Roots and Tubers

I woke up yesterday morning and dressed like a writer.  At 8:15 I envisioned myself at the coffee shop working on the family’s calendar while waiting for the library to open at 9.   Rather, I woke Liam up at 8:20 to prepare for virtual school.  Then at 8:30 I again opened his bedroom door and supervised the four-foot commute from that warm cozy bed to the lamp-lit desk.  I flicked on the overhead light as I wished him a good morning and closed the door behind me.  Will has an AP test at 2:00 this afternoon, so he didn’t need to wake up for classes this morning.

At 9:15 I felt late as I wasn’t at my desk.  I set up my computer in the office. My desk faces the window. I watched leaves on the red acer and the green maple fluttering about—and then decided to go for a walk around the yard to see how the flowers and weeds were doing.  The flowers I transplanted before yesterday’s rain look happy; the two buckets of weeds I pulled make me happy.

Finally, at 10:30 I’m sitting at the computer.  I wasn’t outside for an hour and fifteen minutes; yet I’m not sure where that time went.  I open the window a crack to simulate the cool air in the quiet room at the library; its briskness keeps me alert.

Since I last wrote – over two weeks ago – I’ve been living much like an Iowa farmer or a buoy setter in Gloucester, Massachusetts.  Matching the cadence of the outdoors.  If it’s sunny, I go outside and dig up weeds or break up and reset perennials.  With all the rain we have had, the ground is soft and inviting to this kind of work.  This spring, my goal is not to pluck a weed at the ground level and move on, having simply given the thing a trim and the resolve to grow back stronger this summer or next spring.  No, I have the spade and trowel out.  With a plunge of the spade and a teasing upward of the dirt, my trained eye watches for that depth at which the dandelion’s root end is loosened and the plant moves upward a bit, allowing the whole root to be extracted without breaking.  So satisfying. 

My real glory has been in the front yard where I’ve been reeling in a crazy sun flower that gets over five-foot high.  It’s incredibly invasive and is supposed to stay in the confines of the 4’ x 8’ flower garden at the corner of the house; of course, the plant isn’t aware of that border.  It has mutated—not the grammatically correct word, but one conveys the feeling of this sly plant—and popped up in all flower gardens at the front of the house.  In the past, I pull these with the intention of stopping their growth for the season while ignoring the truth that they will return. 

I just downloaded a plant identifying app because calling this plant a sunflower evokes that big, round-faced sunflower in my mind.  And this isn’t that.  This plant has a tall thin stem, and at the top it bursts into multiple small bright yellow flowers in late summer.  It’s like a grand finale firework display to mark the end of the growing season.  I discover that it’s a Jerusalem artichoke which is a species of Sunflowers.  According to the PictureThis plant identifying app, it’s also known as Earth apple, Canada potato, Sunroot, Sunchoke, and Sunflower artichoke.  And, the tuber is edible!

Mandrake drawing from Wikipedia: supposedly drawn in 1583 by Rembert Dodoens.

Pulling one of these Jerusalem artichoke sunflowers is a tricky endeavor.  As I maneuver a root from the ground, I fall into Harry Potter’s Herbology class at Hogwart’s when Professor Sprout’s class is repotting mandrakes.  Author JK Rowling personified the mandrake root, bringing to life years of folklore over the plant.  The fabled shrieking of the mandrake even made it into Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet as Juliet mulls over the sights and sounds of the vault of death: “And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth…” Much like shapes in fluffy cumulus clouds, mandrake roots lend themselves to the same active imaginations with the shape of a human form in the root. 

My sunflower roots do not resemble the human figure and they do not scream when I pull them out of the ground.  But their roots are different than other weeds and flowers I pull: a few inches down into the earth, the root bends at a 90-degree angle and grows sideways into the soil.  This means on the first spade slice I have a one-in-four chance of slicing through the root depending on whether I dig on the north, south, east, or west side of it.  As I’m thinning whole areas, once the earth is opened on the first dig, I slice fewer roots.

Searching for sunflower roots in this wet, soft spring soil connects me to warm dirt memories: digging for night crawlers with my granddad to go fishing and digging up potatoes in late summer with Mom.  Dig, sift, and then… prize!  Like counting rings on a fallen tree to see how old it is, the length of the skinny-carrot root points to the age of the plant.  As they are all seedlings right now, the green leafy above-ground bits are only two or three inches tall.  However, upon excavation one root might be two inches long and another eight inches long.  In my dedication to accurate and effective removal this year, I know better than to tug at any root that doesn’t freely give; some plants take two spades to loosen the root entirely.  To snap a root only forces its energies back into the serious business of underground stabilization, never mind a five-foot leafy stem decorated with sprightly waving yellow flowers come late August.  It will come back topside next year—with perhaps a two-inch longer root.

These flowers growing outside their designated spot do not have tubers yet.  I imagine if I turned a spade in the middle of the bed, where I encourage them to grow, bulbous tubes would be forming on the horizontal roots.  And they grow so tightly together, I imagine that root system is like an underground army thoroughly woven together. 

Merriam’s definition of root:

The usually underground part of a seed plant body that originates usually from the hypocotyl, functions as an organ of absorption, aeration, and food storage or as a means of anchorage and support, and differs from a stem especially in lacking nodes, buds, and leaves.

Origins or sources. 

Underlying support. 

The essential core.

Let’s assume we have a root system that reaches deep and makes unexpected turns.  That what looks like separation is only at the surface; that the weaving of big bulbous tubers is tightening every day.  That a broken stem only means a strengthening of the invisible anchors at work beneath the surface.

Sensory Trickery: The Bath

At 6:30, I’m up before the rest of the family this Sunday morning.  Rather than check the television for overnight pandemic numbers, I grabbed my computer, headed to the basement, and wrapped up on the couch in a queen-size soft blanket.  Once completely cocooned inside, I navigated my hands out such that, other than my face, they are the only pieces of skin connecting to the cool basement air.  Cool because I forgot to close a window overnight, so the 40-degree chill is working hard against the furnace trying to maintain a 70-degree air temperature.  When we put the addition on the house in 2012, we added radiant heat, so as I walk across the carpeted floor my feet absorb the warmth while my bare arms feel the light breeze from the open window.

This experience is exactly what I have been considering writing about over the last couple of weeks.  It was on my mind at the top of the basement stairs as I talked myself into writing this morning.  While I’ve navigated these strange days, the most effective route away from thinking about the pandemic has been sensory immersion.  Of at least two senses.  Or, in the case of this morning, one sense experiencing different contrasts at the same time.

A better example than the air chill differential is my use of the big white bowl.  The one in the bathroom that more often than not is a giant dust collector.  We had this free-standing bath tub installed in 2012.  It’s beautiful; I’ve looked at it often since its installation, as I zip in and out of the shower and out the door.  However, in the last six weeks, I’ve filled it more often than usual.

A couple weeks ago, I worked my way through the cupboard under the sink and located all the bath gels and bubble bath soaps that have been lingering in that dark cave.  All those special bottles saved for special soaks at special times.  The most tantalizing of these finds is a collection of twelve small sample bottles of Molton Brown bath gels that Bill’s sister gave me for Christmas one year.  As the water begins to fill the tub, I read the British labels before I twist off the lid to sample the fragrance.  Geranium Nefertum. Delicious Rhubarb and Rose.  Vetiver and Grapefruit.  Orange and Bergamot.  Fiery Pink Pepper.  Jasmine and Sun Rose.  Reading the words is as glorious as sampling the scents.

When running the bath, I let bath gel drizzle from the bottle into the stream of hot water running from the faucet.  This gives the bubbles a head start.  Then, I leave the room and close the door while the tub fills with water and the air blooms with jasmine and sun rose.  The couple of minutes it takes for that bath to steep, I sort a shelf or two in the closet, pretending to go about my day-to-day business.  In a strange way this exit from the bathroom and then re-entry tricks my mind:  When I open the door, a humid wall of fragrance encompasses me.  I inhale deeply thinking how lovely it was for that person to run a bath that filled the air with jasmine and sun roses.  My body breathes this moment in: hearing the water running, seeing the bubbles piled high, and smelling the sweet air.  I could leave the bathroom without dipping my toe into the water and be extremely satisfied with the triple wallop of this bath.

Immersed in the water, my brain explains that the smell must still be there, but my nose grips that moment of intense transition through the doorway.  And as the scented air gently permeates the nasal cavity, the scent all but disappears.  It becomes neutral without the comparison of the air behind that closed door.

The temperature of the water depends on the ache factor in my body.  If my hips are barking, I run a pretty hot bath—thinking that there needs to be some practical value in filling the tub.  In my mind, a cup of coffee is the perfect tub drink; however, I know that the heat of the water I’m sitting in would be better offset with an ice cold glass of water. 

But what to do once in the tub?  The options?  Read.  Listen to music.  iPhone.  Nothing.  The books I’m reading are paperbacks too big for a long soak.  Listening to music means getting a portable speaker set up in the bathroom.  An iPhone in my hand will lead me back to the outside world, and doing nothing will lead me down that same path.  I have been opting for a small book of mini-crossword puzzles. Clues in the puzzle book whistle and hiss engaging my brain in a rather staccato fashion.  Minutes mush together and an hour passes in the suspended reality of hot water on the body, cold water going into the body, a glimpse of swirling bubbles, the popping of bubbles, lingering jasmine and sun rose in the air—and the brain’s babble of busyness contemplating a 5-letter word for “Perfect.”

