Halloween 2013 Story

I don't know what happened, but this story disappeared overnight and I didn't realize it. Gremlins, perhaps? Anyway, this is my Gothic story for the year . . .

Stolen

            “Lily’s fat,” Annabeth, Lily’s mother, remarked to Julia, Lily’s grandmother. The conversation never varied much. Lily’s shortcomings graced a good one-half of the mother/daughter conversations that took place when the older women gathered for Saturday coffee. Lily’s weight was the newest topic, a subject they didn’t hide from Lily, who hunched on the back porch and could hear them jabbering through the kitchen window. The fact that her mother and grandmother could eat anything and did, without gaining an ounce, gave Lily scant comfort.

They were right, and Lily knew it. She knew it only too well, because Maridon Strange, who was named after her mother Mary and her father Don, a fact that Lily found absurd, told her that Todd Lucas had invited her to the fall dance.  Lily wanted to strangle the bitch, and Maridon knew it. Maridon told everyone flat out that Lily wasn’t even in the running with Todd, the boy Lily had known and loved all her life, because over the summer Lily had put on the pounds.

She’d bloomed from a gawky, skinny girl into a busty freshman who couldn’t get through a door without bruising her hips. The fact that all her clothes were so tight she literally popped buttons didn’t help.

Papa told her it would be all right, that girls like her were painted by the best Renaissance artists like Reuben and Titian, and that her red hair would have made her the perfect model. That she’d be the one slamming the door in Todd Lucas’ face when he realized what a real woman looked like.

But then, Papa had married Mama, and Mama had never had a fat roll hanging over the back of her brassiere in her life, not even when she was pregnant with Lily. Lily had seen the pictures, and Mama looked like she’d swallowed a pumpkin but the rest of her was normal-sized.

The worst came when she’d looked up Reuben and Titian on the internet and studied the women Papa had been describing. Time to give up, she figured, and hit the donuts with a big glass of whole milk.  Which was what she was doing while Mama and Geemaw added to her humiliation.

She told herself she didn’t care a rat’s ass for Todd Lucas, even if he had kissed her last year after his mama drove them home from the spring hop. He was already a freshman in high school while she was still in eighth grade, but he’d promised her when they were ten and eleven that he’d escort her to every dance she wanted to go to, after she’d told him she had nightmares about being the only girl in school who never got asked to a dance.

Todd had been like that his whole life, thinking of others, especially her. They never had a falling- out until he got a car. He’d turned sixteen just before school started, and his daddy had bought him a gorgeous ‘68 Camaro, dark green, already restored. Mama said it was because Todd’s father had always wanted a car like that, and he was just living his youth all over again through Todd, but Lily didn’t care. She’d wanted so much to go to the first dance of her freshman year with Todd driving that cool car.

Wasn’t going to happen, so she may as well get on with what was left of her sad, pathetic, hopeless life. She knew exactly how it would proceed down the lonely roads of the hills of western Virginia. She’d start jerking her red hair back in a scrunchy, wear sweatshirts with Virginia Tech logos she’d buy in the thrift store, and her jeans would get tighter every year. If she was lucky, she’d land a job at Wally World, drive a dirty white Corolla with a hundred dings and scrapes from its twenty years on this earth, and buy frilly polyester dresses for her stupid little dog who weighed all of five pounds.

Cramming in the last bite of donut, Lily decided she’d had enough of feeling sorry for herself. Scooping up the donut crumbs from the front of her T-shirt, Lily licked her fingers. This was going to be her last donut for the rest of her life. Until she could wear her clothes, at least.

She stood on the porch and studied her options. Papa was working on the tractor, Mama and Geemaw were still yammering away, but at least they’d moved on from her as the victim of their conversation. Her homework had been done for hours, and she still had the rest of the weekend to fill with something. She didn’t have a cell phone because the hills blocked any signal, and the computer was for Papa’s business, so she was only allowed to use it for homework, and besides, it was so slow it was impossible to play any games.

Then she thought of how she’d spent hours when she was little, building a fairy world out in the woods. With plenty of ferns and pinecones, she’d play for hours, making up stories for the little people she conjured from bark and twigs and some scraps from mama’s quilting leftovers. As long ago as it had been, the idea of just pretending pulled her like a jelly donut singing her name from the box. Even if she was fifteen.

