There's a family situation that needs me There, not Here. It's not a life-threatening situation. Basically, one of my sisters needs an extra set of hands to help out. This is what sisters do, so I'll be winging my way There in the Friendly Skies. Everything's going to be fine, just one of those things. But I won't be able to post for a bit...don't think there will be extra time.
I'll catch up with you later :)))
XOXO Kittie
Monday, November 8, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Fun Challenges; A Lion Lives in an Oak Tree (Louisiana Stories)
You may not know this about me but I rarely enter contests. Today, though, I've entered Rach's Second Crusader Challenge, a fun writing challenge as I had to weave the post's opening phrase (in italics) and three specific words into today's story. Can you find the three words??
What you do know about me is that I love sharing links. Madeline's got a fun link-up post at Scribble and Edit. If you've got a sec, please drop by and join in!
A big hug for Marieke, a YA writer, at Marieke's Musings for being my 200th Follower! Whoot!
And, now, today's Louisiana story:
* * * * *
The four of us huddled beneath the Live Oak tree and stared at the spoors. We worried a lion had hidden among the tree's massive branches and would see us, but were too curious not to look at what had to be lion droppings. We whispered because we didn't want Mama to hear us. She was working in her flower garden. It overflowed with mounds of fall chrysanthemums.
Word had spread along the bayou that over a million lions had escaped from the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. The ferocious animals had taken up residence along our twenty-five mile stretch of country road in South Central Louisiana. Parents wouldn't allow kids to play outside unless chaperoned. Farmers, like my grandfather, had moved cattle to different pastures. Fences had been checked, repaired and re-enforced where necessary. Dogs had been let loose at night to sound the alarm.
Since Sugar Bowl now had to sleep in the open and not in his doghouse, I worried a lion would eat him. Not everyone loved Sugar Bowl like I did. My black mutt ran in circles and howled until we kids shared sugary treats (which wasn't often in the 1950's). Maybe a lion would think Sugar Bowl looked like a treat. He'd eaten a lot of sugar yesterday. The ornery dog had snuck into the house, somehow toppled the sugar bowl and licked the kitchen table clean. Mama had been really mad at the mess she said he'd made.
Louis, Jr. scoffed at my worry. His lofty attitude had become an umbrella response to everything now that he'd entered first grade. My neighbor's son didn't think a lion would eat Sugar Bowl because Sugar Bowl was a boy. Lions feared boys. At the slight, I narrowed my blue eyes and scrunched my nose. Louis Jr. laughed at the pugnacity, but bolted from the group. Baby Joe, also my age, five-years-old, ran toward his friend, all the while daring Sarah and me to catch them in the open pasture.
The chase began as my mother dropped her gardening trowel into a basket. The clank of metal upon metal caused Sarah to stop. My three-year-old sister wanted to help Mama gather stems of orange and yellow chrysanthemums for a vase in the living room. Mama preferred that Sarah played and got some exercise.
Crocodile tears gushed from Sarah's big blue eyes and rolled down rose-petal cheeks. I tugged on her hand. Again, Mama encouraged Sarah; they'd gather flowers later. A bit peeved, Sarah shook her mop of sandy curls, then snuggled into me to ponder the options while Mama walked to the porch. Sarah's brown Teddy bear dangled from her hand and brushed my bare legs.
It was one of those corn silk afternoons when birds chirped, bees buzzed and sunbeams blurred time. October's pumpkin sun had muted South Louisiana's searing heat and softened long afternoons into an autumnal skeleton that danced on gentle breezes. Mama's shoulder-length blond hair shimmered like golden topaz in the porch's reflected light. My mother, a city gal from New Orleans with a German, not Cajun heritage, settled herself into a white rocking chair. The view overlooked an expanse of flat delta and bayou she had yet come to love.
When Sarah refused to leave my side, Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe laughed that she couldn't run with a Teddy bear. To everyone's surprise, Sarah dropped her beloved companion and lurched forward. The boys, who had sisters, knew how to play into the game. They allowed Sarah to catch them, then impersonated defeated roles to much applause and good-natured laughter.
After Sarah joined Mama on the porch, Louis, Jr., Baby Joe and I played tag. Sugar Bowl chased us as we ran barefoot across flat-lying sticker plant without fear of being stuck by white pincers. We ran and ran, from one side of the pasture to the other, from my grandparents' house to my parents' house. We ran and tagged each other for the sheer joy of having fun.
When our little legs grew tired, we returned to the porch. After Mama tethered Sugar Bowl in the backyard, she surprised us with homemade sugar cookies and cold milk. (Yes, Sugar Bowl received a treat later!) Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe then walked home, along the country road that fronted our fenced-in farm, but both houses within easy sight.
That evening, after supper (Kartoffelpuffer or German pancakes topped with applesauce) and after Sarah and I had prepared for bed, Mama said that we couldn't leave our bedroom (except to go to the bathroom.) A Louisiana Black bear, sometimes called a Honey bear, had wandered out of the densely wooded area at the deep end of the farm.
Men, including my father, would lie in wait for the bear to appear that night. A veterinarian would sedate the bear with a dart. The bear, thought to be a grown male, had been seen during the previous week, always at dusk. He hadn't appeared malnourished and was thought to have a serious infection. The veterinarian wanted to check for festering sores, also the bear's teeth. The possibility existed the bear had contracted rabies and would have to be put down. But the men who'd seen the bear didn't think the situation would come to this. The bear hadn't exhibited rabies-induced behavior. Still, the men would be armed.
Parents had spread the rumor about escaped lions because most of us kids had a Teddy bear. Parents worried that kids would think the bear was cute and harmless and try to pet it. Although the bear hadn't entered front pastures during the day, the mature animal had learned to navigate front pastures during the night.
Sarah and I slept through the excitement. Around midnight, the bear had appeared in the pasture behind the Live Oak tree where we kids had huddled, was sedated and found to have an infected cut. After cleaning the infection and injecting the bear with antibiotics, the men left the bear to sleep off the sedation and returned home.
No one saw the bear or any spoor in the pastures again.
When winter came and leaves had fallen, my father and others searched the skeletal forest. They discovered the den where the bear hibernated. They let him be.
In the spring, my grandfather allowed some cleared acreage that bordered the forest to return to its natural state.
Epilogue:
The Louisiana Black Bear, a sub-species of the American Black Bear, inhabits parts of Louisiana, Mississippi, southern Arkansas and Eastern Texas, though in greatly diminished numbers today. It is now listed as 'endangered', the result of habitat lost to cultivation. Louisiana's Department of Wildlife and Fisheries works with farmers and others to restore forested land (as do departments in Mississippi, Arkansas and Texas, a multi-state cooperative effort, actually). Some (but not enough) progress has been made in the four states.
Within Louisiana, statistics are encouraging in the Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge (as they are within protected areas in neighboring states.) If you've got a few minutes, you might enjoy surfing this site. The entire Atchafalaya River Basin area is one of Nature's crown jewels.
And, yes, you will encounter the 'lion' in today's story again. Within our family, the 'lion' came to mean What doesn't exist can get you if you let it, the result of us kids having active imaginations and playing fun tricks (so we thought) on each other, a popular form of entertainment in an era when television and gadgets didn't dominate lives.
What you do know about me is that I love sharing links. Madeline's got a fun link-up post at Scribble and Edit. If you've got a sec, please drop by and join in!
A big hug for Marieke, a YA writer, at Marieke's Musings for being my 200th Follower! Whoot!
And, now, today's Louisiana story:
* * * * *
The four of us huddled beneath the Live Oak tree and stared at the spoors. We worried a lion had hidden among the tree's massive branches and would see us, but were too curious not to look at what had to be lion droppings. We whispered because we didn't want Mama to hear us. She was working in her flower garden. It overflowed with mounds of fall chrysanthemums.