For an escape from this time, one just might need more than a single sensory experience, for the brain can cleverly swerve around this.  But it’s pace is slowed with the full-on sensory smack of an orchestrated bath.  That is ideal.

Random Thoughts Anchored in Timelessness

Approximately a half hour after eating lunch, Bill chews a piece of gum.  I know this because we watch a mid-day news report every day after lunch, and midway through I hear a rumple of tiny paper to my right.

In an effort to place an order for groceries and grab a delivery time, I repeatedly hit this trio of buttons, “Checkout,” “Continue,” then “Cancel,” as if I’m trying to win concert tickets from a radio station.  

I put laundry detergent into the washer for an extra-large warm load of whites and let the water run a bit to get the soap mixed in.  An hour later, I found one pair of underwear spun and stuck to the wall of the basin.  Distractions still exist in this timelessness.

I woke up at 3:30 Saturday morning, grabbed my phone, and on the first try, nabbed the last grocery delivery slot two weeks out. 

At 9:40 I woke up the second time that morning and thought I had just enough time to put clothes on and fix my hair for a church Zoom meeting at 10:00  that would be followed by an 11:00 Zoom meeting with friends.  I told Bill my plans; he said, “You’re going to church on Saturday?”

I looked at the calendar to confirm the date in my own head.  That grid on paper was useless, for I didn’t know the day of the week nor the number associated with it—or if I had crossed out the day before such that “today” was the number to the right of the that one with a slash through it.

I find few absolute deadlines.  I see how I rely on those in normal times.  How comforting they are.  How people let them slide now; after all, we have an abundance of timeless time.

I have two games stacked on the TV stand/side table next to the couch in the basement, Risk and Jeopardy.  I’ve never played either of them, but stacked on top of one another, they are the perfect height to get my head and shoulders into the Zoom screen.  I also need the red-handled, flat head screwdriver on the other side table: with the handle end wedged behind my iPad, it pushes the screen to the right angle such that Zoom buddies are not staring up my nostrils.

At dinner, I tell my family that I do not want to go grocery shopping for a couple weeks—but that we have plenty of food.  Only that you might not have your favorite what-cha-ma-call-it every day.  I online-shopped Goldfish crackers and eggs with wild abandon.  Those dozens will be bartering items for toilet paper in four weeks’ time.

I found “Aerial America” on the Smithsonian Channel.  I’ve flown over Iowa and Wisconsin in the last 48 hours.  With ten loads of laundry to sort laid out on my bed yesterday afternoon, I discovered that the first Muslim mosque in the United States was built in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and that the earthy smells emanating from that city are from Quaker Oats and General Mills.  I can smell the Cheerios baking now.

I know that every piece of clean laundry will fit in my closet but only if I have one season’s clothes out at a time.  Warm jeans and long-sleeved shirts are now packed away.

Vitamin D is becoming more available naturally.  Despite the temperature, a half hour facing this higher sun, even with a coat on and a blanket wrapped around me, feels delicious. 

Zoom meeting screens can slip behind the open website screen.  I heard a man’s voice utter a couple words when I was alone in the kitchen last Sunday around 5:30 p.m.  I ignored it as one does the occasional random voice in one’s head.  Near 6 p.m., a woman’s voice said, “Linda, are you here?”  I had tested getting into this host person’s Zoom meeting a half hour early.  However, after successfully logging in, rather than closing Zoom, I had somehow just hidden the open meeting behind my website screen, and the host, this woman’s husband, had also come in about a half hour early. 

I now know to “Leave Meeting” and to close the Zoom application if I have no intentions of surprise visitors in my kitchen. Or in my head.

Reflections about Being Bald

A sense of familiarity lurks behind these days.  A rewind of frames whisks through my mind’s eye then a play button slows the scenes as they unfold.  I feel the panic of the rewind but nod as the play unfolds because I’m on the other side of that time. 

In the first scene just after a diagnosis of breast cancer, I’m sitting alone across from my surgeon.  I’m holding a scribbled list on a piece of ripped and folded piece of paper.  The handwriting is jerky, and the last item stands in its own space a half-inch below the other items on the list.  She talks.  I listen.  I question.  She answers.  I hold a poker face and can’t say the words. I turn the paper to her, so she can read the last line.  “Chemo scares me.” She said words to the effect that it should. No surprise that it does. Use common sense.  Don’t go to a school Halloween party with snotty-nosed little kids running around.  I didn’t.  Instead, I wore gloves to the grocery store, didn’t travel to Iowa for a year, and stayed home much of the time. Then two months after chemo ended, I went to the school’s spring Harry Potter-themed field day.  I donned a witch’s costume and painted moons and stars on little cheeks. When I finally flew to Iowa, that big hug from Mom was the sweetest. It still holds me tight today. (Read “Frustration.”)

Know there are variables.  As I started a new chemo med in the fifth round, Bill and my nurse peered into my face with hawk eyes.  The drug was administered via an IV push rather than drip.  That means my nurse sat inches from my face slowly injecting the bright red chemo through my port every thirty seconds or so.  Some patients have extreme allergic reactions to this med which usually happen in the first or second (of four) bi-weekly infusions.  I did not have a reaction.  The intensity of their gaze relaxed. As did my anxiety. (Read “Wednesdays.”)

Let God have it.  My minister said, “I really feel you will move through this.  In the meantime, you can let God have it.”  I’m of too practical a blood line to be a lofty pray-er.  As a kid, church was Sunday mornings milking cows in the barn with country music playing in the background.  My minister was not telling me to gently set this box of woe into God’s hands.  Let Him have it.  He can take it.  I was not struck down by lightning during cuss-studded rants toward Him. The calm present after those rants led to more calm in our future conversations.  And because words of prayer do not brim through the top of my head up to the heavens, I wrote a prayer, made a prayer bracelet, then said and felt that prayer every day throughout that year.  I reread it this morning and thought how strangely relevant it is in this time. (Read “Power and Prayer.”)

Ban searching the internet. From October 2009 through April of 2010, I didn’t set foot on the internet to Google anything.  I only used the computer to write and to access my email account.  I made this decision when I was diagnosed after a search for “how to talk about your kids about breast cancer.”  To this day, the most viscous illustration haunts me from that search.  A drawing of a woman upright on the couch, her head leaning on her shoulder as if she was a sleep.  Her face was green.  It wasn’t a playful cartoon illustration.  It was a serious scene and meant for a child’s eyes.  I never read a book about cancer to my then nearly 3-year-old and 5-year-old sons.  I simply told them what they might see different about me and let them ask questions.  (Read “My Hair Will Fall Out.”)

Ironically, the reason I started writing was to let people who were not living near us know that I was not green and dying.  And that’s how I tell people who ask how and when I started to write essays.  I wasn’t green and dying. I was taking the reins and spinning my own story around my own experience.  We each have our own experience, again, too many variables to make any steadfast predictions for ourselves.  Control the variables we can; have faith that other variables—scientists researching therapies or manufacturers making new products—will precipitate change.

Find people you trust and follow their instructions. My chemo doctor told us to go out for a nice dinner after the first chemo infusion.  My doctor and nurses told me they would take every measure such that I didn’t get sick.  I had a basket of medicines to take those first days of chemo.  I might have been tired and run down, but I never puked during chemo.  My chemo doctor told me to accept the help that’s helpful and to be careful of help that isn’t.  Be mindful of people and information that might cause more harm than good. Listen to sound advice and follow it.  Release control when needed, maintain it when you can. Limit time spent with multiple outside sources.  Go rake the yard or put a load of laundry on. (Read “My Wicker Life Boat”)

It was during chemo that my appreciation for laundry become boundless.  There are no surprises in doing laundry.  I know how to handle those shape changers that move from clean clothing to dirty laundry and back again.  The sorting is rhythmic.  Using the right water temperature is second nature.   Following my process of partially drying then hanging shrink-ables is systematic.  Folding laundry neatly is edging on OCD—totally in my control.  Seeing a laundry room stacked with clean piles is rewarding.  It reminds me of making hay on a 95-degree July afternoon then looking back over your shoulder as you leave the field to see bales and bales of hay; they mark well-spent energy. (Read “An Update from the Laundry Maven.”)

Get dressed.  Fake it until you make it.  Put your best face forward.  On writing days when I go to the library, I dress like a writer.  At home with my family, I dress like a mom who goes to the grocery store and drives carpools.  When I’m cleaning or cooking or working outside, I wear old clothes for the task at hand. If I’m going to work out, I don’t shower first thing in the morning; I put on workout clothes.  When I dress for days as though it doesn’t matter who I am or what my roles are, my soul takes on the shabbiness of my mismatched pajamas.  Saturdays and Sundays still exist on the calendar, and I let myself linger longer in comfy clothes.  Ten years ago, I was bald.  Before I started chemo, I went to get new glasses with bold frames that would draw attention to my eyes.  The optician liked the ones I picked out, “They match your hair beautifully!” I looked in the mirror at my thick, wavy shoulder length hair and wondered if the glasses would match my bald head.  When my hair fell out, I built a recognizable “me” through chemo camouflage: glasses, a wig, earrings, and lipstick.  That woman I built up from the foundation of a bald head with no eyebrows was powerful. (See Chemo Camouflage Photo Gallery)

Spend time navel gazing.  Be in the present.  I went out for groceries yesterday.  I had a mask and rubber gloves, took hand sanitizer and cleaning wipes with me.  I ran through the procedure manual built ten years ago on keeping unwanted yuck away from me.  Chemo cyclically knocked my immune system out of whack.  Before going into the store, I put on rubber gloves and a mask.  My credit card was in my pocket; I left my purse tucked under the seat out of germs’ way.  Inside the store, my breathing got heavier as I imagined those tiny invisible bastards.  Soon my mind was brought back to the immediate here and now.  The mask smelled. It was an unpleasant smell—fish.  Why? In the second aisle it dawned on me: I had fish and chips for lunch just before I went out.  I lived the after effects of lunch for a half our as I scuttled about hunting and gathering.   Note: Most definitely should brush teeth before masking up to go grocery shopping.