The woods were just as dense as ever. Papa refused to sell their timber rights, even though they had some huge old hardwoods that would fetch a small fortune. Mama argued until she ran out of words that they should sell, but Papa said trees were all that kept the air clean, and he wasn’t going to choke to death on car fumes if he could help it.  Lily was on Papa’s side, but mostly because she couldn’t imagine looking out any window in their house without a view of the trees. Change was not her forte’ and she knew it.

Racing for the forest, she was grateful she didn’t split a seam in her jeans. They were tight enough to squeeze the stuffing out of her, but Mama refused to buy her any new clothes until she started to lose weight.  Without thinking, Lily kicked off her shoes, unzipped the old denims and shucked them off.  Reaching under her T-shirt, she unhooked her bra and slid it down her sleeve by the straps. Finally, she could breathe unfettered. Flopping on the forest floor, soft with pine tags and leaves just starting to fall, she stared at the blue sky peeking through the tree branches. If she didn’t blink and didn’t try to focus on any one thing, the air shimmered with motes of dust that sparkled as if the fairies were tossing silver confetti from the very tops of the oaks. She pulled into her mind the pictures of the fairies she’d concocted when she was a kid and let her imagination run with it.

Sure beat sitting around getting criticized.  So far she’d held back the tears, but now, they fell faster than she could wipe them from her cheeks. Todd would never look at her again, her Mama and Geemaw thought she was ugly, and her future held nothing but sorrow and disappointment. Weeping bitterly, Lily cried herself to sleep.

The dream was vivid and wonderful and sad all at the same time. Todd and she were married, living in a trailer behind her parents’ house.  It was a nice one with no rust and had air conditioning and everything. Todd still had that Camaro, and she’d wait on the front stoop for its rumble every evening when he came home from work.  Their two little boys fidgeted beside her, anxious for daddy to jump up the steps two at a time and scoop them up for a hug. When she looked at her legs, one foot tapping impatiently for his return, she felt the same clenching in her stomach she’d felt forever when she knew he was near. Her one true love was coming home, to her and to their boys. All was right with the world.

She popped inside the trailer to check on the crock pot dinner simmering away. Catching a glimpse of herself in the window glass, she saw that she was as thin as her mother. Nothing pinched, nothing wobbled. In fact, she was downright skinny. Too skinny. Chasing after two kids under the age of four must have run every ounce of fat off her, she mused as she corralled the boys into their chairs. They were hungry, Todd was late, so she may as well feed them before they got too cranky to go to bed without dire threats.

“Where’s daddy?” Her eldest, Will, had a tendency to whine. She’d have to get that under control sooner rather than later.

“He’s running a little late, is all. Come on, let’s eat. Dinner’s ready.” She spooned up the pot roast and potatoes, making sure everyone got the same number of carrots, or she’d never hear the end of it.

“Daddy’s going to learn me to drive when he gets home.” Her baby, Danny, loved to sit on Todd’s lap as he circled the yard in the Camaro, letting Danny’s hands rest on the steering wheel.

“Not if it gets too dark,” she warned, glad she had boys and not girls. Girls had it so much harder.

The children picked at their food, eventually swallowing enough she wouldn’t feel guilty for putting them in their bath early.  She kept glancing at the phone on the kitchen wall, but no one called. Not Todd, not the state police. She was glad for that, but it wasn’t like Todd to not let her know if he was running late. Picking up the phone, she punched in the number for her parents, wondering if they’d heard of any accidents on the interstate that could have kept Todd snarled in traffic. I-81 was notorious for jackknifed trucks.

No one picked up. Strange, she thought, then realized it wasn’t so strange. Her parents regularly fell asleep in front of the evening news or Wheel of Fortune. She hung up.

The children fell asleep after only two Dr. Seuss books tonight. She almost wished she’d kept them up, so she’d have someone to talk with.  She couldn’t take off and leave them, not with her parents comatose after seven p.m., but she really needed to find her husband. He was never this thoughtless, not since her freshman year in high school when he’d taken another girl to the fall dance.  He’d come to his senses, of course. They’d been born to be together.

Dread built in her by the minute, until it was an avalanche she was helpless to stop.

The sound of the dinner bell wakened her. Only it wasn’t a bell, it was more like a siren, a screaming wail that stabbed through the muddle in her brain like ice picks.  Trying to put her hands over her ears, she found she couldn’t move her arms. Every inch of her was bound like a mummy. Her throat flamed with pain, her eyes felt glued together.

“Lily! Lily! We found you! Hold on, honey!”