Word had spread along the bayou that over a million lions had escaped from the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. The ferocious animals had taken up residence along our twenty-five mile stretch of country road in South Central Louisiana. Parents wouldn't allow kids to play outside unless chaperoned. Farmers, like my grandfather, had moved cattle to different pastures. Fences had been checked, repaired and re-enforced where necessary. Dogs had been let loose at night to sound the alarm.
Since Sugar Bowl now had to sleep in the open and not in his doghouse, I worried a lion would eat him. Not everyone loved Sugar Bowl like I did. My black mutt ran in circles and howled until we kids shared sugary treats (which wasn't often in the 1950's). Maybe a lion would think Sugar Bowl looked like a treat. He'd eaten a lot of sugar yesterday. The ornery dog had snuck into the house, somehow toppled the sugar bowl and licked the kitchen table clean. Mama had been really mad at the mess she said he'd made.
Louis, Jr. scoffed at my worry. His lofty attitude had become an umbrella response to everything now that he'd entered first grade. My neighbor's son didn't think a lion would eat Sugar Bowl because Sugar Bowl was a boy. Lions feared boys. At the slight, I narrowed my blue eyes and scrunched my nose. Louis Jr. laughed at the pugnacity, but bolted from the group. Baby Joe, also my age, five-years-old, ran toward his friend, all the while daring Sarah and me to catch them in the open pasture.
The chase began as my mother dropped her gardening trowel into a basket. The clank of metal upon metal caused Sarah to stop. My three-year-old sister wanted to help Mama gather stems of orange and yellow chrysanthemums for a vase in the living room. Mama preferred that Sarah played and got some exercise.
Crocodile tears gushed from Sarah's big blue eyes and rolled down rose-petal cheeks. I tugged on her hand. Again, Mama encouraged Sarah; they'd gather flowers later. A bit peeved, Sarah shook her mop of sandy curls, then snuggled into me to ponder the options while Mama walked to the porch. Sarah's brown Teddy bear dangled from her hand and brushed my bare legs.
It was one of those corn silk afternoons when birds chirped, bees buzzed and sunbeams blurred time. October's pumpkin sun had muted South Louisiana's searing heat and softened long afternoons into an autumnal skeleton that danced on gentle breezes. Mama's shoulder-length blond hair shimmered like golden topaz in the porch's reflected light. My mother, a city gal from New Orleans with a German, not Cajun heritage, settled herself into a white rocking chair. The view overlooked an expanse of flat delta and bayou she had yet come to love.
When Sarah refused to leave my side, Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe laughed that she couldn't run with a Teddy bear. To everyone's surprise, Sarah dropped her beloved companion and lurched forward. The boys, who had sisters, knew how to play into the game. They allowed Sarah to catch them, then impersonated defeated roles to much applause and good-natured laughter.
After Sarah joined Mama on the porch, Louis, Jr., Baby Joe and I played tag. Sugar Bowl chased us as we ran barefoot across flat-lying sticker plant without fear of being stuck by white pincers. We ran and ran, from one side of the pasture to the other, from my grandparents' house to my parents' house. We ran and tagged each other for the sheer joy of having fun.
When our little legs grew tired, we returned to the porch. After Mama tethered Sugar Bowl in the backyard, she surprised us with homemade sugar cookies and cold milk. (Yes, Sugar Bowl received a treat later!) Louis, Jr. and Baby Joe then walked home, along the country road that fronted our fenced-in farm, but both houses within easy sight.
That evening, after supper (Kartoffelpuffer or German pancakes topped with applesauce) and after Sarah and I had prepared for bed, Mama said that we couldn't leave our bedroom (except to go to the bathroom.) A Louisiana Black bear, sometimes called a Honey bear, had wandered out of the densely wooded area at the deep end of the farm.
Men, including my father, would lie in wait for the bear to appear that night. A veterinarian would sedate the bear with a dart. The bear, thought to be a grown male, had been seen during the previous week, always at dusk. He hadn't appeared malnourished and was thought to have a serious infection. The veterinarian wanted to check for festering sores, also the bear's teeth. The possibility existed the bear had contracted rabies and would have to be put down. But the men who'd seen the bear didn't think the situation would come to this. The bear hadn't exhibited rabies-induced behavior. Still, the men would be armed.
Parents had spread the rumor about escaped lions because most of us kids had a Teddy bear. Parents worried that kids would think the bear was cute and harmless and try to pet it. Although the bear hadn't entered front pastures during the day, the mature animal had learned to navigate front pastures during the night.
Sarah and I slept through the excitement. Around midnight, the bear had appeared in the pasture behind the Live Oak tree where we kids had huddled, was sedated and found to have an infected cut. After cleaning the infection and injecting the bear with antibiotics, the men left the bear to sleep off the sedation and returned home.
No one saw the bear or any spoor in the pastures again.
When winter came and leaves had fallen, my father and others searched the skeletal forest. They discovered the den where the bear hibernated. They let him be.
In the spring, my grandfather allowed some cleared acreage that bordered the forest to return to its natural state.
Epilogue:
The Louisiana Black Bear, a sub-species of the American Black Bear, inhabits parts of Louisiana, Mississippi, southern Arkansas and Eastern Texas, though in greatly diminished numbers today. It is now listed as 'endangered', the result of habitat lost to cultivation. Louisiana's Department of Wildlife and Fisheries works with farmers and others to restore forested land (as do departments in Mississippi, Arkansas and Texas, a multi-state cooperative effort, actually). Some (but not enough) progress has been made in the four states.
Within Louisiana, statistics are encouraging in the Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge (as they are within protected areas in neighboring states.) If you've got a few minutes, you might enjoy surfing this site. The entire Atchafalaya River Basin area is one of Nature's crown jewels.
And, yes, you will encounter the 'lion' in today's story again. Within our family, the 'lion' came to mean What doesn't exist can get you if you let it, the result of us kids having active imaginations and playing fun tricks (so we thought) on each other, a popular form of entertainment in an era when television and gadgets didn't dominate lives.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Lovely Spa Visit and Quick Story
Ahhh, life is good! Gertrude (Big Mama computer) and Zoe (baby HP) returned home a family picture of glowing health. Her parents (that's us, the ones with the checkbook) also got lucky. An older and very experienced computer technician found and corrected the glitch that had eluded others. We didn't switch to Windows 8. Why? $500.00!
Much of what we thought had been included in our insurance turned out to be either obsolete or one-time promotions that it would have been more productive to buy a new computer. This computer is only a year and a half old. I firmly believe leaves grow on trees, not money. So, with our insurance covering the glitch that gave Gertrude rosy cheeks, we said thankyouverymucy and brought our kids home. When the time comes to have another kid, its name will be Mac!
In the meantime, I'd like to share with you a consumer's house of mirrors story that occurred three weeks prior to our visit to Eastern North Carolina, where my husband and I have a house, presently rented until spring. This house has a recessed area in the back, off the kitchen, and measures about 150 sq. ft. After the renters left, we wanted to bump this out and extend to the right and left for a screened-in porch.
The realtor who manages the property offered that the builder who had built her house had done a fabulous job but needed work because of the recession. I thought she jumped into my gig a bit quickly but also thought obtaining a bid would provide insight as to how prices fluctuated in this semi-rural area, an area we knew from frequent visits but not from living there, a major difference in the South. Since we plan to move into our house this spring, it was time to get to know the locals from the business side of the house, so to speak.
So, okay, a week passed. We didn't hear from the builder. Another week passed. Nothing from the builder. I sensed this guy was playing with us, wanted to see how eager we were. In the real South it's never good to appear eager. So we waited.
At the end of the third week, the realtor e-mailed the builder's bid. He chose not to bump the porch out as we had requested. What he chose to do was to bump out the recessed area about five feet. (This would in no way affect the existing square footage. That remained intact.)
The builder's proposal bid was $17,800.00. If we wanted to brick the supporting cinder blocks, that would cost an additional $3,000.00.