Is now an appropriate time to laugh?  Yes. Read “Impersonations.”

Steak and Kidney Pie with Bobby Pins

Yesterday I burned my pieces of toast, but I scraped the black crumbs off of the four sides and still used it to make my egg sandwich.  I burned nachos and cheese under the broiler at lunch time.  I scooped the smoking pan out and whisked it straight to the metal table on the deck.  Bill sees me.  “Are you sure they aren’t salvageable?”  I tell him that my granddad might have eaten the nachos, but they were too far gone for me.  I hear the echo Granddad’s laughing voice, “When it’s brown it’s cookin’, and when it’s black it’s done!” 

On Friday, Bill defrosted tubes of rolled pie crust, pie shells in tins, lamb kidney, and chunks of stewing beef.  Like a driven mad scientist, on Saturday he commandeered the kitchen in the late afternoon to make steak and kidney pie—and steak pie for me.  He had four websites up and was building his own recipes out of different chefs’ opinions.  When I came in from outside, the kitchen smelled delicious as the meat was simmering away in a sauce that included a pint of Guinness beer.  The aroma went bitter as I watched Bill replace one lid and pull the other off the second pan. 

Instantly, I knew our family wouldn’t be eating together this evening.  I focused on the Guinness smell over the kidney smell much the way I stand on one leg in yoga and pick a spot on the wall to drive my gaze into such that I don’t lose my balance. I reminded myself that the kidney smell did not represent my steak-only pie.  I opened the fridge to see a hearty package of Brussels sprouts.  Roasted sprouts would neutralize the kidney—and farther push Will and Liam to the far corners of our house behind closed doors.  

An hour-and-a-half before Bill and I sat down to eat, I grilled steak, made mashed potatoes, and tossed lettuce in dressing for the boys.  Bill and I sat down with his favorite English meal; he opened a can of stout, similar to Guinness, to go with it.  The beer poured like motor oil into a pint glass.  “Perfect… I’ve been saving this for a cold day to have with steak and kidney pie.” Granddad ate liverwurst and stinky limburger cheese; no doubt he would’ve enjoyed sharing Bill’s steak and kidney pie. My steak pie was reminiscent of a wintry beef stew tucked inside Grandma Mills’ homemade pie crust.

When I wrote in the library, the quiet room felt five degrees cooler than the rest of the library, perhaps ten degrees cooler than our house. Relatively speaking. In that room, I would pull my traveling sweater from my backpack and slip it on to keep my upper torso comfortable.  My hair worked to insulate my neck and ears.  Many times sitting at that long table I thought about Bob Cratchit gingerly trying to convince Scrooge to add another piece of coal to the stove.  That coolness in the library kept me focused and fueled the movement of words.  This morning it feels like 23 outside, and I have the window cracked behind me.  The temperature lacks equilibrium: the front of me is 70 degrees while my back is dipping down to 30 degrees.  If it weren’t for my fingers needing to touch the computer, I could rotate like one does standing next to a bonfire.  Or like how we twist the stick to perfectly roast a marshmallow over coals in the fireplace.

With our home’s normal room temperature, I keep my hair up in a ponytail or a clip.  Wisps that fall to the front aren’t cute or playful; they annoy me.  I keep rescue bobby pins in drawers upstairs and downstairs.  Grandma Mills often used those utilitarian tools to keep her thick hair in place as she worked in the kitchen or the garden.  At home, I finish the initial up-do with a bobby pin on either side anchoring predictable pieces that would otherwise soon loosen.  Around lunchtime, another piece of hair drops into my eyes; I inherently grab another bobby pin out of the drawer in the kitchen before cooking.  I go back to the same drawer when I come in from the wind.  I drift into Will and Liam’s rooms in the afternoon to check in and to grab laundry.  I collect the laundry basket from the master bedroom, put it down, and grab another bobby pin from my bathroom drawer.  At the end of the day, I feel my head for pins.  Before I went to bed last night, I took four of them out.

I marvel at the power that those little practical pieces of curved metal have in holding it all together. 

Thoughts about Reading Books

I’m up early again. 4:30 this morning.  Surely, I have won a prize.

I decided to read this morning.  An hour later, I switched to writing.  And the Word doc hadn’t been opened two seconds before I was where I had decided I wasn’t going to go today.  And I said out loud, “I better get out before I fall in.”

I’m trying something new: reading more than one book at a time.  I’ve always been a strict linear reader.  Read one book at a time and always finish a book.  A few years ago an avid reader friend said something like, “There are too many good books out there! If a book doesn’t get me in the first twenty pages, I put it down.” At those words, astonished, I put her in book warrior armor.  Up to that point, the only book I remember not finishing was Moby Dick when I was in college.  A pang of lagging guilt is still withstanding.

More recently, I read an article on how to read more than one book at a time.  The suggestion was to pick books from different genres.  That makes complete sense, for example, to read two or three romance novels at a time, one might get the love interests confused and end up with one crushingly gorgeous man and scores of long-haired woman chasing him in pursuit of a red rose.  That would be blurring the lines of romance novel reality.

An author friend loaned me a non-fiction book called The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd.  Last week I moved it from the book shelf into circulation, thinking it wouldn’t get too entangled in Paris Was the Place, a piece of fiction I’m reading, or rather listening to, for my book group.  I’m struggling with this piece of fiction; the voice on the Audible version is not pulling me into the story.  I need to go back to old-fashioned paper-page-turning reading of this title.

I rarely accept loaned books and am now practicing good loaned-book manners for The Barn…  Three rules apply: I can’t dog ear the pages at the top in order to mark my place; I can’t dog ear the pages at the bottom to mark passages to reread later; I can’t read with a pen in my hand to underline well-written lines that grab me by the hand, the throat, or the cuff of my neck.  Or the tear ducts.  I’m using a bookmark and snapping pictures of sentences.  This foreign procedure is tedious.  I strip my surroundings of pens before sitting down.  A fold can be smoothened; an ink underline is unforgiving.  I am enjoying the pencil underlining and notes that my friend made as she read the book.  I’m happy to see that she, too, makes notes.  Although hers are more reserved than my near graffiti black ink lines.

Over and over, I hear that writers need to be avid readers.  I’m not as avid as some.  In reading The Barn…, I am finding a relatable voice with relatable experiences.  A good boost in legitimating my own writing.  The author, Mary Rose O’Reilly, writes about working on a sheep farm.  We didn’t raise sheep when I was growing up.  Maybe an oddball sheep was brought into the fold occasionally.  I seem to recall a goat, a couple of rabbits, and perhaps a sheep rambling through my farmyard memories. 

O’Reilly has a conversation with the farmer she’s working with about the language used to call the sheep versus that used to drive the sheep.  Her words drove powerful holograms of my family right up off the page.  My mom milked cows morning and night.  After the grain was laid in the manger, she would open the barn doors to the feed lot and call, “Com’boss!  Com’boss!”  The lilt of those words were inviting.  It was like a chant. The accent was on “Com,” and “boss” dropped down in pitch.  And the cows would come gently lumbering into the barn, each to her own known stanchion.  I, like my mom, can call cattle.

On the other hand, the driving verbiage was dead-on Grandma Murphy and my dad when the cattle got out or were being driven somewhere they didn’t want to go.  As the sheep farmer laid it out in the book, “Don’t say ‘go!’ to them… They don’t know that word.  They know Hai! They know OK!  They know Hai-up, you goddam sonsa bitches!” (p. 64-65). That was an epiphany for me.  Over years and years of hearing those very same last four words strung together in repetition, never had I thought of it as a language the animals understood.  I only ever heard it as Grandma and Dad’s heightening anger at the cows.  Thinking back on these cattle driving moments, I remember how impressive this cussing was when those words were yelled over and over in one breath.  Their inflection was stronger than dropping any f-bomb in the middle of that tirade.  I, unlike Dad and Grandma, cannot drive cattle.

This morning I pulled a book of poetry off the shelf, New and Selected Poems: 1962-2012, written by Charles Simic.  When I attended the New York State Summer Writers Institute in 2018, I met this poet after he did a reading one evening.  A prolific poet, Simic was born in 1938 in Belgrade, Serbia.  I’ve only ever been attracted to children’s poetry.  In college, I struggled with poetry class, drawing blank looks at the smooth voiced professor trying to get poetry to connect with me, or vice versa.  Give me the rhymes of Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. However, I laughed at some of Charles Simic’s poems as he read them, so I bought his book and waited in line for him to sign it.  I was the last person let into the queue.  I sat down across from him, and we chatted about ordinary people stuff for a few minutes.  Now, I’m reading about ordinary people stuff in his poems. 

