The Wrinkled Page

Book Review: Notes from a Small Island

2012-01-17T19:48:00.002-05:00

I picked up this book at a used bookstore (that's becoming quite a refrain of mine lately), not sure whether I'd like it or not, but determined to spread my bookish horizons a bit and stop reading so much fiction. Plus, "visit the British Isles" is on my list of things to do, so it seemed a logical choice.
I could. Not. Stop. Laughing when I read this book, and I couldn't decide which bits to share with you, so I picked a few of my favorite excerpts and typed them out here. As I was typing and thinking of you reading, I found that perhaps--taken out of context--these excerpts may not be as funny to you as they were to me. That is why you must borrow the book from me and read it for yourself.
The author is American, but he lived in England for almost twenty years. Now, he is planning to move back to the States with his family, but first, he needs to say goodbye to his home by traveling the length and breadth of the island. On his journey, most of which is taken either on foot or by public transportation, Bill Bryson visits some of his favorite towns and some he has never visited. These are some of his observations.

On London, Queen of Cities:
It has more history, finer parks, a livelier and more varied press, better theaters, more numerous orchestras and museums, leafier squares, safer streets, and more courteous inhabitants than any other large city in the world.
And it has more congenial small things--incidental civilities, you might call them--than any other city I know: cheery red mailboxes, drivers who actually stop for you at pedestrian crossings, lovely forgotten churches with names like St. Andrew by the Wardrobe and St. Giles Cripplegate, sudden pockets of quiet like Lincoln's Inn and Red Lion Square, interesting statues of obscure Victorians in togas, pubs, black cabs, double-decker buses, helpful policement, polite notices, people who will stop to help you when you fall down or drop your shopping, benches everywhere. What other great city would trouble to put blue plaques on houses to let you know what famous person once lived there, or warn you to look left or right before stepping off the curb? I'll tell you. None.
Take away Heathrow Airport, the weather, any building that the architect Richard Seifert ever laid a bony finger to, and it would be nearly perfect. Oh, and while we're at it, we might also stop British Museum employees from cluttering the forecourt with their cars and instead make it into a kind of garden, and also get rid of theose horrible crush barriers outside Buckingham Palace because they look so straggly and cheap--not at all in keeping with the dignity of her poor besieged Majesty within. And, of course, put the Natural History Museum back to the way it was before they started dicking around with it (in particular, they must restore the display cases showing insects infesting household products from the 1950s); and remove the entrance charges at all museums at once; and bring back Lyons Corner Houses but this time with food you'd like to eat; and finally, but most crucially, make the board of directors of British Telecom go out and personally track down every last red phone box that they sold off to be used as shower stalls and garden sheds in far-flung corners of the globe, make them put them all back, and then sack them--no, kill them. Then truly will London be glorious again.

On Chopsticks, Which Are Evil and Awkward
Am I alone in thinking it odd that a people ingenious enough to invent paper, gunpowder, kites, and any number of other useful objects, and who have a noble history extending back three thousand years, haven't yet worked out that a pair of knitting needles is no way to capture food?

On Women's Shortcomings when It Comes Time to Pay for Things
Men, for all their many shortcomings, like washing large pieces of oily machinery in the kitchen sink or forgetting that a painted door stays wet for more than thirty seconds, are generally pretty good when it comes to paying. They spend their time in line doing a wallet inventory and sorting through their coins. When the till person announces the bill, they immediately hand over an approximately correct amound of money, keep their hands extended for the change however long it takes or however foolish they may begin to look if there is, say, a problem with the till roll, and then--mark this--they pocket their change as they walk away, instead of deciding that now is the time to search for the car keys and reorganize six months' worth of receipts?

On Things You Only Enjoy If You're Old and British
There are certain things that you have to be British, or at least older than me, or possibly both, to appreciate: skiffle music, salt-cellars with a single hole, Marmite (an edible yeast extract with the visual properties of an industrial lubricant), Gracie Fields singing "Sally," George Formby doing anything, jumble sales, making sandwiches from bread you've sliced yourself, really milky tea, boiled cabbage, the belief that household wiring is an interesting topic for conversation, steam trains, toast made under a gas grill, thinking that going to choose wallpaper with your mate constitutes a reasonably fun day out, wine made out of anything other than grapes, unheated bedrooms and bathrooms, erecting windbreaks on a beach (why, pray, are you there if you need a windbreak?), an dcricket. There may be one or two others that don't occur to me at the moment.
I'm not saying that these things are bad or boring or misguided, merely that their full value and appeal yet elude me. Into this category I would also tentatively insert Oxford.

At the End:
...and in the center of it all, obscured by trees, our wonderful old stone house, which itself is far older than my native land.
It looked so peaceful and wonderful that I could almost have cried, and yet it was only a tiny part of this small, enchanted island. Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain--which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad--old churches, country lanes, people saying "Musn't grumble" and "I'm terribly sorry but," people apologizing to me when I conk them with a careless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, tea and crumpets, summer showers and foggy winter evenings--every bit of it.
What a wondrous place this was--crazy as all get-out, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farlegh Wallop, or a game like cricket? Who else would have a constitutional form of government but no written constitution, call private schools public schools, think it not the least bit odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, seat the chief officer of the House of Lords on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ("Please, Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.") Who else could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, Salisbury Cathedral, double-decker buses, and the chocolate digestive biscuit? Wherever else would I find a view like this? Nowhere, of course.

Exactly, right? I have nothing more to add. You may borrow this book, certainly, but make sure I have it back before I make my journey. I'll need to read it again.

Sweater Makeover

2012-01-16T18:08:00.004-05:00

For some time now, I have been hunting assiduously for new cardigans. I have a couple, and Lauren most generously shares hers with me, thereby doubling my cardi-tunities, but I still need more! It's winter, you see, and my classroom temperature varies between a brisk 60ish to a balmy 80ish. Why don't I just adjust the thermostat, you ask. Ask away; I laugh at you and ask you to come visit my school. Adjustable thermostats weren't invented in the Pleistocene Age when my school was built.
Thus, Mrs. G has to be prepared for ever-varied temperatures. We adjust by opening the window, and that works sometimes, but I need to be able to shift from Antarctica-garb to Bahamas-garb very, very quickly. That's why I need more cardigans, you see? It just won't do for the teacher to be divesting herself of a pullover sweater mid-lecture. Strange and embarrassing things might happen.
So then I had a thought one day last week, and it really was a brilliant thought: Why not give a pullover sweater a fresh new look--and make it INTO a cardigan? I'm sure you were thinking the same thing.
I poked around a bit on the internet and found a few tips and ideas. Some of them were purely awful, but some were quite helpful indeed. And I had just the sweater to try it out on.

I bought this sweater a few years ago and got some good use out of it. I love the color and the feel of it, but alas, it hearkens back to the days when silly people (like me? really?) thought it looked cool to let a bit of the belly hang out between shirt and pants. (I've borne three children; nobody wants to see that stuff) (don't know what I was thinking) So, it has been sitting in the closet for a few seasons. The most helpful website suggested marking the middle with tailor's chalk and then sewing two straight seams 1/4" away from the center. I skipped the tailor's chalk step, preferring to wing it (okay, total honesty here: I didn't mark it because I don't have any tailor's chalk, but I freely admit it sounds like a very helpful thing!) (plus, the poor sweater had been folded in my closet so long that there was a pretty permanent crease down the middle anyway), but I sewed those two seams so that once I cut up the center, the raw edges wouldn't fray too much.
Then, taking a deep breath that tasted a little like desecration, I put my scissors to my sweater and began to cut. I was afraid, reader. I was afraid that I was taking a pretty useless sweater and turning it into a totally useless sweater. But then, as I cut and cut, a heady feeling of creative power consumed me. I laughed triumphantly as my scissors slipped to one last ringing close, as I reached the neckline of my no-longer-a-pullover.

Once I made the cut, I zigzagged the rough edges, deciding that finishing the edges this way would be best because it would leave me with more fabric for the front.

Then, I simply folded each front edge to the inside, pressed it, and straight stitched it. Now it was time to decide how to polish it off. I tried it on and posed in several ways for the mirror, but the message each time was the same: "needs a little something more."

I had some ivory grosgrain ribbon, maybe about an inch wide, but Clint and Lauren emphatically put the kaibosh on that idea. I agreed: too old-ladyish (sorry, any old lady readers--no offense intended!). Then I found a small stash of buttons. I have no idea what I bought them for, but I had a total of ten white buttons. Perfecto!

But then, after looking in the mirror a bit more, posing and smiling a number of very proud smiles, I decided to add a row of buttons to the other side (unfortunately, Clint had already taken this picture--and I did that bit of sewing in the car on our way to a delicious Ethiopian meal in Ann Arbor). I am pretty proud of myself for this one, not going to lie.

First Shadow Box

2012-01-12T12:55:00.002-05:00

When Jared talks about his friends at school, he usually talks about boys. He likes to play with Isaac and Brandon and Coby. But at least one girl always makes it into his daily litany: Rachel. And it would appear that he is as dear to her as she is to him.

A few weeks ago, Jessica, Rachel's mom, told me that as they were discussing her upcoming birthday, she asked Rachel to name all the girls she'd like to invite. Rachel started listing and then broke into tears. "Rachel, what's wrong?" Jessica asked. Rachel, sobbing, said, "Can Jared be a girl, just for one day? I want to invite him too!"

I'm not sure whether I'll subject Jared to the indignity of wearing one of Lauren's preserved fancy dresses (although Lauren and I would dearly love to dress him up), but I definitely needed to make this girl a special present.

I had bought some shadow boxes a while ago at IKEA after reading one of my favorite blogger's posts about the shadowboxes she makes (here). And I've just been waiting for the right project. I know Rachel's two favorite things are doggies (her dog Gus makes me want a dog) and pickles. So, after dreaming of ideas all night, I sketched out this plan this morning.

Then, I measured my space and sketched the design onto watercolor paper and then began applying paint. The painting on the left is the background, and the one on the upper right will be cut out.

And then, since I just can't say no to sketching over the paint with my lovely Micron pens, I did a little bit of that, which helped add some of the details I missed with my paint brush. Cutting out the girl and her dog was somewhat frustrating, but when I switched to my new (and very sharp and shiny!) embroidery scissors, things improved significantly. I wonder if maybe I should get a craft knife for cutting like this...Hmm...

After I cut out the Picklish Dream, I added some very fine glitter around the edges to make it even more dreamlike.

Then, I added some dimension squares to the back of the girl and her doggy so they'd pop right out. The trailing thought bubbles were a last minute idea. I used a hole punch to cut out the circles, then bored two tiny holes in each one and threaded them on silver thread (does it make you think of the Pensieve in Harry Potter? me too!) and ran the thread from pickle to girl.

And a closer picture so you can read the text.

Hmm. Maybe I should invite myself to the party so I can watch as she opens it.

Now, on to my next project: bow ties, I think. Why not?

Throwing in the Towel

2012-01-11T19:09:00.003-05:00

I'm a perfectionist about many things; I know that. Bath towels have to be folded in fourths the long way and then in thirds, coffee mugs are arranged in a certain order in the cupboard with handles facing out, the socks in my drawers are neatly rolled and then organized by color. As are all the hanging clothes in my closet (not the rolled part, just the color-organized part). And spices are organized by type: sweet and savory, then seeds, spices, leaves, etc. I won't talk about my craft area; I think you get the picture.
Lately, I've realized I need to give up on some of these closely held foibles. For one thing, I need to delegate more of the daily housework to the kids so that I can have time to get other jobs done, those "mom's-truly-the-only-one-who-can-do-this" jobs like paying bills and organizing all of my books by color. Counting chocolate chips is also an important task that I shudder to consider passing off on someone else. Plus, I often bring school work home with me. I just need more time to do these things.
So, on Monday, I babystepped my way toward that goal of finding more time: I let go of a job, telling Lauren and Jonah that I would no longer be both the cook and the bottle washer in the family. I will still make dinner, but I'm leaving the cleaning of dishes in their hands.
Of all the jobs to relinquish, this was an easy choice. They've been helping me in the kitchen for years, so they know how to wash dishes to my (ahem, exacting) specifications.
But tonight, after the third night of their solo dishwashing endeavor, I am suddenly taken back to the days of my own childhood, when my mom threw in the towel and expected Ilona and I to wash the dishes together. As I listen from the other room to the arguing, the frustration, the petty picking they're doing, I remember--with a little bit of fondness actually--some of my cat fights with Ilona.
At the time, I thought having her for a sister was hellish. She always borrowed my clothes without asking, often trying several things on and then she would leave them lying on the floor. Yes, offensive I know. And then there was the abuse. The nightly leaps she made from her bed to mine, when she would sit on my chest, locking my arms uselessly at my sides with her knobby knees as she tickled me or (the most unspeakable of horrors) unspooled a long strand of saliva toward my mouth, sucking it up only at the last minute. I was helpless before her assaults, always the victim.
And of course, there was the uncanny way in which she always managed to call "clearing," which was patently the easier dishwashing task, leaving me with washing, which was always hot and involved hours of scrubbing furiously at blackened pots.

All of these memories trickle back into my brain as I listen to my children squabble in the kitchen, and I wonder what agony I have unwittingly set in motion for them as I try to salvage a few minutes of time from my day to write out my thoughts. Plus, I'm thinking that if only I had just washed the dishes myself, they would have been done in half the time and without any arguing. I tell myself I'm teaching them a lesson, and I have to admit that even though Ilona did torment me remorselessly, at least she provided me with realms of material for stories.

The First T-Shirt

2012-01-08T18:01:00.005-05:00

Just to recap: yesterday, I bought these four pieces of knit fabric to make some t-shirts or some such happy shirty-ness. Why? Well, for one thing, I could always use another gray t-shirt (I only have about 10 or so) (keep in mind, scoffers, that some are long sleeved and some are short) (and a few have stuff printed on them) (like Edgar Allan Poe's head made out of ravens!) and the stuff I've seen at the store lately has been much less than thrilling.

So, Saturday night after I got all my jobs done, I looked around online for tutorials and free patterns for t-shirts. I thought about buying a pattern while I was at JoAnn, but I hate pattern prices (sure they're always 40% off, but 40% off 17.99 is still more than I want to pay for a t-shirt pattern). Plus, you're probably thinking, you're never guaranteed a perfect fit. What if the pattern is wonky? Yes, my thoughts exactly.

So, I did what I had planned on doing in the first place, and what many of the websites suggested as well: use a shirt I own and like, lay it out on the fabric, and cut around it, leaving a seam allowance of about 1/2 inch. Before I started cutting, I tested the stretch of the fabric, making sure I cut each piece so that it stretched the right way (side to side, of course).

Cutting the front and back were pretty easy. I cut it on the fold so I wouldn't have a seam down the middle. Then it was time for the sleeves. It took a little maneuvering, but I figured it out and cut them.

Then, as I was about to start sewing, I realized the sleeves were probably too short, so I cut two more, adding about 1-1/2 inches to each sleeve, just to be safe.

Then it was time to start piecing it together. I used a stitch that looks like a serger stitch, zigzag with straight stitches on both sides, to make the seams as tough as possible. Plus, I had read that a regular straight stitch is not good for knits as it doesn't let it stretch very well.

I sewed the shoulder seams first, then attached the sleeves to the shirt, then sewed up the sides and along the underside of the sleeves. That was the easy part. Then I needed to figure out how to finish the neckline.

I looked at several of my own shirts, and I decided that a rough curled edge would be the easiest finish for my first t-shirt. So, I measured the length of the entire neckline and cut a strip about 2" wide to that measurement. I folded the strip in half and ironed it, but it wouldn't hold the pressing, so I just winged it.

I started out sewing the folded edge to the inside of the neck, stopping after a few inches to look at what I had done because it seemed like I was doing it backwards. But I played around with the part I had sewed and it seemed right, so I kept going all the way around. When I finished, I excitedly called everyone in to see the finished product.

Clint fingered the finished edge and said "Hmm." I was thinking the same thing, so I tried it on. Sure enough, my first moment of doubt had been a correct impulse. I should have sewn the trim to the outside of the shirt.
Angry with myself, I now had to decide whether to just live with it or do something about it. Of course I couldn't just live with it. I shrugged and cut the trim right off, then cut another strip and sewed the folded edge to the right side of the shirt. No doubts this time.

Sure enough, it was the right choice. I liked it so much, I decided to use the same finish on the sleeves. The fact that the edges kept rolling while I tried unsuccessfully to press the edge under twice so I could sew it the traditional way had absolutely no bearing whatsoever on my choice. None. None at all. And the bottom hem? I'm just gonna let that baby roll.

So, here's the finished shirt. The neckline might be a little lower-cut than I had intended, but I have to wear a cami under it anyway because the fabric is pretty thin. I am pretty pleased with it and eager to get started on the next shirt. Maybe the gray, I think. I have an idea for dressing up the neckline on that one just a tiny bit. And I'm saving the ivory for my last shirt because it feels really nice. It has some rayon in it, I think, so it will drape really well. I haven't figured out yet what I'll do with it, but I'm thinking about a banded bottom so it blouses out a little and something ruffled at the top. Not exactly sure yet. Maybe sleeveless? We'll see.

Cards

2012-01-07T21:33:00.010-05:00

Let's do a little math, shall we? Say you have eight siblings and each of them is married; say each of those couples has 2.7 children. That's a lot of people. Now say your husband has six siblings and each of them is married; say each of them has 3.4 children. That's a WHOLE lot of people. We decided several years ago that we would rather spend our money on things like really sharp cheddar and absurd amounts of the best chocolate chips we could find, so we don't buy presents for all of these family members. Instead, I make each one a birthday card.

They tell me they like them. That makes me happy because I really like them. And what's more, I really like making them. I try to make large batches of cards at a time when I have a free weekend, so before we went back to school last week, I made cards for all my January and February birthdays. Here is a sneak peek. And for those of you who are expecting a card in the next few months, I apologize for spoiling the surprise, but I really wanted to share.

This is for a pretty fantastic gymnast:

This is for a little drama queen:
This is for a very serious little boy:
This is for the best daddy in the world:
This is for a guy who's had to make some pretty drastic diet changes lately:
This is for a newly married girl who loves to sing:
This is for her very manly husband:
This is for one of the most obsessed outdoorsmen we know: This is for a sweetheart of a boy who reminds us of Jared:

New Wardrobe

2012-01-07T20:56:00.004-05:00

Every few months or so, I look at my closet and sigh a very sad sigh. I feel like I've been wearing the same old clothes day in and day out. Clint always assures me that I always look great all the time, but he is a man with one eye constantly trained on the bank account, so I don't really trust him. Usually, this very sad sigh can be soothed by a quick shopping trip. I buy a new skirt or cardigan or shirt, and I'm cured of sighs (at least about my closet) for a few months. But whenever this discontent is paired with a newly rekindled passion for sewing, I am in serious trouble.
You're probably nodding sagely right now, expecting that I'm in trouble because I go to the fabric store and buy way too much fabric I'll never use, but that's not really my problem (I do that anyway--but I DO use the fabric, although I usually buy more yardage than I need. That is a different story, though. Not related to this issue at all). No, the problem is that I still do go shopping at my regular clothing-store haunts, and (here is the problem part) I can't find anything I like! Tragic, I know. (Clint hates to hear about this part, I can assure you.) I walk through the stores, fingering fabrics and peering at trims. I turn shirts inside out to look at the stitching. And then I look at the price tags. 24.99 for this? I mutter. That's crazy. I could make that.
And somtimes I do. I have made plenty of aprons and skirts and purses. I've even made a couple dresses. But this has usually been where I've drawn the line. Venturing beyond the boundaries of that comfort zone has been far too dangerous for me to consider.
But this time, as I looked in dismay at my closet, I realized that the real problem is shirts. I'm sick of all of them. I have a plethora of pants and far too many skirts, but I need more shirts. So this time, I stepped boldly forth into the unknown. I have decided to make myself a shirt or two.
So, I went to JoAnn today and found four different knits: a gray, an ivory, a heathery pink, and a gold/white stripe. And all but one on the bargain table, I might add.
Then I came home and got all my jobs done: packed away the Christmas decorations, commanded my slaves (ahem, children) to help me clean the house, and graded all my papers. Guess what I'm going to do tomorrow?

The Importance of Things

2012-01-04T18:48:00.006-05:00

When I told my English students yesterday that today would be show and tell day, some of them groaned. "I don't like talking in front of the class. It makes me feel like I wanna puke!" they complained. I ignored them, as I usually do (the complaints, not the children), and continued explaining that they needed to bring in an object that represented someone or something significant in their lives; they were going to use this experience to write a reflective essay later on this week.

They shuffled out of the room when the bell rang, leaving me to wonder what they might bring in for show and tell the next day.

This morning, as they drifted into the room, I heard one student ask, "Is today show and tell day?" and I groaned. I've had years like this before, where a class just doesn't put much effort into anything, and nearly every student shows either a cell phone or iPod or a classmate as a best friend.