Of course I laughed at this. I mean, duh!
What made me really laugh, however, was that the builder had submitted a drawing of a lean-to, basically a screened-in shed. A lean-to kit can be purchased for $1,000.00. (Construct a lean-to yourself for about $500.00.)
But what made me laugh until the tears fell was that the builder had flanked his proposed lean-to with -- are you ready for this? -- very tall Greek columns!
When the laughter subsided, however, a nagging question emerged: why would a builder with a sterling reputation (I checked) but one who also needed work to keep his small business alive be so arrogant (ignore what the consumer wanted) and get so greedy?
The nagging question lingers.
Much of what we thought had been included in our insurance turned out to be either obsolete or one-time promotions that it would have been more productive to buy a new computer. This computer is only a year and a half old. I firmly believe leaves grow on trees, not money. So, with our insurance covering the glitch that gave Gertrude rosy cheeks, we said thankyouverymucy and brought our kids home. When the time comes to have another kid, its name will be Mac!
In the meantime, I'd like to share with you a consumer's house of mirrors story that occurred three weeks prior to our visit to Eastern North Carolina, where my husband and I have a house, presently rented until spring. This house has a recessed area in the back, off the kitchen, and measures about 150 sq. ft. After the renters left, we wanted to bump this out and extend to the right and left for a screened-in porch.
The realtor who manages the property offered that the builder who had built her house had done a fabulous job but needed work because of the recession. I thought she jumped into my gig a bit quickly but also thought obtaining a bid would provide insight as to how prices fluctuated in this semi-rural area, an area we knew from frequent visits but not from living there, a major difference in the South. Since we plan to move into our house this spring, it was time to get to know the locals from the business side of the house, so to speak.
So, okay, a week passed. We didn't hear from the builder. Another week passed. Nothing from the builder. I sensed this guy was playing with us, wanted to see how eager we were. In the real South it's never good to appear eager. So we waited.
At the end of the third week, the realtor e-mailed the builder's bid. He chose not to bump the porch out as we had requested. What he chose to do was to bump out the recessed area about five feet. (This would in no way affect the existing square footage. That remained intact.)
The builder's proposal bid was $17,800.00. If we wanted to brick the supporting cinder blocks, that would cost an additional $3,000.00.
Of course I laughed at this. I mean, duh!
What made me really laugh, however, was that the builder had submitted a drawing of a lean-to, basically a screened-in shed. A lean-to kit can be purchased for $1,000.00. (Construct a lean-to yourself for about $500.00.)
But what made me laugh until the tears fell was that the builder had flanked his proposed lean-to with -- are you ready for this? -- very tall Greek columns!
When the laughter subsided, however, a nagging question emerged: why would a builder with a sterling reputation (I checked) but one who also needed work to keep his small business alive be so arrogant (ignore what the consumer wanted) and get so greedy?
The nagging question lingers.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11, 2001
On September 11, 2001, my husband and I flew from Rome, Italy, to Istanbul, Turkey, on Turkish Airlines, an airline we had flown before to Istanbul. After a glorious week in Rome, where we, two Americans, had once lived for six months, we were pleasantly tired from playing tourist, a bit plump-cheeked from all that delicious Italian food and gelato, and, well, peacefully happy.
After the plane gained altitude and leveled off, my husband and I chatted about how much we looked forward to seeing long-time Canadian, British, American, and European friends at a reunion that had been organized by a Turkish colleague, all students years earlier at an international school in Rome. Before joining our friends in Bodrum, a spectacular seaside town a brief plane ride from Istanbul, Dick and I would first spend three days in Istanbul, at a boutique hotel near the Grand Bazaar, our ultimate shopping destination.
Midway through the trip -- a beautiful flight across a bright blue sky above sparkling blue waters -- flight attendants demanded the return of coffee cups, insisted purses be stored in overhead bins, and wanted all seats in upright positions. Like other passengers on the sparsely filled flight, we complied, not sure what to think, a bit nervous, though, for a tremor of fear raced that the aircraft had problems that would force a water landing.
The normally polite and courteous attendants refused to answer questions. They walked up and down the aisles, constantly surveying passengers. Anyone going to the bathroom had to be escorted. The aircraft flew in eerie silence.
To our relief, we landed in Istanbul and cleared customs without incident. However, we were surprised that the bustling international airport, polished and gleaming with every amenity possible, serviced few people. But our airport pick-up waited. We hurried outside.
We recognized the young man who waited from a previous stay at the boutique hotel. He greeted us warmly, and bags loaded, off we sped to the hotel. When asked if there were a religious holiday, for Istanbul's normally crowded streets rather mirrored the airport, the young man replied by referring to all the problems in the world. The unexpected and vague answer muted us. And, unusual for Istanbul, the radio had been turned off. Again, we didn't know what to think.
When we entered the hotel, we saw that about 20 people had gathered around a flat screen television near the far wall. Since no one stood behind the check-in counter, we walked toward the group.
I lack the words to describe the raw horror we felt when we saw what had occurred in New York City. And continued to happen. Minutes later the second tower fell.
Like others in the group from around the world, we remained in front of the t.v. until late into the evening and experienced every emotion imaginable. Like others, we wanted to be home, to wrap ourselves in decency and fend off this insane monster at loose, this evil thing that chilled the soul.
The Canadian doctors among us had traveled to Istanbul for a medical conference. They were frustrated at not being able to help the injured, and, with fear spreading that a major Canadian city could be hit, they wanted to get home where medical skills might be needed. Young doctors. Brave young doctors. The hotel staff went to great lengths to get them to Toronto, but to no avail.
Nothing moved while evil lurked. The world had coalesced into one.
The next day, hungry, for the hotel lacked a restaurant, and in need of fresh air and a walk, we headed toward the food court at the Grand Bazaar. En route, we lost our appetites. Unlike in the United States, photos in British, European, and Turkish newspapers are graphic. I remember staring at a photo of a woman leaning out of a window waving a white shirt, desperate for help. I still feel the tears falling, knowing she would die, like thousands of others, horribly so.
But hope also emerged that the evil that had inflicted this terror would be reigned in. As if emotions had spiraled between extremes, I lack the words to describe the warmth and graciousness shown by the Turkish people that day. Of course we bought nothing -- How could one think of shopping? We had forgotten about food. -- but we hungered for a nugget of information, that the terror had ceased, that sanity had regained control. Turkish merchants refused payment for newspapers. They even translated headlines and articles we couldn't read, plied us with tea, offered food, cried with us, condemned what had happened. Not only the merchants.
In the Grand Bazaar that day, September 12, 2001, people from nations around the world collectively recognized the face of evil and stood together as one. Hope reigned. Very briefly. But it reigned.
I don't have to tell you what happened during the ensuing years. You know.
But, nine years later, I yearn for a return to that moment when hope and sanity triumphed.
We've got to get our act together. We've got to recognize self-righteous bandwagons, wherever they are, for what they are; focus on the greater good; quit blaming everyone else for being self-indulgent and greedy; and stop clawing at each other.
I'm totally sick of being in a situation where someone comes up with a great idea only to hear some pip squeak worry it might rain and watch what could have worked fall apart. That's because I read fairy tales but live life. We each make adjustments to get along. If not, well, a house divided cannot stand.
In memory of those who died on 9/11 and those who still suffer from 9/11, I resolve to be a better person.
After the plane gained altitude and leveled off, my husband and I chatted about how much we looked forward to seeing long-time Canadian, British, American, and European friends at a reunion that had been organized by a Turkish colleague, all students years earlier at an international school in Rome. Before joining our friends in Bodrum, a spectacular seaside town a brief plane ride from Istanbul, Dick and I would first spend three days in Istanbul, at a boutique hotel near the Grand Bazaar, our ultimate shopping destination.
