English Ivy and its Perverse Nature

The weather has given us a wonderful gift the past few days, and I hate to squander it inside, so I've been playing in the yard. Any excuse. . . and this time, it was the ivy.

Years ago, I decided our fence would look nice covered with ivy, so I planted a few tendrils and waited for them to do their thing. Some understood their mission in life and went after it with a vengeance. I carefully wove their sprouts (or whatever you call them) in and out of the fence slats, and considered it to be a success.

Until the miniature English ivy rebelled. I coaxed. I watered. I promised sunshine and fertilizer. Nothing. Those suckers lay limpidly (is that a word?) where I'd planted them and refused to do their job. Grow and entwine.

So I did what any self-respecting gardener would do, I ignored those traitors. Turned a blind eye through this summer's drought. Pretended I didn't know they were there. Until today, when I went to check on the climbing rose I'd planted on this same stretch of fence, and there they were.

What should I see, but long flowing tendrils of English ivy, a superabundance of it. It would appear that neglect made the recalcitrant ivy rethink its miserable existence, and the trailers are now long enough to weave, to dart in and out of fence slats. It's not only happy, it's prolific. How was I supposed to know that heat and drought were the correct prescription to make the damned stuff grow?

Lesson learned. I'll ignore it from now on.

House Memories

Caption: My grandmother is the smaller woman in the white dress. She's a teenager here.

Pulling the family room sofa from its place so I could drag out a ball the dog lost under there (I finally got tired of her whining, LOL), I found a brick with a needlepointed cover. Moths have had a heyday with the needlepoint wool, but I instantly recognized it as my representation of my grandmother's house in Georgia. I made it for her for a Christmas gift. What memories.

A one-story house built by the local lumber company owner, it was as sturdy as a stiff wind in Oklahoma. The front porch, with its red-tiled floor and straw rug, was the center of the neighborhood's social life. The porch swing was my favorite reading spot, and I'd stretch out with a book in one hand and a fresh glass of lemonade in the other while the ladies more my grandmother's age would discuss the latest movie gossip from trashy magazines excessed by the beauty shop. Life was good on a hot summer afernoon.

I didn't get to stay in Georgia for long periods of time. Just quick visits. I couldn't wait to haul myself up into the cherry four-poster with a fringed teester, the one in "my" bedroom. The wide cherry plank floors reflected the morning light, and I'd wake up hearing morning doves in the garden outside my window. Nineteenth century travel cases hid under the bedskirt, and it was a tradtion to haul them out and search through old clothes and hats stored just for my dress-up pleasure.

That cherry bed is stored in my attic, its posts too high for modern ceilings. The red lacquer Chinese mirror from my Georgia room reposes in my guest room. The trunks are long gone, along with their sartorial treasures. But the memories are all held firmly in that motheaten needlepoint picture.

I won't toss it in the trash, no matter how awful it looks. Some things you just keep.

Cool portrait

One of my daughters did the self-portrait, LaceFace. Don't tell her I put it up on my blog...she'll be embarrassed. But I thought it was terribly creative. She and her sister are both so talented with a camera, it's amazing. I have no idea where they got that one. Not me.

The crabgrass is winning...

Now that we've had several days of rain/heat/rain, crabgrass is king. I keep telling myself to be grateful, it's green, and a definite improvement over the brown lawn of a few weeks ago. My sweetie, however, thinks differently. The crabgrass is winning, much to his chagrin.

The munchkins are all heading back to school in a day or so. One is working on her master's degree at a top ten school in her field, the younger is heading into her fifth year of a five year architecture program at one of the best schools in the country. I love the way my kids don't want the easy way out - they always choose the harder path in their education choices. It will serve them well, as my eldest realized soon after starting to work on her masters in June. Her rigorous undergrad degree had her tearing her hair out, but now that she's in the masters program, she can see how well served she was by working her buns off for four years to get her BA. While others struggle in the class work, she's on top of it with her usual persistence and hard work. Both girls aren't happy unless challenged, and boy howdy, are they.

Re-read Larry Watson's MONTANA 1948 last week. Still his best book, at least in my eyes. The older voice narrating the events from a youngster's viewpoint makes it fit into one of my favorite storytelling devices.

Sick of Watermelon Yet?

Getting there! What a colossally awful thing to admit, since the melons this year have been spectacular. But I found myself walking away from my fav watermelon vendor at the local farmer's market, simply because I've had enough. If I could freeze the melons for later in winter when I crave a taste of summer, I would. But right now, I'm on watermelon overload. Same with cantaloupe. Great stuff, had too much.