I let myself begin to doubt them, so I was therefore unprepared for the depth of today's experience.

I began by showing this pewter pig.

My brother Thad got him for me when his 7th grade class went on a trip to Shipshewana. I don't remember if he got gifts for any of our other siblings, but he brought this little guy home for me. He's tiny (the pig, that is): maybe as big as a baby's fingernail. I carried him in my pocket every day for years, a talisman that reminded me I was loved. I seem to remember carrying him in my pocket for my first job interview, but I'm not sure if that's a true memory.

After I shared, students began to volunteer to share. A couple of girls shared about how their hockey teams had won medals or they had gone to an elite sports camp. One boy showed his baseball trophy. Then, a boy walked up to the front with a picture of his junior high baseball team. After he introduced his topic, he began to get choked up. As he wiped away tears, he told us why that season was so memorable: it was the last season he got to play with his friend, who died that fall in a car accident.

Next, a girl shared a picture of her family when she was young, saying it was the last picture taken before her parents divorced and the family was shattered. Another girl shared a picture of herself with her father, saying he had died soon after. A boy shared a book his grandfather bought just before he died of leukemia, and his grandmother had just recently given it to him to keep. On and on the stories unfolded, stories of love and loss and moving on.

They were not all sad stories. Three students brought in musical instruments (two guitars and a bassoon) and we listened to mini-concerts. A few more talked about athletic achievements. One girl said she really just wanted to live in a van in her mother's driveway when she grew up: the rent would be cheap and she could mooch meals off her mom.

But even the funny, silly stories had an emotion in common with the sad ones. As we shared and laughed and sometimes brushed away tears together, I think we grew closer as a class: we learned that there is pain in the world, there is death and sadness, and it doesn't matter whether you are at the top or the bottom of the teenage social food chain--or somewhere in the middle--tragedy can strike just as randomly as joy can, and by sharing with each other and learning from each other, we learn a bit about ourselves as well.

A Merry Little Christmas for Me

2011-12-21T09:03:00.003-05:00

Today, somebody posted a video preview on facebook for this movie, which (sadly) won't be in theaters for another twelve months. Until then, though, I can look out my living room window and imagine Gandalf knocking on Bilbo's door. Clint started building this hobbit house a few summers ago. He was hoping to use only natural materials, but then his clay mixture started to prove recalcitrant, so he had to reinforce it with some plastic-ish webbing. He also laid rolled roofing under the soil on the roof to make it less leaky. Still, it looks hobbit-ish enough for me. Maybe this summer, he'll finish it and we can sit in there and puff smoky ships and dragons with our hand-whittled pipes.

This is what it looks like outside right now. Down in that hollow is our neighbor Thelma's yard. There's an apple tree back there in the haze, and it is the favorite eating ground of a family of deer. We see them all the time, and sometimes they leave their tracks in the snow around our house. When we have snow, that is.

So, on to the main reason for my post: Yesterday after baking, Lauren and I went out hunting for a second-hand pea coat for Jonah. Don't you think he would look nice in one? I don't want to pay full price because the boy is bound to start growing soon, I think. He's been about the same height for over a year now, and all the other boys in his class have started to sprout up.

After a futile coat search, I asked Lauren where she wanted to go, and she suggested the Jackson Antique Mall (which, by the way, is haunted...the top floor...very spooky up there).

She took off on her own looking for vintage coats and gloves, and I wandered around the booths looking at who knows what. Have you ever taken note of the astonishing number of freaky antique figurines in shops like this? I think they are supposed to be cute, but who would want to purchase a leering lamb or a winking lion? That is not cute; that is pretty close to demonic.

Anyway, I found a couple of wonderful things. Clint has been looking for liquor decanters for a top-secret project I can't tell you about, and after shattering the stopper of a $99 one he saw at Home Goods (oh, I wasn't supposed to tell you about that either), I cut him off from handling the expensive ones.

And lo and behold, I found a whole stash of them in a dusty bottom shelf--FOR TWO DOLLARS APIECE! I just got two, that's how reserved I was.

And as I was carrying them around and basking in my antiquing genius, I turned a corner into the chilly back room (where I think the ghost might also visit, judging by temperature alone), I found this set! A Fontanini Nativity. Do you know how long I've wanted one of these? A long, long time. Ever since Jonah stole the cow and lamb from someone. (I don't know who it was; if it was you, I am really sorry. But I just want to let you know that I am not giving them back because the set I just bought didn't come with animals. So I need them. Plus, I've had them a long time, so I think they're mine now anyway.)

Also, I bought a pair of earrings for myself and a pair for Lauren. They have BIRDS on them. Yes, birds. I love birds very much, but not the swarming ones. When they all fly up suddenly from a tree and swoop and swarm around in a complicated twist, I don't like them at all. I fear them. But birds on jewelry? I love those birds very much. Lauren said we should save them for Christmas, but that resolve lasted only until we got home. Five days is too long to wait!

I'll post a picture of the earrings when she wakes up--and when I have better light for shooting.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas to all!

Book Review: The Man Who Loved Books Too Much

2011-12-17T19:01:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I finished reading this book by Allison Hoover Bartlett. A little embarrassed to admit that I didn't realize it was nonfiction until I started reading it, even though the cover quite clearly says it is a true story. Hmm. Silly girl, I am.

Usually, I steer quite clear of nonfiction as a general rule. I just love stories, and I have always found nonfiction to be pretty dry, but I'm reading Devil in the White City right now as well, another piece of NF, and it isn't dry at all! Neither was this book.

So, did you even know that book theft--especially rare book theft--is a pretty common crime? I had no idea. A book is much more likely to be stolen than a piece of art. And I'm not talking about cheap paperbacks either here; I'm talking about valuable books. Old books, rare books, first editions, things like that. Some of these books are worth hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of dollars. These are the things book thieves steal.

The book centers around two main characters: John Gilkey, a book thief, and Ken Sanders, a rare book dealer who is obsessed with tracking down book thieves, especially John Gilkey.

The author spoke with Gilkey many times, visiting him often in prison in the times when he was caught and punished for his crimes, and also out of prison when he had been released.

Of the two men, Gilkey was perhaps more fascinating than Sanders because his moral code was so different from anyone's I've ever met--in "real" life or on the page. I spent most of my time while reading the book trying to figure out, like the author was, whether Gilkey was insane, brilliant, a psychopath, or a little bit of all of them. Gilkey refused to use the word "steal" when talking about his career of theft. Instead, he said he "took" books, almost as if they belonged to him in the first place and he was just claiming his property. He seemed to desperately want to prove to the world that he was a man of learning and culture, and to do that, he felt he needed a wide array of impressive books. He studied bibliographies, planning the books he would steal, and he primarily used stolen credit card numbers (he worked for some time at Saks, where he copied down customers' numbers) or bad checks. He was methodical and unpredictable in his thefts, usually just "taking" one book at a time, and not always from the same geographical or literary area.

Rare book store owners are typically embarrassed to admit they have been stolen from. They seem to believe as a group that being the victim of theft or fraud implies that they have been lax in their duty, so they rarely report the crimes. And policemen and other officials are often not very interested in book theft anyway, as no one has been hurt and the criminal is likely not a dangerous person.

But whether a book thief is a dangerous person is a matter of opinion, I think. When a book thief named Daniel Spiegelman was caught and brought to trial for stealing a vast number of books (some of which were the only remaining books of their kind) from Columbia University, his judge stated the following when explaining Daniel's sentence:

"In callously stealing, mutilating, and destroying rare and unique elements of our common intellectual heritage, Spiegelman did not simply aim to divest Columbia of $1.3 million worth of physical property. He risked stunting, and probably stunted, the growth of human knowledge to the detriment of us all. By the very nature of the crime, it is impossible to know exactly what damage he has done. But this much is clear: this crime was quite different from the theft of cash equal to the appraised value of the materials stolen, because it deprived not only Columbia, but the world, of irreplaceable pieces of the past and the benefits of future scholarship."

When seen in this light, the theft of a book is really a crime against human history, especially if it is a rare book. If the thief endangers the book or removes it from public access, that piece of our history could be lost forever. In that way, the theft of one book can make us all that much poorer.

In all, this was an interesting and enlightening read. I learned a bit about the rare book market and trade, about the ways in which dealers evaluate books, and about the complex psychology of one particular thief. My only complaint, and it is a small one, is with the organization of the book. I am betting that the author had done so much research about the world of rare books that she wanted to include her findings in this book along with the story of Gilkey's thefts and Sanders's attempts to find him and hold him accountable for them. I understand how hard it is to find ways to incorporate tidbits of information in the context of the story. But while I sympathize and understand, I must complain that the flow of the narrative was often interrupted by these side-trips into the products of her extensive background research. It was all interesting--very much so!--but sometimes the story hurt for these interruptions, I think.

40 before 40? Hmm...

2011-12-13T20:03:00.004-05:00

Lately, I've been hearing lots of people talking about bucket lists and such (maybe I'm hanging out with too many oldies? don't know...), and the other evening when Clint and I went out on a date (he finally took me out...after much hinting and threatening), we both began to write our lists. Here's what we have so far. I'll start with Clint's (keep in mind, though, that the man either has to get really busy in the next 5 1/2 months or he'll have to re-title his list to 45 before 45 or something) (oh, and these aren't in any special order of to-do-ish-ness):
1. climb a 13-14,000 foot mountain (huh, that one's not on my list AT ALL)
2. stone the porch (not the lethal kind of stoning, mind you. I mean the sandstone around the pole thingies kind)
3. go on a mission trip and speak some Spanish to the natives (hopefully, they also speak Spanish)
4. brew beer
5. take an art class--maybe painting?
6. build a cool workshop
7. get a buck that has a nice rack (this is hunter lingo for antlers. What were you thinking?)
8. sell some of his woodcraft projects
9. go on monthly dates with me (this was his idea, I'm almost 86% sure)
10. go to Yosemite
11. visit the British Isles
12. eat horse (why??? I blame my dad for this idea) (I threw up a little bit just typing it)
13. visit Quebec
14. visit Nova Scotia
15. visit New Zealand and Australia
16. train to be a reserve police man
17. build a wood-fire oven for pizza and bread on the patio (yes, please!)
18. go to a Rush concert
19. go to a Bond/Riverdance/Opera Babes concert

Now for my list:
1. run a 5k
2. perfect the installation of a hidden zipper
3. learn a foreign language
4. take an art class
5. learn how to make chocolate like the lady in Chocolat
6. be more dedicated to my blog (it's been a long time!)
7. learn how to knit (if only I had a dear, sweet friend who could teach me)
8. sell some of my art
9. learn how to use photoshop
10. give Clint a cool-nerdy makeover (wouldn't he look sweet?)
11. learn how to felt wool and make cute little wooly animals with it
12. start a Christmas puzzle tradition at our house
13. go to an AWP conference (have I told you that it's in Chicago this year? And Margaret Atwood is the keynote speaker? that's what I'm saying)
14. learn how to make tiny animals out of clay and make a whole menagerie
15. visit the British Isles
16. eat my way through either France or Italy, consuming mainly bread, cheese, and wine
17. go to Maine
18. go to Boston
19. go to Florence and Rome
20. did I mention the British Isles?
21. see a famous person (I saw Sean Connery in a kilt once!)
22. finish writing another novel or two
23. design a dress and sew it
24. make a trench coat

Book Review: The Lost Hero

2011-08-28T21:19:00.003-04:00

I don't have the time to pre-read everything my kids read. Mama has her own teetering stacks of books to devour. I ask them about their books, though, and when something piques my interest, I will definitely add it to my own pile after the child has finished (or, occasionally--as was the case of a certain someone who read the last Harry Potter book much too slowly--before). This is what happened with the Percy Jackson series.
The author, Rick Riordan, says that he first developed an interest in mythology when he was hooked on the Lord of the Rings series in middle school. His teacher told him the author (Tolkien, of course) had been heavily influenced by Norse mythology (I didn't know that, but it makes sense, eh?), so young Rick soon turned to Norse mythology, which then naturally progressed to Greek and Roman.
I loved his Percy Jackson series (a total of five books) because he made Greek mythology easily readable and accessible to a wide audience--even adults! The books have great characters, they're funny, and the action and mystery are intense and well-paced. I also enjoyed the way Riordan wove appearances of mythological beings (gods, demigods, monsters, etc.) into modern culture. The Three Fates as taxi drivers (and you know how crazy that would be: they share an eye),Medusa's garden sculpture shop (everything is stone, of course), the Empire State building as Mt. Olympus. Each book was a fun read, and I could understand why my kids enjoyed them.
The Lost Hero is the first book in a new series, but it picks up where the Percy Jackson series ended, and many of the characters reappear. Just like the other series, you have great action, adventure, and memorable characters.
In this series we meet Jason, Leo, and Piper--all three of whom are castoffs and misfits, trying to figure out why they don't really seem to get along with their peers or fit in anywhere. For those who've become familiar with Riordan's series, the reason is clear: they're demigods, children of a mortal's union with a god. Sure enough, they end up at Camp Half-Blood with other demi-gods where many of their questions are answered and their divine parentage is revealed. But Jason's past is still shrouded in mystery. It's like someone has deliberately erased his memory, and the only one who might have a clue--Chiron, the centaur head teacher at Camp Half-Blood--gets pretty nervous and starts pawing the ground when asked directly.
Soon the three set off on a quest to rescue Hera, stop an evil (and unknown, for most of the book) being from overthrowing the entire order of the world, and of course they make a few stops along the way to visit various gods and beings and ask for help or fight for their lives--or both. The characters take turns as narrative focii in the chapters, which gives unique insight into their varied backgrounds and issues, and each one adds a different sort of spice to the story.
This novel also introduces Roman mythology, where the first series was entirely Greek. It's interesting how the characters acknowledge that while the Roman gods were usually very similar to their Greek counterparts, there were some distinct differences, which makes sense, considering the vast differences between Ancient Greek and Roman cultures. I was particularly interested by this part of the novel, as it wasn't something I had really considered before. I knew that most of the Greek gods played a part in Roman mythology and their names were interchangeable, but I hadn't considered that the Romans would have valued certain characteristics in their deities over others and superimposed them on the "characters" of the Greek gods as they'd already been established. But as I said, it makes sense.
Anyway, a fun read. Lighthearted and a little bit educational as well, which is always a bonus. If I have any complaint, it is that there is less of a meld of the mythological world with the "real" world, but I did learn that Jack London was a demigod. Did you know that? Hmm. I didn't think so. (Well, I guess I didn't either before I read the book. We're even.) (Well, we will be if you read at least one of Riordan's books.) (If you don't like Greek and Roman mythology, you can try one of his Kane Chronicles. Those are about Egyptian gods and are equally funny, although I didn't love the characters as much.)

Playing God

2011-08-23T19:36:00.004-04:00

One of my favorite things about sunny, warm days is hanging clothes outside on the clothes line. Sure, my towels may be a little scratchy and my jeans may be a little stiff when I first put them on, but I like some crunch in my clothes and some backbone in my bedsheets.

So anyway, this morning--knowing it was going to be a bright and beautiful day--I strolled outside to the back yard and began hanging t-shirts and sheets on the clothes line. I got to the end of the line, the part near the boundary of our property where there is a thick line of bushes, and some movement caught my eye.

It was a white moth, and it was caught in a spider web. The moth was fluttering, flapping, trying desperately to free itself. I hung the sheet, smoothing its damp edges, and I began to turn away.

I have been reading Charlotte's Web to Jared, after all, and Charlotte has reminded us both that spiders are not bloodthirsty monsters but animals who need to eat just as much as pigs--or people--do.

Photo credit: John Shappell

Even though I had turned my back on the desperately struggling moth, I kept seeing its frantic struggle in my mind's eye. I hung another shirt and tried to close that inner eye. The moth had blundered into the spider's web. The spider needed to eat. I should let nature take its course. Who was I to try to free the moth? As I hung another shirt, I felt a glow of self-righteousness, thinking Charlotte would be proud of me. I was quite certain that if she were nearby, she would weave an adjective or two about me into her web.

I hung the last towel on the line and picked up the basket to go back inside. Then I hesitated. I had to look back one more time. The moth was still struggling, still fluttering, still hoping to live. I set the basket down and stepped closer, looking for the spider. I thought, maybe the spider is right there, watching its dinner lose its will to live and surrender to fate. But I couldn't see the spider at all, just the moth.

Then, without even really thinking about what I was doing, I stretched forth my godlike finger and tore at the net. I tore and tore around the moth, freeing it. Without one word of thanks, it fluttered away, and I stood up, staring at the devastation I had caused, brushing sticky shreds from my fingers.

And I thought, as I bent to pick up the empty laundry basket, of how easy that had been for me: how with a few strokes of my finger, I had saved a life and destroyed something beautiful. Would the spider snare another moth--or something less lovely, perhaps--later that day, or would it have to wait days before its next meal? Would it survive those hungry days, or had I doomed it to starvation--certainly, I had made a mess of its web, and it would have to repair it.

Photo credit: The Natural Stone (@blogspot.com)

As I stumbled through the rest of my day, I tried not to think too much about the divine power I had used, refusing to think about things like guilt or remorse or pride. These were a spider and a moth, and I had more important things to take care of, like feeding my children and paying bills, but now, as I sit in my quiet chair, my day's tasks nearly completed, I think again about the godlike action I took this morning, and I wonder whether I did the right thing.

Decorating the Branch

2011-08-19T18:56:00.004-04:00

This past fall while cutting wood at a local church, Clint found this branch and, knowing I'd love it, he brought it home. I walked around and around it, carried it around the house for awhile, and then decided it needed to hang from the ceiling in our family room. At Christmas time, it was decorated with ornaments that sparkled and glittered and some lovely birds. The birds got to stay on the branch after I took the ornaments down.

They look too comfortable, I think, to be packed away in the darkness of the basement. And I like to look at this teal one in particular. He has such lovely tail feathers, and sometimes I think he winks at me.

But if the bird loved me, the bare branch taunted me. I knew it needed decoration, but I couldn't decide what. Whatever I chose had to be light weight so as not to break the fragile small limbs, and not too fancy or frilly as it wouldn't go with the rest of the room. I knew I wanted to make it, and I didn't want to spend a lot of money.

So, one day I sat down and started sketching simple flowers and leaves. I cut a flower out and held it up to the light, but it was just a little bit too boring. It needed some dimension, some shape. Also, my sketch was a little lackluster, if I must admit, and I wanted something more simple and less fussy.

After searching awhile online, I found this tutorial, which was both easy to follow and simple in design. I don't have extra vellum, and I was looking through my paper stash when lightning struck my brain in a moment of sheer crafting and penny-pinching genius: I could use last month's Crate and Barrel catalog. (I had saved it for once and have been using the pages for wrapping paper and envelopes...hate to thow such beautiful pictures away!)

I used a small glass to trace lots and lots of circles, as the tutorial instructed. Then, I cut out each circle (and you don't need to be super precise because the edges get rounded). After cutting each circle, I folded them into eighths (half and half and half again) and then rounded off the edges. Then after unfolding my almost-flower (and here's where you really need to look at the tutorial to get the visual help), I cut out one little section and a tiny part of another. Apply a kiss of glue stick and adhere the cut tab to the other part of the flower and voila! 3-D flower.

Having a one-girl assembly line makes the process run much more quickly, I think, than making each flower individually. The next step is making the stems. As the tutorial suggested, I cut pieces of floral wire and bent one end into a hooky thing to look like the (ahem) reproductive parts of a flower. Thread the unbent end of the wire through the very, very tiny hole in the middle of the flower and there you go! All set. Now I just needed to attach them to the branch.

Here's one lone guy on his branch. He's waiting for more friends to join him.

And soon they were all on the branch (except for the few who still sit on my counter top: I ran out of floral wire!), where they introduced themselves quite politely to Mr. Teal Bird and his friends. Sometimes I look up from my chair (which is right below the branch, of course, almost like a halo of crafty benediction) and smile at them as they bob gently in the breeze from the window.

You'll be happy to know that the branch no longer taunts me at all. It has become quite friendly since the addition of the flowers. The only trouble now is the nagging I get from the flowers that still lack their wires. I'll get to it, I assure both them and you, in my own sweet time.

