Ode to My Favorite Picture Books

I was thinking today about two of my favorite childhood picture books: “The Story of Ferdinand” by Munro Leaf, and “Harold and the Purple Crayon” by Crockett Johnson. I read both of these over and over. I see now how they’ve influenced me for life.

Here’s today’s poem, a tribute to these two books. It’s rough, but from the heart.

Two Great Teachers

Ferdinand, from you I learned
The value of sitting in the clover
Quietly being true to yourself.
You and Harold
Were my first great teachers.
Ferdinand, I’m so glad you came along
When I was young to show me
conquests and prizes pale
Next to the victory of retaining
Your integrity. From you I learned
Contemplation.
Harold, with his crayon, spurred my creativity,
Showed me I could travel anywhere
Be anything, have wondrous adventures,
No matter my circumstances,
Without depending on someone else,
Without a car or bike or money,
As long as I had imagination.

If you need to find me, I’ll be
Traveling this world and others
In my clover patch.

Does Listening Count as Reading?

For the first time in several years, I have a regular driving commute. Not to work. I still have the same job to which I walk. But my mom lives in town now, in a nursing home about five miles from my house.  That’s a 30 to 40 minute round trip, depending on traffic and weather. I’m making it out there five times per week, so far.

My attempt to make lemonade out of fossil fuels involves checking out lots of music CDs and audio books from the public library. Currently, I’m listening to Haven Kimmel’s memoir, “She Got Up Off the Couch.” I’m getting a real kick out of it. But I have a dilemma about what to do once it’s finished. See, I have these weird OCD habits about keeping a record of what I’ve read. Should I add this book to the list?

It was much simpler when my kids were little and I was listening to children’s audiobooks with them on occasion. Because my rules don’t require me to list things read for someone else’s benefit.

I’ve never counted seeing a movie the same as reading the book from which the movie was made. But this is an unabridged actual reading of the real text. Does it count as reading? Since my schedule is ever more full, I’m trying to make up for lack of looking at text time by using audiobooks as a substitute. I don’t have a problem with listening to a book. My only problem comes with saying, even just to myself, that I read it, when really someone read it to me. For purposes of accommodating my own personality quirks, I think I may have to embrace the asterisk as my savior.

 

Royalty Mania

Here’s a little story in dialogue I wrote three or four years ago. At the time, it was done as an exercise and I considered it over-the-top satire. However, check the link I provide after.

An Arresting Conversation

Did you hear Dee was arrested last night?

“What for”

Violating intellectual property rights. It was only a matter of time before she was caught, of course. I don’t know how she thought she’d get away with it. Wasn’t it just obvious, walking into a bookstore with four children and buying only one copy of a book?

“I don’t know how anyone with a large family does it any more. It must be difficult to pay for four of everything.”

That’s why I stopped after one child. I don’t believe it’s responsible to keep having so many kids if you can’t afford to raise them within the law.

“She might not be guilty, though. Just because she only had one copy of the book doesn’t mean she was reading it to all the kids at the same time. Maybe she bought it for only one of them. Or else she was taking turns reading it to each child individually. I’m pretty sure that’s legal, reading the same copy of a book to different children in the family. So long as no more than one child is being read to at a time. The evidence seems pretty circumstantial to me.”

There were witnesses. Hell, she wasn’t even trying to hide it. She sat right out on her front porch with three of her children and read to them all at once from one copy of the same book. In plain view of everyone. At least she didn’t have the 11-year-old out there. I’ve heard rumors she still reads to him, even though he’s clearly past the 10-year-old legal cutoff age for any sort of literacy sharing.”

“I never understood how the government decided on 10 as the age at which you have to stop reading to kids. It seems so young in some ways.”

“If the schools are doing any job at all, a child should be well able to read anything they need to on their own by that age. Of course if a child has a learning disability, their parents can get an exemption with a signed form from an educational professional.