Midway through the trip -- a beautiful flight across a bright blue sky above sparkling blue waters -- flight attendants demanded the return of coffee cups, insisted purses be stored in overhead bins, and wanted all seats in upright positions. Like other passengers on the sparsely filled flight, we complied, not sure what to think, a bit nervous, though, for a tremor of fear raced that the aircraft had problems that would force a water landing.
The normally polite and courteous attendants refused to answer questions. They walked up and down the aisles, constantly surveying passengers. Anyone going to the bathroom had to be escorted. The aircraft flew in eerie silence.
To our relief, we landed in Istanbul and cleared customs without incident. However, we were surprised that the bustling international airport, polished and gleaming with every amenity possible, serviced few people. But our airport pick-up waited. We hurried outside.
We recognized the young man who waited from a previous stay at the boutique hotel. He greeted us warmly, and bags loaded, off we sped to the hotel. When asked if there were a religious holiday, for Istanbul's normally crowded streets rather mirrored the airport, the young man replied by referring to all the problems in the world. The unexpected and vague answer muted us. And, unusual for Istanbul, the radio had been turned off. Again, we didn't know what to think.
When we entered the hotel, we saw that about 20 people had gathered around a flat screen television near the far wall. Since no one stood behind the check-in counter, we walked toward the group.
I lack the words to describe the raw horror we felt when we saw what had occurred in New York City. And continued to happen. Minutes later the second tower fell.
Like others in the group from around the world, we remained in front of the t.v. until late into the evening and experienced every emotion imaginable. Like others, we wanted to be home, to wrap ourselves in decency and fend off this insane monster at loose, this evil thing that chilled the soul.
The Canadian doctors among us had traveled to Istanbul for a medical conference. They were frustrated at not being able to help the injured, and, with fear spreading that a major Canadian city could be hit, they wanted to get home where medical skills might be needed. Young doctors. Brave young doctors. The hotel staff went to great lengths to get them to Toronto, but to no avail.
Nothing moved while evil lurked. The world had coalesced into one.
The next day, hungry, for the hotel lacked a restaurant, and in need of fresh air and a walk, we headed toward the food court at the Grand Bazaar. En route, we lost our appetites. Unlike in the United States, photos in British, European, and Turkish newspapers are graphic. I remember staring at a photo of a woman leaning out of a window waving a white shirt, desperate for help. I still feel the tears falling, knowing she would die, like thousands of others, horribly so.
But hope also emerged that the evil that had inflicted this terror would be reigned in. As if emotions had spiraled between extremes, I lack the words to describe the warmth and graciousness shown by the Turkish people that day. Of course we bought nothing -- How could one think of shopping? We had forgotten about food. -- but we hungered for a nugget of information, that the terror had ceased, that sanity had regained control. Turkish merchants refused payment for newspapers. They even translated headlines and articles we couldn't read, plied us with tea, offered food, cried with us, condemned what had happened. Not only the merchants.
In the Grand Bazaar that day, September 12, 2001, people from nations around the world collectively recognized the face of evil and stood together as one. Hope reigned. Very briefly. But it reigned.
I don't have to tell you what happened during the ensuing years. You know.
But, nine years later, I yearn for a return to that moment when hope and sanity triumphed.
We've got to get our act together. We've got to recognize self-righteous bandwagons, wherever they are, for what they are; focus on the greater good; quit blaming everyone else for being self-indulgent and greedy; and stop clawing at each other.
I'm totally sick of being in a situation where someone comes up with a great idea only to hear some pip squeak worry it might rain and watch what could have worked fall apart. That's because I read fairy tales but live life. We each make adjustments to get along. If not, well, a house divided cannot stand.
In memory of those who died on 9/11 and those who still suffer from 9/11, I resolve to be a better person.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Betty Grable's Over Here, Over There (Louisiana Stories)
(Notes: South Louisianians are passionate about family, food, football, politics, and religion. As one would expect, these passions sometimes collide, the kernel within today's story. For those of you super sensitive about religion, I hope you'll stick with the story as equilibrium returns. I used the term 'preacher' throughout as that was the proper form of address during this period. It later evolved into 'minister' and 'preacher' being interchangeable. I never named the preacher because I don't remember a name. Kids during that era always referred to a religious leader by proper title, a sign of respect parents enforced.
To the post's right is a photo of Betty Grable, the famous World War II pinup.
But, before today's story, in the previous post I had a typo. Marie Rust's beautiful nature blog can be found here. My apologies, Marie!
And, now, today's story.)
* * * * *
Life on a farm sneaks up on you.
That's what Mama, a city girl from New Orleans, always said.
Actually, Mama sounded wise beyond her twenty-five years. Uninvited guests arrived at our South Louisiana farm in half an hour. In the early 1950s, friends and family visited without formal invitations all the time. But people met once who announced a visitation and had a specific agenda, that threatened.
The problem began two weeks ago, the first part of October, when a handwritten card arrived in the mail. The Baptist preacher and his wife announced they'd arrive for morning coffee at a specific time, 10:30, on a specific day, today. Circumstances around the unsolicited visit escalated into all hell breaking loose yesterday. Tensions now smoldered into this morning's wait for the guests and the formal, living room social. To pass the time, Daddy sorted through papers on the back porch. Sarah, my three-year-old sister, and Dan, my year-old brother, napped in the middle bedroom off a long hall that led to the porch.
I watched Mama pace.
Her brown pumps tapped on the hardwood floor when she crossed the living room. Mama wore a dark yellow shirtwaist dress accented with a cluster of canary-yellow flowers appliqued on the pointed collar and a fabric-covered brown belt ringed with the dainty flowers. A strand of pearls at the open neck and matching earrings accessorized the ensemble.
Long-legged and slim, with a narrow waist, Mama walked model tall. She had big blue eyes and full lips in an oblong face. Thick blond hair, tamed into loose curls, brushed her swan-like neck and framed a fair complexion with naturally rosy cheeks. Mama looked pretty, like a movie star. But she didn't look happy.
Mama surveyed the living room with a practiced eye: Coffee cups, saucers, and serving essentials positioned on great-grandma Peterson's marble-topped coffee table; cross-stitched pillows, a collage of nature's pastels, fluffed to attention on the forest green sofa; cherry wood side chairs with damask cushions angled for shared conversation. Creamy rich draperies, loosely tied back at the four long windows, permitted autumn breezes to circulate. Though muggy outside, the room felt cool.
Pleased with her artistry, my mother leaned against the door frame and lit a cigarette. She exhaled, eyes to the high ceiling, then looked at me, as if a five-year-old kid understood how a farcical situation had turned into a value's statement. Not knowing what to say, I stood muted in front of the linen chest. Sarah said I looked like a freckled-face alligator with bangs when I got bug-eyed and my mouth fell open.
But, really, I didn't understand what happened yesterday, why that fat woman at Mr. Luke's grocery yelled at Mama for wearing shorts. Nor did I understand what had happened two weeks ago, why the Baptist preacher and his wife had invited themselves to our house or why their card had thanked Mama for joining the Baptist Church, when she hadn't. Even worse, the card had said the preacher and his wife looked forward to ministering to Mama's needs. At this insult, Mama, a private person, had exploded. She had torn the card into a thousand pieces and showered the living room with confetti. Just as Ma walked in.
My father's mother lived in The Big House across the pasture from our house. She had a history of manipulating circumstances to pressure my Lutheran mother into converting to Catholicism. When Ma learned about the preacher's visit (from Mrs. Picard, a cousin who lived near Mrs. Guillroy, the postman's neighbor), Ma decided to pay Mama a visit.
What followed turned into legend along the twenty-five mile strip of country road that fronted an old bayou. When Ma told Mama that Baptists wouldn't pester her if she were a Catholic, Mama, who normally brushed aside Ma's proselytizing, retorted with pent-up fury. She told Ma to mind her own business, stormed out of the living room, and slammed the door.