Have you ever found an author who grabbed you with that first book you read? Then you run out and find everything s/he ever wrote and move them to the top of your TBR pile. Only by the time you're on the fourth or fifth book, you've hit the wall. Nothing seems fresh or unusual anymore, and you put down the next book in favor of another writer. Susan Elisabeth Phillips - prime example. Great writer, wonderful books, but I can take only so many in a row. I guess it's like anything else, you CAN have too much of a good thing. Think how boring meals would be if we only ate chocolate. Wait, let me reconsider that one. . . .

The moral of this story? Eat the watermelon as long as it's tasty, then move on. It's okay if you're groaning out loud. Not much depth to that pithy bit of philosophy, huh? Oh well, it's still hot as a haywire oven here, and the brain cells are pretty much melted into a buttery puddle. Forgive me.

Real Stories

Just discovered a show on Animal Planet called "The Last American Cowboy." Those of you who have read my westerns know I'm in love with the American West. I have no idea why, it's just a facet of my psyche. So when I saw the show on the TV guide, I had to Tivo it.

It's about modern ranchers in Montana, and what they face in getting their cattle to market and preserving their land for the next generation(s). Classic storytelling. I wish the characters had more to say for themselves, and there was less narration, but the scenery alone is worth watching. God's country isn't North Carolina (sorry folks), but Wyoming, Montana, etc. If you have cable and get Animal Planet, give it a watch next Monday.

Remembering last winter....

I swore last winter than I'd welcome summer and its heat and humidity with open arms. I lied.

Just looking at pictures from one of our unusual snowstorms cools me off. I'd like to turn the AC down to "freeze meat" and huddle in a sweater, but there's no way the system could do it, not with temperatures running well over 100 degrees F for days on end. It's just not fair. The day it hit 105 (last Saturday), I was ready to move anywhere but here.

Not kidding.

Inspiration

I find it in the oddest places. Obituaries. Hunting and fishing articles in the newspaper. Dreams. People watching. Snatches of conversation. Trees. Playgrounds. Water. Memories. Art galleries. Museums. Legends. Myths.

It's everywhere. Turning it off is not an option. Sometimes I have to stop the car and make notes, just so I can get an idea out of my head and pay attention to my driving. ( I REALLY need to pay attention.) I don't text/talk on my cell and drive, but I do have conversations in my head with fictional characters. I don't think it's against the law, but it probably should be. I've been known to sit through red lights because I'm so involved with the people who are crowding my thoughts, I don't see the street. I'm sorry and hereby apologize to all the polite people behind me who should have honked, but didn't.

Although I started writing on a computer in the 1980s, I kept notes and ideas on paper, written in pen or pencil. Even today, that tactile feel of a pen in my hand, poised over a clean sheet of paper, is a gift. The anticipation of seeing the words on the lines gives me goose-bumps. I can't wait to see if the voices coalesce into a cohesive story. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't.

The journey is the rush. I don't believe in writer's block. Even when the writing is dreck, a dead-end of all dead-ends, I'm having fun.

Roman Polanski Freed

The Swiss have refused to extradite the director. The same man who plead guilty to a sex charge (one out of 13) committed against a 13 year old girl. Polanski is now a free man.

I'm so mad I could spit nails. So much for having his day in court. The case has been tried in the press so extensively, it's probably impossible to find an unbiased jury of his peers, but please - can we at least pretend we're civilized and a people of laws? I expect better from the Swiss, who have always seemed remarkably unflappable and even-keeled. Who would have thought the list of big names in the film industry backing Polanski would have swayed a Swiss judge? Not me.

There's a higher jury that will judge Polanski, and I wouldn't want to be him when he appears before it.

This is Daytona on Saturday night (actually, early Sunday morning, July 4). Wow is all I can say. What a wreck-fest. Slick track, old tires, who knows what caused a race to become a demolition derby? While some fans cheer the mentality that a driver either wins or destroys his car, I want to see racing. Side-by-side is even better. But for heaven's sake, keep your fenders on and all four wheels on the track!

Tough Girl Heroines

I enjoyed the Swedish movie, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. The book, The Girl Who Played with Fire, less so. I don't think it's the translation, but rather the wandering bits that have nothing to do with the story. I don't care about every item of furniture that Lisabeth buys at Ikea for her multi-million dollar apartment. The movie, I have a feeling, cut to the heart of the story and kept the pace going where the book lost it. Perhaps, because the author died before the books were published, the publisher didn't feel free to do wholesale cutting of the manuscript. That's fine.