She thought she heard her father’s voice. Papa. Why was he yelling? Where was Todd? Had something happened? Remembering Will and Danny, she tried to sit up to check on them. Maybe the trailer was on fire, but she couldn’t smell smoke. And she couldn’t move.

A strip of light fell across her face. Total darkness lay thick around her. Impossible.  She left a night light on for the kids so they could find her if they stumbled out of bed with bad dreams. Attempting another call to the boys, she found her throat hurt so much she wanted to scream, but couldn’t. What the hell was happening?

The heat of the light on her face grow stronger. Her eyes ached with the effort, but she forced a peek. Above her bloomed cracks of light, as if they were being filtered. A tree? No. Boards. Boards laid side by side with small cracks between them through which she saw the light.

“Papa?” she croaked, the effort astounding her. She tried again. “Papa?”

Sounds like feet running above her. Shattering wood. Men yelling. More sirens, for that was clearly the source of the wailing noise. The trailer must have been hit by a tornado, she reasoned when she was able to calm the pain in her head.

Then hands were lifting her, cutting away what bound her arms to her sides and strangled her throat. Through the many hands she saw her father’s face, then her mother’s, but not Todd. Not her boys. What had happened? Were they okay? She wanted to ask, but her parents were crying too hard. The men in uniform that surrounded them were still yelling at each other, darting out of her line of vision one by one, and she knew they wouldn’t be able to hear her, anyway.

“It’s okay, baby girl, it’s okay. We’ve got you. He can’t hurt you anymore.”  Papa said the words over and over. “As soon as I found your clothes in the woods, I called the police. We’ve been searching for you day and night, honey. You’re safe. It’s all going to be fine, just you wait and see. I’m just so sorry it’s taken this long.”

What was he talking about? Her mother was sobbing so hard all she could do was pat Lily’s face with both hands and rain tears on her.

“Ma’am, we need to get her to the hospital. Please, ma’am.”

Lily watched her mother collapse in a heap in Papa’s arms. What on earth had happened? Why was no one telling her where the boys and Todd were?

“Can I ride with her?”  Papa was holding her hand, even though it hurt. The medics, Lily assumed, were her lifting her onto something stiff.

“Okay,” the medic mumbled, “but stay out of our way.”

Lily sank into all-consuming hurt and pain as they carried her into the ambulance, her mind screaming for answers no one thought to give her. A policeman got into the ambulance with her father, and began asking her questions. She didn’t give a damn about what he wanted to know, could she identify the man, how had he hurt her, did she know his name.

“Todd,” she croaked. “My kids?”

“Damn that boy. I knew he was behind this,” her father burst out. “Let me out of here, I’m going to find the son of a bitch and kill him.”

“I’m going to have to arrest you if you say that again,” Lily heard the policeman admonish her father. “Now sit down and let these folks do their job.”

Lily tried to shout over them, to ask about her children, but it had taken all she had to ask where Todd was. As the medics poked and prodded her and hooked her up to machines, she drifted off into a troubled sleep where she tried to find her family, running from one end of their property to the other, through her parents’ house, the barns, the surrounding forest, and found no one at all. Just an ominous stillness, devoid of bird calls or the rustling of moles underfoot.

 

“She’s suffering from dehydration and starvation, of course, and there’s evidence of  abuse and torture. That said, she’s in remarkable shape. Lily’s a fighter, that’s why she’s still alive.”  The doctor stared at Lily, lying in the hospital bed, as he spoke to her parents.

“The issue is mental. The physical will heal. But wherever she went mentally when she was abducted, and during what happened later, is a deep, dark place. I don’t know if she’ll come up for air, but that’s not my bailiwick.”

“You mean she might stay like this? Not saying a word?”  Lily’s mother clutched her husband’s hand until her knuckles whitened.

“I mean, it’s a process. Give it time. She saved herself by going where she was safe. We just don’t know where that is and if she’s ready to leave there. There’ve been studies. . . .”

“Will the one name she said when we found her be used in court? Will that bastard Todd Lucas go to prison? That’s what I want to know.”  Lily’s Papa could barely say the name of the man he knew had kidnapped and abused his only daughter.

“I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Slater. I have no idea. I’m only concerned with Lily’s recovery.” The doctor made it sound as if he doubted Lily would ever come out of the place in her mind she’d gone to hide.

