Making the most of my time

I’m a sometimes writer, a constant reader, a wannabe artist. I’m always a mother and wife and friend and bargain hunter. I find time for the things that are important to me, such as visiting my kids, walking with my husband, taking the occasional nap, and zumba-ing to a pounding Latin beat. I never miss a meal.

Imagine my delight when I can combine my interests. Friends and food = delight. Friends and food and art classes = even better.

Yes, I’ve found the perfect venue for drawing—in my house, among friends. A local art teacher suggested group classes, and I lassoed a small herd of other wannabes like me. The five of us sit, draw, and chat. Follow that up with lunch, and I’m oh-so-grateful for a husband who can provide for me.

And he does it so well.

It’s a good thing. For whatever reason, I wasn’t the kind who could stick with one job forever. Maybe I just never learned how to play well with others. I’d rather think my interests are just too varied to tie myself to one thing long-term. I’ve regaled you before with tales of my versatility through the years: typist, mail clerk, bookkeeper, secretary, stenographer, court reporting transcriptionist, tech writer, playground supervisor, medical transcriptionist, freelance writer, ESL teacher, and, when the going got tough, Spanish teacher (after an intense program of self-teaching with a little self-delusion mixed in). Phew! When I exhausted all the fields in which I could get paid, I turned to writing children’s books. I’ve got this crazy idea that someday it’ll pay off, too. Maybe the art classes will help. If I can teach Spanish, anything's possible.

Yes to friends, food, and art classes. If I start singing “I’m sexy and I know it,” maybe I can inspire them to zumba as well. Or not.

Zumba crazy

True to the eclecticism of this blog, my next entry will be an interview with Beck McDowell. She’ll be presenting a workshop at a conference sponsored by Southern Breeze in Atlanta, called Springmingle. A local high school English teacher for many years, Beck is now retired and tackling her next career—with great aplomb, I might add. If you haven’t yet read her YA book THIS IS NOT A DRILL, you should. It’ll keep you on the edge of your seat.

A New Lease on Life

Although I’d lived in sixteen different residences since 1969, September 1978 found me contemplating yet another move. After I hurled the ring at my fiancé, I developed a sudden interest in court reporting—not completely out of the blue, mind you. In a serendipitous sort of way, that same day a newspaper article claimed the need for fast-fingered court reporters. A light bulb turned on; perhaps my 100 words per minute on the Selectric could translate into a higher-paying job. Not putting a whole lot of thought into the actual destination, I moved from Columbus, Ohio to attend a school in Saint Louis, Missouri. Granted, it wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did; my ex-boyfriend’s parents lived there. Obviously, I wasn’t as committed to distancing myself as I should’ve been, having dated the guy for four years and facing a future alone at age 27. The breakup was short-lived. When I returned to Columbus after only six months into a program requiring two years, I enrolled in another college to finish my schooling. Called Bliss, the college all too aptly reflected the saying “Ignorance is bliss.” (I quickly learned that I could ace the Friday spelling tests without actually being there during the week. The headmistress disagreed with  my lackadaisical approach to class attendance, marking me as doomed forever: “You’ll never amount to anything!”) At any rate, discouraged with both the training and the boomerang romance, I broke off both relationships. While I felt lighter from shedding two burdens for the price of one, I also cried myself to sleep more than once.

But breaking up required further action, and I relocated my physical possessions to yet another dwelling. Planning to stay there indefinitely, indefinitely lasted all of three months. It’s a good thing I didn’t sign a lease.

You’d think Columbus would be a mecca for court reporting schools, as the actual capital of Ohio and, therefore, bustling legal arena. Instead, Springfield, an hour away, seemed to house the only decent court reporting school around. I resisted moving until I couldn’t take it anymore. Hey, I commuted for a month; I can’t help it if I have a low threshold for boredom.

One beautiful morning—at least, it started out that way—being stuck behind yet another smoke-belching semi temporarily obliterated my view—I’d decided I’d seen all I-70 had to offer. Besides, historically-speaking, autumn’s blue skies and deliciously pleasant days were numbered. With Ohio’s terminally gray skies and frigid temps rapidly approaching, I needed to navigate my way into an apartment close to campus—and soon. That weekend, I scoured the rental ads, identifying the precious few apartments within my budget. Placing several calls only netted me one concrete connection. Mike—my future landlord?—assured me of several vacancies. Hoping that this trip into Springfield would end the two-hour path I’d been forging, I slid onto the bench seat of my trusty, old station wagon.

An aspiring slumlord if ever there was one, Mike didn’t even attempt to put lipstick on the pig. Was this all I could afford? Dump after dump left me pessimistic.

My lack of interest in buddying up to cockroaches soon struck Mike as a negative. I have to give him credit. While he held little potential as a trusted landlord, he nonetheless had my interest at heart. “Some friends of mine own a Victorian house,” he said. “They’ve been working on it and turned the upstairs into two apartments. I think one of them is available.” I took him up on his offer to introduce me, and we walked there together.