Book Review: The God of Animals

2011-08-17T09:33:00.004-04:00

This is the first sentence: "Six months before Polly Cain drowned in the canal, my sister, Nona, ran off and married a cowboy." If you're anything like me, you want to read this book already, don't you--even without the rest of this review.
Well, here's the rest, for those of you who still aren't convinced:
The narrator, Alice Winston, is a twelve-year old girl, a lonely girl who wishes she had at least one friend, who wishes her father relies on her as much as he had relied on her older sister--the one who ran off with the cowboy without a word of explanation. Alice's father owns a struggling horse ranch in the town of Desert Valley, Colorado. Nona had won a slew of awards at local, national, and international levels for her horsemanship, but Joe Winston won't even let Alice get on a horse to start training for a show. Instead, he trains an inept rich girl, flattering her in the hopes that she will bring her rich friends out for lessons as well. When no rich friends show up and the situation becomes even more desperate, Joe takes on boarders, and the owners of these pampered horses seem interested mainly in grooming their horses, eating frozen grapes, drinking wine and gossiping--oh, and flirting with Joe. They are rich, indolent women, and Alice is both intrigued by them and repulsed.
In her loneliness, Alice manufactures a friendship with the drowned Polly Cain to initiate a secret friendship with her English teacher, lets Sheila (the rich girl taking showmanship lessons) into her life, lies about why her mother hasn't left her bedroom since Alice was a baby, and accepts gifts of clothing and jewelry from one of the boarders. Matters come to a head as all of her lies and fabrications are tested and begin to unravel, as she desperately rides one of her father's wildest horses in a show, as Nona and her husband reappear one day at the ranch. And as the long, brutally dry days of summer come to a shattering end with first a rainstorm and then, a short while later, a blizzard.
Aryn Kyle, the author, is a first-time novelist, and according to the notes at the end of the novel, she considers herself more a short story writer than a novelist. Indeed, the first chapter in the novel began as a short story, which won an award from The Atlantic Monthly. Many of the chapters read a bit more like short stories than novel chapters, actually, as in each one, Alice learns something of a life lesson and each could function as a complete whole in itself.
The plot is certainly compelling with all the troubles of the Winston ranch and the uncertainty of its survival, but what really makes this story work is the variety and complexity of the characters, major and minor alike. Alice's adolescent voice is honest and wry, naive and yet wise, clear-sighted and also self-absorbed. She is both selfish and selfless, compassionate and careless. She is very much a young girl. The other characters are similarly beautiful and yet flawed. Most have a secret they would like very much to keep buried. Some of them are revealed through the course of the novel and some are not. As Sheila Altman remarks near the end of the novel: "That's what we do for the people we love...we keep their secrets."
Also, Aryn's written style is something to be remarked upon. Desert Valley is a fictional place, but the descriptions of the setting are quite realistic. Consider this: "And the snow fell. Like in a dream, it distorted shapes and colors, hiding everything that was familiar, burying everything that was real. Somewhere in the distance was the barn, the house, the world of my childhood. But the snow swirled like a million white insects around me, and I could see none of it."
In the end, though, Alice is what remains in my head. Like I said, she is wise beyond her years but also quick to make judgments and innocent despite her clear vision. Listen to her:

"But alongside the canal, there were no such promises. The water rushed, fierce and hungry. I pictured it rising, spreading across the entire valley until the town disappeared beneath, a sunken ship lost forever on the ocean floor. Maybe when it happened, I would float to the surface. Maybe the blue ribbon, worn and grubby in my backpack, and the memory of myself inside the ring--the lightness of my body, the pure, perfect silence--would be enough to lift me. And from up above, I would peer down into the watery ruin of the town, trying to remind myself what it had been like to live there, to recognize the place that had been my home before the rain came and everything old was lost."

"I tried to imagine anything I could do for my entire life, anything I was good enough at that someone might pay me to do it. I'd been repeatedly complimented on both my penmanship and my ability to whistle through my fingers like a boy, but these skills seemed unlikely to pay off in the long run."

"Through the window, Jerry's eyes locked with mine. In the movies, there were two sorts of men who had guns: heroes and criminals. Inside the truck, Jerry reached down, yanking the blanket back across the floor, then climbed out, locking the door behind him. He turned to face me and I could feel the fear rising inside my chest like ice water. Jerry was not a hero."

"All those years I had been unnoticeable, hiding behind my hair, slumping my shoulders, scuffing through the hallways alone. There was no way to get that time back, and so there was no point in thinking about it. What was important was today, tomorrow, the day that came after. What was important was knowing that all I had to do to be better than other people was act like I was."

"The sun was shining into my face, drying my tears, stiffening my skin. 'Even when you were a baby,' my father told me, 'we never knew what to make of you. We'd try to hold you and you'd arch your back, squirming away.' He turned his face to mine, and his eyes softened with seriousness, a moment of pure perfect truth. 'You're just like me.'
We looked at each other through the blinding glare of sunlight. This was the closest my father would ever come to saying that he had been wrong, the closest thing I would ever get to an apology. And I tried to smile at him, my lips waxy with dried tears. I tried to show that it was enough."

You need to read this book. Trust me.

Book Review: Sarah's Key

2011-08-11T09:37:00.003-04:00

I have a hard time stopping reading a book I don't like, and I don't know if this is a good quality or a bad one. Does it mean I am stubborn and refuse to give up--or that I am optimistic and keep hoping the book will redeem itself? Or is it a mix of both? I have a stack of books to read: it's not like there aren't more options, but for some reason, I persist--even when I am not enthralled with the book. Such was the case with Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay.
I had heard good things about it, and the blurb on the back looked promising. And I must admit: the first 100 pages were great, actually. I like a novel that alternates between past and present, as this one does. Let me explain the premise:
In 1942, 10 year old Sarah is taken with her parents from their home in Paris. Before she leaves, she locks her young brother in the secret cupboard in their bedroom, promising him that she'll be home soon, never suspecting that she will not. Thousands of Jews--mostly women and children--are detained in a bus station in the city for days without adequate food or water or bathroom facilities. When Sarah shows her parents the key and explains that she locked little Michel into the secret cupboard, they are horrified, and Sarah quickly realizes that she has doomed her brother to a horrific fate. From the bus station, which is called the Vel' d'Hiv, they are taken to an internment camp near Orleans, and soon Sarah is separated from her parents, who are taken to Auschwitz. Sarah's story continues on, though, as she is tormented by her brother's fate--for which she blames herself completely.
In 2002, an American woman, a journalist living in France, is assigned to report on the 60th anniversary of the Vel' d'Hiv roundup, something that she--and most people in France or elsewhere--know little about. Julia is appalled to learn that this operation was carried out by French policeman under German orders. As she learns about the inhumanity of the treatment of the prisoners, she feels personally affected and soon becomes caught up in the story. By tracing the clues and talking with witnesses, she learns that the apartment her husband is renovating--the one his father had lived in as a child--was Sarah's home. Many past secrets, long buried, are revealed as Julia keeps digging.
Doesn't this all sound good? It is a great idea for a novel and an important piece of history that deserves to be told. I have no problem with any of this. For the first 150 pages or so, the brief chapters alternate between Sarah's story and Julia's. Then, midway through the book, Sarah's story reaches a climax and ends. The rest of the novel is Julia's story alone. The chapters are short and often fast-paced, and indeed the novel itself is a fast read.
I guess the part that annoyed me about the novel is the fact that Julia's character was so much less interesting than Sarah's, and Sarah's story ended so precipitously. I felt there were other paths the author could have taken with the plot, paths that would have been more satisfying and less predictable. The ending was too obvious, and yet the motivations of the characters when they got to the end weren't entirely believable. The last thirty pages skipped three years into the future, and all of Julia's problems from the rest of the story were summed up and swept under the rug. I actually rolled my eyes a few times in the last scene!
Normally, I consider myself a pretty tolerant reader, but this novel had the potential to be so much more, and I thought the pace, the character development, and the plot did not live up to it. I would have liked to see more mystery, stronger characters, fewer loose ends with minor characters, and (please) longer, more complex sentences.
Apparently, there is a film version of the book, and I plan to see it. It will be interesting to see how the film makers handle the story. I'm looking forward, however, to my next book. I hope it far surpasses this one.

Apron Thanks

2011-08-05T13:14:00.003-04:00

A dear friend admired one of my aprons a few months ago and inquired about whether I took commissions. I assured her that I do, but after thinking about the project for some time, I realized that I could not accept payment from this selfless woman. She gives her time, her treasure, and her many talents with a recklessness I admire. Thus the thank-you apron was born.

Not surprisingly, an apron of this gratitudinal magnitude required a trip to one of my favorite fabric stores (in Ann Arbor, where so many of my other favorite stores live), where the fam helped me choose the three coordinating fabrics. (Okay, mainly they walked around and picked out other fabrics I should buy them to make purses and aprons and pjs and pillows with.)

The friend I made the apron for gives me an earthy vibe, so I chose fabrics in that range, but she also loves to get crazy, hence the bold prints and the zany orange stripes. I made this a pretty apron, with ruffles and a drawstring on the bodice because this friend gives so much of herself to others that she often forgets to pamper herself. I wanted her to remember that she is beautiful and well-loved each time she puts this apron on.

A few years ago when I opened my etsy shop (etsy is like a huge online shopping mall for handmade and vintage items), I thought it would be smart to have a label that would help create a brand for my work. I found Jennifer's Jewels on etsy, and she helped me design a sew-in tag that would suit my purposes. It didn't take me long to sew through my first package of labels. I reordered another (larger) supply a month or so ago. (PS: in case you didn't know, I no longer stock my etsy shop. I found that sewing is more fun when I sew for those I know and love.) (I do take commissions, though!)

I almost thought I was done with the apron, but when I held it up and squinted my critical eye at it, I realized it needed a pocket. For the pocket, I cut two large rectangles of contrasting fabric (so the pocket is lined), a narrow strip for the trim, and sewed them together. But a big straightforward pocket was too boring for my fun apron--and certainly too boring for my fun friend. I played around with the shape, folding it and turning it on a slight angle, and I came up with this design. It looks a little like a flower itself, I think. The extra pleats make the pocket nice and roomy inside.

And here it is, the finished product. You can see the belt ties hanging down in back. I used two different fabrics for them: one for the front and one for the back, so when tied, the colors will both show.
I can't wait to give this to my friend. I hope she knows, each time she wears it, how much we love her and appreciate all she does.

2011-08-05T09:51:00.002-04:00

I picked up this book at the used bookstore in town (which, by the way, I love. It's not as organzied as my other favorite bookstores (Horizon in TC or Schuler's in Lansing), but it is such a rambling place, full of odd stacks of unshelved books, a treasure-hunter's paradise. I have often spent hours in its incense-spiced rooms, my arms becoming increasingly heavy with the growing pile), hoping I'd find some great information, the sorts of odd, often-gruesome facts my World History students love to learn about when we talk of the middle ages.
And--just like those freshmen--I'd rather learn history in a fun way than a boring one, so I figured a travel account would be much more fun to read than that history book about medieval history I bought a couple years ago...the one with the still-pristine cover and uncracked binding. (Wonder why it still looks new?)
This book was certainly easy to read, a nice slow amble from London to Canterbury as the author walked the distance in a week's time, chronicling his experiences, the people he met and the thoughts he had. Along the way, he adds information about the differences between medieval life and modern.
I was hoping for some new nuggets of information but didn't find them, aside from the fact that medieval wine and beer had to be consumed immediately, as they didn't have a great way to preserve them. Beer particulary had to be drunk as soon as it was brewed, but wine could last up to a year, afterward becoming so acidic and bitter that it was unpalatable.
Jerry Ellis, the author, is half British-half Native American. Earlier, he walked the Trail of Tears, on which the Cherokee nation was forced to travel from their homes in Georgia to a barren landscape in Oklahoma, and chronicled his journey. His native American ancestry is clear throughout this narrative as well. He speaks often of a kinship with nature, of shamanistic spiritual ideas, of saving bits and pieces of his trip to bury at home under a sacred tree so that he can preserve the spirit of this journey with the one he took on the Trail of Tears.
I must admit, I rolled my eyes a few times at his mysticism. I try to keep an open mind as a reader, but I had such high hopes about this book, and I found that while I enjoyed learning of his journey and the very friendly people he met along the way, and while I admired the spirit with which he undertook the journey--fully prepared to take what came to him, eyes wide open, his ruminations on the past were not as deep as I had hoped.
Maybe, though, I just know more than I thought I did about the middle ages. Yes, maybe I am just too lofty a genius to appreciate this dabbling in the past. I think I'll tell myself that to assuage the disappointment I feel.

(Which reminds me of my favorite line in "A Devil and Tom Walker" by Washington Irving: "Tom consoled himself with the loss of his property with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of fortitude.")

Trip to Chicago

2011-07-28T20:16:00.005-04:00

This past weekend, we headed to the Chicago area to visit family. We left Friday morning and traveled through a pretty fierce (but much needed) thunderstorm to arrive safely at Lynette's in Crystal Lake. As we were driving through Algonquin's many shopping venues, I noticed something both exciting and horrifying! Borders is going out of business. I guess I should have known it was coming: I've been hearing about their financial woes for quite awhile. But wait, you're thinking, she said "exciting." What's exciting about a bookstore going out of business? I'll tell you what's exciting: books on sale! The signs were prominent: 40% off. Clint took one look at my gleaming eyes and sighed. "Let's get to Lynette's first," he said. "I promise we'll come back."

There is really only one important thing that must be discussed when gathering with Genthners, I have come to realize: food. We talked for I think two whole days about food. In the meanwhile, the girls fit in a nail polishing session and the kids all jumped on the trampoline and played hide and seek. And we ate lots of good food. Like Lynette's homemade green tea gelato. Green tea! Who knew?
You're probably worried about whether I got to Borders. Fret no longer: I did. But here's the sad part, the part I couldn't see as we were driving 55 mph along the road: there were two tiny little words above the 40% off. Guess what they were? That's right: Up To. There wasn't much on sale, really--not much cheaper than Amazon, that is...which is probably why Borders is closing, eh? I got a few things from the bargain books section...
Then we headed over to visit Jeanette and Frederick for a night, eating more delicious food and sharing a great bottle of wine. More thunderstorms and rain...Sunday was a going away party for Annette's family: they're moving back to California. It is sad to see them go, but now we have a place to stay when we finally make the cross-country trip!
Sunday evening we headed over to see Micah and Sarah, who live in Buffalo Grove. Somebody really, really loves her cousin Jonah.

I'd often look into the living room as Sarah and I were talking about...well, food, if you must know--to see Eva settled comfortably on Jonah's lap. And he's a pretty easygoing thirteen year old boy, I think, because he didn't seem to mind. One time as they were walking out the door to get back on the swing set, I heard Eva say, "Jonah, you're my best friend" as she slipped her little hand into his.

Monday evening, we drove a mile or so to a park that boasts having the highest spot in the Chicagoland area. It did have a great view: we could see downtown. The kids were more interested in the small things, though, like grasshoppers.

And it was Micah and Sarah's anniversary! We cooked South African food together before going to the park, and we went out for ice cream afterward at Oberweis. Yummy. (I had Key Lime Pie ice cream!)

Tuesday morning, we took the kids down to the city (Chicago) to walk around and see the sights. Marilyn was new to me. The picture crops out all the loads of tourists (which, of course, we are not) standing below taking closer pictures.

There will be a new Lego store soon in Watertower Place, but for now, they have a temporary location in the mall and some of their sculptures for photo opportunities. Doesn't Jonah look happy?

I wanted to get more shots of the gorgeous architecture, but we were trying to walk quickly so as not to spend too much time downtown (somebody was mentally tallying our parking cost) and we were worried about how long Jared would last.

Lunch was a toss up: Chicago style pizza or Italian beef? By 1:00, we were so hungry and footsore, we didn't care which as long as it was readily available. We decided to just head back in the general direction of our parking garage and hope something caught our eye. We were waiting at a light when I heard a lady say, "Let's stop for pizza; it's right down here." I think she may have been an angel. We followed her and her family to Gino's East where, Lauren was pleased to learn, graffiti is encouraged. The pizza was great, and it was nice to rest our feet.

After lunch we walked east so we could see the lake, but we didn't get close enough to get our feet wet. All in all, it was a nice, relaxing trip. Good times, great food. Wonderful families.

Behemoth by Scott Westerfield

2011-07-28T16:52:00.003-04:00

A few years ago, I read Leviathan, a novel by Scott Westerfield that puts an unusual spin on World War I. In the real world, the war started with the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. It was primarily a war between Germany and its ally, Austria-Hungary, and Britain and its ally, France (and later, the United States). These facts are consistently maintained in the novel.

But the novel is different in that Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie have a young son named Aleksander, who has been sheltered from the public eye and who, when his grand-uncle, the Emperor of Austria-Hungary, dies, should assume the throne. When news of his parents' assassination reaches Austria-Hungary, young prince Alek is spirited away to safety in the middle of the night--in a tank that walks!
Yes, you heard me right: the scientific developments of Westerfield's alternate historical novel are the other thing that sets it apart from fact. In Alek's world, the nations of Eastern Europe (particularly the Germans) have developed machines to wage war. These machines remind me of the AT-AT Walkers in Star Wars, which walk around on long, stilt-like legs. There are other machines as well, ships and planes and tanks that have highly advanced weapons and navigation systems.
While the Clankers (slang word for the machine-loving Germans) were busy building machines, the Brits were busy as well. They are called Darwinists, for they have taken the evolutionary ideas of Charles Darwin to create creatures of war. In Britain, giant whales have been evolved so that they can be filled with helium and survive out of water, creating giant living blimps. There are messenger lizards, frogs that can record (and recite) up to an hour of conversation, and smaller flying/floating beasties that look like jellyfish, among other things.
A girl named Deryn Sharp has pretended to be a boy so that she can join the British Navy and sail on the Leviathan as a crewman. There, under exciting circumstances which I will not describe so as not to give away the plot, she eventually meets Alek, and they become friends.

Behemoth is the sequel to Leviathan, and you really need to read #1 to understand the world of #2. This book is set primarily in the Ottoman Empire, which both Germany and Britain would like to make into an ally. Germany has a stronger foothold already (as the Ottomans are rather upset that Winston Churchill decided to keep the warship and its accompanying top-secret new water beast (it's called a Behemoth, by the way) the Ottomans had commissioned--and paid for), and it is into this atmosphere that the Leviathan sails on a diplomatic mission, hoping to assuage their anger. Meanwhile, the Germans have already promised the Ottomans two ships (one of which has a cannon that creates and then shoots lightning!) and military training. Of course, the adults totally boggle the transaction, and it is up to Alek and Deryn (who has begun to have romantic feelings toward Alek--who still thinks she's a boy) to save the operation.
It's a complicated world and difficult to describe in a few paragraphs, but the idea is intriguiging and the characters are well developed. The story moves along quickly; I think I finished reading this second book in a few days. And whenever the world gets too difficult to imagine, an illustration helps explain it all.

I highly recommend these novels for any reader; I think the target age group is fourth-ninth grades, but I found them entertaining and educational. Plus, I like books with pictures. There is a third book coming out in hardcover on September 20, and it's available for pre-order on Amazon. Hmm...

Discovering Idea-ology

2011-07-21T14:16:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I stopped in at Jo-Ann to look for paper. I've been thinking about this last Patera pendant (which I got at the Found Gallery in A2--love that place!) lately, thinking I should finish it up. This spring I drew a mouse sniffing at a delicious wedge of Jarlsberg and painted it with watercolor, but I got too hasty when checking to see whether the Gel du Soleil (epoxy) had dried and I totally burbled the whole thing. I was ready to tearfully give up on the whole project, but Clint shouldered his heat gun and rescued me (and the pendant).
Lately, I've been entranced with the pendants I've seen that use tiny little vintage prints inside. So, I went to Jo-Ann to look for paper.

And of course, whilst in the paper section, what should I find but loads of new products from K&C Company (can you guess why my favorite?) (You're right! Because they have the most beautiful stuff). I dithered awhile between chipboards and mat stacks and stickers and all sorts of delicious products, ending up by being frugal with a small mat pad.
Then I walked through the paper sheets (found nothing interesting--cause all the good stuff is in the bound packs, of course!) and as I was turning to leave, I found craft books. I picked up one about book making (which, as you know, I have tried my hand at) and thought about it for awhile, but I frugally put it down. Then I found this book:

Those of you who have gotten a birthday card from me lately know I couldn't pass this up! And those of you who are thinking about the f-word I've been sprinkling through this post (I mean frugal. What word are you thinking about?) should rest assured: this week is COUPON COMMOTION at Jo-Ann. Yes, that's right. A whole ad full of 40% off coupons, which, you must admit, means things are practically free. Of course I put the book in my cart.
So now, I had not only a lovely pack of paper, but I also had an inspirational book. I was halfway to paper heaven, I assure you. But then I saw a sight that pushed my crafty self the last few feet toward those pearlescent gates. That's right: a new display.

Ignore Casey and the cool tiger which I tossed into the picture for visual appeal. Look at those big paper stacks beneath. Yes, that's right. Tiny writing and birds and distressed prints all in one package? How could I say no? And that delightful Tim Holtz created another pack with big, small, and TINY designs. Yes, that's right. I said tiny designs. (Remember the part about 40% off? I certainly was not forgetting that.) Into the cart!

So now, here I am: hard at work on cards (or ahem blog posts) with my cool new papers close by for decorating assistance and my new book close at hand for creative inspiration. Could a girl be any happier? I don't think so.