Lily didn’t hear them. She was busy getting Todd’s lunch and the children their breakfast.  Todd had gotten home at midnight, explaining a logging truck had overturned and the highway was frozen going both ways. “You need to get a cell so you can call me,” she complained. “At least when things like that happen.”

“I will, honey, I promise. Soon as we can afford it.” Kissing her on the cheek, he took the lunch bag from her hands and gave her a playful pat on the fanny. “Any way you look at it, hon, we’re wealthy. We’ve got each other.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

Ugly Pajamas

After a careful analysis, I have come to the conclusion that I have ugly pajamas.  Just this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in my gray striped Nautica nightwear, and it wasn't pretty. I looked like a convict.  Studying my nightie drawer, I gave the contents an objective grade. Failure.

My Ralph Lauren number is even sadder. The print looks like a Victorian grandmother. And the T-shirts ( General Custer, Soft Kitty, and something so faded I've forgotten what it says) don't help the situation. My flannel set looks pretty tragic, too.

I remember the days when I bought matching Barbizon nightgowns and peignoirs. Embroidered, bowed, rosetted, and cute as a button, I wore the tar out of them. Then I tried to buy some more, and discovered I was outta luck. The Barbizons still on the racks were designed for older ladies and definitely not the wonderful soft cottons I'd grown to love. Polyester only, or a blend thereof.

My only requirement for sleepwear has always been cotton. Can't stand to sleep in anything else. Hence my current array of ugly pajamas. At least they're all cotton.

How I wish I had my old Barbizons. At least my Beloved doesn't give a fig.

Believe in Me

A friend sent a link to a Barnard Poetry Slam in which a young woman condemns her mother and how her family raised her. In short, her mother dieted ferociously, taught her daughter to eat like her and keep her mouth shut. The brother spoke his mind without filters and ate whatever he wanted, just like their dad. The daughter felt like a maimed second class woman.

I found it infinitely sad. I don't remember my mom ever dieting, except she said she once gained five pounds and lost them when she cut out her Coke every afternoon. I was too young to notice or care. Quite honestly, my mother's weight never entered into how I saw her, or myself. I was more than lucky. My parents raised me to believe in the power of hard work, intellect, education, and myself. So what if I was a girl - if I wanted to do it, I was encouraged to try, whatever it was. I once built, when I was about eight, a race cart for which I carved wooden wheels from scraps of lumber. All by hand. My downfall was the broom handles I used for axles. Lesson learned. The integrity of the material matters. No one said, "girls can't build a race cart by themselves." I was given free rein in the shed and any tools I could handle myself.

Once, on a rare visit to the Georgia grandparents, I said I wished I could learn to paint. My grandfather drove me right then and there to the art supply shop, where he bought me a full set to get going, along with books that I could use to teach myself. I was never very good, but I learned basic lessons about perspective, light and shadow.

To everyone who supported, encouraged, and gave me a push, my eternal thanks. How I wish all young girls grew up with the backup to get where they want to go. And to hell with diets.

The Seventies and Rush

We saw RUSH last night, and I loved it. Ron Howard can do no wrong in my book. I notice he loves to direct stories about people - their lives, their eras, their way of fitting in. A BEAUTIFUL MIND delved into the same kind of personal story as RUSH - a man with demons. For those not interested in racing, RUSH is about the James Hunt/ Nicki Lauda race for the Formula 1 championship in 1976. I'm sure there's a bit (and probably more) of Hollywood manipulation to make the story more cohesive, but I don't care.

The relationship between the two men is delineated clearly in the scene in the airport hangar where Lauda and Hunt talk for the first time, without ego and with brutal honesty, about their different philosophies of life. In many ways, this is Lauda's story, and he is, after all, still alive to consult with the scriptwriter.  His is the more compelling story, mainly because he's maimed in a fiery wreck, and also because no one really liked him. Hunt is the bon vivant, the Lothario with devastating good looks, who can sway a drivers' meeting to race in a dangerous rainstorm on a terrible track where Lauda almost dies.

I remember those early-mid-seventies vividly. I graduated from law school in 1976. Excesses were popular for those who could afford them, monetarily and professionally. It wasn't uncommon for lawyers to partake of illegal substances at office Christmas parties. (Not me, just to be clear!) I won't go into the prevalence of sexual peccadilloes. All in all, for those of us on the straight and narrow, we felt pretty much out of the mainstream. Thus identifying with Lauda's work ethic and downright puritanism is easy for me. It's not easy being a fish out of water when it seems all the other guppies are having a damned good time. That's Lauda's cross to bear and he never complains about it.