In genres outside of fiction, I find more unfamiliar vocabulary.  Yesterday, I thought how efficient it was to tap a word into my phone and have the definition spring up.  Ideally, I would grab that definition, plug it into the sentence, and continue on my way with the next sentence.  Not so.  That is a mighty all-purpose detractor.  Many minutes passed before I moved from screen pages back to paper pages.  Today, I pulled Webster off the shelf and practiced letter sequencing as I looked up “Hittites” and “pitch.” 

Going to those pages reminded me of watching Will and Liam looking up vocabulary words when they were younger.  Another mom and I would laugh at how long it took our kids to look up ten words because they would start reading the dictionary.  Perhaps that was the teacher’s intent, for this morning I learned not only that Hittites are an ancient people from Asia Minor and northern Syria but also that another name for hobgoblin is bugbear.  I had only been looking for clarification of Simic’s poem titled “Concerning My Neighbors, the Hittites.”

Two days ago, I took a bubble bath and purposely left my phone in the kitchen.  While the bath tub was filling, I went into my bedroom to pick up The Barn…, but I had taken it downstairs earlier that morning.  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was in the book sculpture stacked on my bedside table.  I decided to try one of my son Will’s reading tricks: open a favorite book to a random page and start reading.   I sunk into the bath and into the line midway down page 71.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”  I followed Harry with the goblins down to the bowels of Gringott’s Bank through the brick wall on platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross and onto the glorious scarlet steam engine where Harry shared chocolate frogs with his new best friend Ron.  Sheer fantasy.  Potent escapism.

As Ron was explaining Quidditch to Harry, the real boy Liam called out to me from behind the bathroom door.  “Mom!  Mom!  Your phone is ringing! I don’t know if you have new texts or calls!”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had planned on ignoring beeps and whistles until I came back downstairs.   

“Thanks, honey,” I returned as he delivered to my bath non-fiction with a splash of fiction, perhaps needing the intercedence of poetry.  Or fantasy.

Another random thirty-some-page escape is on the books for today; at which time, I shall put the phone securely under my mattress.

A Writing Exercise—Are you game?

On the days in recent weeks when I’ve sat down to write, I’ve been trying to write full, coherent pieces.  What I wrote yesterday is over 500 words, and I ran out of steam for the story line before I created an ending.  I think the moment is better set for a mosaic or staccato writing.  So, here, I unleash that beast.

Yesterday, I brought myself to finally bake the bacon that has been in the fridge for at least a week.  My family loves bacon, but the mess it involves leaves me procrastinating.  I pulled the bacon out of the oven, made toast, and put yogurt on the counter where we were going to eat together.  Liam came into the kitchen and said, “Wow, it’s just like Grandma’s in Iowa!”  My mom is like a patron saint of cooked breakfasts—me, reflecting on my normal breakfast prep—not so much.

On Saturday, Liam and I drove out to Salisbury Beach State Reservation, near the New Hampshire border, to go for a hike along the coast.  The tide was coming in but leaving little in the way of treasures other than the familiar mussel and clam shells.  The treasure-line thickened where the long jetty jutted out from the beach, somewhat marking the connection of the Atlantic Ocean with the Merrimack River.  It was in that nook that Liam found a mermaid purse!  I still marvel at the magic of these egg cases.  Sadly, this one had been damaged: there were puncture holes in the sides that were not hatching holes. 

Bill is traveling and will be back Wednesday, so he has missed the beginning of the Monopoly tournament, or rather the “Boston-Opoly” tournament.  Will, Liam, and I have the table set up in the basement and have played for an hour or so the last two nights.  I remember getting Monopoly for Christmas as a kid and playing a new game every morning of Christmas break with my sister and brothers.  I thought the game was pretty cut and dried: pass go, collect $200, collect rent, put up some houses, run out of money, pack up the game.  My kids learned how to play more creatively with their cousins in Iowa: “I’ll sell this to you if you let me land on it twice without having to pay rent,” or “If you don’t ask someone for rent before the next player rolls, you can’t collect,” or “I just want to sit in jail for a while; it’s safer to do that and collect rent than go around the board and pay rent.”  High rollers here. Rumor has it that Queen Elizabeth does not allow her family to play Monopoly.  I understand why as I shout, “Wait, wait wait!!!” every time someone lands on a property.  I need time to check to see if I own it and, if so, to collect rent; the boys seem to have their properties and the rent amounts memorized.  Until this tournament, where some rents are near $2,000, I never understood the luxury of sitting in jail while letting others circle the board. 

I woke up this morning before the sun came up.  The first time this has happened in a while.  Lately, I’m pulling more day out of the end of the day.  That is not me, never has been me, and should not be me.  Being up an hour or two before everyone else is where I find blissful quietude.  And with the quiet room at the library now unavailable, I made sure the dining room table was cleared and inviting before I went to bed last night.  I’m hoping to replicate the library experience: computer on the table, coffee to the right, glasses to the right, and a notebook and pencil to the right.  That notebook is for the outside world while I propagate words through my fingers in a protected space.  Should a fluttering thought enter, like making an appointment for an oil change or stopping at the grocery store for milk, my right hand can quickly jot that down and then return to the flow of words.  It doesn’t feel completely natural working at this table.  It’s round, and I usually write on rectangles.  How rigid I’ve become in the geography of where I write.  There is nothing to my left because at the library I sit at the far left hand side of the table. The curved edge of my table at home is distracting.

Ahh, I hear the coo of the mourning dove!  I was up before six and the dove just cooed.  It’s 6:25.  I win! I don’t know what I’ve won, but I do feel like I’ve won something. The dove must be the rooster of bird land as now there is quite a ruckus outside my closed window.

Last week, I started working with other local authors on a project called “Seniors Writing.”  We’re creating an introductory workshop for a local senior center to encourage the seniors to write. Each of us authors will lead quick 10-minute introductory sessions on poetry, journaling/emotional writing, and storytelling.  Depending on what type of writing the seniors enjoy, we’ll set up future workshops accordingly. 

I’m taking on storytelling with the focus of memories triggered by food. Would you like to be a guinea pig?  On a sheet of paper or on the computer, make a quick list of ten foods.  Next, pick one that jumps out at you.  That tickles your senses.  Pulls a smell from a past kitchen.  Makes your mouth water just thinking about it.  Reminds you of a friend or family member.  Now, write those thoughts down.  This can be in a list form written with crayons or markers; scattered hand-jotted thoughts on paper; or nicely structured sentences.  Follow a stream of thought without worry over punctuation or even complete sentences.  Those are overrated.  Often overrated.

If you would like to share your creation, pop your words into the comments below.  Or if you want a more private sharing experience, send them to me in an email.  Or, just keep them to your own delight.  I’m going to do this exercise as well; I’ll post mine by 6 p.m. today. 

(Well, look at that—I just gave myself a deadline! ;)

Enjoy…

(Are you wondering what mosaic and staccato essays are? Here’s my musing about Essay Styles.)

Book Reviews and the White Lizard

I have a litany of topics to write about: memories vs traditions; honey used by my son Will on the parallel bars; skiing with my family and my goal to do it for 50 more years; the end of treatment for breast cancer—April!  All of these have been writing themselves for weeks or months. 

Then, there’s the more recent story spinning.  A point where my favorite poem, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” mingles with an unexpected lizard bath. 

This stanza from Wordsworth’s poem…

“For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They (daffodils) flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.”

… meets at a strange point of juxtaposition: The sight of my friend’s white lizard having a gentle soak in her kitchen sink late last fall is as pleasure-filled on my inward eye as the sight of spring daffodils.  

But I’m not writing about any of the above topics today. 

(Still, this lizard is giving me a strange sense of peace, and it’s a bit perplexing as I’m not a big fan of reptilian or rodent-esque pets.  But I’ll accept this most pleasing vision and not ponder why.)

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been researching how to market my book.  I’ve decided I need to create new warm audiences.  To introduce my book to new markets—that’s the next phase of the Cornfields to Codfish journey. 

There is a rather overwhelming abundance of possibilities in how to do this.  I’ve prioritized my top three: First, I’ll be sending a copy of my book to small independent bookstores in the Midwest and in New England.  Second, the plan includes sending press releases to book reviewers at newspapers in these same markets.  Third, I’m spearheading a marketing group within my local writing community, The Room to Write, to create a bit of camaraderie with other recently published authors who may also be scratching their heads wondering, “What now?”

While those are the goals, today I’m thinking about tactics, particularly, book reviews.  In all that I’ve been reading, the marketing of books begins with reviews.  They form the base of how authors’ books gain legitimacy.  Most likely, when book store owners or book reviewers at newspapers receive word of a newly published book, they turn to the Internet and look for reviews.  And if someone recommends a book to me, guess what I do?  I check out the reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. 

Today I’d like to ask for your help in filling my Cornfields to Codfish review piggy bank.  I have one review right now—the first building block as been laid!  I rarely write reviews after reading books, but knowing now how valuable they are to authors, I’m going to start.   But how?  I found a good article that I would like to share with you: How to Write a Good Book Review.  I’ve received so many wonderful comments and notes from many of you—it would be most appreciated if you would carry these comments over to Goodreads and Amazon!

One thing I find fascinating from feedback is how people have been reading Cornfields to Codfish.  One reader said that she “reads one or two, then chews on them for a day or two” before reading more.  I think potential readers would like to hear how other readers are “consuming” the essays—all in one weekend or over several days or weeks?

