending six days housebound. The forest shows up best when snow is on the ground. It is easier to see deep into the woods. The depth is revealed but the secrets remain her own.

Now that the roads are clear again I hear we are expecting another snowfall coming tonight. This time I’ll build a bigger snowman.

January Lists

It is January and instead of making resolutions, I make lists. First I carry and update my lists from 2009 to 2010 files. Always when I do that, I find new lists must be made. One of the new lists is the Books on CD that I’ve read, well, listened to anyway. I first started keeping a list of the books I’ve read in my book discussion groups back in 1999 when the group met in my shop. The books reviewed for my Register-News column have always been kept on a separate list. That’s good for looking back and checking so I don’t review the same ones.

But this year for the first time since I have bought my first computer in the early 90s I am making a list of all the email addresses in my phone book. I’m trimming my sails, cutting out that $11.99 monthly AOL bill that I pay to keep my same email address even though my telephone service is Embarq. I hate to do this. It’s almost a feeling of disloyalty running through my system. And what if someone from way back when wants to contact me and I no longer answer to their email? Will they know how to get in touch? What horrors will I have to face with this change of address? Is this a life-changing thing that I plan to do?

Decisions, decisions are heavy weights indeed.

How It Happens

I write lists of things I need to do and when I need to do them, places I need to go in the order I need to go there, items I need to buy, but not before I need to buy them and other tidbits in my life that I don’t want to lose track. Petersburg, Virginia was in the middle of my Places to Go list.

Yet a couple weeks ago I found myself driving to Petersburg to follow up on some research I was doing for a story but had set aside to finish later. The story was second on my list, not the one I was immediately writing. I wound up in the interesting War Between the States Siege Museum which has all to do with, of course, the ten-month siege of Petersburg during that same war.

The research I wanted for this area was on the Revolutionary War period. So how did I come to be here? Once I spotted the sign in front of the building I was drawn in. The stories represented inside told of the stamina and determination of a town and its people. The docent was obviously enjoying the telling and showing.

I somehow fell into conversation with a couple as I was readying to leave. They were also slowly heading for the exit. The subject of ghosts and hauntings popped into our conversation.

The lady had a haunting experience to tell me. The docent overheard us and followed up with a story of her own. Synchronicity. Still at work.

Ashes

Does anyone else out there remember hauling ashes from the coal furnace in the basement to the icy/snowy sidewalk in front of the house? This was the answer of the times, to help keep folks from slipping, sliding and falling. Those were the days of pulling galoshes over top of our shoes with snap buckles closing them. One weak buckle always broke leaving a gap. Ugh. I hated pulling those boots on but it had to be done.

The stocking cap my cousin Wilma knitted for me, gloves and scarves dried on radiators (still the best heat, I think) while we drank hot cocoa to warm up before going out into the snow to get cold and wet all over again. Snow ball fights and snow igloos were as much a part of the Christmas season as the tree, the gifts and memorizing a piece for Sunday school.

The Story Behind

There is a story behind everything. Think about it. When you bought a certain painting, or piece of pottery, or stained glass, maybe it was gifted to you. What is the story that goes with it? There is a story to be told inside the painting and each person looking at it may interpret it differently. Then there’s the story about how it came into your possession.

How about the story in your memory about the scar on your knee or how my two kittens, now cats, came to lighten my life and teach me about unconditional love. Your first taste of ice cream, remember it? What's the story?

Most times we don’t even think about such things or we think that our stories are all the same. Ho-hum. But that isn’t true. The differences are what make our stories interesting to others. It’s our differences that kick up fascination. It’s our setting apart that creates compassion and understanding. It’s stuff that makes a story.

Autumn Scenes

Courthouse Square was a thick carpet of brilliantly colored autumn leaves when I pulled along the curb on Friday. The scene immediately took me back to the 70s when I bought a thick shag carpet for my first house in Bordentown. It was like walking on fire but soft and comfy-my carpet and the Courthouse leaves, too.