Now, I'm of an age where I don't care what's going on around me in society. I do my own thing without worrying about how it looks or what anyone else is doing.  My books are reflecting this freedom. I'm writing with a new ease, a certainty that what amuses me will amuse someone else, and if not, well, them's the breaks.  No fiery crashes for me, and I'm having a good time.

The straight and narrow can be a hell of a lot of fun.

Violence

Okay, so I must confess: my HOMELAND marathon gave me nightmares. Just awful. I'm not one to worry about dreams, but this gave me pause and forced me to consider the rising level of violence in our entertainment.

By that, I mean myself, as well. I'm not one to shy away from a bit of blood and gore in a good mystery or western. However, I'm rethinking my stance. I've always said that if the story needs it, then the story gets it. Yeah but . . .

Television long ago crossed societal boundaries on sexual content, and it's becoming clear to me that the violence level was left in the dust without my noticing its departure. I couldn't watch WALKING DEAD the first season because of the constant bombardment of guts and brains. Or what was left of them. Don't get me started on BONES. Peeling faces from  skulls? Really? And now HL. Great writing and acting aren't enough, I fear, to get myself past the bullets and torture. I'm wimping out in my old age.

I now understand the attraction of the Jessica Mitford books. Personally, I find them very slow and not terribly interesting,  but I can see how they're a respite, a shift back to a simpler time, a gentler people. Why has Jane Austen  persevered with constant popularity? Her witty repartee, her droll take on stuffy characters, a lancet-like dissection of the manners of her time, still sparkle. And there's nary a drop of blood on any page.

There's a book, a movie, a TV show for every taste level and sensitivity. Mine has shifted, and I'm staying away from the bloody, the ugly, the sick and twisted.  I need a good night's sleep.

Never stop learning. . .

I can't believe I missed HOMELAND until now. Purely by accident, I switched on the telly during a HL marathon, and that was it. I was hooked. Incredible writing, turns and twists I never saw coming, and incredible acting. Claire Danes can act circles around anyone in the business, and Damien Lewis has always been a fav. One show I never missed was LIFE, and he was spectacular in it. They use a ton of tight shots, lighting is moody and effective, and the characters so complex I'm in awe.

I heard a songwriter say that Springfield's JESSE'S GIRL is the perfect pop song, and anyone wanting to learn to write one, should study that one song thoroughly. Same with HOMELAND. Anyone who cares about goals, motivation and conflict can learn a ton of lessons from it. Up the ante, make it worse, and I mean really, really bad, then throw in some more problems, and you can't imagine how they're going to write the end. I sure don't see how, and usually, I can foresee the next move. I'm going to take notes, believe me.

A writer should never stop studying other creative works, whether of art, music, drama, or literature. It's easier to see what others do and how they do it if you're keeping yourself open to learning from them. I imagine whole stories in paintings, pick up tag lines that are entire novels (I wish that I had Jesse's girl. Where can I find a woman like that?), and add depth to a scene that follows the emotional arc of a song. (Sting's "Desert Rose.") I'm never one to turn down writing help, wherever it arises.



 

Time Out

Early morning at the beach. Is there anything better? Well, maybe early Christmas morning with little rug rats racing down stairs, but it's close. Just thought I'd take time out to sigh wistfully and remember last week's quick break at North Beach Plantation.

I've been thinking about defending one's chosen genre. As writers, we get pigeon-holed regularly. I still remember being shocked when a David Morrell I picked up, Brotherhood of the Rose, wasn't a western. The title should have given me a clue, LOL, but I was just sure he was a western writer because of a superb one I'd read by him. My days as a western writer are pretty much closed (though I still have one I want to write), and I remember feeling as if I were a member of a dying, obsolete breed when I told people what I published. Western readers are still out there, but their pickins' are slim and mostly reprints of old stuff. People act as if I'm an old fogey for having written westerns.

Romance authors get their hackles up on a regular basis, with good reason. Those who don't read them sneer, with a look of disdain, if they find out you write them. So they're over 50% of the market? They're not real books right, just all that bodice-ripping rot.  Makes me want to whack people over the head when I get that superior attitude. Romances have dross and gold, just as in any other genre. The golden ones are absolutely superb. I have several on my keeper shelf (Laura Kinsale's books will have to be pried from my cold, dead hands).

