As good as it gets! We found an untouched pond on Saturday, and returned on Sunday. It had snowed, and we brought a snow shovel, and zambonied. (That’s a word, right?) There can’t have been a breath of wind as it was freezing. It was the smoothest natural ice I’ve ever been on…
Back twice on Monday before the West Coast rain returned. The positives of homeschooling: let’s pack up the skates.
…working on the two-pages-a-day, 5 a.m. wake up…stuck on page 81 for too long.
Some days ago I pulled out more pages than wrote, which is part of the process. The following day, I did research. (Fiction writers reading will chuckle: right, research.) The following day, I worked hard on the picturebook I was re-writing. And again, the next day. Novel momentum broken.
Yesterday, I sat and wrote, working on page 57, which is what’s happening with the first draft of this story–so much working with one character, moving to another, working on p. 36, then 62, back to 57. But at the bottom of the page, it continued to read “page 57 of 81.” I swear it went on to read “page 58 of 81.”
Then there it was: “page 59 of 82.” I finished the paragraph. Added a thought, and was done for the day, exhausted.
Today, what will happen? Perhaps I’ll find more to cut than to add. How attached am I to those little numbers? Too mechanical? Writing has its own set of self-deluding mind-games. But I’m no more attached to the numbers than Rita Mae Brown, setting her pages to the side of her typewriter, hoping for affirmation from her cat, hoping the feline will sit on the pages and thereby approve.
All right. Two pages, coming up.
Emmett and I are agreed: that was the best Halloween ever. And in no small part, because of the weather! The afternoon of the 30th was wet and windy, and made us a bit nervous…
The day was the clearest, brightest. I was compelled to go outside and work in the yard in the afternoon, and the sun on my back was HOT. I mowed the lawn for the last time, and shut up the mower. I cut dead things out, and had a glimpse of green hiding away at the surface of the ground, for next year. And once again, I was struck by how, through this particularly difficult summer, the weather has been a friend. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for that.
Then the moon came out–full! 
Perfect for the night. With Daylight Savings happening a week later now, it’s still light until after 6. But we were out as soon as it was dark, and the smell of the evening was there: the fireworks (a big Yes to those Deltans brave enough to light up and away in spite of the bylaw–we can’t have Halloween without fireworks!), the crunchy smell of newly fallen leaves, the earthy, composty, mushroomy…altogether with the smell of autumn flowers and over-ripe fruit. Glorious.
A friend asked where the oohs and aahs were, with the backyard fireworks. Maybe folks are still afraid to do that. Last year, there was almost no fireworks at all, except for the odd young teen with LadyFingers snapping behind a school. This year, folks realized that the cost of a fine is half the cost of a permit, and they went to the nearest Muni and bought some works. Next year, let’s ooh and aah!
Another blessing of the weather and the yard: 
this morning I–once again–went out and picked my fall-bearing heritage raspberries. Enough for a bowl of cereal. Actually, they’re not even mine: they’re the neighbour’s, and she asked me a year ago spring, if I’d mind if a few slipped under the fence and chose to grow on my side. I should be so lucky. Never too late for Thanksgiving.
(moon photo by Martin Hatlelid)
I thought I knew all about the negatives and positives of homeschooling, but here’s a surprise (and maybe it shouldn’t be…but…): the anxiety lessens, and with that, the kindness grows. What is the anxiety about? is it “Time”? Public education, I’ve been informed, is all about time: “keeping kids on their toes…making them feel as if they’re always running out of time.” Hearing that statement last spring made a number of things click into place for me: what is wrong with current education practices and curriculum; what is wrong with our society; my questions about mental and physical health..and my own issues of feeling as if there is simply too much going on, and my children’s anxieties. And we are not alone in this. Everyone I share with feels similarly.
So it’s fascinating to see how when we reclaim time, we allow kindness to grow.
My oldest taught my youngest how to use Garage Band this week. My youngest carries the others’ dishes to the dishwasher (and left mouths agape in his wake!). Homework stress is gone. There is a big difference this year.
And each morning, I write. Every morning. Even if it means getting up at 5.
Time is to kindness what soil is to plants.
What do we do with disappointment?
I never know who might read my blog: ex-students, I know. Family members, especially those who live far away. Friends. Fellow writers.