I still don’t know how Dee could be so stupid. Doesn’t she remember all the trouble Lisa got into last year when she was caught singing copyrighted lullabies to her toddler?And another thing. Don’t these mothers even care what values they’re instilling in their kids? They’re raising them to be thieves.

“Sometimes I wonder, though…I have fond memories of my parents singing to me, and of us reading together as a family. We didn’t have a lot of money, so that was our entertainment. It was free back then. In a way, it seems like things were simpler in those days.”

It was free to you, maybe, but at the expense of someone else. Food is free, too, for the person who shoplifts it.

“I know there has to be some regulation. But do you ever think the laws have gone a little too far?”

Oh, come on! Do you really want to go back to the days of hand-me-down clothes and libraries?

“I’m not an extremist. I was only thinking it wouldn’t hurt anyone for there to be a little more leeway for someone like Dee, who’s struggling with all those children. Maybe as long as she wasn’t reading to children outside her own family, she should be allowed probation. It does seem like the compassionate thing to do.

Then again, can we say she was reading only to her kids, when she was sitting right outside where anybody walking by could hear? You’re way too naïve sometimes. Dee’s not the innocent you take her for. I’ve never mentioned this to anyone, but she’s stolen from me before.

“You’re kidding! What did she take?”

She was with me one day when I told my son…Never mind exactly what I said to him. But I was using one of my own original childrearing techniques with a script I had written myself. When Dee saw how well my discipline method worked, she laughed and told me she was going to remember it. Not a week later she used my exact words to one of her own children right in front of me. Didn’t offer me a cent of reimbursement…I can see you’re surprised. I was too. I couldn’t have felt more shocked if she had grabbed the purse from my arm and walked off with it.

“Speaking of kids, I have to feed mine. I’d better go and get some dinner started.”

What are you cooking tonight? I could sell you some of my recipes if you ever run out of ideas.

“Thanks but I inherited plenty from my parents. See you later – trademark.”

**

Apparently there’s a group in Belgium who would see this as a utopian scenario, as they want libraries to pay royalties for story time.


Local Travelogue One

“I have traveled a great deal in Concord.” – Henry David Thoreau

My husband, kids and I have taken two major vacations and several minor road trips. (The kids are 16 and 13.) The first major do was a drive to the Grand Canyon in 2006. That trip involved a lot of camping and one tornado. The other was a trip to Florida this past November, marking our first experience of flying together as a family.

I’d love to travel more, but in the past month, my life has taken a turn that promises to keep me anchored for the foreseeable future. So I’ve decided to take Thoreau as my inspiration and travel my hometown. To that end, my first hyper-local travelogue in photos.

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So Many Mistake

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
– Leonard Cohen (“Anthem”)

I want to take a moment to acknowledge that I make a lot of mistakes in my blog posts. Get used to it. I have. I generally write and publish them immediately, with very little rewriting.  I do try to proofread, but you know you can never catch your own mistakes when you proofread the same day. No matter how carefully I think I’ve looked over my post before I hit the “publish” button, I almost always find a typo later. I fretted over this for a bit, but I’m over it now.

When I write stories or poems for publication, I rewrite and proofread, and rewrite and proofread, lather, rinse, repeat. Yes, I know this is publication, but not the same kind. I’ve decided this is the place where I will allow myself to be gloriously open and flawed. This is my arena for just getting my thoughts out there, and I hope I’m providing some value, even if it’s not perfect. Sometimes, when I look at someone else’s blog and see a mistake or two, I enjoy it even more, because I’m reminded there’s a human being behind it. There’s a connection there. I’d like to think it’s a reciprocal feeling, at least sometimes.

 

 

 

Let’s Be Purists

Here’s a phrase I’d like to see used only in its original context: “lowest common denominator.” I suggest we stick to purist principles and use these words only in relation to actual math problems. I’m feeling pretty done with hearing the expression applied to human beings, especially children. To be honest, I’ve used it myself in the past. But I’ve declared a personal moratorium on it.