Whether you write vampires, werewolves, punk, urban, scifi, horror, romance, or any other genre, you should never have to defend your chosen line of work. There're readers for them all, and many of them are discriminating and well educated. Some read them just for fun, for a quick escape into another world, and some just want to read a good, well-written story.

As they say on the warning signs to alert you to slow down for workers when a highway is being fixed, " Give 'em a break."

Barbara Kingsolver Flop

No, not a bad dive, though FLIGHT BEHAVIOR feels like a belly flop. I never thought I'd actively dislike a Kingsolver book, but this one took me into that hitherto unknown territory. Yes, the writing is top notch. I could even tolerate the ecological polemics. But I couldn't stand the heroine, Dellarobia Turnbow. The book opens with her trekking up a mountain to commit adultery with the telephone guy. She doesn't, but she sure wants to. And she doesn't get much better.

I just couldn't see that this woman, a high school grad of a terrible education system, really cares all that much about her husband ending his sentences with a preposition. Ninety per cent of Americans do it, and I can't buy the notion that it upsets a woman born and raised in the hills of Tennessee.  All she does is bitch,  bitch, bitch and then bitch some more. Sure, she has a smart mouth, but who cares? I found her to be ungrateful and whiny. She cares more for some displaced butterflies than she does her husband. I'm sorry I wasted my time.

My beach reading pile has Donna Tartt's book from 2004 (?) up next. I'm praying it's better than the Kingsolver bomb. Won't take much to get there.

More books and a movie

Just finished reading Sonia Sotomayor's MY BELOVED WORLD. What an extraordinary woman she is, and unflinchingly honest, too. If ever there were an argument on behalf of affirmative action, she's it. Given a chance, she ran with it, and it's all to her credit that she is such a success story and inspiration for all minorities, and for women everywhere, who aspire to follow a passion. Though she's very smart, it took Princeton to teach her how to learn for the rest of her life. I was surprised at how she condemned her Catholic school experience for being rote memorization (isn't that the norm for all school children in a state with standardized exams per grade?).  Learning to analyze and critique were skills she learned only in college. Yet her HS debate experience provided her with confidence in her ability to speak publicly and argue on her feet, so she got something out of it.

She's a woman of unqualified optimism, unflinching honesty, and I'm so glad someone like her is sitting on the Supremes. Long may she last in that grueling job!

I'm on a kick to re-read books I've hung onto for longer than a year, and Barbara Kingsolver's PRODIGAL SUMMER falls into that category. I love how the story is a perfect circle, with intertwined lives and themes. 

We managed to get in one movie this past weekend, and it was a winner. THE WAY WAY BACK is so worth your time and money, even if its title refers to the jump seat in an old station wagon. Sam Rockwell is wonderful as a mentor who quickly discerns a young boy's need for a father figure, and Allison Janney steals the opening scene. Funny, sad, and very different from the usual summer film fare, this is a movie you'll think about or days. Put it on your list.

Paris 1969

I recently found these black and white pictures while rummaging through a drawer that is in dire need of cleaning out. I didn't know I had them, to be honest. My dad must have taken them with his Leica. They brought back a hot August spent in France and England (also unbelievably hot), the month that the USA went to the moon. My dad tried desperately to get orders for the States that would have us home in time to see the grand event, but the Army wasn't having any of it. So we missed out on history, but in a way, I'm not sorry. 

I remember Paris was deserted in August, the Louvre uncrowded, the Jeu de Pommes wonderful, and my French got a workout. My dad expected me to translate simultaneously, a feat I'd never had to try before. I finally had to make up my own phrasing, because I sure couldn't keep up with his English and translate literally. I informed him I wasn't his Army translator, but that argument didn't fly. If he'd wanted me to translate into Latin, it wouldn't have fazed him a bit. He'd have expected it. After all, I'd studied Latin and French, hadn't I?

England was London, with its plays (I remember being swept away by the awesome theaters) and Stratford-on-Avon and the Royal Shakespeare production of Taming of the Shrew, one of my favs. All my jewelry was stolen from our hotel room, too. The only thing I really missed was my charm bracelet, with a token from every place I'd ever visited or lived.

Books that hold up well

I was fortunate to be a round-one judge in the ITW contest for best novel, etc., a while back. One of the paperbacks I received was COLD DARK MATTER by Alex Brett, a Canadian novelist. I liked the book very much, and recently having found it again, had a re-read. It held up well the second time around, and having visited the Mauna Kea observatory years ago, it brought back memories of a fun time. And a cold one. Who knew it could get freezing in Hawaii! Anyway, the mystery involved the Cold War, astrophysics, and Hawaii, all fascinating. I'm going to hold on to this pb a while longer, I do believe.