The house loomed ahead of us in all its 1880s glory. Interesting. Unique. A little bit spooky. I worried about drafts. And bugs. And mice.

When Basil came to the door, I thought, “Cute.” When Steve followed, I thought, “I’m renting the place, no matter what.” Tall—well, tall’s in the eyes of the short beholder—dark, and handsome struck a chord. I never noticed Mike’s departure.

Cosmetically speaking, the empty apartment left a little to be desired. Dirt and construction debris littered the floor. After all, the owners were guys in their twenties, not terribly used to tidying up after themselves. But I browbeat them into helping me spruce up the place, and it did clean up nice. No mice. No bugs. A minor plumbing problem that soon got ironed out. No drafts that bothered me. A row of windows in the living room even made the hardwood floors gleam.

And Steve—a carpenter living on a shoestring, apparently untainted by the need for fiscal responsibility—granted me a week’s free rent for helping them clean. When I dug deeper and found that he was also strong, smart, funny, and nice, I realized I couldn’t let a landlord like that get away. Three years later, I married him.

I never did become a court reporter, but I learned the value of a contract. Lease at Suite 101, 806 South Fountain Avenue? Bring it on, baby. Marriage contract?  Between you and me—and, well, there’s Steve—I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

 

Milk an idea for all it's worth!

I just read the disappointing news that Chick-Fil-A refuses to accept unsolicited ideas. While I dislike their chicken recipe and totally disagree with their fundamental philosophy, you’d think that I’d be less than eager to offer creative ideas anyway. But the thing is this: I adore their billboard campaign.

With that in mind, I created a billboard message in my sleep last night based on my son’s recent dream involving cows organizing a “moo d’état”—a Far Side invasion into the deep recessions of his mind. Since lots of folks know that a coup d’état means overthrow, but don’t necessarily know how to spell it, I figured those  uneducated, oft-misspelling cows played right into this. This is how the billboard would play out:

THER HAZ BIN A MOO-DAY-TAH. COWS ROOL. EAT MOR CHIKIN.

Now, is that not brilliant?! Just think of the moolah I could make—well, if unsolicited ideas were accepted, that is. I had even formulated a letter demanding payment; if they didn't pay up, they’d face the moooooo-sic. Of course, I would have signed the letter “Standing on the side of cows” or “Moooooooooove aside, Mad Men,” depending on my mood.

Instead, here I am, my idea rising to the top of the milk bucket like cream, while Chick-Fil-A pushes it aside to go for the skim.

 

Poetry in Motion

Poetry in  motion. That’s the best way to describe Desert Baths. Author Darcy Pattison and illustrator Kathleen Rietz set their poetry in motion with action on the desert.

Bathing takes all forms, few of which require water. But that’s not the case with an Anna’s hummingbird; she bathes with dew drops by sliding her breast feathers down a leaf.  The desert tortoise hopes for rain, but instead often skips bathing since rainfall is scarce on the desert. Some animals scratch and groom; others simply shed their skin. Dueling it out for the most interesting of baths is the scaled quail which uses an ant as a bath mitt and the  western banded gecko whose tongue licks his eyeballs to keep them moist and clear.

Desert Baths includes an educational section called For Creative Minds with six pages of learning activities. A big boon to the usefulness of the book in the classroom, a separate Teaching Activity Guide by Sylvan Dell Publishing provides fifty-two pages of additional information and activities.  

Be sure to get a copy of Desert Baths at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Powells, or your favorite online bookstore. In fact, you can order it from any local store. Online versions for schools are licensed at Sylvan Dell’s website. Also the audio alone (both English and Spanish) can be found at iBookStore.

 

Pattison has struck gold once again with her latest book on nature.

 

 

Must-tell stories

More on vacationing at the beach:

When five Ohio-born women get together in the Deep South, there's bound to be a discussion about bugs. Specifically cockroaches. There's no question as to their presence, but how ubiquitous are they? When Bette found a cockroach in her closet, a big discussion ensued at dinner: how big do they get? Even the waitress chimed in, describing the gigantic palmetto bugs that fly. (They're THIS long, but don't worry; they immediately die if they get inside. Huh?) Nancy was getting particularly grossed out by the possibilities. So when Bette had the opportunity to play a joke on her, she went for it. What should Nancy find when she went to the bathroom? A dead cockroach on the toilet seat, of course! I'm not sure if Nancy thought it died a natural death just sitting there, but she seemed pretty convinced that the cockroaches were now going to attack her while she slept.

But things went from bad to worse in the scaring-ourselves department. Before the night was out, I was unable to open my door to the balcony (which faced the ocean), despite the fact that it was on the second floor and there were no steps leading to it. Several of them had me convinced that an intruder would, no doubt, find his way in to commit mayhem; thus, the knives were put in the freezer. Yes, the freezer. That's so the intruder would have to use his own knives.