No one had ever told Ma to mind her own business, an eyebrow-raising event Ma ignored when she complained to eager listeners what had occurred. Many along the bayou chuckled. And, though Catholics themselves, friends whispered Ma went too far, always trying to push her beliefs on Mama. For, generally speaking, Louisianians preferred to live and let live.
Besides, Ma had created a bit of trouble among the Catholics along the bayou. She wanted to worship in a proper church. A traditional Catholic Church didn't exist in our area. About every two months a priest came from Baton Rouge to say Mass in a private home, a well-attended event, especially the picnic afterwards. Ma and a few others had regularly petitioned the Baton Rouge diocese to build a church. Attempts always failed.
The overwhelming majority of parishioners liked the system the way it was. Folks wanted to relax after the Mass with a cold beer, Jack Daniel's or cherry bounce, a potent homemade brew. These picnics were too much fun to relinquish. That's what Mama and Daddy said, for they sometimes attended the picnic.
Anyway, after two weeks of Mama and Daddy fuming over the preacher's visit and Ma and Mama not speaking, reality approached. Mama had to prepare for the next day's social. But a minor mishap turned the preparation into a disaster: Mama dropped the ceramic coffee canister on the floor. Splinters of red glass and dark brown Community Roast coffee splattered the kitchen floor like measles on a hound dog.
Not willing to ask Ma for coffee and unable to contact Daddy in Baton Rouge, Mama made a decision that reverberated: She herded Sarah, Dan, and me into her old Ford and drove to Mr. Luke's grocery. Too harried to change into a shirtwaist dress, how respectable women appeared in public, Mama left the house in shorts. Specifically, in white shorts not really short and a green and white polka dot blouse.
My mother bought the coffee but returned home in tears. Ma waited in a rocker on our front porch. She accused Mama of wearing shorts to the grocery to show off her Bettle Grable-like legs. With tears falling, Mama hustled us inside and slammed the front door shut. Ma rushed to Miss Mary's house, her opposite neighbor, for solace.
By the time Daddy returned from Baton Rouge and stopped at Mr. Luke's grocery for gas, word had spread. The men congratulated Daddy for marrying Betty Grable's cousin. The women ignored him, except for Cousin Antoinette, a distant relation. When Daddy approached the cash register to pay for the gas, Cousin Antoinette burst into tears. Cousin Antoinette had worked at the cash register when Mama had entered the store wearing shorts.
Cousin Antoinette wanted Daddy, now an attorney and no longer a student at Louisiana State University, to press charges against the Baptist preacher's wife for her criminal behavior.
Shocked at seeing Mama in shorts, the matronly woman had run from the store shrieking about Mama's lack of morality and how Cajuns lived in sin. However, Cousin Antoinette wasn't upset Mama had worn shorts. Nor did she care that Mama resembled Betty Grable, the serviceman's favorite World War II pinup.
The preacher's wife had left the store without paying for a bunch of bananas.
Cousin Antoinette thought the woman should serve two years in the state penitentiary at Angola for shoplifting. Morals had deteriorated too much, she complained to Daddy, after a long sip of cherry bounce to calm frazzled nerves.
When Daddy arrived home, he told Mama he wanted to drive half-way to Baton Rouge, to the Baptist Church, and cancel the next day's social. But my mother had cried herself out and regained control. She had decided to take the high road and serve morning coffee to the Baptist preacher and his wife.
So, when my mother saw an unfamiliar car turn into our long driveway and the dreaded event now upon us, she rushed to get Daddy. I heard them lock the inside door to the back porch, so Sarah couldn't wander if she awakened.
Even though I'd been told to remain in the kitchen when the guests arrived (I wore a smock, Mary Jane shoes and socks; guests liked to meet the oldest child, who then disappeared), I unhooked a tie-back, slipped behind a drapery panel at the far end of the living room, and wrapped the fabric around me. From my cocoon, I could peek out at the seating arrangement. I giggled at the excitement that awaited.
Mama and Daddy rounded the corner from the hall into the living room just as the preacher stepped heavily onto the porch. Daddy buttoned the coat to his blue suit before opening the door. My parents greeted their guest with bright smiles and warm words of welcome. However, the bespeckled preacher with slicked-back, thinning grey hair ignored Daddy's proffered hand, hooked his black hat on the coat rack, and walked to the center of the living room, his wife in tow. Ignoring the insult, Daddy ushered the reticent couple to the sofa. After an awkward exchange of morning pleasantries laced with silence, Mama excused herself to make drip coffee in the kitchen.
The preacher, about fifty years old, wore a black suit, starched white shirt and grey bow tie. His wife, also about fifty years old, wore a plain black shirtwaist dress, a black hat, and sensible black shoes. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, they looked like two old people in a funeral parlor, afraid to talk for fear God would hear them.
Daddy, though, talked about the weather, anything bland to fill the silence. Mama returned with the silver coffee server and a plate of sugar cookies. The Baptist preacher and his wife accepted a cup of coffee and a cookie with formal politeness. Cups and saucers tinkled too-loud in the silence that followed. Wrapped like a mummy in the drapery panel, I felt hot and sticky.
But just when I thought to slide to the floor and crawl into the dining room, Sarah ran around the corner, from the hall into the living room, laughing and giggling. She held Daddy's Betty Grable calendar in her pudgy hands. The keepsake had fallen from the wall behind the hall door when Mama and Daddy hurried to lock it and rush into the living room to greet the preacher and his wife.
At the sight of Sarah holding Daddy's Betty Grable calendar, the movie star poised with her back to the camera, wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the preacher's wife shrieked. The preacher bolted to his feet. Cups and saucers shattered. Mama, in the side chair nearest the door, lunged to protect Sarah from hot coffee that splattered. While Daddy rushed to wrap his arms around Sarah and Mama, the preacher and his wife left in a huff.
When Sarah stopped crying, she ran to join me in the dining room. Before I led my sister into the kitchen for milk and cookies, Mama retrieved the notebook-sized Betty Grable calendar from beneath the over-turned side chair.
Years later I learned that my mother had given her husband this calendar before he shipped out to Iwo Jima during World War II. Because Daddy bragged Betty Grable reminded him of Mama, she wanted him to carry that reminder.
While on Iwo Jima and during a period of strict censorship, Daddy had recorded the dates of letters written and received, war-time events (from bloody combat to the fear of waiting to war's end), names and addresses of guys in his military unit, and the names and dates of those who had died.
Epilogue:
A week after the calamitous social, Mama deliberately wore her white shorts and polka dotted blouse to Mr. Luke's grocery. Folks chuckled but got the point.
Approximately five months later, the Baptist preacher and his wife rotated to an out-of-state church. Whether the transfer resulted from members of his congregation complaining about the preacher's over-zealous techniques or he was positioned for a routine transfer, no one knew.
However, the new preacher and his wife brought joy to everyone, embracing not only their congregants with warm, caring hearts but also non-Baptists within the wider community. They even attended one of the picnics after a Catholic Mass. Yes, they drank sweet tea, that Southern favorite. But so did many of the regular attendees. Live and let live.
Ma and Mama never really patched up their differences. But, hey, what did you expect? Dis ain't no fairytale (a common expression along the bayou. Sometimes what you experienced is bigger than what you thought.)
To the post's right is a photo of Betty Grable, the famous World War II pinup.
But, before today's story, in the previous post I had a typo. Marie Rust's beautiful nature blog can be found here. My apologies, Marie!
And, now, today's story.)
* * * * *
Life on a farm sneaks up on you.
That's what Mama, a city girl from New Orleans, always said.
Actually, Mama sounded wise beyond her twenty-five years. Uninvited guests arrived at our South Louisiana farm in half an hour. In the early 1950s, friends and family visited without formal invitations all the time. But people met once who announced a visitation and had a specific agenda, that threatened.