And the people who read my books. Who are young people… So, if I write a piece about what it’s like to work very hard toward a particular goal–in this case, preparing (4 weeks) for a job interview (5 hours) for a position I would have loved to have–and then I write about the waiting (4 weeks) for a response and then the disappointment when the answer is “no”…well, it’s not the story we’re supposed to write for kids. Some people like to argue about whether or not books for children should have hopeful or even happy endings.
Over and over, in books and movies, kids see the main character triumph against the odds. But disappointment, having to change goals and direction, moving on…these are not the subjects of stories for young people. But my new novel, Molly’s Cue, which will be released next spring, IS about a change of direction.
Fact is, disappointments do happen. We do work hard for things…really hard, even…and they still don’t happen. Some people are convinced it’s a matter of what we believe, and how hard we believe in ourselves–as if it’s something you can measure. Like this: Person A had 20 kilograms of belief in her self, but Person X had 68! So…guess who got the job…
Or, conversely, Person A had two negative thoughts about not getting the job, but Person W had four negative thoughts. Person W did not get the job.
Anyway. For whatever reasons–NOT lack of hard work, NOT lack of feeling good about myself–I did not get the job. So. No happy ending. And moments of feeling not very hopeful.
Where is that story? Do people want to read that story? A “change of direction” story? A friend of mine, in her 50s, says that she can’t find anything to read that really speaks to where she’s at in her life–that mirrors her reality. Maybe that’s because we’re afraid to talk about these things. We’re all supposed to be Superfolk, and if we’re not, it’s because we’re doing something dreadfully wrong, and we should keep it to ourselves.
What is the purpose of disappointment? Everything must have a purpose now. One should be able to multi-task disappointment with any number of emotions. Maybe I need to think as a painter thinks: look at what I see before me, and consider what I do see, not what I think I see.
In a close-to-the-end rewrite of Molly’s Cue, I had to cut out a particular line. A line that an earlier editor had marked as a favourite. A line that I was rather fond of. But sometimes a story calls for something else and, for the sake of the story, you cut. So I cut. Today I use it. As the title for this entry. With changes of direction, it’s entirely possible to find what you think you’ve lost, or even something unexpected.
well, here’s a new “first day of school” photo…
Emmett 8:01 a.m. Sept. 8 2009 first day of school
after one week of homelearning, I’ve had a number of new thoughts planted and growing in my mind and the air is lighter here, somehow there’s more laughter and more talk
Official release date: Grandpa’s Music: A Story About Alzheimer’s
I am grateful for what the artist, Bill Farnsworth, has created. A childhood friend of mine wrote the following Facebook comment when he saw the cover image:
I came home from Ditch Lake Manitoba yesterday, and found a copy of my new picturebook, Grandpa’s Music, in the mail. What a wonderful feeling, to actually hold a copy in my hands! And at the same time, be very aware of how much energy has come from others in the creating of this thing. Another’s vision has a huge role in a picturebook, and before the vision of the illustrator, there is the vision of the editor. It is altogether something like a stageplay, with each playing a role in the coming together of a production.
Then today, there’s another slim package in the mailbox. And I open it to find an upside down book…no a book, with a picture of a house on the front…and I can’t read the title…because it’s in Hebrew, and it’s to be read what I think of as back-to-front, right to left. And it comes with a slip of paper from the publisher of my stories for adults, to let me know that somewhere in this volume is my short story “Across the Hall.” I couldn’t tell you which of the stories is mine. All I can read is the title on the title page, and “printed in Israel.” Again, someone I don’t know, and in all likelihood, will never meet, decided he or she liked my story, thought it worthwhile to include, someone else (possibly) translated it, decided where it would work in the collection…took all those steps that are part of creating a book…and here it is, in my hands.
Thank you to so many people. Writing is not quite the solitary work that it is believed to be…
Someone took the tent.
It was a perfect tent. Big. Standing room for real people. A couple of windows for air to blow through. And the smell: real tent smell of musty canvas with the hot sun pouring through. You can’t buy that smell. You can’t manufacture it. It comes with age and experience. And now it’s gone.