How to Survive a Family Vacation in Mexico

2011-07-14T09:20:00.009-04:00

If you are considering traveling out of the country with your family, I would suggest you consider the following items:

1) When in a large airport, keep at least two pairs of eyes--or better, a firm hand--on any child under the age of seven. Airports are busy places and things like escalators and those conveyor belts people walk on are very, very enticing for young children. It does not matter in the least if you are bogged down with your purse, your book-laden carry-on, his book-laden backpack, and five other things. Keep tabs on the kid. Otherwise, you may find him grinning at you from halfway up the escalator. And you know how you hate escalators.

(photo via Caren Explains It All)

2) When you get to the foreign country, say Mexico perhaps, take in a deep breath of air through your pursed lips and thank your lucky stars that Michigan, while it has its negative aspects, also has things like low humidity and temperatures--most of the time. This might be a good time to just give up on your hair, as well. Remember that having fun is more important than maintaining great curls. (Although, of course, these two can often coincide in a way that is both beautiful and gratifying.)

3) Once you leave your gate in the Cancun airport, you'll need to find the baggage claim area and go through immigration with your luggage. At this point, it is perfectly fine to look as though you have been up since 1:30am (which you have because your flight was at 6), and you may well find that the immigration line has been magically shortened for you and your family. This is because the attendant has taken pity on either a) your tired look, or b) the fact that you are traveling with children. He will usher you with a smile into a much shorter line composed of other traveling families. The security guard will wave you through with a wink and a nod, no luggage or bags scanned at all.

(photo via Treva Tribit photography)
4) You can anticipate a very fun experience when you have loaded all of your bags into the van your husband has arranged to take you to the airport. This exercise is called "Take advantage of the silly Americans." When they tell you you must get out of the van, you can certainly refuse, but then you will miss enjoying this activity. Once you have urged all your family members out of the van, go inside and listen as the agents promise reduced admission to various local attractions. Assure them you only are interested in the Mayan ruins at Tulum. When they offer to get you discounted tickets ($100 instead of the $260 you'd likely pay if you book at the resort), continue to act disinterested. Then, when they offer to cut that price in half, perk up a little. (Half! you think. That's the price of just one ticket at the resort! How can anyone say no to that?) Just realize that there are always, always strings attached. This time, the strings involve a van ride that takes nearly 90 minutes, breakfast with a salesman, and six conversations with agents who will try to sell you membership in a vacation club, even though the first man you spoke with told you quite honestly that you are not the sort of travelers they are looking for. You're too cheap. Be grateful upon returning to your resort five hours later that at least you got some very tasty French toast out of the deal. That and cheap tickets to Tulum. Ignore the fact that you are suspicious about the Tulum deal and actually dread leaving the resort another time. Assume Tulum will be wonderful.

5) When you check in at the resort, the lady at the desk will ask you if you want to upgrade your second room since your first room is "Privileged" and your second is "Standard." If you don't upgrade the second, you and your husband will be in a totally separate building from your children. As appealing as this may sound, remember that you are in another country and you're on vacation with them, so distance is not desirable or advisable. If you're penny pinchers like we are, you'll ask if you can downgrade your premium room so that you can get a room close to the standard kids' room. I would advise upgrading their room. You don't stay at resorts often, and what is another $100 or so when you've already saved almost $200 by agreeing to the sales pitch earlier? Besides, the nicer room comes with a stocked mini-bar!

6) Spend all available time at the beach or the pool. Exchange your dollars for pesos because the coins are easier to use at the swim up bar (for tips--drinks are free!) than dollars, which, as you know, are not water resistant. Take lots of books to read and apply sunscreen liberally. Swim to cool off and take plenty of pictures.

7) When preparing to head out to Tulum, talk to someone about what to expect. If you do, then your trip will be much more pleasant. You should know to bring sunscreen and a towel or two, and you should wear your swimsuit, not pack it. If you do these simple things, you will avoid being a feast for bugs and you'll get to cool off instead of looking longingly down at those who knew what to expect whilst sweltering in your shorts. Look around at Tulum at the ruins and see how many iguanas you can spot.

8) Most importantly, enjoy these moments with your family. This is the purpose of your trip. Celebrate the snorkling voyages, observe the rituals of the pelican, eat good food, and let your children swim up to the bar to order drinks. Don't let the bartender give your daughter tequila, though, as much as he seems to want to.

9) Oh, and wait in line for the crepes at breakfast. Eat them with custard and chocolate sauce. Shoo the birds away from your table, and trust your husband when he says to take the long way around on the beach. Jonah doesn't need to see those two ladies who are taking full advantage of the rays of the sun. Neither do you, really.

Apology: Twenty-Six Years Ovedue

2011-06-21T10:58:00.002-04:00

Dear Grandpa,

We are very sorry about the hay bale incident.
It's just that we were having so much fun in the hayloft and sometimes when a large number of kids is together having fun, they neglect to be sensible. But really, sensible isn't the right word. What we did made perfect sense to us.
We wanted to leap into emptiness from the safety of the hayloft, swinging out wide as we held tight to the thick rope, letting dusty bars of sunlight flick past our lean, tanned bodies. Having something soft to cushion our fall was sensible.
Hay bales were available: we used them.
How could we have known they were of such great worth? How could we have known they weren't even yours, that you were storing them for a neighbor?
When you stood in the door of the barn, blocking the light, your gnarled hands fisted on the faded green of your trousers, we knew that our definition of sensible was vastly different from yours.
You didn't have to say a word; you rarely said many. But your eyes spoke volumes, and your lips were a thin, pale line. We knew we had done wrong.
We filed silently down the ladder and stood knee deep in a bright pile of unbaled hay. Probably thirty bales we had thrown down to catch us when we fell.
We had only gotten one or two turns each to leap into the air, breathless in fear and also joy as we flew through those dusty beams of light. We stood, heads bowed before you as you finally spoke.
You spoke shame to us and we felt it, even though we still didn't understand what we had done.
Then our fathers and mothers found us, and their words and their punishment made us smart but not wise.
We are wise now, Grandpa, and we know what we did wrong. We are sorry about the cost of our fun. We are sorry that our scheme created destruction. We apologize for trying to fly.

Children Playing in Hay Loft by Victor C. Anderson

A Day of Disturbing Images

2011-06-15T14:34:00.004-04:00

***Warning: this post contains graphic and disturbing material. Read with caution, squeamish people.***

It started off as an innocent morning. I woke up in a room that seemed to glow with promise. This is probably because the bedroom I was sleeping in at my mom's house catches the morning sun and filters it through bright yellow curtains, but I took it to have metaphorical significance, and it was with eagerness that I bounded downstairs for my first cup of coffee.
The living room was empty, unusual for that early hour, but mom was checking her email in the other room and dad was down near the barn getting ready to go to a job site and install some doors. Everyone else was still sleeping. My full coffee cup in hand, I began to step down into the living room when something caught my eye and made me pause, mid-step.
It was a spider on the floor. Now, as a mother of two boys who love animals, a spider of that prodigious size is nearly guaranteed to be a toy, but I couldn't be sure. I bent down to peer at it closely and make sure it was not real before I stepped on it. Imagine, if you will, my alarm when I realized that the thing was most certainly alive. I think I shrieked, but I am certain I did not drop my coffee.
Instead, I called my mom away from her position of safety at the computer to come see this hideous creature. She obeyed with alacrity and immediately swooped down upon it with a jar and a piece of cardstock to capture it. It was then that I knew without doubt that having seven children and staying home to care for them robbed the world of what might have been its most assiduous scientist to date.
I do not consider myself an arachnophobe, certainly not a killer of spiders, but at the sight of that beast, all of the happy bright images I had upon awakening were shattered. Something fearful had crept into the house and it poisoned my morning as it sat, wriggling its long legs at me from its jar on the counter top. Even when I removed myself to the other end of the house to sit and type, I could feel all of its beady eyes trained on me, haunting me.

The spider I saw was NOT this spider. She is lovely, even though she does look rather large.

That evil start to the morning, though, was only the precursor of the horror to come. The spider shocked me, but what I heard about later appalled me.
Jared finally awoke and came downstairs. He must have stopped first to look out at the kittens as they played on the deck. One of them will be his as soon as it's old enough to leave his mother, and he has already developed the pride and love of a pet owner. As he came skipping into the back room to see me and get his morning hug, I told him about the spider in the jar. Unfazed, he replied that he had already seen it and then he insisted I follow him back to the deck to see the kittens and their prize.
He was rather close-mouthed about what that prize was, but he did not seem alarmed at all--excited with a twinge of glee would be an accurate way to describe his demeanor at the time. What I found on the deck near where the kittens usually gambol in their innocent kitten-ish glee was the second (and--I hope--last) disturbing image of the day. There was a very small pile of innards glistening in the murky daylight, and this pile seemed to writhe a bit, but this was merely because of the long line of ants busily working away at it.

Nearby, and indeed I almost missed it until Jared pointed out, was the body that had until just lately enclosed those innards. Well, if I am being precise, I should say part of the body. What I saw was the head and shovel-like front paws of a mole and most of its torso, ending in a gnawed stump. Jared informed me that the mother cat had been teaching her babies how to eat meat. He squatted near me to look more closely and I stumbled away from the sight, now forced to contend with two horrific images seared indelibly on my brain.

I thought about posting pictures of these images for you, but then I realized that such an action would be too hideous, too evil to contemplate. So, whilst my words may offend you, I pray that the only lingering images in your mind are the two pictures I have shared. If it is only my brain that is damaged today, I can perhaps rest tonight in peace and hope that tomorrow morning's promise of joy bears a more palatable fruit.

Commencement: Conquering a Fear

2011-06-06T17:08:00.002-04:00

Board members, faculty, staff, parents, friends and family, graduates. It is a great honor to be standing before you on this special day.

I know it is said that time flies as you get older, and I always thought that was just a sneaky way less youthful people covered themselves after forgetting something, but in my advanced age (my birthday was yesterday) and wisdom, I have found it to be true. I blinked one day, and my daughter sprouted from a preschool student to a high school student, and the same thing has happened with you, graduates.

It truly does seem like yesterday that I met some of you for the first time, as you walked into my classroom on your first day of high school. Some of you were my STAR [homeroom] students, and some were World History or Creative Writing students. I remember how large your eyes were, how some of you stared around the classroom in awe, and how attentively you listened to me explain the rules of my classroom. It didn't take long for that shine of newness to wear off and soon you showed me who you truly were: not scared, shy freshmen, but young people who were (for the most part) ready to learn and ready to become a part of Napoleon history.

Time passed, and you grew older. Some of you went on to win praise from teachers for academic achievements. Some went on to win cheers on the field or the court or the track. Some won accolades for your art. Some of you kept your brilliance to yourself, but all of you cast a glow on your four years with us, and it is with a mixture of both pride and sadness that we watch you leave.

I look out at your faces, graduates, and I see the future sitting before me. And you are just as brilliant, just as eager for that future as you were four years ago—maybe more so. I look out at you and see tomorrow's lawyers and businessmen who are very very good at persuasion, some computer engineers, a baker or two, a professional golfer who really should trust me and buy some plaid pants, a couple of guys who will make tons of money playing video games if only they can figure out how, teachers, musicians, artists, movie critics. I see cosmetologists and machinists, construction engineers and nurses. You are our future, graduates, and we are so proud of you.

For some reason, I was afforded the great honor of giving the commencement address today. In a tiny part of my heart, I can't help but wonder if you graduates are sadistic people who enjoy torture. I am pretty sure I was quite clear last year when I said, looking certain of you straight in the eye: "I do not want to give the commencement address. I do not like speaking in public." Despite that, you asked, and I could not say no.

But then another part--a larger and wiser piece of my heart--told that whimpering tiny part of me that maybe you didn't ask me out of sadism but out of something else. Maybe you asked me to speak because you liked being in my class and you wanted to hear, one more time, what I have to say to you.

So this is what I have to say: I have discovered the key to happiness, and I am here to share it with you today.

Now I am not a millionaire and I will probably never be one. And when I googled myself , I only got 192 hits (which is actually not bad! I was pretty impressed!), so I'm not really famous outside of Jackson County. Or even in it, probably.

But even though I'm not on a list in Time or People or Forbes magazines, I have found a measure of success and the secret to living a happy life. Here it is: love one another.

You probably thought it was going to be more flashy, but I really think it is that simple. Here's why: when you walked into my classroom, I showed you that I care about you. I listened to you, I helped you fix your essays and figure out your relationships, I hugged you when you needed a hug. That's love, people, the kind of love I'm talking about. And in return, most of you probably found that the vibe in room 132 was a happy one, a safe and comfortable one, where learning could happen.

Loving others makes me happy, and I have found that that sort of happiness is contagious. So, here is my advice: when you talk with people—new friends or old, family or co-workers, find a way to love them. Look for the good in others and open your arms and your minds to the possibility that learning about people and sharing in their lives is more important than talking about yourself.

When you leave this place today, if you take that philosophy with you, you'll be on the road to happiness. Because when you love others, they usually love you back, and soon you'll find that your heart is overflowing with goodwill and you can't stop smiling.

I can't share any reputable journal articles with you proving my theory about the key to happiness, and I don't have scientific data to back this up. I'm just telling you what I have found to be true. When you meet new people, listen to them. Show them you care by shutting up about yourself and letting them talk. Give lots of hugs. Smile often. Appreciate what you have and stop wishing for more. Enjoy each moment. This is how I live my life, and it has brought me great joy and the success of being content with who I am. I pray it will work for you.

Now I can't sit down before I mention a few other words of advice and encouragement. I'm a happy person, but I'm also an observant person, and aside from watching for the bake sale carts, I like to watch people. I notice things. And I've noticed a few things about you that you might want to take into consideration.

Some of you would do well to find a hobby. It is so easy to waste time, to let yourself get distracted by your phone, your facebook, your games, your whatever. But haven't you ever found yourself blinking away the haze that settles when you've lost yourself in these mindless pursuits and thought, where has the time gone? Has it really been four hours? What have I accomplished? I'm telling you, it will be a very sad day if one day you blink and it is not just four hours that have passed but four years—or more. So find something constructive to do with your time, like a job. Study for your college classes. Read a book or play an instrument. Spend time with loved ones.

Some of you would do well to take more pride in who you are. Some of you have already figured this out, but I'm talking to those of you who haven't. You have talent, you have worth, you have gifts. I have seen them. Discover what they are and be proud of them. Don't worry about what other people think of you; celebrate yourself.

Some of you would do well to stop worrying about things you can't fix. There will always be troubles in the world, and there will always be tasks that are overwhelming or people who are too demanding. There will be days when your future looks bleak and hopeless, when you go to bed at night and wonder how you can possibly please everyone and accomplish everything you need to do the next day. But you can't worry about that. Worrying accomplishes nothing positive—it only makes you feel less capable and less confident. Instead, try to set your fears aside, breathe deeply, and meet the task as best you can. Sacrifice what is impossible for what is possible and do your best with that.

As I close today, I want you to know that we all have high hopes for you. As I said earlier, from the first day I met you, I knew that you were special. That you were destined for greatness. And you have fulfilled that early promise.

But in the four years you've spent in high school, as you've learned tough lessons and faced challenges that have brought you crying to your knees, some of you may have lost a little bit of that eagerness, that bright-eyed enthusiasm you had four years ago. I challenge you to find it again. Be shining examples in the world, showing them what it means to be a graduate of Napoleon High School. Your senior year is over, and your life is before you.

Reach for it, grasp it firmly, open your heart and your eyes to love, and follow that bright vision. I can't wait to see where it takes you.

Jared's Little Brother

2011-05-17T20:29:00.004-04:00

This Sunday in church, Clint and I had a foretaste of what it will be like when we're once more parents of an only child. Jonah was out of town with his cousins (thanks, Ric and Katie!), and Lauren was acolyting, so we just had Jared in the pew between us. Kinda cozy.
Jared was quietly drawing a happy eight-legged monster for the first part of the service, but he must have started to feel lonely because suddenly, he set the monster aside just as he was adding a lurid dollop of earwax and turned to a blank piece of paper.
Quickly, he sketched a head and two round ears, then he added a body and the limbs. "What are you drawing now," I asked, "a monkey?"
He looked at me, exasperated. "No, mom," he replied. "It's my new brother."

When you consider just how much a parent's education and imagination are clearly lacking, it's surprising there aren't more toddler uprisings.
So anyway, I am pleased to present the newest addition to our family. His name is Junior (which you can read on his hat, if you'd like. I wrote that for Jared; his super-fine motor skills aren't capable of such tiny letters yet). He might look somewhat simian, but he is most definitely human, as Jared will strongly insist. He is still pretty young, thus the orange bottle on his left, full of milk. He likes his toy rattle (which is, clearly, on his right) and he's eager to open his present (to his far left), which, you may be able to see, is a teddy bear under the red wrapping. He also has a pet ladybug which is flying overhead. His name is Charles. And in case you don't realize how much value we place on safety, you should recognize that Junior is sitting in a five-point harness car seat.
Junior was quiet in church, which made me happy, and he doesn't eat much, which makes Daddy happy. He's hanging out on our fridge currently, so feel free to stop by for a visit if you'd like to meet him. His personality is a little flat, but I think that he's far more interesting than one might expect, considering his close relation to the great apes (don't tell Jared I said that) and the fact that he was fully formed in under twenty minutes.

Evil Genius

2011-05-10T19:37:00.003-04:00

There is an insidious plot, I fear, afoot. It starts so innocently:

You walk down the driveway to your mailbox, skipping a little because it's such a nice day. The forsythia is a golden haze, and that bush you love--the one with the pink flowers--is bursting with color. You marvel at the variety of green God created: the bold green of grass, the dark green of lilac leaves, the tender green of new leaves. You want to roll around in all of that green, to breathe it in and absorb it, but then you remember you're on a mission: you're supposed to be getting the mail, not cavorting in the new grass like a winter-crazed wood-nymph. (Although, honestly, you do feel quite nymphish indeed.)

You open the mailbox, grateful that it is early spring and the ants have not yet begun to nest in it and produce their tiny, wriggling white larvae. When that happens, of course, it's time to send the children out for the mail, for no self-respecting nymph-like mother ever stretches her hand into dark depths crawling with maggots. Nymphs may love nature, but nobody loves maggots.

What you find in your mailbox sends all blissful thoughts of spring skittering from your brain. This thing you pull from the mailbox, innocently nestled between a bill for your daughter's braces and an envelope containing a plea for a charitable donation is the full-color, slippery-paged advertisement for That Store.

You know That Store, right? The one with unbelievable sale racks? The one where you can find a birdcage necklace--with a little twirling teal bird inside? Yes, that store. And of course, the advertisment has a sticker you can peel back to reveal your savings. Of course it's tantalizing. You just may be the lucky winner of a Thirty Percent Off Coupon.

You wait until you get into the house to peel back the sticker, with each step now blind to the glory around you as you think about your son's math homework from last night in which you helped him figure out questions about probability (okay, truth time: you told him to look back at the lesson and figure it out for himself. Teach a man to fish, right?) But you're thinking about probability nonetheless and wondering what might be the probability that you'll land the Big Three-Oh.

Inside your house, all is dim, the sunlight itself seeming to have hidden its eyes in anticipation. Slowly, you slip your fingernail under the edge and then begin to lift the sticker. Then you pause. Maybe you don't want the 30 after all. For if you get it, you'll feel obliged to at least go to the store and check the sale racks. 30% off something that's already marked down 70%? It's practically free! How can you not go? But if you only get a 15, then maybe you won't feel any compulsion at all. If you only get a 15, then you can stay home, oblivious to any possible sales, convincing yourself that they probably weren't that good anyway. You will save money! Saving money is good!

You lift the sticker, hoping now, desperately hoping not to get a 30. You're lifting from the right, so the first digit you spy is a "0." Could be a 20, you whisper. I can stay home with a 20. I won't get sucked in with a 20. You shut your eyes and tear off the rest of the sticker, a painless rip like your mother used to do with band-aids on your skinned knees.

What you see is not painless at all.

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T15:07:00.003-04:00

Today in church, our pastor talked about how mothers make a sacrifice that is almost divine when they give freely of themselves for their children. He likened this sacrifice of a mother's soul to a burnt offering that, when laid freely upon the altar of motherhood, is instantly consumed by a divine fire and that the smoke then lifts up to heaven where its divine essence brings pleasure to God, Who knows most intimately the burden and delight such a sacrifice brings.

On this day, as I spend pleasant hours with my husband and children, I would like to honor my own mother, a woman whose sacrifice of self has been such a blessing in my life, and indeed to every life she has touched.

Mom, from the first moment I became cognizant of your beauty and your grace, I have loved you and sought to become more like you. You are the measure by which I judge myself, the pattern by which I seek to make myself. Thank you for showing all of us how mothering should be done.

From you, I have learned what grace I have. From you, I have learned the importance of selflessness, the value of a long hug, and the necessity of patience. Because of you, my own children have the benefit of knowing a mother who was cast (imperfectly) in your mold.

And as I teach them the things you taught me, I hope to impart a sense of your greatness in their lives so that your legacy will live on and on.

Thank you, mom, for being who you are and for making me who I am. I love you.