Moving into the light of day found us at the beach. By now, all of Arlington, Ohio must know that Kay lost her phone and camera. When we discovered the loss, we seriously backtracked with some heavy-duty beachcombing. In the meantime, a good samaritan found the phone and started calling. The recipients of those phone calls may not have known about Kay's whereabouts, but they quickly learned. At any rate, Kay happened upon the caller who, fortunately, handed over the phone and camera, no questions asked. That may have had a better ending than the incident with the key. I found it in the sand; not knowing what else to do with it, I threw it away from the shoreline amidst protests. Too late, I pictured a lost soul searching the sand, locked out of her house with the magic mirror.

Yes, magic mirror. In the middle of the giggles and the shrieks, we admired ourselves in the magnifying mirror in my bathroom. I stumbled upon its magic when I pulled it away from the wall. I'm not kidding, it took ten years off my life. When I pointed out my discovery to the others, they felt compelled to follow my lead and came away astonished. I made it a practice to check its magic every now and then. After I caught a glimpse of my blurry eyes when I awoke, I stumbled pass the regular mirror to the Magic Mirror and saw only wide-awake youth. Must have been beach magic. There's no other answer.

Those are the stories I'm free to tell. And then there's the rest of the story.

Friends, family, vacations . . . oh, my!

I’ve traveled here, there, and everywhere over the past month. The first part of the month found my husband and me in western NC to build a ladder-backchair (husband) and learn how to draw (myself).

Next was a short visit to my son in Norfolk since we were halfway there—happy to see him in his new place; sad not to hug him. I had a fierce cold that I’d picked up in NC—fortunately, not until Friday evening AFTER our fun week there. (I know the exact time when it happened. I laid my head down on my pillow to go to sleep and glanced at the clock . . . BAM! At exactly 10:30 p.m., the itchy sore throat set in!)

Nathan had a hand in designing the building in the background, the MacArthur Center.

When we returned home, I spent a few days recuperating before I hit the road for Birmingham and WIK12 (Writing and Illustrating for Kids). Spending hours with Donna Jo Napoli inspired me; walking with Leila Sales, associate editor at Viking Children’s Books, delighted me; and chatting with Julie Ham, associate editor at Charlesbridge, and joining her for a written critique left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Finally, the workshop with Marietta Zacker, agent for Nancy Galt Literary Agency, left me in stitches. (Many thanks to my delightful host, Joan Broerman, for her hospitality and to Peggie Hulebak for keeping me company throughout the day.)

Leaving the conference before the wrap-up party, I sped home to get ready for a few days at Gulf Shores. When the Pacifica pulled in, loaded to the gills with suitcases and women, I was ecstatic. After hugging Nancy Alexander, Bette Richard, Kay Sidle, and Janie Jarvis, I shepherded then inside, demanding everything that had been said in the previous nine hours. From that point on, we talked incessantly: at my house, in the car, on the porch facing the ocean, on the sand, poolside, at the restaurants, inside the luxurious five-bedroom place. You name it, and we talked about it. One would think we’d tire out, but lively conversation continued on the trip home. Of course, one of our topics included when and where to meet up next. Since they all have family nearby and I’m the odd woman out, I have to take into consideration chunks of time to visit my kids. At any rate and lots of giggles later, we returned home very happy to have gotten this chance to spend time together.

People envied us our youth and our fun, or, at least, that’s what we claimed when people started staring at us at Bahama Bob’s. It surely had nothing to do with a certain someone drinking—okay, I confess, it was I—one Long Island Tea, precipitating lots of giggles on my part, which infected the others. (But was it really necessary for the one truly-old geezer to turn his chair around to watch us? And why didn’t anyone ask about our lookalike tee-shirts? Is this normal behavior for the Gulf?)

At the risk of sounding sappy, we really are five forever friends. Having known each other since elementary school, the fact that we’ve taken the time to become reacquainted has been such a blessing. We all look forward to our next big adventure together. Wanna join us?

Only seriously silly women need apply.

Voted best, most unusual vacation ever!

Nestled in the hills of western North Carolina lays an inviting workshop. Run by Drew Langsner, Country Workshops offers periodic how-to sessions in a remote, idyllic setting. Last week, my husband started with this:



And ended with this:

 


 


Steve will weave the seat soon.

 

Drew’s wife, Louise Langsner, works the garden, and, boy, are we glad she does! This lady really knows her way around a bean! With hearty soups, fresh eggs, homemade breads, and other luscious treats, we ate exceedingly well. I'm sure all of us wanted our own Louise.

While Steve did his thing in Drew’s workshop with two other not-afraid-to-work apprentices, Jim and Dan, I hiked past the cows to the neighbor’s studio to learn how to draw from marvelous artist Nancy Darrell. Before I took art lessons, the best face I could draw was this:

 

Afterwards, I managed this:

Not bad for either of us, huh?

I plan to write more about Country Workshops. Any suggestions on where to submit?