I found the tent on a clear Saturday morning, at a townhouse. The woman selling it looked as if she’d never been on a camping trip in her life. But she must have had a few secrets. I bought the entire thing, every pole and peg accounted for, for $6.00, took it home, and set it up.
That was back when we had only one son. He thought the tent was the best thing, filled it with his toys, and spent the night in it. And the night after that. We had our annual end-of-summer bucket of KFC in it, cleaned it out before school started, and packed it away.
Truth told, we’re not much of a camping family either, but at Lumbaum Lake, up near Merritt, where my grandmother met my grandfather, all of us—five by then—filled that tent. It rained, it was gusty. It was not the most pleasant night we’ve spent together. But it was all about experience and age.
Back up, in the yard, the tent continued to make shade on a shadeless day, and keep mosquitoes away by night.
Fast forward to cleaning out the storeroom, and I realized it’s been a few years since anyone resurrected the tent in the yard. Everyone’s growing up. I found every pole, every peg, and carried it to the end of the driveway. Taped up a sign: Free! Complete! And went back to the task of organizing the storeroom.
The tent sat there for half a day. It was there when I left to shop for groceries, there when I returned. There when I brought out another bag of garbage. The clouds gathered, and I wondered if I’d need to rescue it from the rain.
I was hauling wood to the woodpile, and realized suddenly that it was no longer there. Someone took the tent. I thought of their first moment stepping into it—after the cursing of messing with the poles, the slipped hammer of pounding in the pegs—and how they’d breathe in the tent smell, and note the oranged sunlight, and I wished them memory-building in those canvas walls. I wished them well.
You can’t buy that smell. You can only give it away.
My two younger sons and I returned yesterday from the Okanagan area. We were there for a Peewee ball tournament. Halfway through the fourth game (the team had won every game to that point, and excitement was surf-wave high) I noticed a whiff of smoke from the hillside on the far side of Kelowna. My younger brother, who had joined me to watch the game, said the smoke appeared to be close to my older brother’s home in Westbank…where I’d left my youngest son, Emmett, to spend the day with his aunt and uncle…and so he wouldn’t have to sit through yet another steamy hot Kelowna ballgame. We phoned to ask them if they were aware of it. (The Okanagan experienced devastating forest fires a few years ago.) No, they weren’t. Fifteen minutes later, we could see flames, and they were that much closer to my older brother’s home. We phoned again. By the time we arrived at the bottom of the hill–Glenrosa Rd–the police had already blocked off the area.
So…why do I not have a photo to post? Because I didn’t take one. You know what a fire looks like. Certainly, with children’s literature and with educational materials, I’m a huge proponent of visuals. But I felt sickened by the number of people who immediately drove to the area and took pictures. Yes…that deranged woman, leaning out her window, screaming at folks to put away their cameras, and go home, get out of the way NOW…that was me.
One young man actually had his girlfriend posing in front of the flaming hillside. ”What are you doing?” I shouted. He looked at me as if I’m mad.
We had to drive away; we couldn’t go up to the house and help. And we had to navigate through so many cars just to get out of the way. We spoke by phone until we couldn’t. Last we heard was that they’d reached the bottom of Glenrosa and were at the highway, and the highway was a gridlock…and there was a fire just started immediately in front of their vehicle. It wasn’t until an hour later that I received a text from my sister-in-law that they were out of the danger zone. That was a very long hour.
Later, one of my nephew’s friends, who is living with them, drove Emmett to meet me late in the evening. This friend is an amazing young man, and he and his girlfriend walked–yes, walked–my brother’s two horses, all the way down from their house to safety.
Such times are filled with minute-by-minute heroics and human emotion. And I suppose that is, at least in part, the draw for all those people who insist on being nearby to see and photograph and film.
But if I had to share a photo with you, it would be of a candy wrapper. The friend’s girlfriend–I don’t even know her name (Thank you!)–bought Emmett a package of candy. She was buying a few things that she knew she’d need, such as pajamas, and she’d taken him into the store with her. She asked him what are his favourite candies, and gave them to him. When I met him, and hugged him, he had the candies clutched in his hand, and he kept them with him for the next day, and the next. He was slowly chewing on them as he told me about things he’d seen during his time near the fire. This simple gift of a package of candies meant so much to him through the time. That would be a good picture.