What I do admire is Lisabeth's calculating paranoia, her refusal to be kicked and not kick back (or be raped, and not rape back), and her inability to turn her back on someone she almost cares for. Carol O'Connell's Mallory character is very much like this - although Mallory was raised, after an early harrowing childhood wandering the streets of New York looking for her mother, by a loving police detective and his even more loving wife. While Mallory has every opportunity to rise above her early nightmares, she can't, or won't, do it, and remains pretty much a very icy fish indeed. Lisabeth's hard shell can be cracked.

I admire kick-ass heroines, as they're called in the biz. But there has to be a glimmer of marshmallow underneath all the take-no-prisoners bravado. Otherwise, the character's just plain psychotic.

Flying the Jolly Roger

It's hot. The garden is withering despite my best efforts to drown it with hose water. The geraniums, contrary beasts that they are, are thriving. No fruit, no special scent, but their peach colored blossoms give me pleasure.

So why fly the Jolly Roger? We bought the flag on an impromptu trip to Chincoteague Island, home of the wonderful "Misty" books. Sometimes you shouldn't visit places where a book is set. Chincoteague, however, is unassuming, quiet, and just the right place for a children's story. The Jolly Roger brings back happy memories of pastel-painted Victorian houses with rickety shutters and barren lawns, and an un-hurried life.

This heat slows us down. The dog and I pant our way through our early morning walk. I dread braving the hot car after an hour of its broiling in a parking lot at the grocery store. By flying the Jolly Roger, I'm taking life down a notch. Slowing it down. Letting the fan lift the hair from my neck as I drink lemonade. Summer's a scorcher this year.

The USPO

The rant has been building since Saturday. I braved the heat to mail some books, and for my efforts, encountered the typical line-out-the-door at my local PO. (I apologize to Eudora Welty for thinking of her cleverly funny short story every time I use "PO.") Saturdays are a nightmare, more so than the usual daily line at the counter, because only one person is working.

An elderly gentleman on a cane, obviously in discomfort and finding standing in line painful, was behind me. The man in front of me in the line had lost the one clerk (who disappeared into the nether recesses of the back room, not to reappear for over 15 minutes or more), when I asked the elderly gent if he'd like to step in front of me in the line. He accepted gratefully.

More minutes passed. No solitary clerk. Was she taking a smoke break? Who knew? Finally, the older man handed me a small manila envelope and a couple of bucks, and asked if I'd mail it for him. I agreed, telling him to sit in his car and I'd bring him the change. No, he said, he couldn't stand it any longer, he had to leave. Okay, I understood. We were ALL sick of standing politely in line, although several of us were becoming good friends, chatting about builders and law suits.

When I finally reached the counter and the lone clerk, who was none too happy from the expression on her petulant face, I explained I was mailing the envelope for the elderly man who wasn't able to stand for long. "ell," she snipped, "I can't accept that because you don't know what's in it!" I fingered the envelope and replied, "It's clearly paper." "No," she barked, "I can't accept that. It could be hazardous!" So I opened the envelope (committing some sort of crime, I'm sure, except it wasn't licked shut, just latched with one of those little metal clasps), pulled out a letter, and showed her the dangerous contents of this little manila envelope. Sniffing haughtily, she accepted the man's money and stamped it. Phew, mission accomplished. I escaped the depressing PO about an hour after I crossed its portal, promising myself to never return. At least not on Saturday.

Our branch PO has removed all the stamp machines, the gizmo where you can weigh your package yourself and affix postage, and every other vestige of do-it-yourself postal supplies. We're lucky if two clerks work the four-clerk counters, and if both of them are working the counters at the same time, it's a major miracle. Do you want to know why the PO is losing money by the bushel? Take a look at my branch PO. Staff cuts and do-it-yourself resource eliminations. From now on, I'll order books on the Web and have them shipped directly to my giftees. No going to the bookstore to handpick a selection for birthdays and Christmas. I'll do ANYTHING to avoid the post office.

To think that, once upon a time, I thought the PO was one of the coolest places on earth. I loved mailing boxes and overstuffed letters to friends and children, imagining their surprise when they received them. No more.

UFOs and Other Weirdness

Before I lay it out here for all the world (well, the few of you who read this blog, thanks girls!), I'm not a UFO enthusiast or nut. I'm a healthy sceptic, with a dose of "prove it and I'll go along for the ride" thrown in there. Just so you know, I'm not a huge fan of little green men.

I've seen a UFO. Long story short, our girls fenced once a week in a local fencing club. Their dad and I agreed it was a good idea for them to learn to stick sharp, lethal objects in anyone attacking them, and they developed into pretty nice epee fencers. Their club met once a week, and since the sessions could run a couple of hours, we often drove home in the dark.