Think about it. That kid who is struggling with his reading – he’s a real person. He’s someone’s child. The girl who takes a few minutes longer than your kid to figure out the least common denominator in math class – she’s a human, and she’s good at something that some of the other kids aren’t. Every child, and every adult for that matter, struggles with something, and nobody wants to be ridiculed for it.

If I want my humanity recognized, I need to recognize it in others, and not use dismissive terms. Lowest Common Denominator, I hereby by banish you from the realm of humanity-describing adjectives.

Confessions of Domestic Deficiency, and a Poem

Kitchens are for science experiments

One day my son, who was around seven at the time, came into the kitchen where I was working. I’ve never heard more sincere effusiveness in a voice than when he expressed his excitement over what I was preparing for dinner. “That’s my favorite recipe out of everything you make!” he told me. I was opening cans of soup.

And he’s not the only youngster I’ve impressed with my cuisine. A friend of his spent the afternoon with us once and went home to tell his parents about what I had served for a snack. “She makes the best waffles!” he told them. “You cook them right in the toaster.” The kid’s mom is a friend of mine, so we were able to laugh when she related this to me later.

I’ve never been…enthusiastic, shall we say…about cooking. For me, it’s much more about the end result than the process. Frankly, I’d rather be writing. Which is why I don’t impress the adults quite so much.

The list of my culinary failures is long. When I was a young newlywed, my extremely large extended family held a reunion. One of my aunts put herself in charge of organizing the food. Which was probably smart and necessary, so we wouldn’t end up with fifty bowls of potato salad. But I think she made certain assumptions. Such as believing my two X chromosomes enabled deviled egg making abilities. Shortly before the reunion, I received a letter from my aunt listing what dish each family member should bring. And by each family member, I mean the adult females, even the ones who had married into the clan. Her own sons were responsible for nothing, but their wives were.

Next to my name, I saw the words “deviled eggs.” I had no idea how to make those. This was in the days before the internet, so I couldn’t have a recipe on my computer screen within five minutes. Oh, I suppose I could have cracked open a cookbook during one of my frequent trips to the public library. Or, you know, called my mom. But I decided I’d rather put my energies toward rants about the ingrained sexism in my family of origin.

“This is exactly why I hate cooking!” I’d say to my long-suffering husband. “Because women are just *expected* to do it.” Oh, I was happy to move away from my conservative old-fashioned upbringing, in which women were judged by cooking abilities. Meanwhile, I had a family reunion to attend, at which I appeared bearing a dozen hard-boiled eggs with devil faces drawn on the shells. Clever of me, wasn’t it?

In the more current meantime, I have friends and relatives all along the conservative-liberal spectrum. And  I find many of the liberal friends are all about what and how people cook. Is it organic? Did you buy local? I like slow food. You’re not wasting packaging by buying pre-made foods are you?  Where can I go that I’m not expected to cook??????

It’s not that I want to shirk the food prep altogether. I have learned to cook a few things along the way. I’m not bad at non-canned soups when I have time – you cut things up and throw them in a pan together. We even have a garden every year. Okay, mostly my husband has a garden every year. But I weed sometimes and I do use the food in our meals. I’ve gone as far as to make my own salsa.

About three years ago, I decided I would change my attitude. I would embrace cooking. I would enjoy the process, being in present for the experience, totally in the moment. I really threw myself into it, and I came to…eh, not hate the chore as much as I once did. I’ve come to realize cooking is necessary, and can even be enjoyable. But, while I no longer detest it, I also know it will never be The Thing That Fulfills Me. I will never find myself thinking “If only I had half an hour to myself to go into the kitchen and whip something up” in the same way that I long for a half an hour to write.