FALLING WOMAN by Pat Murphy is another book I can't excess from the shelves. Winner of the Hugo years ago, it's a fascinating time jumper (Mayan to present day), filled with a story so original, I re-read it periodically.

ARABELLA by Georgette Heyer never fails to make me lose myself in Regency England and the details of a character both classic and stunningly original. For sheer writing ability, Miss Heyer is one to study, and I always feel as if I'm a mere mortal at the feet of a writing master.

None of these three books are terribly popular, or even well-known today. But I keep them where I can find them whenever I need to read a good, well-written story with original characters. I'll add to my list later when I've had a chance to do some more re-reads.

August already?

My Beloved had a birthday and my youngest served as maid of honor at her best friend's wedding. Normal, ordinary events that meant so much more than they should, just because we were able to celebrate as a family. It's amazing how exhausting that kind of celebration can be when you've been focused on something else. At the same time, we're filled with gratitude that all of us were there, for both events.

My dad's estate is finally wound up (OMG what a nightmare), the hot tub is finally working, and the yard looks incredibly great considering the general neglect. All this rain has helped the new plantings and grass, hence, we don't have our normally parched yard littered with brown leaves and brown patch. Some stuff is working out well!

We made a dash to Farm to Family market to stock up on peaches, melons ( snow leopard honeydew anyone?), and cucs. While there, we went kinda wild and grabbed blackberries, eggs, trout fillets, and red onions as well. The eggplants were irresistible, too. We've already made inroads on the huge Hanover tomato, so my bet is that it's gone  by lunch tomorrow.

My Beloved and I watched The Help last night. I was very affected. When my brother was a baby, a woman named Missouri would be our nanny when our mother had things to do. I found pictures of my mother as a baby, in the arms of a beautifully uniformed black woman. I suppose it was just a part of being Southern that, as a child, you never question such arrangements. Since we went overseas after that, there were no more nannies for us.

Thank goodness. I would feel even guiltier.

Still here

I find it hard to believe this summer is winding down. We've been in a wilderness place, but it's getting less dense and a bit of sunlight is cutting through the darkness. We're grateful for each ray.

It's amazing how a mind can fixate on the strangest thing when you're tired. I must have spent twenty minutes staring at the brickwork on our house yesterday. Some were coated with black bubbles, others had circles of red surrounded by the dark char, and then there were the ones that looked sun-baked and glazed. I remembered how bricks were made in Colonial times, stacked in alternating rows with a big oak fire to bake them. The bricks on the ends of the rows took on the sooty darkness of the fire, creating the bricks used in the blackened patterned style used in the Flemish bond pattern. Useless knowledge, I know, but it came back to me as I studied our carelessly fired bricks with no pattern, no style.

I like order, precision, and a plan. I don't know how others finish writing a book without an outline of some sort. If I tried that, the work, if I finished at all, would look like the bricks on our house. Not something I want my name to adorn.

Taking a break. .

Sometimes life jags when you thought it was a straight line. Being a linear kinda gal, I find jags in life can be exhilirating or train wrecks. This one, an ongoing jag that's taken life off the beaten path into unknown territory, has taught me a ton about my own limits, physical and mental...

That's a positive spin on things, and I'm going to leave it at that. If  I'm not around, as has been happening over the past seven weeks or so, don't worry. It's all good. I'll be back..

Father's Day

Normally, I tend to think about my dad when this weekend rolls around. He taught me a lot, supported me unconditionally, and probably spent many a sleepless night worrying about his children. On the good side, none of us are in prison, junkies, or basically on the downward slide of life. We're pretty upstanding citizens, in stable relationships, pay our taxes, and keep our noses clean. All in all, he and my mom gave us a happy childhood and a future. We were lucky beyond belief to have them.

This Father's Day, I'm sending out lots of love to my Beloved, who is as good a father as mine was. My Beloved often thanks his departed father for something he was taught in childhood, and remembers his upbringing with gratitude and some wincing at what a pain in the patooty he was as a teenager. He and his brother were as fortunate in their parents as I was. My Beloved shows every day that he learned the fatherhood game from a master. Our girls are very, very special to him, as he is to them.

I wish everyone had as great a father.