One night, when the air was warm with coming summer, we saw a huge circle of inordinately bright lights hovering low over the road. This is a four-laned, busily traveled highway. I was sure there was a logical explanation, until the hovering object moved up vertically, then turned at a 90 degree angle. The girls and I stared hard, discussed the object, and decided that yes, indeed, we'd been initiated into the UFO club. Very cool. Nothing earth-shattering, but extremely interesting.

I was surprised no one wrote in the newspaper about the flying object. Nor was there even a whisper on TV news until the next evening, when a newscaster reported multitudinous reports of an unidentified flying object. He also reported that no one from the airport acknowledged ownership of this object. Then he smiled, a tight little smile that said he knew more than he was reporting, and skipped on to another story.

The newscaster disappeared from the local broadcast stage not long afterwards. We stopped talking about the UFO.

I wonder if we're limited to one UFO sighting per lifetime?

Red Apples

They're after me. I kid you not. Big red apples are stalking me.

It all began when I walked the dog this morning. In the middle of the road reposed this huge red apple, probably a Delicious, waiting to be smushed by a car. Hmmm, I thought, wondering who tossed this lovely fruit of the poisonous tree in my neighborhood. Dog sniffed. I mused on the theme of the Garden of Eden. Stupid story. Dog and I continued our walk, or shall I shall, pull and jerk. (The squirrels love to tease her and she takes the bait every time.) Everything is normal, until . . .

Another apple. Floating in the middle of the creek that flows not far from our house. The creek is normally a sluggish affair at this time of the year, but we've had some abnormally heavy rain last week, and it's doing its best to pretend it has rapids. The big red apple must have been hung up on some flotsom, because it bobbed in the middle of the creek, mocking me. You can't escape the Garden of Eden, it warned.

Pshaw to that. Baloney and more baloney. God never made temptation and woman is not cursed. Dog and I walked on, both of us with our tongues hanging out at this point. The humidity has already hit 90 per cent. I'm wondering if I'm giving the neighborhood a wet T-shirt show, when yes, there it was.

Another big shiny red apple. Posing at the base of a line of wild cherry trees that rim a yard not far from mine. Nonchalantly reclining against the trunk of one of the trees, the apple is practically sticking its tongue out at me. You will not escape me, it chortles. Original sin is here to stay and you can't avoid it.

To which I reply, phooey and balderdash. Picking up this most mocking of fruit, I heave it into a trash can that's been left curbside. That's exactly how I feel about the notion of original sin. Nothing but trash.

The red apples can't beat me. No matter how hard they try to rattle my cage, I'm not biting.

Awesome Moments

Listened, for about five seconds, to a cheesy bit on the CBS morning show about a new book called something like AWESOME MOMENTS. I'm sure I have the name wrong, but you get the idea. It's all about those little things that make you realize how much you have to appreciate in your life. One person on the couch said how much she loved a certain song and the memories it brought back, and I knew exactly what she meant.

Anything by Petula Clark, and I'm twelve years old again, wishing I could go "downtown." "Cherish" by the Righteous Brothers, and I'm in love for the first time and feelin' it like it's today. (That means you, sweetie pie.) Hit me with The Doors, and it's rock and roll and revolution, and I can smell the late sixties, early seventies, sense the change in light through the trees, feel the leather of a chair seat under my bare thighs.

Flowers in full and glorious bloom. A transplanted bush that survives the heat and drought. The smell of horses. A cat's purr. Bright green new grass the color we see only once a year. Thunder shaking the bleacher seats as 43 hot cars take the track. You get the idea - I could go on and on about the 'small' things that could fill a book of awesome moments I'll never grow tired of experiencing. And if I never do get to see/smell/taste/touch/hear any of them ever again, the memories are vividly ingrained in my DNA.

Magical Realism

I've been fascinated by the phrase ever since I heard Rodrigo Garcia use it on NPR this week. Think THE GREEN MILE. Magic happens in the midst of a realistic story. I've never been lured by that sort of book, probably because I find enough magic in everyday life. However, adding magic supplies an intriguing list of ways to write yourself out of and into some interesting plots. Maybe what some define as magic, others see as everyday life? A baby's smile is pure magic. Love is as well. Moral courage. Absolute honesty. I could go on and on. I don't need "magic" to push a story from the ordinary to the extraordinary world, but I venture that an element of spirituality is more common than most authors would admit. Whether that belief is in the essential goodness of man or a higher power to control the destinies of the characters, really good books (in my limited view) are driven by characters with such a core. Jean Valjean. Atticus Finch. Dave Robicheaux. Any Dick Francis hero.