Snow Days

2011-01-23T18:45:00.004-05:00

Just last week, we had two snow days in a row, which is uncommon in this part of Michigan. And to make the surprise even more exciting, those two snow days added to a 3 day weekend...so five days at home with the fam. Clearly, I couldn't sit and read the entire time, as much as I would have loved to. So, I decided to finish up some projects I'd been thinking of.

It had all started the weekend before when we had a child's birthday party and a baby shower on the same day. Because I waited till the last minute instead of being a smart gift-giver, I had to run out to our favorite toy store the night before the parties. I dropped over $45 on four books. Four books!

Guilt plagued me the entire (slushy) way home. I loved my recipients dearly, but I couldn't do it. Not for just four little books. (And you know how much I love books, right? But still: $45)

So I got out the card stock and watercolor paper, and I sketched and painted two promises: a skirt for Jared's friend and a Katy Kitty for the baby shower (you can follow the link to check out the designer's blog--and order the pattern--very fun to make!) (Arrgghh: I should've taken a picture of the cards! Ah well). I was a little worried about the copping-outedness of the gifts, but both were received with anticipation. (And I returned the books.)

Seemed a productive choice, then, to use the blessed days off to make good on those promises. So, here's the Kitty. Don't you love her shoes?

And a close up shot of her sweet face.

And this is the skirt. I had seen some Matilda Jane skirts at the Art Fair in Plymouth a few summers ago and loved the design and the mix of fabrics. So, I googled pics of Matilda Jane skirts and played around with some of the fabric remnants I had.

I knew I wanted to use the butterfly and flowers print that I used for the "apron" as it just screams little girl. The others were scraps from other projects...and I think the teal at the top is part of the kitty's skirt too.

Jared was kind enough to model the skirt for me, but for posterity's sake, he's headless. Wouldn't want to cause too much trauma. Not that he'd be the first little boy in this family to wear girls' clothes. That's another story, though.

This is pretty disturbing

2010-11-26T13:06:00.005-05:00

I've been busy with school work lately and getting ready for my favorite holiday (Thanksgiving, of course) (which has all the glorious food and family time of Christmas but NONE of the gift-pondering and painstaking wrapping and guilty looking-over of receipts) and, of course thinking, about how I can weasel a few gifts for myself under the tree without any suspicion falling upon you know who.
In the midst of that excitement, I've neglected to post a really fantastic bedtime story I told Jared last week, but I'll do that some time soon.
But here, to tide you over, I have collected a conflagration of pictures sure to tickle your fancy. And if you have a problem with them, please send a note of outrage to (not me!) but Glenn, whose idea this was.

If you can correctly guess the genus and species of this animal, please leave a comment and your name will be entered into a drawing for $10,000,000, which Glenn has most generously volunteered to pay. (S0 thoughtful)

This fellow looks frightening, but even though his eyes hover right in the lavender color strata and his teeth look slightly vampiric, you should not fear him, for he is gentle and kind.

And this poor creature, aptly named Rudolfo, will fight to the death to defend the honor of those he loves, who are legion. We're talking stars in the sky and grains of sand here. All he needs is a drink every now and then, and once he gets that, his tongue returns to its normal size and recedes into his mouth most pleasantly.

And this one--the one standing most precociously on his hind legs--may look like the unfortunate victim of a diabolical scientific experiment, but that is grossly untrue. No, he just has stunted limbs and looks down his (albeit) tiny nose at those who assume heinous misfortune in his breeding.

There was supposed to be a picture of Bailey here, but we can't figure out how to work the SD card on our borrowed camera, so imagine another Chihuahua in the space below, one with snaggle teeth and hideous breath and a rather eager thing that likes to surprise people who are silly enough to hold him.

So, there you go. Happy Thanksgiving.

And don't forget to log your vote about the creature in the top picture!

The Boy Who Wouldn't Put His Laundry Away

2010-11-01T21:37:00.004-04:00

Once there were two brothers named Honah and Hared, who were mostly quite obedient.
One evening, their mom asked them to put their clothes away after they had finished eating dinner and doing dishes.
There is something very important you should know about these boys. Hared was very obedient about putting his clothes away, but Honah hardly ever put his clothes away. He left them in the basket, day after day, until they made a very tall tower that reached the ceiling. Honah's mom was incredibly disappointed in him almost all the time because of it, but she made up for it by telling Hared how wonderful he was.
So, that night after dinner, the boys' mom reminded them about their job, and when they went upstairs to do it, she followed them up as silently as a ghost.
As she was walking up the stairs, she heard the sound of footsteps and slamming doors and she smiled in surprised delight. Maybe she wouldn't have to use the diabolical punishment she had devised after all.
Then she got upstairs and realized that her optimism was totally unfounded. True to form, Hared had put all his clothes away while Honah had left his in the basket. He was sitting on his bed playing with Hwirt, his Hearded Hragon.
That's when something unexpected happened.
The boys' mother took out her magic wand and pointed it out the window at a small black cloud high up in the sky. The cloud seemed to gather itself, shrinking a bit smaller, and then she pointed her wand at Honah.
In a flash, the cloud scudded across the sky toward their house. It spiralled down the chimney and swished down the hall toward the boys' room, and as it came, it spun faster and faster. By the time it reached their bedroom, it was a tormado (talk to Jared about the spelling).
The tormado swept through their room and sucked up every piece of Honah's clothes, even the clothes he was wearing. He was so embarrased that he jumped under his covers to hide. He might also have been a little afraid.
When the tormado had sucked up all of Honah's clothes, it disappeared.
Honah looked at his mom as she stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. "My clothes are all gone, mom," he said.
She just nodded.
"I don't have anything to wear to school tomorrow," he complained.
She just nodded.
For the next week, Honah wore clothes made out of toilet paper, which were both convenient and a huge pain. Convenient at bathroom break, but not so easy to deal with during recess time. Good thing the school had those huge rolls, that's all Honah could think about.
A week later, the sky got dark as rain clouds gathered over Honah's hometown. There was one cloud in particular that was small and very dark. Honah thought it looked familiar; so did his mom.
When the thunder rumbled, Honah's mother told him to look out the window. In the light of a lightning flash, he saw not rain but clothes streaming down from the sky. They were his clothes. He ran outside to gather them up, and he brought them inside and put them in the washing machine. His mom helped him start it, and she showed him how to work the dryer.
And when the clothes were dry, Honah helped his mom fold them and he put them all away.

Signs of the Season

2010-10-26T18:56:00.006-04:00

This is how I know it is fall at our house:
The white and yellow decorations have fled the mantel to be replaced with fall flowers and a kind black bird.

Candy corns and Halloween M&Ms have been artfully arranged and--by now--mostly disappeared.

Hops are drying in the kitchen windowsill. Don't think I'll get much beer out of them.

Gourds line the living room windowsill.

The kids have carved their pumpkins and toasted the seeds.

And too much schoolwork to keep up like a good blogger. :(

Bedtime Story #26: The Boy Who Wanted to Be Perfect

2010-08-15T11:35:00.003-04:00

Mommy: Once there was a boy named Tared who was very smart about a lot of things. He was smart about lions, and he was smart about snakes--
Jared: Yes! And he was smart about T-Rexes too--
Jonah: Jared! Mommy is telling you a story! You're not supposed to interrupt.
Mommy: Tared also had an older brother named Nonah who was pretty bossy and always telling him what to do.
Yes, Tared was very smart about T-Rexes and every other kind of dinosaur. He was pretty smart about swimming, but not as smart as Sam. But the thing Tared was really smart about was drawing.
Tared loved to draw. He drew animals, mostly. Like lions...

and cats...

and skunks...

One day, Tared decided to draw a picture of a rocket ship. It was so cool! It had wings that looked like a bird's wings and it had lots of room for the astronauts. It had paintings of fire on the ends that looked almost real. But it was just paint. Anyway, Tared showed his picture of the rocket to his uncle who was an engineer, and his uncle showed it to the guys he worked with, and they thought it was so cool, they decided to build a real rocket just like it.

So next, Tared drew a picture of a car that had doors that opened like wings, and it could go faster than any other car in the world because it had seventeen wheels. Tared showed it to his aunt, who was also an engineer, and she took it to work, and the people there liked it so much they built a real car just like it.
Tared was starting to get pretty excited about his drawings, so one day he decided to draw a new playground for his preschool. It had 7,145 slides and lots of things to climb on and jump on. It even had a tunnel made out of cotton candy. Tared was pretty excited about it, and he was sure that when he showed it to his teacher, she would decide the school needed a new playground just like it. But then something terrible happened!
Tared made a mistake.
Tared hated to make mistakes.
Tared got so mad, he threw his pencil across the room, and the pencil became like a dart in its flight and it stuck right into the TV. The TV made a sound like this: pfftt and then smoke started to come out of the hole.
But Tared wasn't done being mad.
Next, Tared threw his notebook up in the air and it hit the fan. The fan was on, and the blades turned Tared's notebook into something that looked like snow.
But Tared still wasn't done being mad.
When Tared was really mad, he started to hurt himself. He hit his head with his hand a LOT of times, and his face started to get red and hurt a little bit.
That's when Tared's mommy came upstairs.
"Tared," she said, "what are you doing?"
"I messed up my drawing," he said, hitting himself in the face.
"I thought that might be what happened," she said, catching his hand and holding it tightly. "I heard the pfftt sound, but I thought maybe you had tooted. Then I saw something like snow coming down the stairs, but I thought that was just from Daddy working on the roof. But then I heard the smacking, and I started to get worried."
Tared started crying. "I just want to make a good picture of a playground, and it's not working out!"
"Well, you know," Mommy said, "there's only one person in the world who is perfect. Do you know who that is?"
"Me?" Tared asked.
"No, honey, it's God. He's the only one who doesn't make mistakes. Everyone else does. I make mistakes, and so does Daddy. Nonah makes lots of mistakes. So if you make a mistake, you should just erase the bad part and keep going. Or you could just start a new drawing."
Tared looked like he didn't believe her.
"It's true, honey. And remember, you're a great artist! You make things so real they seem like they are alive!"
Tared started to nod slowly. "I am a good artist," he admitted.
"That's right, little frog. Remember how well you drew me? Now, it's time to go to sleep."
And mommy helped Tared get ready for bed. When she bent to kiss him good night, she crinkled a little, and when she turned to go out the door, Tared couldn't see her for a split second.
That's because she was paper. THE END.

Jonah: WHAT??!!?? That's the end! That's horrible! You can't make her out of paper. You should stop the story after the mom tells Tared he's a good artist.
But Jared didn't say anything. He was asleep.

Cupcake Night

2010-08-14T19:22:00.006-04:00

This morning as I was drinking my coffee and paging through the latest issue of Real Simple Family, I came across this spread. I had to set my cup down! No joke. I slobbered my way through the pictures, and then I had to close the magazine. I hadn't even eaten breakfast yet, and I was already fantasizing about cupcakes! It was embarrassing.

So, after dinner, I followed the recipe (which I'll post at the bottom) and whipped up these cupcakes. Seriously, it was the easiest from-scratch cake I've ever made. Two steps, people! Two steps.

Unfortunately, the recipe only makes 12 cupcakes, so although the kids each got 3 cupcakes to decorate, Clint and I had to share ours. (How did that happen? Does this sound right to you?)

The frosting is a simple cream cheese frosting, and I made a half-recipe, thinking 8 oz cream cheese and 1/2 cup butter would probably be too much. I was right: the half-recipe made more than enough (those real simple people must love their frosting!).

Lauren and Jonah dug everything they could find out of the cupboards. They found peanuts and almonds, sprinkles and red hots, mini chocolate chips and butterscotch chips, regular chocolate chips and peanut butter chips, flavored sugar and decorating icing and graham crackers.

Clint got busy with some peanut butter and peanut butter chips. Masterpiece!

This is a sampling of some of the cupcakes we made...which one to eat first?

Jared went a little crazy with the banana chips and the colored sugar.

Apparently, Jonah likes red hots and chocolate chips.

The cupcakes are so tasty! Not so airy as a cake mix--more substantial and dense. Try this recipe! And let the kids decorate them. Here's the recipe, reprinted from Real Simple (Sept 2010):

1 1/4 cup flour
3/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup plain low-fat yogurt
1/2 cup butter, melted and cooled
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 375. Line muffin cups.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients.
In a large bowl, whisk together the yogurt, butter, eggs, and vanilla.
Add the flour mixture and mix until incorporated.
Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cups and bake about 18-20 minutes. Transfer the cupcakes to a wire rack and let cool.

Frosting (the half-recipe)
4 oz. cream cheese
1/4 cup soft butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 3/4 cup powdered sugar

Beat cream cheese, butter, and vanilla. Add the powdered sugar and beat until smooth.

Stratford Ho

2010-08-13T13:38:00.005-04:00

What to do first:

Pick one of the hottest, humidest days of the summer to make salted caramels. About ten minutes after returning from the grocery store to buy about One Million Blueberries and exactly One Half-Pint of whipping cream, begin to make the salted caramels. After completing the first step, you will probably realize that you don't actually have any corn syrup, even though you have a perfectly clear mental image of a bottle of it sitting on your shelf. Drop everything, sigh like a martyr, and go to Polly's. Come home and finish making the caramels (be ready to do a lot of stirring and sweating). Put them in the fridge to cool and sit down for a rest.
At this point, it might be a good idea to get out the waxed paper and start cutting it up into small squares to wrap the caramels. You will probably take this quiet moment to listen to the niggling voice in the back of your head. You know, the one that's been chanting "you don't have any waxed paper" repeatedly ever since you got back from Polly's with the corn syrup.
When you look in the drawer and don't see it, DON'T PANIC. Bribe your kid to ride his bike to the store. Bribe him with caramel. It works.
Wrap the caramels and put half of them in a bag to take to your mom and dad's, who kindly booked and arranged this whole trip for you all. And who are letting you sleep in their hotel room since there...uh...wasn't any more room in the inn. (no joke!)

Remember to pack your passport, or--if your kid isn't 16 yet--her birth certificate and a photo id. Then be ready for a nice 4ish hour drive to Stratford.

Where to stay:
Your dad has probably already done this for you, but if he hasn't, book a hotel within walking distance of downtown. Just don't always believe the pictures. This was our room--or part of it, but this isn't how it was arranged. Pack in a couch, a wing backed chair, a coffee table, a TV on a stand, an oddly placed support pillar, and a tiny toilet room. You can imagine the bed in the other room, though, and put the shower room and armoire in there. Cozy it was. Very cozy.
And don't complain, not one bit. It IS a room after all, and it's downtown. And the breakfast at Joe's Diner is good--especially the oatmeal.

(photo courtesy of welcometostratford.com)

Where to eat:
Eat at Raja's if you like fine Indian food. Everything is family style, and you will most likely love all the different breads (naan, roti, and something crunchy...Dad? What was it??). Also, we liked the mushroom rice, the butter chicken, and the shrimp korma. And Lauren and Mom each had a yum-o Mango Lassi. However, you should be very suspicious of something called Pickled Lime. It smells like gym shorts, it tastes like gym shorts, it looks like very old gym shorts. I don't believe there is anything related to lime in it. Its only salvation is that it is spicy, so you can pretend you're crying because of the heat, not the fact that it tastes like...well, I already said it.

(photo courtesy of welcometostratford.com)

Eat at the Annex if you like yummy food. They have pizzas baked in a stone oven, and their other entrees are delicious. You may decide to try their delicious Shrimp Linguini (which is what Lauren did, but beware: you'll probably end up coveting someone else's plate) , Orange Roughy with (something something) Polenta (which looks lovely, but Dad inhaled it in half the time it took me to eat mine) , a Mango Shrimp pizza (a 10 inch-er, which mom pretty much polished off on her own whilst making some very surprising sounds), and (recommended by me and everyone else who snuck samples of the sauce--oh, the sauce!) Grilled Chicken with Roasted Tomato Goat Cheese Creamy Delicious Delight on a Plate That Needs A Lot More Sauce on It. Pretty sure that was what it was called.

(photo courtesy of welcometostratford.com)

Don't eat at the Elizabethan Restaurant if you want authentic Elizabethan food. Nothing Elizabethan about it (except the creepy stairs going up to the bathroom). According to dad, the grilled cheese with bacon isn't bad, though. (eww! bacon!!)

(photo courtesy of lionsgater@flickr.com)

What to do:

Get tickets to see Peter Pan. Bring a hankie for the end and a sense of wonder for the whole thing. Be ready to laugh. Be prepared to believe in magic and mermaids, and (most importantly) in fairies. I just need to say this: there are flying people, a dancing T-Rex, a JM Barrie with a lovely Scotch accent that you might want to try to make into dessert, an enormous crocodile that EATS someone, a load of singing pirates, flying children, and at least four Lost Boys tossed down from the balcony. (Okay, that part is a bit of a fib--they're just life-size dolls--but still! tossed from the balcony! I was shocked too!)
Oh, and bring a jacket or something. Canadians like their AC a bit too much, methinks.

(photo courtesy of papertrailsfamily.com)

Since you're there, get tickets to see The Tempest..but first make sure you have a working knowledge of the play. It helps to know who is trying to kill whom and why. And how they're all related and stuff. You can read the entire play, but it would probably be just as good to read a one or two page synopsis. But even if you don't get much of the play at all, it's still cool to see Christopher Plummer (as Prospero) stalking around the stage and wiggling his fingers and speaking with such force almost every sentence creates a subtle spit fountain.
And this play has a couple fairies too! Plus, a monster who is half-skinned muscle dude and half-reptile. And also, a fairy and some lizardy looking minions. And, since it's Shakespeare, a couple of drunks, a couple of sword fights, a shipwreck, mistaken identities, and some bawdy jokes. Oh, and also magic. We're still not sure how some of it worked...

(that's Prospero talking to Ariel)
(photo courtesy of la times)

What to do:
When you aren't watching plays, you might like to do some shopping. Just be prepared, though. Stratford has about three types of shops: (really expensive) clothing shops, Native Canadian art galleries, and book stores. If I were you, I'd skip the first two and hang out in the book stores. What's the point of anything else? Oh, and some chocolate and coffee shops. Those are always yummy.

(photo courtesy of international trading company)

If you get tired of shopping or if you run out of money, the park is free and the river is nice. There are ducks there and swans too, but watch your step.

(photo courtesy of bennperry.com)

Where to stop on your way home:

London is only about 40 minutes from Stratford, so after you check out of your hotel, you might want to stop here. The farmers market is called Covent Garden, and the indoor section is open year-round. The sellers in the (outdoor) courtyard are friendly (desperate for a sale), and if you have a dad who has given you forty minutes to see the whole place, you might want to avoid them, especially if you're not sure you can even take heirloom tomatoes that were grown from 100 year-old seeds across the border anyway.
But still, you might want to pick up some bread or cheese or hummus. It's interesting to watch the Greek dude stretch out homemade phyllo dough with his arms glistening with oil, and the lady at the front who looks Indian? She also sells Jamaican beef patties, and you can get 20 of them for 18.99. Frozen and boxed to delight your husband's palate.

(photo courtesy of dena crain)

Resolution #265:

2010-08-09T15:21:00.003-04:00

Listen to book recommendations from trusted friends.

I don't know why it took me so long to listen to Amy--in fact, she had to practically hit me over the head with this recommendation (ie, bring the entire set over to my house and shove the books into my hands), but as soon as I finished the other book I was reading, I dove in--bypassing a few others I'd planned to read to honor this (rather) pressing push toward Jasper Fforde's novels.

And, I was going to write a review for you after I read the first one, as shown above, but then my motivation deserted me and I dove right into its sequel, Lost in a Good Book, which I WAS (lost in) most assuredly. However, I have now finished that one as well, and so I'll review them both for your convenience, trying not to give too much away in the likely event that you'll nip out to your nearest book seller and purchase the whole lot.

First off, please do not read any books by this author if a) you do not enjoy chuckling, b) you have no knowledge whatsoever of classic literature and c) you can't appreciate occasional silliness. If two or more of the above qualifications have left you jumping up and down with your hand in the air, come back to my blog on another day and skip this post entirely. If, however, the only qualification on the above list that causes you some doubt is b), have no fear. You can still appreciate Fforde's books without a thorough understanding of literature and British history. It would help, but we can't all be Anglophiles, now can we? Plus, there's always wikipedia.

So now, here are some things you should know:
1) this series is set in Britain in 1985, but it is not our 1985. Without mentioning all the details, I will simply say that genetic science should be thanked for bringing back mammoths and dodo birds (and other creatures), that Neanderthals do not use the first person singular pronoun, that the ChronoGuard regulates time travel, that the GraviTube allows travel between Sydney and London to take only 40 minutes, and that of the 28 levels of Special Operations, only those over 20 are commonly known. Most of the rest are cloaked in classified secrecy.
2) Thursday Next, the heroine of this series, works for SpecOps-27, which makes her a LiteraTech. She and her office are responsible for authenticating newly discovered works of literature, for answering literary questions, and for announcing fraudulent copies of sequels and unauthorized editions of famous works. (Why can't I work there???)
3) Sometimes characters from fiction pop in and out of the novel.
4) Dodos like marshmallows very much.