The problem began two weeks ago, the first part of October, when a handwritten card arrived in the mail. The Baptist preacher and his wife announced they'd arrive for morning coffee at a specific time, 10:30, on a specific day, today. Circumstances around the unsolicited visit escalated into all hell breaking loose yesterday. Tensions now smoldered into this morning's wait for the guests and the formal, living room social. To pass the time, Daddy sorted through papers on the back porch. Sarah, my three-year-old sister, and Dan, my year-old brother, napped in the middle bedroom off a long hall that led to the porch.
I watched Mama pace.
Her brown pumps tapped on the hardwood floor when she crossed the living room. Mama wore a dark yellow shirtwaist dress accented with a cluster of canary-yellow flowers appliqued on the pointed collar and a fabric-covered brown belt ringed with the dainty flowers. A strand of pearls at the open neck and matching earrings accessorized the ensemble.
Long-legged and slim, with a narrow waist, Mama walked model tall. She had big blue eyes and full lips in an oblong face. Thick blond hair, tamed into loose curls, brushed her swan-like neck and framed a fair complexion with naturally rosy cheeks. Mama looked pretty, like a movie star. But she didn't look happy.
Mama surveyed the living room with a practiced eye: Coffee cups, saucers, and serving essentials positioned on great-grandma Peterson's marble-topped coffee table; cross-stitched pillows, a collage of nature's pastels, fluffed to attention on the forest green sofa; cherry wood side chairs with damask cushions angled for shared conversation. Creamy rich draperies, loosely tied back at the four long windows, permitted autumn breezes to circulate. Though muggy outside, the room felt cool.
Pleased with her artistry, my mother leaned against the door frame and lit a cigarette. She exhaled, eyes to the high ceiling, then looked at me, as if a five-year-old kid understood how a farcical situation had turned into a value's statement. Not knowing what to say, I stood muted in front of the linen chest. Sarah said I looked like a freckled-face alligator with bangs when I got bug-eyed and my mouth fell open.
But, really, I didn't understand what happened yesterday, why that fat woman at Mr. Luke's grocery yelled at Mama for wearing shorts. Nor did I understand what had happened two weeks ago, why the Baptist preacher and his wife had invited themselves to our house or why their card had thanked Mama for joining the Baptist Church, when she hadn't. Even worse, the card had said the preacher and his wife looked forward to ministering to Mama's needs. At this insult, Mama, a private person, had exploded. She had torn the card into a thousand pieces and showered the living room with confetti. Just as Ma walked in.
My father's mother lived in The Big House across the pasture from our house. She had a history of manipulating circumstances to pressure my Lutheran mother into converting to Catholicism. When Ma learned about the preacher's visit (from Mrs. Picard, a cousin who lived near Mrs. Guillroy, the postman's neighbor), Ma decided to pay Mama a visit.
What followed turned into legend along the twenty-five mile strip of country road that fronted an old bayou. When Ma told Mama that Baptists wouldn't pester her if she were a Catholic, Mama, who normally brushed aside Ma's proselytizing, retorted with pent-up fury. She told Ma to mind her own business, stormed out of the living room, and slammed the door.
No one had ever told Ma to mind her own business, an eyebrow-raising event Ma ignored when she complained to eager listeners what had occurred. Many along the bayou chuckled. And, though Catholics themselves, friends whispered Ma went too far, always trying to push her beliefs on Mama. For, generally speaking, Louisianians preferred to live and let live.
Besides, Ma had created a bit of trouble among the Catholics along the bayou. She wanted to worship in a proper church. A traditional Catholic Church didn't exist in our area. About every two months a priest came from Baton Rouge to say Mass in a private home, a well-attended event, especially the picnic afterwards. Ma and a few others had regularly petitioned the Baton Rouge diocese to build a church. Attempts always failed.
The overwhelming majority of parishioners liked the system the way it was. Folks wanted to relax after the Mass with a cold beer, Jack Daniel's or cherry bounce, a potent homemade brew. These picnics were too much fun to relinquish. That's what Mama and Daddy said, for they sometimes attended the picnic.
Anyway, after two weeks of Mama and Daddy fuming over the preacher's visit and Ma and Mama not speaking, reality approached. Mama had to prepare for the next day's social. But a minor mishap turned the preparation into a disaster: Mama dropped the ceramic coffee canister on the floor. Splinters of red glass and dark brown Community Roast coffee splattered the kitchen floor like measles on a hound dog.
Not willing to ask Ma for coffee and unable to contact Daddy in Baton Rouge, Mama made a decision that reverberated: She herded Sarah, Dan, and me into her old Ford and drove to Mr. Luke's grocery. Too harried to change into a shirtwaist dress, how respectable women appeared in public, Mama left the house in shorts. Specifically, in white shorts not really short and a green and white polka dot blouse.
My mother bought the coffee but returned home in tears. Ma waited in a rocker on our front porch. She accused Mama of wearing shorts to the grocery to show off her Bettle Grable-like legs. With tears falling, Mama hustled us inside and slammed the front door shut. Ma rushed to Miss Mary's house, her opposite neighbor, for solace.
By the time Daddy returned from Baton Rouge and stopped at Mr. Luke's grocery for gas, word had spread. The men congratulated Daddy for marrying Betty Grable's cousin. The women ignored him, except for Cousin Antoinette, a distant relation. When Daddy approached the cash register to pay for the gas, Cousin Antoinette burst into tears. Cousin Antoinette had worked at the cash register when Mama had entered the store wearing shorts.
Cousin Antoinette wanted Daddy, now an attorney and no longer a student at Louisiana State University, to press charges against the Baptist preacher's wife for her criminal behavior.
Shocked at seeing Mama in shorts, the matronly woman had run from the store shrieking about Mama's lack of morality and how Cajuns lived in sin. However, Cousin Antoinette wasn't upset Mama had worn shorts. Nor did she care that Mama resembled Betty Grable, the serviceman's favorite World War II pinup.
The preacher's wife had left the store without paying for a bunch of bananas.
Cousin Antoinette thought the woman should serve two years in the state penitentiary at Angola for shoplifting. Morals had deteriorated too much, she complained to Daddy, after a long sip of cherry bounce to calm frazzled nerves.
When Daddy arrived home, he told Mama he wanted to drive half-way to Baton Rouge, to the Baptist Church, and cancel the next day's social. But my mother had cried herself out and regained control. She had decided to take the high road and serve morning coffee to the Baptist preacher and his wife.
So, when my mother saw an unfamiliar car turn into our long driveway and the dreaded event now upon us, she rushed to get Daddy. I heard them lock the inside door to the back porch, so Sarah couldn't wander if she awakened.
Even though I'd been told to remain in the kitchen when the guests arrived (I wore a smock, Mary Jane shoes and socks; guests liked to meet the oldest child, who then disappeared), I unhooked a tie-back, slipped behind a drapery panel at the far end of the living room, and wrapped the fabric around me. From my cocoon, I could peek out at the seating arrangement. I giggled at the excitement that awaited.
Mama and Daddy rounded the corner from the hall into the living room just as the preacher stepped heavily onto the porch. Daddy buttoned the coat to his blue suit before opening the door. My parents greeted their guest with bright smiles and warm words of welcome. However, the bespeckled preacher with slicked-back, thinning grey hair ignored Daddy's proffered hand, hooked his black hat on the coat rack, and walked to the center of the living room, his wife in tow. Ignoring the insult, Daddy ushered the reticent couple to the sofa. After an awkward exchange of morning pleasantries laced with silence, Mama excused herself to make drip coffee in the kitchen.
The preacher, about fifty years old, wore a black suit, starched white shirt and grey bow tie. His wife, also about fifty years old, wore a plain black shirtwaist dress, a black hat, and sensible black shoes. Sitting stiffly on the sofa, they looked like two old people in a funeral parlor, afraid to talk for fear God would hear them.