I did write a poem about my lack of domesticity, though:

What Gift Is This*

Next to us the neighbor grows
Peppers, chives, tomatoes, lettuce
Brings a gift of produce freshly
Picked to welcome us as we settle
Sisters, friends and cousins knit
Scarves and blankets, bake and sew
Cookies, quilts or crochet afghans
Always they are ready with
An Offering for any major
Life event – a baby, death
Or illness, they appear in front halls
Bringing sustenance, warmth and comfort
My dilemma – how to pay
In kind when I am overdone
In cooking, brown of thumb, too large
Of stitch, and plain old undomestic
What reaction would I see
If I showed up, a sheaf of papers
In my hand, a look of welcome/
Sympathy / congratulations
On my face and said to them
Have some poems freshly penned

*This poem originally appeared in Well Versed.

A Year of Gratitude

What kind of awesome was 2011? All kinds of awesome. This past year, I decided to use my Twitter account (I’m @damari19 if anyone’s interested) as a sort of personal/public gratitude journal. My goal was to tweet about something I found awesome every day for a year.  I missed a few days, but very few. I highly recommend doing this, whether via twitter or post-it notes or a silent thought right before you go to sleep. Getting in the habit of noticing one specific good thing each day has helped my mood and attitude tremendously.

I tried to find something new each day, though sometimes I forgot I’d already counted something as awesome earlier in the year. Omelets got three separate mentions. So did Dr. Who.

Looking back over my year in gratitude tweets, certain themes are prominent:

My top category seems to be food, which might explain what’s happened to my waistline. See omelets, above. Pie got two nods from me, once on 3/14 and again at Christmas. But I was also grateful for lettuce from our garden, basil from our garden, and the salsa I made using jalapenos from our garden. Halloween candy. A falafel dog from Mutt’s in Oklahoma City. Also drinks – coffee and tea come up, tea more than once.

Family and friends garnered many mentions. My husband cleaned the windows. I noticed when my kids did chores without being nagged. Got to visit my mom. My brother and sister-in-law knocked themselves out as hosts when we visited for Thanksgiving. Coffee with a friend. Inside jokes with old friends. I am immensely and always grateful for my various relationships.

I notice I commented a lot on the trouble don’t last category. Getting over a cold. Kids getting over colds. Rain after a drought. Figuring out how we’re going to pay for unexpected expenses. Cicadas went away. It’s all good.

Then there was nature. Crocus. Daffodils. Peonies. Autumn leaves. Goldfinches who visit our yard every day. Playing in the snow.

I had lots of comments on internet stuff, either cool websites or links to inspiring stories. Here are a few.:
1,000 Awesome Things – my inspiration
ALEKS
– my daughter does her homeschool math through ALEKS.
Khan Academy – another educational resource
TED Talks
Fictiondb – near-comprehensive lists of fiction series.
Newsreel footage of Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan.
Project Gutenberg – free ebooks

Literature plays a big part in my life. This past year I’ve found awesome in authors’ birthdays – e.g. Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut. Various books. Meeting with a new writers’ group. Meeting writing goals. Getting paid to write blog entries and newspaper articles as part of my day job. My son asking to go to the library because he’d read everything he has in the house. A student running a banned books library from her school locker.

Events, small and large:  Corn maze. 4th of July fireworks. Biggest family vacation ever – a trip to Florida where we visited Universal Islands of Adventure (one a side note, the Forbidden Journey is the best amusement park ride I’ve ever experienced) and my kids saw the ocean for the first time.

Those that defy categorization:
2/24/11: W. Shatner singing Mr. Tambourine Man & L. Nimoy singing Where Is Love on same CD
3/7/11: Using the large almost-vintage paper-cutter at work, with its dials and wheels. A combination of meditation & steampunk.
7/19/11: Seeing the interior lights come on when I click the unlocker in the direction of my van. It looks so happy to see me!
10/17/11: Curly hair being considered cool again. Thanks Alex Kingston and River Song!

