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?

Reading beyond your comfort zone

I’m a big fan of children’s stories. Funny picture books? Oh, yeah. Middle grade fun and adventures? Lovely. Teen angst, romance, and struggles? Definitely! But fantasy of any persuasion? No way!

As a reviewer for childrenslit.com, I receive five books every few weeks and I don’t get to choose which ones. In other words, I’ve been forced to expand my horizon. And that’s a good thing. Strictly a fiction reader in my previous life, I now read nonfiction and biographies as well; as a result, I’ve discovered some pretty interesting facts about people, places, and animals. I’ve also developed a better appreciation of historical fiction. Of course, not all of the books deserve good reviews, and I’ve had to grit my teeth to get through some of them.

To tell you the truth, I had low hopes for my recent shipment. Regardless of my newfound appreciation of books I wouldn’t normally read, did I really want to review two dystopian novels and a book about warring angels? Really? The mere idea made me groan, and I resisted reading them as long as possible.

And then I re-discovered the joys of reading great writing, no matter what genre. All three of the previously frowned-upon collection of unusual-for-me reads struck a chord. But the one that sliced me to the quick with its angel sword was Angelfall by Susan Ee. Ee had me perched on the edge of my seat with room for my wings to expand, hoping to save the day if Penryn couldn’t. Believe me, the mere mortal has her work cut out for her. Raffe, despite his lack of wings, is quite a feathery handful. The schizophrenic mother, with her cattle prod at play, doesn’t help matters. And you don’t even want to know what happens to Penryn's little sister Paige! Ugh! Does Ee tie Angelfall up in a nice, little package? No Way! Fortunately, the ending begs for Book 2!

So now, thanks to my highly paid position as a reviewer—what more could an avid reader want than to be paid in books?—I’m a fan of warring angels and interspecies love.

And to think I never knew such romance existed!

I'm seeing things. Again.

But they aren't mice. And they aren't real.

First, there were a few lightning bolts. I blinked. It was storming outside, after all. But then I went into our dark bedroom and continued to see the bolts. I hit the sack, hoping that the streaks would disappear and not return.

The next morning, they were there, but remained fleeting. And then another issue came to the forefront. I biked around the block. As my feet pumped and my face caught the wind, I spotted a web of branches in the corner of my left eye--disconcerting, to say the least. I couldn't help but shake my head in reflex. The web remained.

I called the eye doctor. The message I received: Don't mess with this; come in immediately.

After a brief exam and a photo of confirmation, the verdict was straightforward. I have a floater, and it's not floating anywhere.

I liked my doctor's explanation. The eye, made up of collagen, vitreous, and water, usually acts as plastic wrap. It's nice and taut and can be easily seen through. But, once in awhile, plastic wrap wrinkles. And once the wrinkle's there, good luck on getting it out.

No one tells you about this aspect of aging. When my doctor asked my age, she nodded sagely. Sixty-one? You have a sixty-one percent chance of this happening, and you probably haven't seen the last of it. Lightning bolts? Common. Webs or branches? Also common. This floater is part of you now, and you'll get used to it after a month or two. If you start seeing jellyfish, though, worry.

She also pressed home the fact that eye issues shouldn't go unaddressed. If a retina becomes detached, the longer you wait to see the doc, the harder it becomes to correct.

So the way I'm going to look at this is . . . I'm still growing and changing.

That can't be all bad, can it?

I'm seeing things. Really.

A rapid-fire movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned, dreading the approach of the all-too-often-sighted, southern-bred cockroach; instead, something even larger sped toward me! I screamed, scaring the critter into a hidey-hole, or so he thought, being only slightly camouflaged by the tangle of computer wires underneath my desk.

As I caught my breath after a couple of more screams, I began to talk to him: “You are so cute! You are SO cute, but you are a mouse.” And just in case he didn’t know it, I screamed, “YOU ARE A MOUSE!”

If only I had had a camera trained on me, I would be winning big-time on America’s Funniest Videos (or maybe not—no one would have been harmed in the making of this film, and that seems to be a requirement). Yelling at him to stay put, I ran to the kitchen, scrambled for a cracker, slathered PB on it, grabbed a large paper bag with handles, and tore off toward the den.

Shoving the cracker in the bag, I propped it open and urged the mouse toward the trap. He didn’t fall for the ruse.

I ran to the kitchen again to get my yardstick. Using it, I tried to herd the mouse into the bag. He started a mad dash around the perimeter of the room with me in hot pursuit. When he got close to the door, I shut it, thinking that the quarter inch at the bottom could not possibly allow exit. Ha! With me screaming, “Don’t! Don’t! DON’T YOU DARE!” that mouse wiggled through so fast, he made my head spin. I quickly opened the door. As he tried to hide underneath a corner table nearby, I handled that trusty yardstick with finesse. Luckily for me, his tiny feet had to shake off dust bunnies; they slowed him down, enough for me to successfully herd him back into the self-contained den.

So then the little devil re-started the perimeter run. Ending up where he started—behind the computer wires—I once again yelled, “Don’t you move!” and dashed toward the kitchen to grab the broom. Running past the front door on my way back, I opened it wide.

A determined woman, I pinned the terrified, little mouse underneath the broom, dragged him through the den, and swept him out the door in one big swoosh. He landed in a bush about five feet away. I imagine it dazed him for a short time.

I shut the door, locked it, and did a victory dance.

The next day, I found a mouse on the road. He was tiny. He was cute. He was dead. He was gray. My mouse had been brown.

While minding his own business the next day, my husband heard a sound. He yelled to me, “I think our mouse returned!” I joined him, only to hear what sounded like a beaver gnawing on a large hunk of wood. My husband slowly opened the drawer underneath the oven. Movement. He removed the drawer and crouched, spotting a cowering mouse. But we weren’t quick enough. The mouse sped here, there, and dashed underneath the dishwasher. At one point, he fishtailed around the corner with his tail high in the air, mimicking a cartoon critter.

We can’t have a mouse in the house, no matter how cute. Project Extermination was launched.

My husband set three traps with peanut butter; two of them were licked clean. He reset them, adding a fourth, and adding attic locations.

Bye-bye, mouse.

Hello, mouse family!

Buyer, Beware!

Famous quote from Sister Act: “Turns into a nuns’ bar, and I’m outta here.”

I hope my faithful followers, not all of whom are writers, also appreciate the entries that are writer-centric. (And, if you don’t, don’t worry. Future entries will, at times, be totally without  rhyme or reason—well, okay, maybe rhyme.)  The occasional focus on writers is the nature of the beast—the beast being I as a writer and the Local Liaison for Southern Breeze, a region of SCBWI. (For those in the dark, that’s the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. You can see why it goes by initials.)

In the next two weeks, I’ll be blogging about authors because I’m doing my part to promote them and their role in the upcoming Southern Breeze conference (Oct. 19-20).

I don’t wanna hear someone whining: “Turns into a writers’ blog, and I’m outta here.”