Existential heroes leave me cold. Went through that phase when I was a kid (high school) and thankfully, outgrew it. The real magic comes from finding a book with characters who inhabit their worlds with honesty, morality, and a deeply abiding faith that whatever is wrong will be righted, in the end. They waver and fumble along the path to the knowledge they require to reach the end of their stories, but they get there in the end. Yeah!

SCOTUS: Nominees and Snakes

Okay, so one of the arguments against Elena Kagan's nomination to the Supremes is that she didn't get her driver's license until she was in her 20's, ergo, she's totally out of touch with 'real people.' Pllleeeaassee. Give me a huge break. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 20, and I'm real people. Some of us didn't need to drive until later in life - my trusty red Schwin got me where I needed to go in college. I know a woman who is my age, who still doesn't have a license, and she raised seven children in the 'burbs without a license or car. Hmm, I think she's well aware of 'real life.' If you're going to attack a nominee, do it based on her legal publications, her public comments, not something as specious as when she procured a license to drive a car.

Attacking her because she's fifty and unmarried is beyond reprehensible. No one threw mud at David Souter, who was also unmarried when nominated. Calling Ms. Kagan a lesbian because of her lack of male spouse is nothing more than blatant sexism. Shame, shame, shame on those who are using this argument to oppose her nomination.

Why anyone would put themselves through the public wringer to accept a nomination to a public office is beyond my comprehension. What have we become? A nation of amoral, self-aggrandizing, mean people? Sometimes it seems so. Has the great experiment, democracy, become another Garden of Eden to be invaded by the snake? That talking serpent who set about to destroy a good gig? The pundits and poobahs who scream that we're a nation of nitwits and idiots, using blogs and political posts, TV and radio, are nothing more than loquacious serpents with vocabulary programed to incite and inflame and drive us to eat the apple that'll doom our country. Okay, that may be a rash generalization, but come on people, can't we be civil and respectful as we disagree? Me, I'm not listening to any snakes. The voices in my own head are enough, thank you very much.

Speaking of voice: how do you get into a young adult voice? It's more than slang, patois, whatever you call it. That's easily dated. Been mulling the issue.

Bad Race, Green Trees, and Summer

Sigh. I've been putting off posting about the Cup race last Saturday night, hoping I could find some nice words to describe what was, ultimately, a boring race. Yawn-inspiring. Go-home-early. Wish we had.

What was wrong, I don't know. Single-file parades around a 3/4 mile track don't happen often, but they did on Saturday. I can't remember a single Richmond race with less drama or excitement. The last fifteen laps put on a show, but until then, I couldn't have cared less. Okay, enough negativity. I'm not going to think about it again.

Working on SIGNS. After 160 pages, I've decided the 'voice' is all wrong, so it's back to square one. Some of us take longer to figure out a book's issues than others. I count myself among those who hang onto the original vision after it's clear it's not working much, much too tenaciously. The good news is, the rewrites are feeling 'right,' so I'm a happy camper. Well, getting to the 'happy' part.

Summer is here with all its humidity and glorious greenery. I realized yesterday how much I missed the green trees during the past long, cold, and dreary winter. Trees in full glory make me happy, and remind me that all is right with the world. And on that simple truth, it's time I got back to work. . . .

Revisiting the past

While browsing the used book shop, I came across an old, old copy of EAGLE OF THE NINTH by Rosemary Sutcliff. I couldn't wait to get it home - I remember reading the book in one big gulp when I was a kid. I was the bookish child who read constantly, so much so that my mother would have to throw me out of the house to get some fresh air. (This changed a bit once horses came into my life, but books ranked right up there with saddles and boots.) Historical fiction was my mainstay, and Rosemary Sutcliff was the queen of that domain. When T.H.White's THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING came out, his book was the only one dealing with the Arthur legend that came anywhere near equalling Miss Sutcliff's mastery of that tale. (I read that one in school, non-stop, holding it under my desk and pretending to study whatever the lesson was in class. Got caught by my history teacher, who checked out TOAFK, handed it back to me, and said "keep reading.")

I didn't realize Miss Sutcliff was crippled by juvenile arthritis until reading a biography recently. Despite her physical handicap, she wrote active, living, breathing, filled-with-life heroes. History came alive in their adventures. Inspiration comes to writers in many forms, and I can say, in all sincerity, that Rosemary Sutcliff was an author who inspired me. One day, I hope to achieve half her skill, style, and power with the written word. I should thank her as well for inspiring me to take Latin in school. Latin saved my fanny when it comes to English grammar.