Photo Albums

Recently, we were flipping through some old photo albums, having a great time reliving the Galapagos trip, Christmases past, and funny birthday parties. Then it struck me - since the advent of really cool digital cameras, I haven't put together a single photo album. All my pix are on either my camera, or my hard drive. This is not a good thing, since I have been known to lose one and crash the other.

For a while, I printed copies from my hard drive, but the quality never thrilled me. Even with more advanced printer quality, I just couldn't get around to making the copies that I should. We're talking years here. If I don't get going, the task will be too daunting.

How I wish I could go back to an old-fashioned camera and 24 developing. Even with at least 50% of the prints going straight into the trash, I had a record of of our lives. Now I have "devices."

Memorial Day

When I was a child, my mother would buy us red paper poppies to pin on our collars for Veteran's Day. I didn't learn until I was much older that the tradition came from the British in the aftermath of WW I. I had no idea what the poppies symbolized, but I loved their papery crinkliness and the bright color. And because I come from a line of military men, I was aware that honoring our veterans was important.

Today, when I visit Arlington and the graves of my grandfather, father, and uncle, killed in Korea, I never fail to get a lump in my throat when I see the rows upon rows of white headstones. My brother and I considered buying a larger headstone for our relatives, something fancy like those marking the graves of those whose families have eschewed simple white marble. Bu ultimately, we stuck with army-issue, simple and plain. If they're good enough for those thousands upon thousands of men who fought and died for their country, they're good enough for our family.

From our family plots, I can see the new sections, opened to take in the dead from all the wars in the Middle East. The lump in my throat disappears as I cry, openly. Arlington is both a beautiful and terrible place.

I can't believe it's done!

Yes, the grand back yard renovation is finally finished. I want to add about a hundred exclamation points, but I restrained myself. Barely. I love it. Evan Froelich of Fernhill Landscaping did a wonderful job, and next year, I've already told him to start planning the front yard renovation.  What I love is that there's room for growth, everything will have color or scent throughout the year, and the birds are flocking to our new cherry laurels and hollies. In fact, it's a regular chorus of cardinals, bluebirds, chickadees, mockingbirds, robins, and woodpeckers. When I take the dogs out at night, the air is scented and just plain heavenly.

The grand bridal shower is tomorrow (for the best friend of my younger daughter), and I'll try to post pictures.  For now, here are a few of the finished product.

This is what we're doing. . .

Evan and Matt wrestling a holly by the shed

Shawn digging holes for the cherry laurels

Matt, my Beloved, and Evan with holly in a hole.

Now you can see how my life is being consumed by the new landscaping. I'm busy moving azaleas that don't fit the color scheme into other spots in the front yard, still tearing up liriope and periwinkle (I will never, never, NEVER plant that stuff again!), and buying more plants. This is a lot of bare earth, and I'm feeling like it'll never look un-naked. I know this is silly, but I can't control the urge to pick up a few more azaleas, some peiris (Dorothy Wycoffs), and whatever looks good at the moment. which is a lot of stuff.  I'm lucky I have the room for it all! Next week, the perennials and rock garden should come together, then the mulch. Oh, and the maple tree will be set where the hickory once grew. It fell victim to a twisting wind that turned its top into match sticks. This whole yard renovation will give us joy for years to come. 

 

I have many excuses

for not posting more regularly. The biggie - it's Spring! And that means yard and garden, of course. I decided this was the year to rip out all the 25 year old plantings and start over. Little did I know what this would involve, but believe me when I tell you, 36 hours in labor having a baby was easier. At least it was over in 36 hours and then I had a darling little girl. So far, I have weeks of digging out periwinkle and lirope, old azaleas and bushes that had gotten too big for their britches, and heaven knows what else that I'd forgotten I ever stuck in the ground. You know those plants - the ones where you say, "well, if it makes it okay, if not, okay, too." They made it. Day lilies had multiplied past the point of being cute, and the daffodils that didn't bloom this year were all excavated. Here's a pix of the back bed, all cleaned out. Well, almost cleaned out. Four azaleas can stay until they've bloomed, then they're outta here. It's a LOT bigger than it looks in the photo.

I have a wonderful landscaper who came up with beautiful plans for a whole new look to the back yard beds, and it's slowly coming to life. Evan of Fernhill Va has done the legwork finding the new beauties and the creative planning part, and now, I get to sit back and watch the yard come alive, again.

I can't wait.