With those important facts in mind, here are the synopses:

In The Eyre Affair, Thursday Next is on the trail of Acheron Hades, the third most evil man currently in existence. He is purely diabolical, possibly bulletproof, and cannot be photographed. While Thursday is in hot pursuit of Hades, she meets Jack Schitt, who works for the Goliath Corporation and offers to help her find the criminal. The Goliath Corporation pretty much runs Britain behind the scenes, and was instrumental in bringing about the end of the German occupation at the end of WW2. German occupation of Britain? you may ask. Good job with your critical reading skills, reader.
Anyway, Jack Schitt is a little pushy, and Thursday isn't sure she likes him. (You know what she thinks he's worth.) But he's kinda controlling her boss, so she has to follow along. Anyway, an original manuscript of Martin Chuzzlewit (by Dickens) (it's okay--I'd never heard of it either--and I'm an English teacher!) has been stolen, and Thursday quickly connects the dots between the manuscript and Hades--especially when her office receives a frantic call from a Chuzzlewit fan that one of the characters in the manuscript has disappeared! Hades has found a way to go into the novel and take whomever he wants. How diabolical.
Well, I don't want to reveal much more, but Hades steals a couple more things and people, does a lot of maniacal cackling, and inadvertently does something very literary.
And Thursday gets married.

In Lost in a Good Book, Thursday's husband is eradicated. Now, to you or me, eradicated might mean killed. But in the world of this book, eradicated means one of the ChronoGuard has gone into that person's past and changed it so that he (Thursday's husband, for this example) actually died in that auto accident when he was two. So, poor Thursday is the only one with any memory of her husband--as an adult, that is--and she quickly learns that if she wants her husband uneradicated, she may need to help some nefarious people do some wicked things.
Luckily for Thursday, though, the voices she has begun hearing in her head are not a sign of insanity. Oh no: they're people calling her on the footnoterphone, sent from the Jurisfiction offices, of course, which are located in the drawing room at Norland Park (which is in Sense and Sensibility, of course) (Mrs. John Dashwood offered the room, for she would like it known that she is not so callous as many people believe her to be--even though she did convince her husband to kick his half-sisters out with scarcely two shillings to rub together after their dying father asked him to care for them).
Thursday has been recruited as an agent for Jurisfiction because of her ability to jump into and out of stories. And she does quite a bit of jumping in 399 pages.

I feel that I'm not doing these novels justice. They are witty and clever, and devilishly fun to read. The truth is, I promised myself that I wouldn't start the third one until I'd written this post, so...uh...I'm basically diddling my way through it so I can jump into the next novel.

Just trust me, okay? And follow Resolution #265: take the book advice of a trusted friend. I have #1 and #2 finished, if you'd like to borrow them. Just remember where they came from and bring them back (in good condition) when you're done.

Vacation in Columbus

2010-08-04T10:53:00.010-04:00

After reading an article in Midwest Living (link here) which recommended a trip to Columbus, Ohio, and since I believe everything I read, I convinced Clint it would be a perfect vacation spot. To be honest, the things that most intrigued me were this paper store, Jeni's ice cream, and the 32-room Book Loft in German Village.
Well, as I'm sure you know, most events do not unfold as planned (at least not in my mind) (except for reading books on the beach in Jamaica), and this vacation was true to form.
Somehow, our summer has passed by in what feels like 3.6 days, and now August is upon us and school is about to start. On Friday last week, we realized we hadn't yet taken the kids on vacation. So, we decided to leave Sunday and return home on Tuesday, albeit a short trip, but we had an ortho appointment on Wednesday.

Here's what happened:

Sunday
We arrived at our hotel in the afternoon, checked in and let the kids swim. Then, we followed the recommendation of the front desk clerk and went to a Mexican restaurant down the road. The food was very authentic, although the place was a bit greasy and icky. Especially the bathroom.
To console myself for my slight disappointment at a) dinner, b)our hotel room, and c) the nasty pool (which, surprisingly, the kids didn't mind...), I drove a few blocks to the grocery store and got some Klondike bars and some of those mini-bottles of wine. Things began to look up.

Monday
Since Jared is only four, we figured spending two days looking into quaint shops was not going to be fun for anyone, so we went to the zoo on Monday. We'd heard that the Columbus Zoo was pretty good, and Genthners are always game for zoo trips anyway.Unfortunately, it was blasted hot and humid, even at ten in the morning. But nevertheless, we had a good time.

The Columbus Zoo admission cost 59.95 (Jared was 7.99 and everyone else was 12.99). There were lots of sculptures to climb on, and they were under shade, so Jared easily persuaded us to make nearly every one a photo shoot.

Jonah was excited about all the reptiles, especially Fluffy, a 24-foot reticulated python, who is, apparently, the longest snake in a zoo. Period. She looked pretty pleased with her accomplishment.

And of course, Clint was very excited about these enormous bats--okay, actually, they are flying foxes. But when a creature is this big and has wings and sleeps upside down, he isn't about to quibble about scientific classifications. He's just happy to see them, no matter what they're called.
The zoo food was typical zoo food: over-priced and under-delicious. We opted for the most sensible option: dippin dots. Which, really, is a filling and nutritionally balanced meal in comparison with hot dogs and pizza.
After the zoo, we were hot and tired and dirty, but we weren't about to let that conquer us. Jared took a short nap on our 30-minute drive into the city. We stopped first at North Market, which every website I had read recommended.

(photo courtesy of experiencecolumbus.com)

Unfortunately, most of those market people apparently have to take Mondays off (Sunday is a huge artisan market...WHY didn't we go up on Sunday, you ask? That would have been far too logical. Plus, we didn't know). Anyway, Clint took the opportunity to sample at least 15 flavors at Jeni's ice cream while I bought the kids some pastries. And a hazelnut-almond biscotti for myself.
But when we were done eating our treats, it was still only 3:30, and I wasn't too keen on going back to the hotel for a seven-hour stint at the pool or in front of the TV, so I persuaded The Man to drive us up the road to Short North.
According to the travel article, Short North was once a run-down area which has been revitalized in the last twenty years into a trendy place to hang out, featuring an array of art galleries, great restaurants, and eclectic shops.

We drove down the street until I spotted On Paper and then we found a parking space close by. I leapt from the van and jogged toward the storefront, only to find to my everlasting dismay that it was closed on Mondays! (what the?? Why Mondays?) Wailing ensued.
So we browsed our way down the street until we found this place: Collier West.

(photo courtesy of collierwest.com)

This is a beautiful (pricey) shop with artful displays. I could have spent a fortune in time and money here, but instead we found a different sort of treasure: a helpful guide. The girl working there, upon hearing that we were first-time visitors, told us of a fabulous restaurant with great happy hour specials. Since it was 4:02 and happy hour had just started, we trotted right off.

(photo courtesy of pmrc2009.ning.com)

People, this restaurant has 1/2 off drinks and appetizers during happy hour! We had olives, calamari, melted pecorino, some kind of salami-ish meat, risotto-mozzarella balls and all the bread and olive oil we could eat. It was fabulous. Just the right meal for a hot day. Clint and I were so parched, we just ordered water. And here's the best part: before the tip, our bill came to 18.45. Eighteen dollars for dinner for five people! Crazy. Yes, indeed. (For those who are hungrier and may scoff at our small appetites: their pizzas are also half-price. We were too full to order one. And we had a plan for dessert, anyway.)
I wish I could have taken a picture of our food, of the inside, of the bathrooms! (which were lovely...I always judge a place by the quality of its bathroom, don't you? Theirs had mouthwash and lotion and...ahem...ladies' things...all just there for you to use. Nice) But alas, it was a bit dark inside and my flash was acting silly. You'll just have to see for yourself. Go at four, though.

So, Jeni's for dessert. Every--and I mean every--website I read commanded a visit to this place. Jeni has done pretty well for herself, apparently, and opened a couple other branches (like the one in North Market Clint plundered).
This is why:

Look at those flavors! No wonder poor Clint had to try every one! It was hard to choose, no doubt, but as soon as I saw (imagine magical music now, please) salted caramel I didn't need to dither any more.

Here are the flavors we got, starting from the top: Goat Cheese with Roasted Cherries, Riesling Poached Pear, Strawberry Buttermilk (with sprinkles--guess whose?), Wildberry Lavender, and Salted Caramel. Every single one was delicious, but mine was best.

Tuesday
Tuesday morning, we checked out of the hotel and headed to German Village. Here, obviously, I wanted to visit The Book Loft. It didn't open till 10, so we stopped next door and got a coffee, which was essential anyway because I don't think the stuff they had at the hotel breakfast was really coffee...

I didn't take any pictures inside because it wouldn't have done the place justice. Picture a huge, rambling two-story house filled with rooms upon rooms and shelves upon shelves of books. Amazing, right? I got lost quite few times--both literally and within the books as well. Of course, we each had to pick a thing or two to buy, and so we left happy and fortified for the long drive home.
Next stop was lunch (because it had been a pleasantly long browse in the bookstore), and we decided to try Schmidt's Sausage House, home of the half-pound cream puff. We were good, though, and we had some sausage and a Reuben (in Lauren's case) before splitting the beast five ways. It was very, very good. However, the sausage wasn't anything overly amazing, and the place was far too crowded for my taste. Our table was crammed next to three others, making Clint's numerous trips to the buffet quite a gymnastic workout for the poor guy! I stayed put, happily slurping up my cup of potato soup and sharing Jonah's bratwurst, but if we ever went back, I think I'd get my cream puff to go and skip the meal.

After lunch, we wandered through German Village for about an hour. Honestly, the most interesting part (aside from the cream puff) was Third Street. That street boasts The Book Loft, the coffee shop, and Katzinger's Deli, which is like Zingerman's in Ann Arbor--pricey sandwiches and lovely cheese like this one.

We didn't buy anything there, just sampled some cheese and 9.50/pound butter (seriously? 9.50? I know...but it had sea salt crystals in it!)
Then we went to Pistacia Vera down the street, a French bakery for (ahem) some more dessert. That's what people do on vacation, right? That's what we do. (There may have been an earlier stop at a chocolate shop, too. It's hard to remember exact details.)

It was very beautiful inside, and the brightly colored macaroons (only 1.25!) snagged my interest. Clint tried to say (so silly) that we didn't need any more dessert, but I overrode his protests and bought a cookie for myself and each of the kids while he was looking away.

We got a Madagascar Vanilla Bean, a Blueberry Lavender, a Nutella, and a Buttermint macaroon. And, they're gluten free! Yummy. And guess who had to try a bite of each? Mr. Parsimonious himself. Delicious, they were. And so beautiful! How could I not buy some?
There wasn't much more to see in German Village, and Jared was begging to go back to the car so he could read his dinosaur book, so we ended our vacation on that sugary note.
It was a four-ish hour drive back home, and most of it was spent with everyone but Clint (of course) quietly reading or snoozing.

Overall, I would go back in a heartbeat for
1) another trip to The Book Loft
2) lots more trips to Jeni's Ice Cream
3) another go at Marcella's (during happy hour)
4) a trip to On Paper but not on Monday
5) and ditto that for North Market

If you go to the zoo, it's worth a 2-3 day vacation, but if you don't, just doing what we did might not stretch into a mini-break very well. However, there were places we didn't visit--like COSI or the art museum (I know what you're thinking: art museum--zoo. It was a tough choice for me too. Somehow, though, we thought Jared would like the zoo better) (and maybe Clint too).

What I'm Up To

2010-07-31T11:58:00.001-04:00

These are petits pains du chocolat, something like what we had in Jamaica. Imagine, please, that the coffee beans are brewed. I drank my entire cup before thinking to snap a picture. The recipe is linked to the picture, and they are delicious, simple, and decadent. A perfect breakfast treat or mid-morning snack (Clint ate two) (the pig).

Jared's been practicing his technique for scaring geese away. Imagine him hissing at you. It scares me, so it should work quite well on a certain goose we know.

And I'm still working on making birthday cards. I've gotten caught up on July, finished August and all but one September, and am weaseling my way into October. But you see how difficult it is to be the product of a family as big as mine--and married to one even larger! These are (mostly) just immediate family, people! It's ridiculous(ly fun).

And this is what I'm listening to...to keep me motivated and feeling creative. And feeling artistic and cultured. (Did you know Gustav Holst taught music for 30 years at a school outside London, even when he was crazy famous?) (That's dedication).

So that's my plan for this rain-threatening day. I've got to get through December at least before we go back to (gulp) school. So I'll stop distracting myself by blogging.
I'm going now.

Yes, right now. Diving back in.

Maybe I should have one more pain au chocolat. For inspiration, of course.

How to Make a Plastic Bag Holder

2010-07-28T15:55:00.006-04:00

If you're anything like me, you have a wad of plastic grocery bags lurking under your bathroom sink, where they seem to multiply and spread out, trying to take over the entire cabinet. They defy any attempts to be corralled into a smaller area, and they take up space that rightfully belongs to a plethora of other Much More Important Items, such as toilet paper, cotton balls, and bottles of shampoo and body wash.
Last night, I decided enough was quite firmly enough. It was time to show those plastic bags who was boss. You're probably thinking I took them to the recycling bin, and that would have been quite effective. Nothing like throwing things into a smelly dark place to show your dominance. But no, I had to do something more creative and lovely. So here you go. And thanks, Mom, for showing me how it's done.

Materials:
One 12" x 23"piece of fabric
One 3" x 6-1/2" piece of fabric for the tab (or you can use 6" or so of ribbon)
6" of 1/2" elastic
thread

Here are all the pieces laid out on my ironing board. Pretty simple, huh?

After you've measured and cut your pieces, the first step is sewing the tab. If, of course, you're using ribbon, you get to skip right on to the next step.
To make the tab, fold the tab in half lenghthwise and press. Then open it up and fold one of the edges to the center crease and press, and then do the same with the other long edge. Here you can see me holding it open.
Once you've got it pressed, run a straight seam about 1/8" from the open seam.
(This method beats the crap out of trying to sew a tiny little tube and then turn it right side out.)
Next, you're going to make the casing for the elastic. Press down about 1/4 on one of the 12" ends of the body of the bag holder. Then make another fold a little more than 1/2" and press.

Sew close to the inner edge, so that you leave a tad more than 1/2" to thread the elastic through.
Momma taught me a trick for inserting elastic. Attach a safety pin to one end of the elastic, and then use the pin to push the elastic through.

Keep an eye on the end of the elastic, though, and once the end you've started from has just a peep of elastic showing, stop and sew that in. Run your machine back and forth across that elastic a few times to hold it in place. This should be right near the edge of the fabric, so once you sew your bag holder together, those stitches won't show.
When you get the elastic all the way through, do the same crazy-mad stitching on the other end.
This is what it will look like.
Hooray! You're about 2/3 of the way done!

Now turn up the seam on the other end of the bag. Press 1/4" and then another 1/2", just like you did when you made the casing. Run a straight seam along that baby.

Next, sew your tab (or ribbon) in place. This extra stitching will help keep the tab secure. I put it maybe 1/2" below the top of the bag holder. Stitch back and forth a few times.

Then, turn your bag inside out, matching up the long raw edges and keeping the tab inside the bag. Stitch along that seam, and do your best to match up the top and bottom. If you're like me, you get a little hasty and a tiny bit imprecise and they might be a little off. Don't berate yourself. It's a plastic bag holder, for cripe's sake.
Here she is, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Doesn't she look proud of herself?

And here she is, looking even more proud, replete with lots of plastic bags.

So there you have it: a project that you can make in under an hour with minimal expense. If you don't have spare fabric, you could use a tea towel or a spare pillowcase cut to size. If you can sew a (relatively) straight seam, you can do this. Go for it.

How to Hygenically Clean Lizard Poo Off Your Table and Other Important Items

2010-07-27T14:39:00.005-04:00

If you want to prevent your lizard from using your dining room table as her toilet, I would first politely suggest that you not allow said lizard onto the table in the first place. But if your son is that dangerous mixture of persistent and cute, you may have to allow occasional reptilian visits, (okay, this is the first time. And the last. Don't get so grossed out you never come over for dinner again. Just keep reading) to the area on which your family regularly dines and prepare for ensuing natural disasters.
At this point, it might be prudent to mention two interesting facts.
1) A bearded dragon only poops once a day--if that.
2) When a beardie poops, it comes out in two little turds. One is black and the other is white. That is very interesting, isn't it?
The primary reason Squirt got to cavort on the table this morning is that Jonah wanted to show us how she eats blueberries, which, admittedly, would have been interesting to see. But unfortunately, he had already fed her quite a few and she wasn't interested in blueberries.
But then, she did something even more spectacular. I had already pegged her as a quick learner, but even I was amazed by this. Check it out:

Yes, that's right. She can balance a blueberry on her head. Quite impressive.
So we let her do that for awhile and applauded quietly, so as not to startle her and cause her to lose her balanced blueberry. Eventually (and I know this might surprise you) I got tired of watching a lizard balance a blueberry on her head, and I began to clear away the breakfast dishes.
That's when it happened.
I suppose I should be impressed at Squirt's continence, as this is her first poo-tastrophe since we got her last fall. But there you have it: the law of averages states that if you take a lizard out of her cage often enough, the likelihood of poo coming into contact with your home surfaces is dramatically increased. I had always envisioned it happening on the carpet, and really, I'm not sure whether the dining room table isn't a better place for it. It is, after all, easier to clean.
So here's your tutorial:
1) Make your kid clean up the mess under close supervision. It is, after all, entirely his fault.
2) Actually, first back up and express your chagrin in language as strong as you deem effective.
3) Make sure the poo is wiped off first with a sterile piece of toilet paper.
4) Use the strongest chemicals in the house to remove all traces of poo from the table.
5) Watch your kid scrub the entire table, all the chairs, and the floor too for good measure. While he's at it, ask him to scrub the bathrooms, too. Asking never hurts. He may feel guilty enough to do it.
6) Wash said toxic chemicals off the table. It wouldn't do to poison your family. Frowned upon, you know.
7) Put the lizard back in its cage. Maybe do that bit first, actually. This might be a two-poo day, even though Jonah insists it has never happened.

Other Items:
Yesterday, I found success in my months-long search for a better storage solution for my paper. I have the tiniest bit of an obsession with paper, which will likely surprise you. Since I'm not obsessive about anything else. Especially not books, cake, chocolate, coffee, birds, or my husband. And funny things. Okay, and my kids too. ;)
But the paper stack was getting a little obnoxious, and it was hard to find the right piece when I wanted it if it was all stacked together. I took a picture to show you, but even the camera was appalled and refused to focus:
Okay, actually, I'm lying. The huge stack was put together just for the purpose of exaggeration. I used to keep it in three separate piles on the topmost shelves you can see in the far right of the picture below. But still, it should be clear to all of us that something needed to be done.

And if you've visited me anytime recently--and if you're observant, you'll know that the empty corner in the background used to be the abode of a lamp and the printer. But that area was just a dust magnet, and it irritated me.
So it seems only fortuitous that when I set out to my two most trusty suppliers of crafty goodness I was bound to find the perfect solution. Jo-Ann let me down, and I was forced there to (kindly) give one of the workers a piece of my mind about their lack of paper storage options. Seriously? What woman wants to store everything in plastic containers? How cute does that look? And they did have colorful boxes for flat storage, but they were 9.99 each and while they would have looked nice, I would still have the same problem. I wanted open storage.
I think I may have heard an exuberant angel choir backing me up as I stepped into Michael's. How else to explain that I found the exact solution I was hoping for AND it was on sale 40% off? I got the whole contraption for 17.99 and put it together myself. Look at this baby!

While I'm at it, let me show you the whole craft area. Looks good, huh? (And she's modest, too, folks)

I was working on making some birthday cards, and then I realized how dusty my stamps were and the stuff on the shelves, too. I dust weekly (or something like that), but I certainly don't take all those durn stamps off the shelf and dust them...or the stuff under the counter, either. Why would dust go down there? That's just silly. But I could trace my initials in every single box and ink pad I picked up. It was embarrassing. That's how it all started.
It's all about keeping things clean, you know? Whether it's lizard poo or your craft area. Cleanliness is next to...(you're so smart!)