If you’re up for it, I would so appreciate you leaving reviews on Goodreads and/or Amazon for potential new readers to see.  Thanks in advance for any reviews you put forth into the virtual world at your fingertips!

Whew, much newness abounds!  This week, I’m thankful for the strangely calming vision of the white lizard peacefully sitting like a king in his kitchen-sink bathtub.

:)

Linda

A Study on Word Origins: Fobben

My younger son Liam has confidently projected that I will make $100,000 on my book.  That’s led to some interesting discussions regarding gross sales and net profit—and probability.  Do I include a decade of expenses in the creation of Cornfields to Codfish? Or was writing a hobby up to the point of when I started polishing essays that would be in the book?  Do flights to Iowa that brought back memories that inspired many of the essays go against the bottom line?  What about beach entrance fees and swordfish dinners over the years?

My family celebrated Christmas in Iowa at Thanksgiving time last year.  The Thursday after Thanksgiving, I had a book signing at Laree’s, a gift shop in Independence.  Bill and my sons flew home after the Thanksgiving weekend, but I stayed in Iowa.  It’s cut and dried that the car rental expense became a writing expense after I dropped them off at the Cedar Rapids airport.  My intent was to visit book stores and gift shops in northeast Iowa to hawk my wares, er, my book.  A bad cold slowed me down, so after a quick trip to the Luther College Bookstore, I spent the rest of the week leading up to the book signing on Mom and Dad’s couch fighting the season’s first yuck.

The rental car sat motionless.  An expensive expense.  The long driveway off the road at Mom and Dad’s is gravel, and it leads to a large open area bordered by the house to the south; Mom’s green house, a small open garage, and a hay shed to the west; the barn to the north; and a corn crib/storage building to the east.  I had parked out of the way, next to the garbage barrel that sits off to the west of the drive. 

Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve criss-crossed definitions: In Massachusetts, we have garbage cans that we haul to the curb every week.  In Iowa, we have two burn barrels where Dad burns the trash from the house every morning.  The two burn barrels are 55-gallon steel drums, the kind used to transport oil.  When they get full of ash, Dad hauls them out back and buries the ash.  

When I was growing up, everything but food waste and glass went into the trash and ended up in these incinerators.  Now, Mom and Dad recycle all cans, plastic, and glass.  They gather those pieces in huge recycle bags in the basement then take them to town to turn in at a recycling center.  They get five cents each for pop cans, or soda cans, depending on where you live and what you call them.  All food waste goes in a “cat pan” that Dad takes out back to dump.  I remember when I left the farm and started cooking my own meals how confusing it was to either throw food waste in the garbage or down the garbage disposal.  A cat pan still seems more organic than either of those disposal methods.

Dad asked me to move my car one morning so he could burn trash.  I backed the car out and parked it at a safe distance away in front of the barn.  Looking around the car, I gathered up the strewn garbage, putting water bottles for recycling in my left hand and garbage in my right.  I met Dad at the back door as he was taking the garbage out.  “Wait,” I said, “I have some trash from the car.”

“Push it down in there or the wind will blow it away,” Dad replied.  So I stuffed the Goldfish packages and candy bar wrappers into the kitchen garbage can.  Then I threw the bottles in the bin next to the stove where recyclables were collected. 

Later that day, I was going to visit my nieces who live a couple miles away from Mom and Dad’s.  My heart dropped to my toes when I reached for my keys.  Whenever I walk into my parents’ house, I kick off my shoes and immediately go to the kitchen to hang up the car keys on the big key holder that hangs above the calendar.  The key holder is a flat piece of wood with ten or so hooks; I hang my key ring in the bottom row on the first or second hook from the right.  This habit is as ingrained in me as closing the door when I leave the house.

The key wasn’t on either hook.  I didn’t need to look for it.  I knew where it was.  Melting in the burn barrel.  I had my finger through the key chain when I was bringing the trash in; I had double-checked it was there as I walked across the gravel drive with my hands full.  I would need to drive an hour and a half back to the airport to get another key.

Wait, did I say “key”?  Ah, I should’ve said “fob.”  And this was the kind of fob that had a computer chip to enable the car to start with the push of a button.  And with the advent of said fob, I soon discovered that the car rental company no longer keeps a spare on hand.  Rather, the renter needs to call a locksmith to come out and make a new “key” on site.  Unfortunate events continued to unfold:  The farm is 30 miles from the nearest locksmith.  The fob costs $300 to reprogram.  The service call costs $200.  That annual fee we pay for AAA insurance doesn’t cover loss of rental car keys. 

I’ve always thought the phrase “nausea swept over me” was a bit of overwriting and melodramatic.  The unfolding of the above scene proved me wrong. 

The gross on my book sales didn’t change, but the net took a serious hit that day.  A sickening hit.  With this event, the trip became not a sales event but a promotional event.

Before this, I wasn’t a fan of key-less vehicles.  If there had been a real key, I would’ve heard it jingle as a pushed it into the trash can.  Surely, I would’ve.  As I write the word “fob,” I think what a strange word it is.  Sometimes it helps to learn more about your enemy.  I turn to Merriam Webster where fob is defined as a “small trinket . . . attached to a key ring.”  Fob originated from the Middle English word fobben.  To trick or cheat.

As I write this, yet another wave of nausea sweeps over me.

Roots and Rocks

Last week in the van when I was driving Liam to basketball practice, I asked him to check the calendar on my phone and confirm we were going to the right gym.  When he opened my calendar, April was in view.  I had spent that day with my son Will planning college visits for spring break.  Liam was shocked, “Mom, you’re living so far ahead of yourself!”

And that was only what Liam saw on the calendar, never mind all the futuring going on in my head.  Honest to Pete, that’s what it is… “futuring.”  It’s as active a word as “googling.”  Some of that brain power is spent in planning, but if I don’t have my calendar at hand, whether I’m driving or going for a walk or even in the middle of a conversation, I start futuring.  Thinking about plans without actually making them.

Last week, the unsettledness from this verb that’s filled with mental calisthenics collided with the lack of a snowy winter.  I’m a woman who thrives on the change of seasons — the routine and predictability of that change.  My seasonal calendar paints the picture of January and February covered in white.  But there is no snow on the ground.  In Massachusetts right now, I’m living a cold version of an English winter.  My surroundings are stranded in the dreariness of late November when all the grass is dead and the trees are leafless.

I tore this quote out of magazine last week; it’s from John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America… “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”  Indeed.

My snowshoes lay dormant as do my Yak trax, those spiky metal contraptions that I attach to my boots so that I can walk on frozen, icy terra.  One cloudy, 40-degree morning last week, I pulled out my backpack that holds a reservoir of water linked to a hose that clicks neatly in place on the shoulder strap. On the end of the hose is a valve/mouthpiece for hands free drinking.  I was going for a hike, not a walk, so I didn’t want a water bottle in one hand.  Hiking means having both hands free to hold on to trees or crawl over rocks. 

I knew the trail I needed: the rough one around the lower lake in Breakheart Reservation.  I walk the paved path often, but I needed something else.  I couldn’t put words to what that something was until I was on the path.  The trail follows the water’s edge.  As I started hiking, the futuring stopped.  My eyes picked a path, scouting just six feet in front of me.  My internal energies flowed to the physical movement over roots and rocks.  If I let my mind wonder too far from these obstacles, I would trip and fall.

A quarter of a mile into this three-mile journey, I had a thought: coyotes.  Hadn’t Bill just told me about a rabid coyote that had been spotted in this area?  I cussed and scanned the rocks to my right.  All was in sepia, so a still coyote would’ve blended in perfectly.  Not ten paces from this thought, I saw a thick, short stick laying a few feet up the hill from the path.  I climbed using all fours and grabbed it.  Whether shed from another hiker or just dropped naturally in the right spot, it was the walking stick/weapon that I needed.  The coyote futuring stopped as I continued on, trusting in my ability to ward of coyotes with this stick. 

Nearly half way through the hike, I heard another hiker coming toward me.  We were only ten feet apart before he finally realized I was there.  He didn’t startle but rather greeted me with a calm, “Oh, hello!”  As if we had just bumped into one another on a sidewalk.  This man had a real walking stick and based on the intensity with which he walked, I knew he often hiked this trail.  There was no evidence of futuring on his face. 

I maneuvered over streams, around downed tree limbs, and over boulders.  When the path occasionally vanished, I stopped to scan the terrain and look for a tree with a blaze marking the path.  The splotch of paint was reaffirming: I was still on the path.  Funny that I felt comforted by that splotch; after all, I was on a trail that ringed the lake.  I couldn’t get too far off track. I stuck to the path until I completed a full loop; then I took an offshoot path through the woods that dropped me back onto the paved path near the parking lot.

Purposefully clambering over roots and rocks pulled me to the earth.  Closer to where I was – not so far ahead of myself.

White Rabbit

My eyes opened to a bit of a panic this morning.  It was brighter out than normal, and my alarm hadn’t gone off yet.  After a short series of mental math problems that felt like calculus, I realized it was Saturday.  My body stole nine extra morning minutes, waking up at 6:39 rather than 6:30.  That nine minutes of light appeared distinguishable this morning.