Funny, how a view in front of me can take me to a completely different place. The old movie with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman where he is a temporary gardener filling in for a friend, is another autumn scene that pops into my head at this time of year. I haven’t seen that movie in probably 40 years and don’t even remember the title of it, yet a few scenes stick in my mind waiting to be rekindled. The other vivid scene from that movie was one of the old barn remodeled into a gorgeous home-think roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace and deep, untouched snow outside. A-h-h. The beauties of life.

Chapel Hill Excursion

Actually I was going to Durham to a particular outdoor furniture place that I’ve never been able to find open when I’ve been there early in the week. This is Saturday, what retail shop isn’t open then? This one. H-m-m. I drove over an hour to get here, no sense in wasting the gas I’ve already used, so, on to Chapel Hill.
Driving south on 15/501 as the map directed brought me around and back to a part of Durham I’d not seen before but a friend told me about the day before. Wow! Again, not to be defeated I stopped for a light lunch at Fishmonger’s and jumped onto 15/501 again.
This time I didn’t take the route through the town but stayed on the highway to Franklin Street and bingo! I finally found Chapel Hill. This has culminated a few years of saying “Yes, I want to explore Chapel Hill, maybe tomorrow, next week, later, in a month, etc.”
Saturday afternoon and the shops and restaurants were filled. Even the book shop had paying customers lined up in front of me. This was good to see after all the gloom and doom I hear daily about the economy. I even found a tiny little shop offering Cannoli. The gentleman said it was made with Italian hands by way of New York. After tasting it later that night, I knew he was telling me the truth.

Autumn Roadsides

Last Saturday the early morning fog still clung to the trees and bushes in the distance creating a beautiful but eerie backdrop for the ghostly-castle-in-Scotland-mystery I was listening to in the SUV. I was driving into Warrenton to shop at the Farmers’ Market downtown. The scene cast up beauty instead of spookiness. The autumn golden-yellow colored flowers adorned the roadside in thick bunches running all along the edges of the blacktop for miles. I continue to be overwhelmed with the abundance of wildflowers wherever I drive this September. Well behind the blooms that look like Black-eyed Susans are tall stems of greenery topped in clusters of little white flowers. These are tucked into the edges of the forests, in masses. A florist couldn’t have arranged them more stunningly for any amount of money. And they are there just for looking.

Obviously the grass cutting road crews have beauty in their souls. They trim the grass closely but go around the buttery flowers leaving a feast for drivers and their passengers for which I am thankful.

Pandolfi Concert

This afternoon I went to Cherry Hill to the Thomas Pandolfi Piano Concert. The grand piano is set up in the center hallway. I sat in the room to the right where I could watch his hands and expressions while he played. His first selection "Apres Une Lecture du Dante" by Franz Liszt thundered throughout the manor. I could feel the descent into Hell as Liszt intended it to be. As I watched Pandolfi play with vigor and intensity and later Chopin’s work, it felt as though George Sand, Chopin and Liszt along with his long-time lover, Countess Maria d’Agoult were in the room.

They spent many hours in the salons of the wealthy in France, Liszt playing with passion almost violently, Chopin often played with delicacy on the keys. Picnics, social events and visits to Aurore’s (George Sand) estate were part of their lives. Time eroded the lovers; Sand leaving Chopin and Liszt leaving d’Agoult, even Sand and d’Agoult became public enemies, but for some time music kept them close. Liszt and Chopin remained close friends until Chopin’s early demise from his ill health. Yes, Thomas Pandolfi played beautifully bringing the spirits of these four friends into the rooms of Cherry Hill.

Learning at Skidmore

I've heard it over and over from workshop leaders, in books and from authors-read what you write. Find books that settle inside you for their style and content. Read them. Copy paragraphs that grab at you. Write them out. Feel them. Taste them. Then take what you learn and go from there putting your own self into it. Let your mind flow. Use what you learn. See what you look at. Listen to what you hear. Taste what you eat and feel what you touch. Re-live it.

Passing Away Too Soon

Seeing on my PC that Farrah Fawcett passed away followed next by Michael Jackson, tweaked my mind. Both from illnesses though different in nature. But I wonder if they completed all they set out to accomplish while on earth in this lifetime. Lives seemingly cut short make me think about that. I don't really believe their lives were cut short even though they are both younger than me. I think their ending on earth came at exactly the moment designated at birth, but I'm not so sure they did do all they wanted to do in this lifetime.