In Which a Boy Becomes a (Bat)Man

2010-07-26T09:17:00.005-04:00

This is the story of a bat.
This is the story of a man, his wife, a boy, and a bat. Two of them were very frightened.
Before our story can properly commence, it is important to know some things:
1) bats love our house...especially our bedroom
2) my husband is deathly afraid of bats
3) I'm not
4) neither, apparently, is Jonah

This is the story.
Last night, a girl named Kir was sleeping peacefully in a bedroom blessedly free of humidity. The windows were open, a breeze played with the curtains, and all was sheer summertime bliss.
Then, her sleep was rudely interrupted by a dire shaking. Someone was cowering and whimpering beside her. That someone was her husband. Sometimes, Kir's husband has bad dreams about chasing bad guys, and she has to wake him up from them. Sighing, Kir rolled over to wake him up so they could both go back to sleep, but she quickly realized this wasn't Clint's bad dream. This was real.
"A bat," he whispered, his voice muffled by the sheet over his head. "There is a bat in our room."
Sure enough, Mr. Bat took that admission as his cue to swoop low over their heads.
"Do you want me to get the bat out?" Kir asked, sighing again.
"We can't," Clint replied, his voice desperate and sad. "The door (we have a balcony off our room) is blocked (Clint's been roofing and the debris has mostly landed on the balcony)."
The bat swooped low again. Clint moaned. "I need to get out of here."
"Why don't you go sleep somewhere else?" Kir asked.
"What about you?" he replied.
"I'll be fine," she said, pulling her bravery britches up nice and tight. "Bats don't scare me."
So, Clint scurried out of the room, hunched over with his pillow over his head. Let me tell you something: a man scurrying in his underwear is a funny, funny thing to see.
Kir snuggled her pillow and prepared to sleep.

Here is something true: The Thing that Secretly Scares You a Tiny Bit becomes much more terrifying when you are alone in the dark.

It was hard to tell for sure in the dark, but that Durn Bat sounded like it had started mucking about on the floor. She could distinctly hear his little claws scratching the wood, and she was pretty sure she heard the rasp of his leathern wings on the floor. What is that creature doing? she wondered. Reading Larry's Kidney? It's not very good... Then she thought about what it might feel like if he decided to crawl up the wall and flop down on the bed next to her. She will freely admit, she was not shivering in anticipation. That was fear shaking her. Pure fear. In principle, bats are interesting creatures. When said Bat is snuggled up close to a girl in the place of her husband, it becomes not so interesting.
Kir turned on the light and stood up, ready to do business. First step, glasses. Second step, try to get that blasted door open. (Here is something else you need to know: old house move and shift in odd ways. Humidity + old door = difficult thing to open.) She couldn't budge it! Kir needed to call in reinforcements. That or give up.

At this point, you might be wondering what the title of this post has to do with anything. Fear not, brave reader. All will be revealed.

So, fearing rejection, Kir tromped downstairs to Clint's escapist bed on the couch, where she admitted defeat. He offered to let her share the couch; she pretended to consider. Then Kir proposed her request: if he would come up and jimmy the swollen door open, she would shoo the bat out and we could both sleep in peace. After brief hesitation, he agreed.
It took some wrestling, but Clint got the door open and then promptly ducked back toward the door, nodding at Kir to commence with bat removal. She stood in the center of the room, her arms raised above her head in the posture all bats recognize as utter bravery and defiance. It is possible that Clint may have chortled (hard to tell when his teeth were chattering so) and he squeaked something about going to look for a Thing to Get the Bat Out. He left.
Just moments later, the bat decided to take a breather, collapsing spread-winged nearly at our heroine's feet. Poor little guy was just exhausted from swooping over their heads. Kir was so surprised to see him there right in front of her that she just stared at him for a moment. By the time she realized she could trap him on the floor with the towel that was dangling just in arm's reach, he must have sensed her motives for he recommenced his swooping.
That's about when Clint returned with his Thing to Get the Bat Out. It was an inflatable soccer goal (with nets, of course) about 5 feet wide and maybe 2 feet tall. You're probably thinking what Kir was thinking: What fool would use a butterfly net when he can use an inflatable soccer goal. Right? Exactly.
She might have looked at him with a tiny bit of disdain, but maybe because he was using it more as a shield than a Bat Shoo-er. That's when the door opened and Jonah stepped in. "What's going on?" he asked. Maybe he was surprised to see his parents cavorting about the room at 2:24 with an inflatable soccer net. Maybe not. He's pretty unflappable as a rule.
"We have a bat," Kir said.
"Oh," he replied. "Let me go get something." And he left in a hurry.
Now it's go time, Kir thought. Surely this boy genius would return shortly with a Real Net. Ten seconds passed and he came back into the room with this:

This is Nathaniel. At this time, the author is not sure whether Nathaniel has Bat Catching Abilities. All he did was sit slumped in Jonah's arms while the kid watched his dad duck and weave and watched his mom calmly track the flight patterns of the bat. Then Jonah set Nathaniel on the bed.
He watched unblinking as the bat landed on the curtain and clung there, quivering with exhaustion. Then, Jonah stepped toward Clint and took the inflatable soccer goal from his father's unresisting hands. Kir knelt, poised but motionless, on the bed, watching her son step into (bat)manhood. He crept toward the window, the soccer goal raised toward the bat. He crept softly, as only a boy accustomed to tracking helpless animals, such as squirrels and salamanders, through the forest can move.
The bat hung motionless and Jonah trapped it there in the inflatable soccer goal. Somehow, it must have realized it was trapped for it began to flutter about, turning then and clutching at the net with its tiny batty fingers.
"Get it to the door! Get it to the door!" Clint shouted, holding fast to the trim around the bedroom door.
With a grace that defies written expression, Jonah danced that bat across the room, his arms certain and his feet steady, in a path straight for the door. Maybe it tasted the free air of the night sky, but a few feet from the door, the bat turned, winked at Jonah, and fled into the darkness.
That is how a boy became the man he is now, on a night so fresh in the my memory because it was only last night, and how he assumed my mantle of fearlessness. Hail him, for he is brave and worthy. Jonah, the Bat Catcher of the Genthner Home. His mettle will likely be tested very soon.

Book Review: A Little Sweet and a Little Tart

2010-07-25T21:47:00.006-04:00

I'm not sure where I heard about this book (maybe in a magazine), but any book about cake is sure to whet my appetite for words. Because I am not ashamed (after forty-six sessions of CakeLoversAnonymous) any more to admit that cake and I--well, we have a sweet relationship based primarily on my unyielding desire for consumption. The kind that leaves not one crumb behind. I have been known to--no. I'm not ready to share That yet.
So I put the title on my amazon wish list, and guess what sweet-ums got me for my birthday? That's right. This book. I took it with me to Jamaica, figuring it would be a fun read (go ahead and picture me as I pictured myself in the weeks before we left: I'm sitting on the beach with a drink in my hand (the drink has a pink umbrella, okay?) and I look up and wave at Clint every so often as he paddles around in the ocean). And it was. A fun read. A very bizarre fun read.
Here's a picture of me fulfilling my fantasy:

Yes, I'm almost done with the novel at this point, and it was durn
difficult to pose pretty for Clint when I was that near the end.

So, on to the review. First, the premise: Rose Edelstein is nearly nine when she first realizes that she is not like everyone else. Her mother is testing a recipe for Rose's birthday cake and when Rose eats a piece, instead of tasting lemon, she tastes emptiness. A dark, swirling emptiness that overwhelms her.
As Rose grows older, she realizes that she can taste the origins of her food and the emotions of all who have had a hand in its journey to her plate. She knows, for example, when sitting down to a spaghetti dinner, where (city, state, plant) the pasta was manufactured, that the man harvesting the tomatoes is worried about money, and that her mother is still sad and feeling lost.
Soon, Rose can no longer eat her mother's cooking. She fiddles with her dinner and buys junk food that has been manufactured by machines--free of the taste of anyone's sorrow or concerns. It takes her awhile to learn that she is alone with her "gift," that no one else can taste what she can. And this realization isolates her.
But she isn't the only strange one in her family. Rose's mother flits from job to job, finally settling with carpentry (and sliding into an affair--which Rose immediately tastes--and keeps to herself). Rose's father has a deep fear of hospitals, keeping from directly seeing the birth of either of his children or ever visiting a loved one there. And Rose's brother, Joseph, is the oddest. He appears to be autistic, maybe, incapable of making any lasting friendship except for the one he has with George, who seems equally as gifted as Joseph but without the constraints of Joseph's impediment--whatever it is.
As the novel unfolds, Joseph grows more reclusive--even vanishing a few times unexpectedly--and Rose begins to fall in love with George, who treats her with love, but a love that is more friendly than anything else. And then one evening, everything gets very, very strange. Like X-Files strange. Transformation and transubstantiation strange.
Yeah, that's what I said too. Still scratching my head about it.

I was hoping for a book that fed my cake-lust, and this one didn't do it. It held my attention; it was very, very bizarre (especially the last 75 pages or so), but that's about it. By the end, Rose was still struggling to cope with her "gift," she learned that she was NOT the only gifted one in the family, and--uh--that other bizarro thing I don't want to tell you.
Okay, let's be honest. You're probably not going to read the book after a review as dismal as this one, are you?
Twist my arm.
Promise me cake (chocolate, please).
Okay.

Joseph? He's been playing around with space and time. Star Trek stuff, right?
And he figures out how to...put himself in something else...I think.
So that one night that changes everything: Rose goes to check in on him (he's moved into an apartment, but mom is paranoid and someone has to check on him daily--and he's stopped answering his phone). And she finds him calmly sitting in an aluminum folding chair.
Okay, you're thinking. That's not that weird.
Then she realizes he's holding very still.
Then she goes to look closely at him because there's something about his ankles that looks wrong.
She lifts up his pant leg.
And his foot and the chair leg are the same thing. Like, his foot has turned into the chair leg. Like, you can't tell where one starts and the other ends.
So she panics, right? Who wouldn't? And runs screaming (quietly--don't want to disturb strange brother) to the other room to call her dad.
She's only gone for a few seconds, but when she returns, Joseph is gone.
Because (of course) (I know you're wondering why you didn't see this coming) he has Become the Aluminum Folding Chair.
And that is why Rose marks the back of the chair. Which is what you would do, right? So Joseph the Chair doesn't get mixed up with Chair the Chair I or Chair the Chair II...
Now that I think of it, I think this novel would have been much more interesting if Joseph had been the protagonist. He's a weirdie, for sure. And I like weird about as much as I like me some cake.

Time: it keeps on ticking

2010-07-15T16:42:00.004-04:00

Today at Summer Writing Camp, our Sacred Writing Time prompt was really just one word:

TIME

Here is what I wrote:

Cecilia Braddock had the great misfortune of being the only girl in the history of time for whom it ran backward. She looked right; it wasn't that obvious at first.
She was born a mewling infant with the customary downy hair and angry skin and tight-fisted wailing, but even the myopic nurse who administered Cecilia's first dose of HIV commented, squinting from frantic infant to concerned mother. "This one's got wise eyes, missus," she said, passing Cecilia to those desperate arms. But Maggie couldn't think about Cecilia's eyes--wise or not--not when the angry spot on her baby's wrinkled thigh was already swelling in protest.
Cecilia, though, she heard the nurse and agreed heartily, whilst also deploring the idea that someone could be so observant and yet so cruel. That needle, glittering cold, inserted so callously into the skin pinched between thumb and forefinger, injecting hot and pain into a leg that had just hours before recovered from the trauma of birth.
While Maggie cradled her and cooed to her, then dropped into a doze, her arms still clutching the becalmed Cecilia, the baby looked about the room. Without any tutelage, she could read. Not just the directions on the IV bag printed in English, but also Spanish, French, German, Mandarin, and Arabic.
She had no idea, then, how anomalous she was. Nor would she likely have cared. The window revealed a sky gray with smog and a few pigeons struggling for purchase on the thin limestone lip of the building across the street. Which had been built in 1926, she knew, designed by Abraham Parker, with eighteen floors and two elevators, both of which were still operational--an uncommon preservation in this city that preferred new to old always.
Cecilia didn't consider how she knew language or architecture. She just accepted it, like she had the first bright lights, the smothering cold, the formula in a bottle--sustenance oral instead of umbilical.
Only Cecilia's father seemed to understand her. He arrived as dusk settled over the city, his tie askew and his hair rumpled. He had been the other man on the outskirts of her birth, Cecilia realized, the one who had nodded, glanced at his watch, and left before she had drawn her fourth breath.
"Father," she said when he walked into the room, and he looked up, startled, dropping his jacket on the floor. Blinking, Devon unfolded his glasses and hooked them around his ears.
"Cecilia," he asked, "did you speak?"
Maggie was snoring softly, so Cecilia had to raise her voice. "Why didn't you stay?" Cecilia asked, recognizing the querulous in her tone and despising it.
Carefully, carefully, Devon lifted Cecilia from Maggie's arms and carried her to a chair near the window. He didn't answer her question. "Who are you?" he asked, looking hard into her eyes.
"I'm your child."
"Yes--but--" Devon's brow wrinkled.
"Babies don't usually talk," Cecilia supplied.
"How long have you--"
"Since I was born, I know for certain. But there are a few flashes I recall from the darkness before. It is possible I began to be cognizant in utero, but it was so dark, so muffled."
Devon shook his head, shock darkening his eyes as belief settled in. "I've never heard of anything like this," he said. "Not any time, anywhere. I wonder--"
Cecilia wondered if her father ever completed what he began.

Summer Writing Camp

2010-07-13T21:17:00.008-04:00

Last year, my friend Elizabeth Valente approached me with an idea to co-teach a summer writing camp for young writers. She teachers middle grades at Trinity with Clint, and she's a great language arts teacher. She knew of a number of students in seventh and eighth grades who loved Creative Writing, and she knew I loved teaching it.
So, we hashed out a plan for the week-long writing camp, and the first year was a great success. This year we modified our format a bit as well as our location, and the first two days have been fabulous.
We start each day at 9 with Sacred Writing Time, a time in which we provide the students with a prompt. They can follow the suggestion, but they don't have to. After that, we have a mini-lesson, and then most of the day is devoted to time for students to write individually, a time in which we write ourselves and also offer our advice and suggestions individually. Students also have time to break into small groups to share their work, their ideas, their triumphs and frustrations.
For those of you who like a writing challenge, I thought I'd share our first two Sacred Writing Time prompts. Enjoy!

Day One: Mining the Heart (well, actually this was our mini-lesson, but it's like a SWT activity)
On a sheet of paper, draw a heart that nearly fills the page. Inside the heart list things you love, things you feel passionately about. If you'd like you can write things you despise or dislike outside the heart. Hopefully, doing this will inspire you with writing ideas. (Mine is below)

Day Two: Where I'm From poem
First, list any objects or people or sayings or events that are integral to who you are. Think back to childhood, to your family life, to hobbies and friends, to teen years and early adult years. Then find a way to organize those things into stanzas. Try to be specific and evoke a sense of who you are.

Here is a snippet of a sample we read:
i'm from cub scouts
and demolay,
from tiddlywinks,
black licorice,
and bazooka bubblegum,
from "squeeze my finger"
and "just try it--you'll like it,"
excerpt taken from poem by Hallie Herz in Nancie Atwell's book Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons

Here is my poem (still a rough draft):
I am from Greiner Gardens
which once boasted three of the vegetable variety
but now just one--
unless
you count flower beds and
thereby can revert (comfortably) to the plural.
I am from Rich and Laura
who had--as he once said--
the gift of giving
birth
and so she did to seven of us
(blond stair steps people called us).
I am from compost bins brimming with coffee
grounds sprouting a kicking pair of
outraged young legs
and (purportedly) at least one mouse
I am from Grandpa's farm--the barn floor streaked
with sunlit fingers
hay dust puffing as we jumped
onto a forbidden pile.
I am from Pleasant Lake where friends
are made as easily as mud
but none are mine

I am from enormous green eyeglasses
and a hard-earned Polo shirt
which I wore too often
I know: photos don't lie
But I just wanted the mantle of real fashion
to touch me, if only briefly
I am from curly hair
that bounces when I'm happy
and from the small rebellion of wearing flip
flops till frost nips my toes

I am from chocolate shops
the smooth dark depths
the elucidating depths
as I've grown a bit of discrimination
and bypassed Hershey for Lindor
and then the really good stuff
I am from the chocolaterie in Chicago that
I can't find again
and from the one in Ashville--the Chocolate
Fetish, where each truffle enfolds
a world of flavors
Now I am from snobbery
as I cross desperate arms
before a glassy case, armed against
inferior mass production

I am from bookstores dark and musty--weighted
with the dust of wisdom and the fragility of type
tottering moldering piles
But also from Horizon Books on Front Street
and Schuler's on Grand River
those havens thick with new paper and fresh glue
of fresh brewing coffee and raspberry-
white chocolate scones

I am from snapping cold blue-gray sunrises
in the moment when night yields to day
as I sit awake too early on a Saturday in February
drinking coffee that is still too hot
And I am from the grandeur God paints
each evening which even Hopkins struggled
to convey
As I sit on the patio at Camp Arcadia,
glowing with reflected glory, and wish for words

Peacocks make a lovely purse

2010-07-03T15:04:00.009-04:00

Some people think peacocks belong only in the wild. Some would broaden the realm to include zoos and nature preserves. There are a few people (who are still amazed, in fact) who have found a peacock or two in their vegetable gardens. But it seems safe to assume that everyone would agree that peacocks should appear as often as possible on purses.

Sew anyway (after that fantastic intro), I had this fabuloose fabric, and I wanted to make a nice, tropical looking purse, but wasn't sure on a pattern. I wanted something new. I diddled around online, looking at Amy Butler's website and Anna Maria Horner's, but nothing clicked. Then I just typed "free purse pattern" into a google search, and I came up with TONS of hits. Now, some of them were just plain silly. A monkey could have figured out how to sew those things. But, I guess, free usually = monkey business, and I should have expected most of what I found. But THEN, I stumbled across this website. Should've known BHG would be generous with the freebs. They have lots of other free purse patterns (just look here!), but the one I found was EXACTLY what I was looking for. Well, pretty much...just didn't like those silly handles.

This is the picture from the BHG site

(See what I mean about the handles? things could be better)

(okay, actually, I just didn't have a third coordinating fabric)

(at the time, that is)

So, I knew I wanted to do everything BUT those--okay, you know what I'm talking about. Sheesh! I feel like I'm just repeating myself.

I basically followed the pattern, but I made it a teensy bit bigger, because I like my purses nice and large. Gotta fit the book in there, and I just feel so green telling clerks I don't need a shopping bag. (Plus, I hate all the plastic baggies. There are only so many one household can handle.) (And you should know I'm just talking about smaller purchases. I don't carry a purse large enough to fit the weekly groceries.) (That would be crazy.)

Get back on track, Kir.

Right. So, I had to add some piping along the tops of the peacock pockets, even though the pattern said to fold it. One can't have one's peacocks upside down, can one? (Especially if one's narwhal has no choice but to be sideways)

So this is the purse with the piping (see it? it's teal) but it has no straps yet.

This when I had to do a serious intervention.

That's right. I had to go visit the maternal unit. Since she is the font of all wisdom and knowledge, I knew she'd know how to make my purse straps. I finally found a nice coordinating fabric (thanks, Jo-Ann!)--but needed her divine inspiration. We tried lots of ideas and she came up with the perfect solution. That's right! Eyelets. Why hadn't I thought of that?

So here's what I did. Mom and I decided eight eyelets would do it, so after one false start (drrg! bought grommets instead of eyelets! read the package carefully next time, kir) and 8.45 (that's dollars and cents) spent on the package, I was ready to go.

First, measure your purse and divide by eight (cause you have eight eyelets, right?), making marks for placement. Since my purse was 36 inches around, I had a mark every 4.5 inches. I made them about 2 inches from the top so as to have some gathering space and marked each spot lightly with pencil.

Then, it's time to cut. Use your scissors to carefully make a hole and cut an X just big enough to pop the top of your eyelet through the hole. The back of the eyelet package (oh, and if you're a first-time eyelet purchaser, make sure you get the "kit" package as it has the setter and other thingy that holds the bottom in place included) says to cut circles, but an X will suffice and it's a lot easier. Especially if you're cutting eight.

You need a very hard surface, like an anvil (but you might not have one of those--or if you do, it might be all greasy and nasty because your husband uses it for nefarious purposes which he calls "building things"--but which we all know is just a shoddy ruse) or concrete. Cover your surface with something to protect your purse and then set it all up.

First, you set the base thingy on a piece of cardboard so it doesn't get all scratched up by the concrete. Then, you poke the "front" part of the eyelet through your X and set it on the base thingy. That's what the picture above shows.

Next, you lay the scary claw part of the eyelet claws-down on the inside of your purse and cover it up really quickly with the setter. Then smash the setter as hard as you can with the hammer. (You need to hold on to the setter, even though I'm not doing that in the picture. I didn't want my fingers to hide what it looks like). Smash away maybe 8-12 times, depending on your vengeful swing.

Sometimes you might get so crazy with the hammer, you might make the whole caboose stick together. No sweat! Just tug a little on the fabric and it will come apart. If your eyelet seems loose, put it all back together--setter-claw part-eyelet front-base thingy--and pound some more.

When you're done, you'll have this lovely purse with eight eyelets in it. You should stop and feel the pride fill you now, especially if you wimped out last time and asked your husband to set the eyelets for you. You might want to call him and gloat, or maybe just sneak into the kitchen and have a bite of chocolate. Whichever seems appropriate. Or, of course, you can do both--which is what I did.