Bill asked what time it was then closed his eyes.  In the bathroom, I continued the math lesson and landing on the day of the month, February 1st, I tiptoed to our bedroom door and whisper yelled to Bill, “White Rabbit!”  Finally, a win!   It had been a couple of months. We’ve been doing this since we first met: Whoever says “white rabbit” first on the first day of the month wins. 

white rabbit with clock.jpeg

For 31 years we’ve been doing this.  And this morning, I put fingers to the keyboard to figure out why.  For us, it’s always been a competition.  It’s an exhilarating first win of the month if you get it! 

We’ve pulled Liam into the fray. I had a bit of a losing streak in 2019.  Bill must have won 80% of the time with me.  He hears me getting out of bed and without opening his eyes, he can muster up morning math quick enough to get in the first “white rabbit.”  Liam is an early riser like me, so I get him; we form an alliance; and I send him upstairs to get Bill.  Having everyone win once feels good.  Bill would disagree with that sentiment, no matter all the years his mum tried to coax him to not be so competitive. 

The internet claims that it’s more of a superstition: saying “white rabbit” – or some version of that: “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit” or “rabbit, rabbit” – brings you good luck for the month.  A Liverpool source claims that in World War II the Royal Air Force bombers said “white rabbits” every day when they woke up to protect themselves for the day.  The same article says that in order for “white rabbit” to bring good luck, it must be spoken out loud and be the first thing said on the first of the month. 

So it would appear to be more of phrase for luck that anyone can murmur out loud on the first of the month.  That it’s not a competition but rather a superstition.  Except in the Malcolm house. 

West Point Expectations

My habit of helping fails under my own roof when it comes to assisting Will or Liam with homework and organizing how to get it done.  Five years ago, I was overwhelmed with Will’s move to sixth grade at a new school; I couldn’t fathom how he, a little 10-year-old, would be able to manage a daily class schedule that was on a seven-day rotation, plus a heavy load of homework every evening.  

After a week of my “helping,” Will and I were both in tears.  At my husband Bill’s suggestion, I stepped back and let Will work it out.  Now, I work out the driving schedule but am far removed from any of the day-to-day workings of Will or Liam’s school life.  Their grades are good, so I refrain from getting the waters murky with the regular dabble of my fingers in their business.

For Will, I’ve learned that when he’s stressed I will hear about it, but that I’m the safe place to release.  Generally, Will is independent and has no interest in my attempt to help beyond providing giant ears.  Last year, I did suggest that he perhaps skip a gymnastics practice to make more time to fit in a project that he was worried about.  “Are you kidding me?? That’s the only thing that keeps me going!”  Will has a better work/exercise balance in place than most adults.

Will is a junior this year which means the eyes of the college admissions counselors are getting ever closer.  The GPA submitted on college applications next fall relies heavily on how this year progresses.  Will has a natural will to learn, but getting that almighty grade trespasses through him daily. 

With midterms this week and next, Will packed his school backpack to take to the gymnastics meet at West Point Military Academy last weekend.   We were leaving Friday night and wouldn’t return until Sunday afternoon.  With a four-hour car ride, I thought it seemed like a good idea for Will to try to get studying in on the drives.

This is the fourth or fifth year the team has traveled to New York for this meet.  It has become a highlight of the year: a competitive meet in a major arena and families together in a hotel for a couple of nights.  We have known some of these families for at least six or seven years.  To me, this weekend means intense competition for the gymnastics team and then after the meet, having an evening of laughs while relaxing with friends back at the hotel.   

Customarily, on Saturday evening, the boys swim and hang out in one another’s rooms, and at some point, they all end up around a table in the lobby playing games.  This is tradition – that group of young men scrunched around a table chatting and laughing for a couple of hours.  During competition over the years, they have become more focused and serious.  Back at the hotel, they regain their youthfulness. 

This year, around ten boys, plus their families, were at the hotel on Saturday night following that afternoon’s competition.  The weekend of competition is divided among gymnastics levels, and most of the boys, including Will, had competed Saturday while a few would be competing Sunday.  After the Saturday afternoon meet, as Will was walking from the car to the hotel, he said that he was going to study for a while.  I turned to him – just short of turning on him – and said, “No, you will not.”  He was taken aback.  I backed down a bit. “It’s your choice, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  I kept walking.

Why did Will’s utterance of his plan to study feel like a gut punch?  Planning this weekend took effort, time, and money – was that why?  Only partly.  The intrinsic value of pulling this weekend together lay at the root of my retort. 

“West Point” is a gem.  A weekend of working and competing.  A weekend of being a kid with a bunch of buddies, of being completely present.  Those moments don’t happen often in everyday life.  This place was ripe for those interactions – a kind of bubble of raw youth.

In the lobby with his teammates, I heard Will say, “Yeah, my mom told me not to do homework.”  And he didn’t.  I went to bed a couple of hours before the party broke up; they were firmly anchored in loud camaraderie when I left the lobby.

We arrived home Sunday at 3 p.m., and Will disappeared to his bedroom to do homework.  By 10 p.m., he had finished what needed to be done for school Monday.  On Monday, he texted from school that he needed to skip practice that evening to get some extra study time in.  I don’t know if that was a result of not bowing out of the West-Point-Saturday-night follies.  I do know that those West Point evenings with his friends will be long remembered – more so than missing a gymnastics practice or stealing away to do homework on that trip.

Snow at Stowe

When we were young travelers, Bill and I bought into a Caribbean timeshare.  When we were older travelers, we bought into a second timeshare at a ski resort in Vermont.   With these two enigmatic accommodations, we are sometimes left with only a couple months to book before the points expire or our exchange evaporates.  That’s what prompted a quick trip to ski in Vermont after Christmas.

I booked the only room available near a ski resort: Killington, Vermont, a ski area a little over two-and-a-half hours north then west from us.  A week before our trip, I heard from our timeshare conglomerate: The place we had reserved had been overbooked, but they had rebooked us in a spot near Stowe, Vermont.  This trip would be a little over three hours; Stowe is farther north than Killington, a straighter northwesterly drive. 

The town of Stowe is a fifteen-minute drive from the ski area.  Stowe was quintessential winter in New England with quaint shops, upscale restaurants, and – most importantly – snow.  I was happy with the change, for Will had never skied there and being farther north perhaps meant more snow.  However, I didn’t let on to that with the timeshare conglomerate; my unhappiness was met with a refund of all fees associated with booking these accommodations.

This was going to be a trip for my older son Will and me.  Liam had plans with friends that week, so Bill and I divided forces: I would ski with Will while Bill would entertain Liam and his friends.  However, after long flights to and from England for Christmas, my hips were back talking.  I couldn’t justify a lift ticket for myself if by chance my hips were not in the mood to ski.  Thinking I would write in our unit during the day and perhaps snowshoe or hike, I packed accordingly: a combined ten-plus pounds of reading books, spiral-bound journals, notebooks, and a leather gratitude journal. I covered all bases for what I might feel like reading or writing.  I took layers of clothes with me, short ankle boots, snowshoes, Yak trak grippers that attach to the bottoms of my boots for hiking, and gators which are clever waterproof pieces of fabric that cover the boot and lower legs to keep the snow out when snowshoeing. 

Will and I arrived in the dark at 5 p.m. on New Year’s Eve to find our keys left in a “Late Arrivals” box outside the door.  In fact, the office was closed the first three days we were there, as only an answering machine picked up when I tried to call the “front desk.” 

The van grumbled a bit going up the hilly drive to building “E” which was built on the side of the hill.  Er, mountain.  Its four floors towered above all the other buildings; it was most impressive until we noticed where the “ground floor” was… up 38 exterior wooden steps.  Our unit was on the third floor.  An additional 34 steps.  We first took groceries up in my trusty, huge, reusable bags from Sainsbury’s (pronounced something like “sanes’-breeze”), a grocery chain in England.  There was no way I could tote my big suitcase up those stairs.  I emptied the grocery bags and took them back down to the van where I moved everything from my suitcase to the two shopping bags.  With four trips, Will and I transported everything we needed up those stairs.

We were staying in a two-bedroom unit with a full kitchen and two bathrooms.  That sounded rather luxurious until its simple truth was revealed.  The lights didn’t work in the bedroom – unless I wrapped the lamp cord just so around the bedside table.  Huge pieces of wallpaper were peeling off the wall under the windows. In looking for an outlet near the bed, I followed a lamp cord behind the bed but couldn’t see to find the outlet.  I pulled the headboard to move the bed away from the wall.  The headboard promptly fell off the wall; it was a wanna-be headboard. In my continued efforts to find the outlet, I leaned on the pillows – and the lamp went out.  When I pulled away from the pillows, the lamp came on.  I tested this phenomenon a dozen times, and it worked like a perfect lab test.

Once unpacked, I decided to watch TV before going to bed.  As I sat down, the creaking springs from the pull-out sofa stuffed inside made me jump.  I felt like I was atop an arrow firmly strung and ready to be launched from the bow.  That night, with the radiator heat spewing forth, I slept with the window six inches open; by morning it was a comfortable 66 degrees in the bedroom.  A hot shower sounded good.  Until I pulled back the shower curtain to see a washcloth under the faucet. The cloth was covered in neon orange goo.  The trail of orange led to the shampoo dispenser anchored above on the shower wall. The washcloth was the apparent “fix” to this leak.  I threw the cloth out and ran the water.  Six inches of the much-too-long shower curtain floated on the bottom of the tub.  Was I any cleaner when I stepped out?