Now that I'm beyond the sixty year mark I'm fully aware that I have less time ahead of me than behind me. I have at least four books in mind that need writing, two that are well along in being completed. When I think of the literary important Jane Austen, ‘passing over’ leaving Sanditon unfinished, I shudder.

Procrastination, get thee behind me!

Last Day of June

This is it, the last day in June. By the end of the day I’ll have made it through another year of Junes. It’s the best and the worst of months. It brings my Annual ‘Remember the Magic’ Writing Conference and it brings the anniversaries of the ‘passing over’ of three loved ones.
June brings the songs of the birds close to me while I sit in the early morning on my deck. It brings the joy of the squirrels and rabbits playing on the grass and the slight sway of the tall pines. It brings the strawberries for picking and the gardenias scenting the air with sweetness.

Last Day of June

This is it, the last day in June. By the end of the day I’ll have made it through another year of Junes. It’s the best and the worst of months. It brings my Annual ‘Remember the Magic’ Writing Conference and it brings the anniversaries of the ‘passing over’ of three loved ones.

June brings the songs of the birds close to me while I sit in the early morning on my deck. It brings the joy of the squirrels and rabbits playing on the grass and the slight sway of the tall pines. It brings the strawberries for picking and the gardenias scenting the air with sweetness.

Tears

On my recent check-up visit to Duke Eye Center, I learned that we have different liquids in our eyes, tears and an eye wash (when we blink). As age creeps over us,(egads, she mentioned 40 years of age) the eye wash dries. That's where eye drops come in. They help keep the eye fluid. At least this is how I understand it.

Tears are something else. I learned not to cry at a young age. It was that 'growing up with all boys in the neighborhood' thing. "Only sissies cry." they taunted.

I was too young to realize that boys don't know any better than many men do. Crying is healthy. I'd held back tears for so many years that I think they just backed up and overflowed........like a sewer system. Once I started crying, about 15 years ago, I haven't stopped. When people see this they get embarrassed.

"No, no." I tell them. "It's okay. When the tears want to fall, I let them. It releases my emotions and feels good." Not to worry.

If you have a hard time trying to cry, to release those deeply buried disappointments and hurts, try this: play some songs that bring back those memories of painful experiences-the ones you worked so hard to forget. If it doesn't work the first time, try it again and again. Eventually you'll clean out all that moldy yuk festering inside ........ just like the guy does with the toilet plunger.

Reading as a Writer

It's true. Once I became a writer I began to read differently. Oh, I still read for enjoyment. I may get lost in a story but only until a passage is especially poetic. Then I sit up, take note maybe even place a 'sticky' under the paragraph so I can return to it for further pleasure. I'll re-read it aloud this time to my two girls (darling cats) letting the words roll around my tongue before I swallow them.

Or it may be just a word that stands out and I'm unable to just roll over it including its meaning in the sentence containing it. A word that demands I look it up in the dictionary, now. When the worth of the word is revealed I realise no other word could have been more suitable and I amaze over the cleverness of the author.

Reading Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero is like that. I have several stickies underscoring paragraphs that just reached out and made me pay attention. The man writes prose like a poet; creates scenes like an artist. It's a pleasure to read the words he strings together.

Writers' Group

For those who are nearby, a Writer's Group is meeting at the Warren County Memorial Library on Front St. in Warrenton, NC on the first Tuesday of the month at 6:00 until 8:00. Come early or later but join us in writing practices whether you are writing fiction, memoir, poetry or some thing else. There's no cost. Bring paper, pen or laptop.

Farmer as Poet

Today on my way to somewhere else, I passed a freshly turned field being readied for planting. But near the roadway the farmer created a small island by plowing around an area of Queen Anne's Lace. The wildflowers swayed in the breeze as if they were celebrating the farmer's recognition of their beauty and the joy they extended to anyone who took a moment to look. Surely the farmer is a poet or an artist or perhaps just someone who sees beauty when it pops out of the ground.