Daddy, though, talked about the weather, anything bland to fill the silence. Mama returned with the silver coffee server and a plate of sugar cookies. The Baptist preacher and his wife accepted a cup of coffee and a cookie with formal politeness. Cups and saucers tinkled too-loud in the silence that followed. Wrapped like a mummy in the drapery panel, I felt hot and sticky.
But just when I thought to slide to the floor and crawl into the dining room, Sarah ran around the corner, from the hall into the living room, laughing and giggling. She held Daddy's Betty Grable calendar in her pudgy hands. The keepsake had fallen from the wall behind the hall door when Mama and Daddy hurried to lock it and rush into the living room to greet the preacher and his wife.
At the sight of Sarah holding Daddy's Betty Grable calendar, the movie star poised with her back to the camera, wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the preacher's wife shrieked. The preacher bolted to his feet. Cups and saucers shattered. Mama, in the side chair nearest the door, lunged to protect Sarah from hot coffee that splattered. While Daddy rushed to wrap his arms around Sarah and Mama, the preacher and his wife left in a huff.
When Sarah stopped crying, she ran to join me in the dining room. Before I led my sister into the kitchen for milk and cookies, Mama retrieved the notebook-sized Betty Grable calendar from beneath the over-turned side chair.
Years later I learned that my mother had given her husband this calendar before he shipped out to Iwo Jima during World War II. Because Daddy bragged Betty Grable reminded him of Mama, she wanted him to carry that reminder.
While on Iwo Jima and during a period of strict censorship, Daddy had recorded the dates of letters written and received, war-time events (from bloody combat to the fear of waiting to war's end), names and addresses of guys in his military unit, and the names and dates of those who had died.
Epilogue:
A week after the calamitous social, Mama deliberately wore her white shorts and polka dotted blouse to Mr. Luke's grocery. Folks chuckled but got the point.
Approximately five months later, the Baptist preacher and his wife rotated to an out-of-state church. Whether the transfer resulted from members of his congregation complaining about the preacher's over-zealous techniques or he was positioned for a routine transfer, no one knew.
However, the new preacher and his wife brought joy to everyone, embracing not only their congregants with warm, caring hearts but also non-Baptists within the wider community. They even attended one of the picnics after a Catholic Mass. Yes, they drank sweet tea, that Southern favorite. But so did many of the regular attendees. Live and let live.
Ma and Mama never really patched up their differences. But, hey, what did you expect? Dis ain't no fairytale (a common expression along the bayou. Sometimes what you experienced is bigger than what you thought.)
Monday, August 23, 2010
Welcome Aboard; An Experience with An Agent
A Louisiana story awaits, after a bit of spell checking and so on. You know the drill. In the meantime, I'd like to extend a warm welcome to new Followers. I'd also like to thank Emma Michaels (http://emmamichaels.blogspot.com/) for the Blog Hop that brought most of us together.
I've tried to be thorough about following you as well. If I missed you, please drop a comment. You're only a click away!
This was my first Hop, and WOW, what a positive experience! You did a great job, Emma! Thanks!
And a big thank you and hugs to the pre-hop Followers for hanging in there. I had problems with the HPmini/wifi in Europe (probably of my own making; a computer genius I'm not) and couldn't keep up as I had hoped.
Anyway, as I guess you've figured out, yes, I plan on doing something with my stories. Just not yet. In true Southern fashion, my stories will lead (eventually!) to a twist that will have you saying, "Huh", just as I said when Ma (my grandmother) told me the family secret some years ago. This is why I had to introduce you to her mother in the two-part story, A Rose by Any Other Name Is Paint. I knew the stories were a bit long. But no way around it to move the blog forward. (And, no, I'm not revealing the secret this year!)
As with any dream, albiet a new one, reality must prevail. I need to sharpen my skills and learn more about the industry that swirls around writers. This happens daily, when I open the writers' blogs. I thank all of you for sharing your experiences, for being so candid. And, like you, I rejoice when a writer secures an agent and/or a contract (which seems to be happening regularly these days, yay!) I'm constantly impressed by the talent in Blogville...no, more in awe of the talent out there.
This honesty and sharing are important. Publishers and agents work to make money. While most are professional and work hard, I personally feel the business in general sucks too much from the writer, ie, others can't do it but can tell you how to do it. My sensing is that publishers and agents look for the finished product, a fast way to print.
Of course the bottom line is money. A book is a commercial product for sale. Discounted books/e-books and so on have cut into profits. I understand this. What I don't like is this pushing for a finished product when there are others in the food chain who need to earn their keep. I've read so many posts about agents and how so many feel sorry for them. Well, I don't. Not a bit. If an agent is harried and overworked and can't deal with the caseload, then, there's the door. Find a new profession. I mean, either do what you're doing with a smile on your face or bye-bye.
Unfortunately, my hub says this whining, finished-product attitude is going on in the sports world. This weekend we met a father with his son, a 6'8" guy 18 years old who wants to play professional hockey. The perceived road to riches these days is for the athlete to by-pass college, pay for his training camps, then audition for the pros. Coaches want a finished product, the e-jock reading for opening night.
Anyway, back to writing: When we lived in Hawaii (and just prior to our living in Macedonia for two years), I wrote a couple of kids' stories about our cat, Chester. A writer's conference came up. Top agents in Honolulu would be there. A friend who had published several books urged me to showcase my stories. So I went.
Not without nervousness. I pulled the agent with the toughest reputation in the state. The room drew quiet when she snapped open her case and gave me her card, with the words, "Call me."
I didn't drive home. I floated.
Reality turned into a nightmare. This agent tried to get me to sign over my stories and another MS I worked on with an imperial nature that, I thought, tried to intimidate (and I'm not easily intimidated). She also wanted money, $3,000.00. I didn't sign a thing, didn't give her any money, and told her to take a hike. However, I tucked away the experience and am cautious about going where angels fear to tread, if you get my drift. Information and education provide a powerful foundation.
Anyway, my husband's business soon brought us to Macedonia. I put my writing on hold until we returned to the States and got back into the routine. Blogging seemed like a great way to learn more about the writing industry, polish my skills, and, above all, meet others with like objectives. However, my initial posts weren't Louisiana stories, more ad hoc. Then, Fate intervened. My nieces, as I've written before, showed a lack of interest in their family legacy that bothered me. I got the idea to blog these stories for them to read when they're ready (not any time soon; they still don't get it.)
Along the way, encouragement from so many of you led me to think that perhaps others would be interested in my stories. Each Follower (that's you!) brought a bright smile to my face. However, I'm not ready to think about finding an agent, need more stories, need more time. And I don't want to feel rushed, that I have to produce. When I sit at the computer, I zone back in time to that Louisiana farm, feel the hot sting of that August heat, feel how it was, and let the fingers fly.
I've brushed aside several opportunities to showcase my work (even as a guest on a tv program, of all places) because the little girl who grew up on that farm has major input into my stories and can't be commercialized right now. I still need to feel, if that makes any sense.
I live near Washington, D.C.. My little girl's heart is on that Louisiana farm. Still a free spirit with so many interests that bring smiles of discovery. One of these interests is a love for the outdoors, from a gentle rain to the sweet smell of freshly turned dirt...even like squiggling my toes into the tip of a crop row...and have been known to walk barefoot (oh, happy day!)
I enjoy all of the blogs I follow (read thoroughly, don't scan). Many are about Mother Nature's delights and challenges. If you want to feel good about small moments in Nature that warm the heart, click on over to:
http://onthepondfarm.blogspot.com/
http://sempiterna-me.blogspot.com/
http://marierust.blogspot.com/
http://oko-organic-clothing.blogspot.com/
http://atasteofdenmark.blogspot.com/
http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/
http://swamericana.wordpress.com/
http://www.lakemarymusings.com/
http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/
AND, if you're hungry from being outdoors, if you like food, mouth-watering food from South Louisiana, click over to http://cajundelights.blogspot.com/ Marguerite's a real Cajun with some real Cajun recipes who posts recipes she's putting into a cookbook. Talk about a treat!