In the wee morning hours at the table near the kitchen, I read the rules and instructions on how to best use our timeshares. Beyond these early morning hours when Will was still asleep, I couldn’t spend my daylight hours in this elevated pit. I dropped Will off each morning at ten to ski; then I donned my snowshoes or boots and went into the snowy landscape.

Out was better than in these three days in Vermont.  Out was pristine.

Check out the New England Photo Gallery for more shots of Snow at Stowe!

Christmas Day Endorphins

Looking out across the fields from the far end of the cricket pitch. The dead tree is as permanent a fixture as is Lord Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, London. Country lanes spike out from here, connecting walkers to villages and pubs.

Upon our mid-day arrival at Bill’s family’s house on a blue-sky Christmas Day, we immediately struck out for the cricket pitch.  When the sun appears in England, you act fast. A couple days before we flew to England, I remembered how muddy the boys’ sneakers get on these walks and quickly sorted out low-cut boots for both of them to take.  Snow boots are too hot and rubber Wellies are too cold. The boots with leather soles that wrap up the lower portion of the shoes worked a wonder for this muddy outing.

Our brother-in-law Graham takes the helm in the kitchen for abundantly amazing Christmas dinners.  On Christmas Eve, he baked the gammon and prepped the vegetables: carrots, potatoes, parsnips, broccoli, cauliflower, and brussel sprouts.  He made black olive and caper tapenade from scratch, plus two gravies, cranberry stuffing, Yorkshire pudding batter, and little sausages wrapped in bacon.  Given all this prep the day before and throughout Christmas morning — and having just put the turkey into the oven for our evening dinner — Graham joined us for the walk.  

We looked like a motley crew walking along the gravel path: four of us in winter coats, one in a lighter coat, and Liam and I in short-sleeved t-shirts. Every body reacts differently to 45 degrees and bright sun.  The fresh air brightened us up and invigorated our step, and in our minds, the hour-long walk made more room for Christmas dinner.

Back at the house we kicked off our boots and shoes, put the kettle on for tea, and moved to the sitting room. We returned from our walk with twenty minutes to spare until the Queen’s Speech started at 3 p.m. As long as I’ve been part of the family, watching the Queen’s speech on Christmas Day has been a steadfast anchor in Bill’s family. We may eat early or late, we may walk before or after Christmas dinner, but the Queen’s speech is a spike in the ground around which the rest of the afternoon spins, particularly when June was with us. Bill and Anne’s mum was a true dedicated royalist.

Following a live version of “God Save the Queen” played in the castle, the Queen’s five-minute speech started with historical highlights from the year: the 50th anniversary of Apollo and the 75th anniversary of D-Day. Video clips supported the speech throughout, like the one of Queen Elizabeth and German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, exchanging smiles in greeting. The Queen’s voice-over of that scene was “...faith and hope over time bring harmony and understanding…“ In this brief speech, Queen Elizabeth thanked the many charities and public protectors, and she acknowledged the new generation taking on major world issues, like climate change. The final family scene was of four heirs to the throne stirring up bowls of Christmas pudding in front of the Christmas tree. The seven-minute video of the Queen’s speech is worth the time, for I’m not summing up all that it encompasses in English pomp and circumstance.

The Christmas table preset in daylight when the garden and blue sky drew the eye outside. In the evening, the twinkle of lights and candles created a coziness inside the conservatory.

With the sun setting at 3:53 p.m., the twinkling lights in the conservatory, where we would be eating, transformed the room into a place of calm and magic.  The Christmas table was pristine. My sister-in-law Anne is a visual merchandising artist and has worked at John Lewis, a major English department store, for over twenty years.  Her Christmas tables look as stunning as the Christmas windows at her store.

The gold runner down the table was accented by a little lit tree in the middle of the table. Gold and white napkins, rolled and folded neatly in half, were tucked into Dartington wine glasses.  Gold Christmas crackers brightened each of the Denby dinner plates, the collection of Bill and Anne’s mum’s best pottery; it was reminiscent of the many Christmases celebrated with June. Silverware laid to the sides and above the plates reflected the sparkle of the lights.  

As the final push for Christmas dinner was underway, I sorted out drinks for Will and Liam.  I opted away from pedestaled wine glasses on the table and headed for the cupboard housing the coffee mugs.  I was intercepted by my sister-in-law with an eyebrow lift in jest, yet she meaningfully said, “You’re not going to put a coffee mug on my table, are you?  Here, how about these?”

She held out two narrow-based pint beer glasses etched with beer logos.  I lifted my eyebrows and thought, beer glasses? And said, “Maybe something with a wider base?” 

We settled on short-stemmed crystal brandy snifters.

The back and forth to and from the kitchen started with moving all plates to the warmer in the kitchen, two pitchers of gravy to the table, and vegetable bowls to the table.  The turkey, ham, bacon-wrapped sausages, and stuffing, plus Will and Liam’s steaks, would be served up from the kitchen; all the vegetables would be dished up and served family-style in Denby bowls that would line the center of the table. On one trip, movement on my sister-in-law’s feet caught my eye. I lifted my eyebrows and said, “You’re walking around with toilet paper stuck to the bottoms of both of your slippers, and you’re telling me not to use mugs on the table?”  

To which neither of our eyebrows could lift because our faces were pinched with laughter.  Paralyzing laughter. She nor I could move. She managed to eke out the words “paper towel” and “wet floor,” but the scene had been set and couldn’t be unseen.

Our sons drew nearer to see the spectacle of us and wondered out loud what was wrong.  In all the seriousness of preparation for Christmas, our untimely and out of character outburst of the giggles concerned them.  Only she and I could have explained the whole story, and neither of us could.  The string of communication between the two of us built this sketch into an inexplicability. We moved in turns toward the bathroom to regain our composure.

Hours later while she and I sat in the kitchen, the memory flicked, and I was caught up reliving the belly laugh.  Without a word as to what had set me off, she quickly caught the bug. Each of us was immobilized by the memory, barely catching a breath between chortles of laughter. Again, concerned boys and men came to our side.  

Any game we had played for a bit of good cheer could not have come close to our Christmas Day burst of endorphins.

A Strong Pencil Tree

That missing week this year between Thanksgiving and Christmas is pinching me!  The number of days left between now and Christmas is fewer than the number of tubs of Christmas decorations in the loft.  Consequently, I’m skipping over the tubs of Santas and Christmas-y snowmen.  I’ve decorated the mantle above the fireplace with snowflakes, pinecone trees, and wooden skis – all things that will hold us through the winter season.  They will stay put until April when Easter pushes us through the snowdrifts.

On the shelves where all the Santas usually gather, we’re displaying Christmas cards from friends and family.  And wherever there are safe spaces for burning wax, I’ve tucked votive candles or tapers into the mix.  In the coming nights, my goal is to light the candles as I did on the first night after decorating all day.  Their flickering light is quiet and peaceful.  Simple and calming.  

With only two weeks until we travel to England for Christmas, I decided to put up an artificial, skinny, pre-lit, pencil tree.  Every year, we put a real tree up, and it was tough to let that tradition slide.  However, I remembered that last year the tree we bought from the tree lot drooped and started shaking off ornaments a week before Christmas.  The needles turned brown and dropped.  No matter how much water we put in the tree stand, it was simply done.

In a move so quick it startled Bill and the boys, I dismantled it: I took every ornament off and placed it on the living room table, grabbed the tree from the top and tipped it over, lugged it to and through the door and out to the curb.  Needles and water sprayed everywhere from the wood floor and carpet through the back door and all over the deck as I maneuvered it out.  This was the normal tree-removal procedure – only it usually takes place on January 6th.  With the dead tree out, I set up three little fake trees that I scavenged from the barn loft and re-hung all the ornaments.

So this is not the first year we set up a fake tree.  I had ordered the pencil tree, a very skinny fake tree, a couple years ago thinking I would put it up in the dining room and make it a themed tree, perhaps all snowmen or Hallmark ornaments or the big glass baubles from Aunt Marsha.  Instead, its slight silhouette is in the living room, filling only a quarter of the space our very round Frasier firs usually take up.  I was near tears putting this pitiful thing up.  Its main branches dropped down into place and then I fanned out the smaller branches to fill in the gaps.  Rather than flimsy live (but dead) wood, each branch is wire and shaped easily into place. 

As I felt the strength of the wire, it became clear what ornaments would be hanging on the tree.  I wouldn’t be gathering four tubs of ornaments and picking through them to hang a variety from each tub on the tree.  The handmade lightweight ornaments, the kids’ ornaments, the plain glass balls, and the thin glass icicles are taking a rest this year.  The theme is practical: I have a tree with strong branches; I would be hanging only heavy ornaments – the ones that didn’t all make it on the soft branches of our past real trees. 

I hauled up from the basement one small but stout tub labeled: “heavy ornaments: Aunt Marsha, Aunt Mary, clay, metal, wood.”  In past years, only a handful of these ornaments would fit on the tree, tucked inside where the thicker branches could support their weight. Not the case this year. I’m liking this little change in tradition with “our Aunts’ tree.”

Wishing you merriness and light…

A Warm Winter Air Bubble

My family was in Iowa celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas over the long weekend.  The house filled as the weekend approached; we were celebrating Christmas on Saturday.  On Thanksgiving night, our sons and three of their cousins were spread throughout the living room on the couches and on a queen-size air mattress, plus one sleeping bag.   In my logistical planning of where all those teenage bodies – plus one a bit younger in age but a teenager in spirit – would land to sleep, I had one free bed in the room where Bill and I slept, and I thought it would be fine for our younger son Liam.  Not so. 