And finally, one from a category I think of as “In Retrospect, the Joke’s on Me.”
“10/22/11: Procured winter coat for son at a great price.”  Yeah, he’s already outgrown it.

 

My November Word Count

6,207. I said it in my previous post, and I think I’ll have to adopt it as my motto: “No sneering, NaNoWriMo participants. I’m a busy woman.”

I know many of you cranked out 50,000 words this past month. Yay for you! I mean that; it’s not sarcastic. Or bitter. Really. No, really, I mean it. I’m impressed. Maybe some year it’ll be me.

Knowing I would have next to no time in November (day job at which I worked extra hours in early November, one homeschooling kid, one public schooled kid who has auditory processing difficulties and thus requires a fair amount of parental involvement to keep track of what’s going on, providing driving lessons to the older child who has a permit but no license yet, taking one of the kids to physical therapy appointments, taking the other kid to orthodontic appointments, assisting with the running of a writers’ conference, oh and a fabulous week-long vacation in Florida, which required planning and packing for and unpacking from) there was no way I could do NaNo. I regret nothing, especially not the vacation.

Still, I tried to absorb inspiration from all the dedication wafting around in my writerly circles. I decided to make an effort to write every day, even if I only had ten minutes, and keep track of my word count.  This went okay until vacation, when I dropped the ball (or quill or something) and didn’t pick it back up for ten days.

I have written a bit of a novel. I also counted blog posts, both personal and work-related. Add in a couple of other miscellaneous forays into the brain-ink continuum and my 20 total days of writing resulted in 6,207 words. One of those days, I managed five minutes for a word count of 76.

Thing is, though, I can keep this up year-round, and accomplish a respectable amount, all things considered. For now, I accept my lot as a plodding SoMisWriYe (Solitary Miscellaneous Writing Year) tortoise amongst the crowd of NaNo hares.

Eventually, I might join the race. Or I might not.

And to  think, I could have spent that time at a desk, subsisting on coffee and toast crusts, hunched over a computer, frantically typing until my fingers bled. Awww…too bad for me.

My First Novel: a Love Story

When I say love story, I’m not talking about the plot. I’m speaking of the relationship between me and my book.

I finished writing the first draft of my first novel a two years ago. A couple of people read and offered me their thoughts. I have done a couple of revisions. I’ve sent it out a few places and been rejected.

Now, I’m meeting with a novel-writing group and having my manuscript read by more people, who are giving quite helpful feedback. Hearing their comments, I’ve come to see the strengths and weaknesses I display should have been predictable. I’ve spent countless hours of my life immersed in poetry. In more recent years, I’ve produced a number of short stories. My strengths in my first novel, according to my first and second responders, are in dialogue, description and character development. I have many individual wonderful scenes with great dialogue. But it’s obvious this is the first time I’ve plotted something this size. I need to work on the story arc.

I’m trying to decide whether to do another rewrite and work on getting this volume published or whether to let it be and move on. I already have a start on my second novel. I’m about 5,000 words in at the moment. (No sneering at me, please, NaNoWriMo people. I’m a busy woman.)

The other night, while I was pondering my options regarding my firstborn book, I had a happy epiphany. I possess a very healthy emotional relationship with this novel. Whether I do any more revisions, whether I ever publish it or not, I’m so happy to have written it. It’s a story I needed to tell and I’ve told it, if only to a handful of my closest fellow-writers and my spouse. I’m not staking my entire self-concept as a writer on getting it published. I’ve gained some publication credits with several poems and a small handful of short stories. I’ve even been paid some of those times. I learned a lot in the first-novel process and my second book is benefitting already.

See, I don’t have a co-dependent thing going. But I do have a deep, true, abiding love. I’m able to see my novel’s flaws and still care for it – warty story arc and all.  I love my characters. I love my sense of accomplishment in having finished an entire book. I love how much I learned. No matter what I do with my writing in the future, no matter how many books I finish, I will never forget you, first novel. You will always have a special place in my heart.