Just a bit more -- thank you for being so kind about the photos I posted. I was a bit nervous, I mean, I don't know much about taking photos beyond snapping away. Lots of credit goes to my Nikon digital camera and, of course, to the fantastic scenery in Greece. (Also miss the hospitality. So many Greeks sent foods to our taverna table for us to enjoy! YUM!)
But, to give balance, we also enjoyed our days and the scenery in Tirol (Tyrol), Austria. My husband took the header photo above from the top of a ski slope behind where we stayed in Achensee. I think he captured a certain free spirit. Great job, sweetie!
I've tried to be thorough about following you as well. If I missed you, please drop a comment. You're only a click away!
This was my first Hop, and WOW, what a positive experience! You did a great job, Emma! Thanks!
And a big thank you and hugs to the pre-hop Followers for hanging in there. I had problems with the HPmini/wifi in Europe (probably of my own making; a computer genius I'm not) and couldn't keep up as I had hoped.
Anyway, as I guess you've figured out, yes, I plan on doing something with my stories. Just not yet. In true Southern fashion, my stories will lead (eventually!) to a twist that will have you saying, "Huh", just as I said when Ma (my grandmother) told me the family secret some years ago. This is why I had to introduce you to her mother in the two-part story, A Rose by Any Other Name Is Paint. I knew the stories were a bit long. But no way around it to move the blog forward. (And, no, I'm not revealing the secret this year!)
As with any dream, albiet a new one, reality must prevail. I need to sharpen my skills and learn more about the industry that swirls around writers. This happens daily, when I open the writers' blogs. I thank all of you for sharing your experiences, for being so candid. And, like you, I rejoice when a writer secures an agent and/or a contract (which seems to be happening regularly these days, yay!) I'm constantly impressed by the talent in Blogville...no, more in awe of the talent out there.
This honesty and sharing are important. Publishers and agents work to make money. While most are professional and work hard, I personally feel the business in general sucks too much from the writer, ie, others can't do it but can tell you how to do it. My sensing is that publishers and agents look for the finished product, a fast way to print.
Of course the bottom line is money. A book is a commercial product for sale. Discounted books/e-books and so on have cut into profits. I understand this. What I don't like is this pushing for a finished product when there are others in the food chain who need to earn their keep. I've read so many posts about agents and how so many feel sorry for them. Well, I don't. Not a bit. If an agent is harried and overworked and can't deal with the caseload, then, there's the door. Find a new profession. I mean, either do what you're doing with a smile on your face or bye-bye.
Unfortunately, my hub says this whining, finished-product attitude is going on in the sports world. This weekend we met a father with his son, a 6'8" guy 18 years old who wants to play professional hockey. The perceived road to riches these days is for the athlete to by-pass college, pay for his training camps, then audition for the pros. Coaches want a finished product, the e-jock reading for opening night.
Anyway, back to writing: When we lived in Hawaii (and just prior to our living in Macedonia for two years), I wrote a couple of kids' stories about our cat, Chester. A writer's conference came up. Top agents in Honolulu would be there. A friend who had published several books urged me to showcase my stories. So I went.
Not without nervousness. I pulled the agent with the toughest reputation in the state. The room drew quiet when she snapped open her case and gave me her card, with the words, "Call me."
I didn't drive home. I floated.
Reality turned into a nightmare. This agent tried to get me to sign over my stories and another MS I worked on with an imperial nature that, I thought, tried to intimidate (and I'm not easily intimidated). She also wanted money, $3,000.00. I didn't sign a thing, didn't give her any money, and told her to take a hike. However, I tucked away the experience and am cautious about going where angels fear to tread, if you get my drift. Information and education provide a powerful foundation.
Anyway, my husband's business soon brought us to Macedonia. I put my writing on hold until we returned to the States and got back into the routine. Blogging seemed like a great way to learn more about the writing industry, polish my skills, and, above all, meet others with like objectives. However, my initial posts weren't Louisiana stories, more ad hoc. Then, Fate intervened. My nieces, as I've written before, showed a lack of interest in their family legacy that bothered me. I got the idea to blog these stories for them to read when they're ready (not any time soon; they still don't get it.)
Along the way, encouragement from so many of you led me to think that perhaps others would be interested in my stories. Each Follower (that's you!) brought a bright smile to my face. However, I'm not ready to think about finding an agent, need more stories, need more time. And I don't want to feel rushed, that I have to produce. When I sit at the computer, I zone back in time to that Louisiana farm, feel the hot sting of that August heat, feel how it was, and let the fingers fly.
I've brushed aside several opportunities to showcase my work (even as a guest on a tv program, of all places) because the little girl who grew up on that farm has major input into my stories and can't be commercialized right now. I still need to feel, if that makes any sense.
I live near Washington, D.C.. My little girl's heart is on that Louisiana farm. Still a free spirit with so many interests that bring smiles of discovery. One of these interests is a love for the outdoors, from a gentle rain to the sweet smell of freshly turned dirt...even like squiggling my toes into the tip of a crop row...and have been known to walk barefoot (oh, happy day!)
I enjoy all of the blogs I follow (read thoroughly, don't scan). Many are about Mother Nature's delights and challenges. If you want to feel good about small moments in Nature that warm the heart, click on over to:
http://onthepondfarm.blogspot.com/
http://sempiterna-me.blogspot.com/
http://marierust.blogspot.com/
http://oko-organic-clothing.blogspot.com/
http://atasteofdenmark.blogspot.com/
http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/
http://swamericana.wordpress.com/
http://www.lakemarymusings.com/
http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/
AND, if you're hungry from being outdoors, if you like food, mouth-watering food from South Louisiana, click over to http://cajundelights.blogspot.com/ Marguerite's a real Cajun with some real Cajun recipes who posts recipes she's putting into a cookbook. Talk about a treat!
Just a bit more -- thank you for being so kind about the photos I posted. I was a bit nervous, I mean, I don't know much about taking photos beyond snapping away. Lots of credit goes to my Nikon digital camera and, of course, to the fantastic scenery in Greece. (Also miss the hospitality. So many Greeks sent foods to our taverna table for us to enjoy! YUM!)
But, to give balance, we also enjoyed our days and the scenery in Tirol (Tyrol), Austria. My husband took the header photo above from the top of a ski slope behind where we stayed in Achensee. I think he captured a certain free spirit. Great job, sweetie!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Photos, You've Got Photos
 |
| Patio plants, Greece |
 |
| One of Greece's famously narrow roads; olive trees forever. |
 |
| Everywhere we went in Greece there were lemon trees, fresh lemonade, too, at small restaurants (tavernas). |
 |
| One of the many fresh water spigots to fill up the water bottles. The green at the bottom has no relation to the fresh water. |
 |
| Every small town in Greece seemed to have a plaza with folks sipping coffee and talking beneath a shady tree. |
 |
| The stadium at Olympia. |
 |
| King Leonidas I; Battle of Thermopylae; trees in background are for decorative purposes; in back of the trees are the battle plain, the super highway, and the rail tracks. I didn't have a wide-angle lens to capture the enormity of the plain. It's just a flat, nothing stretch of land. However, as I think you've figured out, it was this precise nothingness that impressed me the most. All of those men died because armies had nothing to do but fight, and warriors don't pick olives. |
 |
| Greek olive trees, mountains, sea *sigh* |
 |
| Very small part of the magnificent ruins at Delphi |
 |
| Old fishing boat, Greece |
 |
| Side street, Greece; vegetables for sale; honor system for payment |
 |
| Patio grill and grape leaves |
 |
| Side Street in a small town, Greece |
 |
| View from our room, Hotel Navarone, Peloponnesian Southwest Coast, Greece |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)