“Mom, I’ll miss out!  Just grab a sleeping bag for me, and I’ll sleep on the floor next to the air mattress.”  So his long-legged body stretched out as he planned, virtually under the Christmas tree.  And close to the action of giggles and whispers long after I had gone to bed. 

Any more, I bow out quietly with a good night and little direction for when the crew should go to sleep.  This was a short three-day visit with the cousins together.  Rather than “Lights out in ten minutes!” direction, I found myself quietly thinking, “Make the most of it.”

Most mornings around five, Dad and I met at the kitchen table.  We dared to turn a light on, knowing the glow would shine into the living room.  We had limited whispered conversation until Dad turned the news on at six and sat close to the TV to hear it.  By seven, a couple other people had joined us and only the soundest of sleepers stayed asleep in the living room. 

After our Christmas celebration, families dispersed.  Sunday night, Will and Liam were left alone on the couches.  Monday morning I woke up at four.  I thought if I left the lights off that Dad might stay in bed.  I made coffee by the light of my phone.  Rather than wrap myself into the glowing light of a screen, I decided to just sit quietly in a soft chair in the dark for a while. 

With the heat set around 64 degrees, I wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket.  The only sound was that of the forced-air sporadically coming through the floor vents.  How many times had I sat hovered over that vent on dark winter mornings?  Forty years ago, my siblings – my younger sister and two younger brothers – would get out of bed around six o’clock on school days.  The first one up would turn the thermostat up a bit to get the hot air flowing through those vents, then grab a big blanket or quilt.  That would go over the vent and capture the air in a kind of flat balloon.  In minutes, there would be four of us tucked in around the edges sharing this warm cocoon.  We would have smaller blankets wrapped around our backsides to keep the opposite sides of our bodies somewhat balanced in warmth.  We wouldn’t speak; we were like reptiles with a single goal: laying in the sun to warm up. 

Along the path to this pocket of heat, someone would’ve closed the bathroom doors so that room would be toasty when it was time for my sister or me to shower.  I remember little conversation about who would shower.  Perhaps something short like, “I went first yesterday, so you go first today.”  Neither of us looked forward to breaking out of that warm tub of air.  But 6:20 was the first shower shift.  We could both make it through the bathroom and get on the bus at 7:20 if we stuck to that 6:20 start time.

Since we had the air encapsulated under the blanket, we could get the furnace to run for a solid twenty minutes.  None of the warmth registered on the thermostat across the room from where we were tethered.  The ten-foot journey from the vent to the bathroom door was icy.  Yet when we opened that bathroom door, the warmth of a sauna would hit our faces.

We don’t huddle over that air vent any more, but we can drum up the same early morning warmth in the bathroom.

The Cover Photo!

I bumped into an Iowan several months ago. We had never met and didn’t recognize one another’s family names, even though we grew up only fifteen miles apart, with one town separating her hometown and mine.

Today, Angie Carlyle lives in western Iowa. Included among her many titles are beekeeper and photographer. We had the pleasure of chatting back and forth over a few days. Her talent with a camera is what prompted our conversations.

I spend some time every week putzing around on Facebook looking for groups who might someday be interested in what I write. “I Grew Up in Iowa” is one such group, and it’s there where I found Angie’s work.

When I visit Mom and Dad, there are a couple of times a day I disappear outside with my phone to take photos – at sunrise or about an hour before sunset. The latter being my favorite, for the light at that time is like truth serum pouring over trees, fields, buildings, equipment, dirt, and flowers. There are no purer nor more vibrant colors than from that last powerful light of the day.

I’m certain that’s why Angie’s work caught my eye. She sees Iowa light the way I do. Anyone can take pictures of silos, barns, horses, and hydrants, but when a photographer can capture those back road images in the richness of the right light, the result conveys a stunning portrayal of the spirit of place. Those images seize moments full of ambiance, character, and tone. They present a motionless scene peppered with ethereal life.

Here’s a sample of her work – mocked up with my working book cover! I’m delighted to have met this fellow Iowan and so grateful for her talents. Her cover photo and my essays make for a great team.

Now, go for a late afternoon stroll through Iowa via Angie’s camera lens on her Facebook page, Iowa Back Road Images. Enjoy her photos as you indulge in the magic of Iowa light!

Where can I buy *Cornfields to Codfish*?

On Wednesday, November 5, 2019, Cornfields to Codfish moved from the design phase to the printing phase!  After a little celebratory lunch with my husband Bill, I switched from creative writer mode to marketing author mode: How do I sell my book? 

Over the last several months marketing ideas have been simmering away on the back burner – now, it’s time to put plans into practice.  I’m writing copy for press releases, a book sell sheet, and a detailed bio for people who don’t yet know me or my writing.  Today, I’m taking a short break from that to write to you. 

I am ironing out details for selling my book. Here are some tidbits I thought I’d share with you today:

1. *Cornfields to Codfish* will be available to ship the first week of December 2019! The retail price is $16.99, before tax & shipping.

2. Soon I will start pre-selling signed copies via my website. The last day to order will be Saturday, December 14, 2019. That cut-off date will allow for packing and shipping in time for the holidays.

3. For Massachusetts locals: I’m working with a couple of shops in Wakefield and Reading, hoping they will carry *Cornfields to Codfish*. Stay tuned!

4. For those of you who live near Independence, Iowa: I’m delighted that Laree's will be selling *Cornfields to Codfish*!

5. For those of you in England: Please email or message me if you would like a book; I’m working on shipping possibilities for those of you who live across the pond in my husband Bill's old stomping grounds.

6. If you have an independent book store near you, that bookseller will be able to order *Cornfields to Codfish* for you.

7. And finally, *Cornfields to Codfish* will also be available through major online book retailers.

Exciting times! Stay tuned for updates!

 Now to answer the question, “What is Cornfields to Codfish about?”

What is *Cornfields to Codfish* about?

From milking cows on the farm in Iowa to picking up mermaid’s purses on the beach in Massachusetts, Cornfields to Codfish celebrates the Midwest and New England via short personal essays. Malcolm takes readers on a journey and entices her readers’ senses along the way.

In "Cornfields" Malcolm reflects on farm life: from milking cows in a warm winter barn and walking beans at sunrise to hunting morel mushrooms in the timber and "doing corn" picked fresh from the field.

"Codfish" explores life near the Atlantic coast through the eyes of a Midwesterner: from treasure seeking on the beaches of Massachusetts and skiing in the mountains of New England to deep-sea fishing off the fishing port of Gloucester and hiking in the Berkshires.

Finally, in "A Menagerie of Recipes," Malcolm lures readers to the kitchen with 18 diverse recipes reminiscent of essays in her book: from chicken stock and braised roast beef to grilled swordfish and mushroom risotto. Just reading the recipes livens the taste buds with textures and aromas emitted from onions and fennel on a chopping board, simmering sauces and soups on the stovetop, and desserts and rolls coming out of the oven piping hot.

Where can I buy Cornfields to Codfish?

*Cornfields to Codfish* News!

Cornfields to Codfish is now in the design phase at the publishing company!

I’ve received the first draft in a pdf file with the manuscript laid out as a book.  A book!  The copy is currently being proofread by a professional proofreading company that I found on-line.  Coincidentally, the proofreading company is located in Iowa and most of the proofreaders have a PhD in English or an MFA in Creative Writing – many from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, a prestigious writing program at the University of Iowa.  In addition to positive online reviews of the company, I admit that I was lured a bit into the contract by their location. 

When the copy comes back from the proofreader, I will need to make line by line changes to the draft that the publishing company sent to me.  I’m teetering on an emotional fence that separates exhilarating and terrifying.  This is the last go around for changes.  I do feel better having pulled in professional perfectionists to help with this final stage.  As I don’t get paid for my perfectionist tendencies, I’m only an amateur.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve been pulling to the frontal lobe old marketing theory from my days as a business major at Luther College – and weaving that into modern day online marketing strategies.  Later this month, I will be launching a marketing campaign to promote the launch of Cornfields to Codfish.  I have some ideas simmering away on how to spread goodwill for my book before the actual launch; I will share those with you as the plan comes together. 

An aside: I had considered having a local book launch party, but it felt a bit hollow as so many of you are scattered near and far.  By having a “virtual launch,” it doesn’t matter where you live – we can celebrate together as this adventure unfolds!  We’ve been in this together for a very long time, and I have no words to fully convey my gratitude.  A few tears, but no words beyond “thank you.”

I’m confident that Cornfields to Codfish will be on the market in time for holiday shopping!  While I don’t have a definite date, I believe a November book launch is doable.  My intent is to have autographed copies available to purchase through my website for a limited time – logistically, until mid-December so that copies that I personally ship arrive in plenty of time for the holidays.  Un-autographed copies will be available by ordering through small book retailers as well as large online sellers.  Being an “Indie Author,” I have a soft spot in my heart for “Indie Booksellers.”  Where time and access allow, I hope readers order copies through their local bookstores.

The timing of publishing Cornfields to Codfish feels right: Iowa cornfields are turning gold; farm stands and orchards in Massachusetts are rich with pumpkins and apples – it’s time to harvest and glean all that’s good from a long growing period.