Next, you have to make your strap. Cut two 5" strips of the fabric for the straps. Cut them all the way across the fabric, so they will each be about 45" long. Sew the strips together at one end, to make a really long 5" strip. Then fold it right sides together to make a tube. Turn and press.

Weave it in and out of the purse, starting on one of the sides and ending there. Tuck one raw end inside the other and stitch them together.

When you want to open the purse, just pull it apart, and when you're ready to carry it, just pull up on the straps in the middle and put it over your shoulder.

NOTE: the straps did end up being a bit longer than I'd like, so I ended up tying knots in each end to shorten them--I was feeling too lazy to get the machine back out and do it right. But the knots don't actually look that bad...

Finished product:

This is what my purse looks like when it wants me to take it shopping.

And this is my purse dreaming it's at a cafe in Paris (shh! don't wake it up! it's so happy)

Supplies:

One yard pink fabric (the lining)

2/3 yard peacock fabric (the outer pockets)

1/3 yard teal fabric (straps)

1 package extra-large eyelets (with setting tools, if needed)

1 package coordinating piping (if desired)

thread

2010-07-02T10:30:00.008-04:00

It's been six years since I was first asked to teach Creative Writing at the high school where I teach, and with every trimester that passes, I fall a little bit more in love with teaching it. Not to say I didn't love teaching it from the first moment of the first class; I did. But now, I am even more enraptured than ever.
So, as I was perusing the bargain racks at my local bookstore and saw this baby for only 3.99, I thought I might have something in common with the main character.

(picture of cover links to author's blog)

Arabella Hicks is (just like me) a wannabe novelist struggling with her text (although she, poor thing, has been struggling for seven years and I just wrangled with mine for two before completely giving up on the thing) (don't know which is more pathetic, really). She is a freelance editor, but also (here comes the like-Kir part of the book) teaches a creative writing class. Arabella, though, teaches an adult ed class. Her collection of students is quite a mixed bag. A couple nut jobs, a guy fascinated with porn, another guy who won't stop asking "craft questions," a pill popping suburbian mom, and a closet transvestite. Oh, and an older guy who dresses fabulously--and who spends most of the class period hitting on her. I don't usually have such an eclectic collection in my classroom.

Arabella juggles her time between classes with the work she hates and visits with her mother, which she hates almost as much. Arabella had to put her mother in a nursing home, and she has recently become quite frail. But Vera's frailty doesn't stop her from putting Arabella in her place. And of course, Arabella struggles with the guilt she feels for not caring for her mother at home.

It's a quick read, and I enjoyed Arabella's lessons and lectures immensely. The stuff about her mother felt a bit whiny, though, and there were times Arabella just lost all my sympathy. She floundered through her life most of the time, never able to figure out what she wanted and how she was going to get it. She knew she wasn't happy, but she couldn't figure out why. But instead of bending her brain to that issue, she just complained about it.

Here's something I found, though, on page 52 that spoke so clearly to how and why I teach:

Arabella's mom was asking her why she teaches and whether it really is possible to teach someone to write.

"It's not so much about teaching them the craft of writing," Arabella says, "because they could probably figure that out from reading a book...It's about creating an environment in which they think they can write. That's the secret of a writing class. A good teacher makes her students feel secure enough to write their stories."

Exactly. So, students of writing, here are some exercises for you straight from Arabella's class.

1) Make a list of your five obsessions. Now write a few paragraphs about one of them.

2) Think of a person from history who intrigues you. Write a description of that person eating a meal. What would he eat? How would he eat? Who would eat with him? What would they say?

3) A boat sinks during a storm, and only ten of its passengers make it onto the lifeboat. One by one the survivors are knocked off until, after a month at sea, only two survivors are left. There is not enough food for both of them, and one of them is going to have to get rid of the other. One of them is a teenage girl who is very strong for her age, but she is blind. The other is a musician from a successful boys' band. He is twenty-six years old and smaller than the girl. Who will survive? Write the final scene.

4) Think about a family gathering: a holiday, a birthday, a funeral. Write about that gathering in the first person from the point of view of a child.

5) Write about a place that was important to you growing up, but don't put people in it. Just describe it as though you were painting a picture with words.

6) Two people are having a conversation. It can be any two people you want, but this is the first line of dialogue: "Kiss me."

7) Imagine a moment of crisis: someone shooting a bullet into you, someone about to be hung, someone going under anesthesia, someone falling in love at first sight across a crowded room. Write a few paragraphs describing the crisis, trying to expand time as you write so that the moment becomes as tense as possible.

8) Choose a novel or short story that you like and try to discover its theme. How does the author get the theme across? Title? Plot? Names of characters?

9) This is an exercise in learning to find creative solutions or how to write yourself out of a corner. There is a man sitting in a tree, and he is wearing a tutu. What happened?

Try one of these exercises, and let me know how it turns out.

Exercises taken from Breen, Susan. The Fiction Class. New York: Plume, 2008.

Another pretty thing

2010-06-29T13:36:00.007-04:00

Hello, class! Today we're going to learn how to make a ring or pendant. Basically, the technique is the same, but of course, the product is different (what I mean is, you wear one around your neck and one around your finger) (when you're done with the project, you know).
You will need a few supplies, but first, I want to show you where to go. This is it: it's a shop in Ann Arbor called Found. I promise you will love it.

If you want to visit their website, just click on the picture above, and you can see all the very pretty things they have for you to buy. But remember to stay focused: you're supposed to get a Patera pendant (that's Italian for little tray) (because, as you see below, the thingies are a little like trays--little ones). Also, get a bottle of Gel du Soleil, which is a Very Important Liquid. And don't forget to pick up your instruction sheet, just in case. Just in case you're tempted to buy the supplies online, I want to urge you right now to get up and go to the shop. (I'm going on Thursday, if you want to join me. Thai for dinner!)

This is what I bought. It was only 3.50! Three dollars and fifty cents. Crazy, I know.

I also bought this nice guy. I think he was 4.50. I know, I was surprised too. And the funny thing is, I had just left a book store that also sold jewelry and I was oogling at some *already made* pendants, thinking Oh, I wish I knew how to make one of these and also thinking because I sure don't want to plop down 18.50 for something I can probably make myself. If, that is, I had the right supplies. So, imagine my shock and elation when I strolled into Found and (ahem) found these two. And there were more shapes and designs, too. I just didn't want to go crazy and buy every single one before I'd tried making one.

So, the next thing to do is to figure out what you want to put inside your little guys. You can simply cut out patterned paper, which would have been very simple. But, I thought, a little too simple. For Kir must make things as tricky as possible. First, I tried to email one of my students, who is a masterful artist. I was hoping I could commission her to draw me a Tiny Little Cool Thing which I would then cut to fit into one of my little guys. Alas, she ignored my email. I am hoping she was just too busy with summer to reply. That's what I've been telling myself.

Since she didn't feel ready/able/willing to help me, I had to help myself. So, I traced the shape of each piece onto its own piece of watercolor paper. I made lots of 'em because sometimes I make mistakes and I like to plan for lots of them. Besides, it's more fun to make lots of little drawings rather than just one. Here are a few of my first few sketches. That's a badger in the top left corner, and I think the guy below him is a squirrel, but I'm not sure (sometimes it's just hard to differentiate between rodents). Also, I tried drawing a little girl. I really wanted to draw a fox but he wasn't cooperating with me. So, I gave up on him for awhile.

Next comes the fun part. The painting. These (below) are the drawings I made for the ring (that's why they're square). I obviously didn't like that tree in the bottom corner. Far too silly for me. But the alligator has a nice smile, and everyone knows mice love balloons. Especially mice who wear aprons. (You may have thought it's a skirt. It's not.) Oh, and once the paint dries, you can outline stuff with cool archival pens like I did. Makes the image pop right out.

Once you find one you like, poll everyone in the house and make sure it's a unanimous choice. Mustn't be too hasty to cut, my friend. Then, once they've all cast their votes, go with your original impulse and cut out your favroite. Democracy only goes so far in the crafty world.

You may have to shape it a little to fit because obviously, if you traced the outside of your pendant and ring to get the basic shape, you'll be making your drawings a little big. Try not to cut it down too much, but if you do, console yourself with the reminder that even the Amish aren't perfect.

Once you've got your paintings (or patterned paper) cut to fit, use a paintbrush to apply a thin coat of Modge Podge to the inside of the pendant (or ring). Then stick your painting (or what have you) in place and apply another coat of Modge Podge over top. You might be tempted to skip this step because maybe you don't have Modge Podge. Don't do it! (Ok, the truth is, you can use any decoupage-ish sort of glue. I just said Modge Podge because it sounds cool and it rhymes. I used some 0ff-brand stuff myself.) It's really important because it seals your image and keeps the colors fresh and in their rightful places (i.e., your ink won't run).

Once the Modge Podge has dried, you get to uncork the Gel du Soleil. Basically, this is a UV activated epoxy. (And I want to warn all you psychotic substance-sniffing readers: the fumes are very, very heady. So get close--very, very close.) (But, all you wives-of-husbands-who-use-epoxy readers: it doesn't smell like dog poo like HIS epoxy does--so that's a huge relief.)

Start at the outside and work your way in. I traced around the outer edges with my Gel du Soleil and worked my way to the middle. If you get a bubble, don't try to pop it with a pin like the instructional videos recommend. I chased one pesky bubble around and around my pendant for a Very Long Time. Then I became wise unto the ways of the World of Patera and used a toothpick. Pop! It was over. (I'm talking about the bubble.)

Set your dudes in a (level) sunny spot to dry. Let the first layer dry for about 20 minutes, and then apply another layer. Some pendants (or rings) might be deeper than others, so they might require more layers. My ring needed three layers and my pendant needed four.

Here are two more Very Important Things I learned in this process:

1) However much you are tempted to, DO NOT touch the surface of the Gel du Soleil as it's drying. Your fingerprint will be captured forever.

2) Please make sure your painting is facing the right way. My poor little narwhal shall always be a bit more seasick than any right-minded narwhal should be. This is because I glued him in totally sideways. He'll have to spend his entire life looking at my pinkie instead of out at the world. (Don't judge me: I'm a novice.)

After applying the last layer of Gel du Soleil, let the dudes dry overnight, just to be safe.

Meanwhile, if you're like me, you may decide to look at the calendar while exhaling those last fumes of you know what. If, upon calendar-ish perusal, you suddenly realize that you did indeed totally miss making (and, 0f course, mailing) birthday cards to not one, not two but three people, you can use some of your extra paintings to make tiny little birthday cards.

You can even make tiny little envelopes to put them in. And then, you can put that in a bigger envelope and a bigger one and a bigger one--until you have a whole Russian nesting doll set of envelopes for someone very lucky to open. Hopefully, said person will feel so lucky that she totally forgets how sad she was that she didn't get a card from you on her birthday.

Well, class, I hope you enjoyed your lesson today. If you'd like some more help or advice about making a pendant, here is a website you can visit for an instructional video--and here is another video. Or, if you are either a) a lazy bum, or b) geographically distant from Ann Arbor, or c) a Wolverine hater, here is a website you can visit to buy the charms online.

So, the supplies:

Patera Pedant or Ring

Gel du Soleil

Modge Podge (or similar stuff)

Watercolor paper or patterned paper

Scissors (I like to use really small scissors)

Pencil, paintbrush, paints, archival pen...

Toothpick (just in case of bubbles)

Sunlight ;)

The Forgotten Garden

2010-06-23T11:10:00.004-04:00

It's not so much that I hate being outside; it's more that I don't like to get my hands dirty. So, when I was growing up and our summertime daily chores inevitably included hoeing a row or two in the garden, I was always itching to strike a bargain: I would trade house cleaning--top to bottom--for garden work. And my mom almost always took the deal (sucka!).
That said, it quite surprised me to find myself itching to garden as I read this book. But after finishing it and settling back into the couch to ponder my surprising mental state, I realized what I am really itching for: a gardener! I don't want to do the work, but I certainly would not mind reaping the benefits of having a peaceful, colorful outdoor haven (which would be, of course, free of pesky visitors) (I'm talking about bugs) (the annoying kind).

So, on to the book review. But first, a qualifying statement: please don't get turned off by either a) the sheer meaty heft of the book or b) the fact that it spans four generations. The page number doesn't daunt me, but the generational thing--me not likey that sort so much. But Kate Morton (that would be the author) is wise unto the ways of readers like me, and she wrote a generation book even I could enjoy.

Okay, so now I'm going to start in here. It starts in 1913 with a little girl hiding on a ship. She's been told to hide by the Authoress, and she's not quite sure where the Authoress has gone. But she's very good at hiding and she doesn't come out till the ship has begun its journey. She ends up in Australia, alone on the docks with only a small white suitcase including a hairbrush, a dress, and a beautifully illustrated book of fairy tales.

In 2005, that little girl is an old woman and her granddaughter Cassandra sits by her bedside as she dies. And then, after Nell's funeral, Cassandra learns that her grandmother's past is folded and creased with mystery. A few weeks later, Cassandra learns that her grandmother has left her everything in her will, including the deed to a cottage in Cornwall. From there, the novel spirals through the saga as Nell pursues her past, as Cassandra tries to both unravel her grandmother's mystery while recovering from her own losses, and as Nell's mother (shh: I can't tell who--that's part of the mystery) does her own mysterious business.

In other generational novels I've read and loathed, part one is dedicated to the first generation, then part two to the next, and so on. I'd much rather read a trilogy, for just as I'm getting involved in her life story, grandma gets old and dies. And although some of the characters age and die in the course of this novel, it's not so bad. Here's why: Morton changes it all up, chapter by chapter. Although some readers may get time-travel whiplash after skimming from 1900 to 1975 to 2005 then back to 1913, I found it refreshing. Morton is a novelist who knows how to end a chapter well, and she often unearths a clue in one time period and then tells the story behind the clue in the following chapter.

The book feels real, too, whether the chapter is set at Blackhurst manor in its Victorian splendor, or whether the chapter is set in London's Victorian slums--or modern Brisbane (which, of course, is the one in Australia) or London. Not as much info on food as I'd prefer (aside from a lot of broth--BROTH? I know, disappointing, isn't it?), but you can't have everything.

But as I mentioned before, the description of the garden at the end of the maze, the garden outside a cottage perched on a cliff in Cornwall, that garden is what captivated me. That, and the mystery of Nell's unaccompanied voyage across the ocean and the Authoress's beautiful fairy tales. (Yeah, that's right. Three of those fairy tales are retold in the novel. How cool is that? And I'm sorry if you end up wanting to buy the illustrated book of fairy tales. It was a limited edition, single printing. Oh, and also just part of the novel. Not really ever created.)

So, if you enjoy a slowly unfolding mystery, if you have a strong stomach for quick time travel, and if you appreciate the delicate beauty of a garden that may just contain a few fairies, then this is a book you should read.

Slow but sweet

2010-06-20T14:13:00.003-04:00

I think I was fourteen when I read my first Robin McKinley book: The Hero and the Crown. That and The Blue Sword are her two finest, I believe. Both are set in mythical Damar, and both throb with the timeless pulse of a strong story well told. Not long later, I read The Outlaws of Sherwood, her retelling of the Robin Hood story.
Since then, I think I've read just about everything else McKinley has written, and when I was browsing amazon and found this new novel, I didn't hesitate to add it to my wish list.

Clint got it for my birthday, and I settled down into its pages quickly.
Chalice tells the tale of a land where demesnes are rule by Masters, who are aided by a Circle of nine. One of these is the Chalice, the one whose duty is keeping the earthlines in harmony and keeping the members of the demesne unified and bound to the land. Most Chalices are tied to their calling with liquids such as water or wine, or occasionally milk or even blood. None before Mirasol has been connected with honey.
But she was a beekeeper before she was Chalice, and she was called to be Chalice after the former Chalice and Master died of violence. When she becomes Chalice, she feels even more clearly the cries of the earthlines, cries which have caused earthquakes and fallow fields and made animals act strangely.
Mirasol founders through her first few months as Chalice, having no training or apprenticeship and no help from the others of the Circle. Even worse, the new Master is an Elemental Priest, recalled from his tutelage of the Priests of Fire, and he is more fire than human. His touch burns her hand when they first meet, and yet despite this ominous portent, it seems that Mirasol is the only person in the demesne willing to accept him as the true Master.
Over time, their friendship begins to grow until the day, with the help of bees and honey, Mirasol and the Master have to fend off the predations of the Overlord who wants to replace the master with a man of his choosing.

Other reviewers have complained that this novel is slow, that it seems McKinley has tried too hard to stretch a short story into a novel and that in such stretching, she has thinned her tale to a breaking point. I will admit, there were several times in the first fifty pages that I rolled my eyes and wanted to quit.
But I am nothing if not loyal, and for an author like McKinley, I am willing to wait things out. In the twenty years of our writer/reader relationship, she has never disappointed me. By page 100 or so, the story had definitely picked up, and all the (many) details of this land and its rules had been established. At that point, the relationship between Mirasol and her Master became more interesting, more ripe with potential, and the looming conflict with the Heir chosen by the Overlord more ominous.
For someone who has never read a McKinley novel, I would not recommend starting here. Instead, work your way in more easily with one of the Damar novels or The Outlaws of Sherwood. Then read Spindle's End and Deerskin. Then come back to this one.
It is a slow read, but it is very, very sweet. And you'll find yourself wanting to return to that world once it is done and savor it again.

On Reading

2010-06-16T16:54:00.003-04:00

On Friday, the last day of school, I talked to my students for a moment before summer settled over their brains, its filmy promise of endless days at the lake so much more powerful than my speeches about reading and writing and literature. Fully cognizant of the chance that my words would fall on fallow ground in their summer-soaked minds, I had to at least try.

So, I said, it's been a great year (blah blah blah) and I've enjoyed having you all in class (more blah). And remember, if you want to become better readers and writers, the best way to do it is to read. Set yourselves a goal: try to read at least three books this summer.

As I looked out over their rapturous faces, I realized that not one of them was listening to me. Their ears were filled with the buzz of sunlight reflecting off rippling water.

Then, one of them blinked and turned to me. Then, he spoke. And all of his classmates slowly shook off their collective reverie to listen.

Books? he scoffed. Books are for rich people.

Rich people? I said, shocked. Are you serious?

Yeah, he repeated. Books are for rich people.

Well, I blustered. I'm not rich. And I read all the time.

Yeah, he replied. But you're an English teacher. (Clearly, we're in a category of our own.) (I tried to ignore the derision he shoveled onto that label.)

I looked around at the rest of the class. What do you think? Are books just for rich people?

Almost every one of them nodded. All but three of them. (Who are, of course, now my three favorite students.) I tried to persuade them, to plead with them, to show them the glory of the printed word one more time before they left. But their eyes had taken on the golden glow once more and their minds had fled to summery musings. They were lost to me--for the next three months. In September, I would start afresh, and this time, indoctrinate them much more forcefully (ahem-earnestly).

mwa-hahaha

Miss Bumbles

2010-06-15T21:54:00.004-04:00

I meant to write a Very Important Post about the shocking revelation I had on the last day of school, but it will have to wait.

As I was (finally) catching up on my favorite blogs, I found a link to Miss Bumbles' etsy site (here) on one of my favorite blogs (Lollychops--why shouldn't craftiness be funny?) and I fell in love.

I'm pretty sure Young Robin Goodfellow is my favorite, but not positive. I also like the dapper fox below. If only I had a Really Good Reason to buy one of these dudes. :(

Any ideas for convincing The Man about the necessity of having a felted wool creature?

Compost = delicious

2010-06-09T16:36:00.003-04:00

When I think of compost, I think of the Greatest Trick I Ever Played, the one where I whipped the lid off the compost bin just as Ilona was about to perform yet another feat of dexterity and ygrace, wowing the (older) neighbor boys yet again. I don't even have to close my eyes to picture her bare feet kicking at the sky (was she aiming for me? if so, she missed). Later, she said she saw mice scurry right past her nose as she blinked in disbelief at the coffee grounds and eggshells and banana peels that were slowly (and smelly-ly) turning into plant food.

So, when I came across this recipe for Compost Cookie Bars, I wasn't too sure.

Handmade Journal Tutorial

2010-06-08T17:26:00.006-04:00

I should start this post by admitting that I am a bum.
Not just any bum, either, but the sort of teacher-bum who forgets to get (or make) awards for the students who won the poetry contest SHE SPONSORED. Yeah, that kind of bum. I don't know who was more embarrassed at the awards ceremony: the three winners who had to walk down from the bleachers in front of everyone or the bum of a teacher (me) who only had a handshake to offer in appreciation of their great and magnificent poetic talents.
So, when I went to Ann Arbor this weekend to shop and catch up with my oldest best friend, I had an eye out for good awards. I dragged her through a few used bookstores, looking maybe for a beautifully bound slim book of verse. Nothing. Or, nothing that was both a) good to read and b) in my (I'll admit: low) price range.
Then JJ suggested Hollander's, and I think the heavens really did open up right over my head because I felt a direct beam of light shining on my brain and I'm pretty sure I heard an angelic chorus. Hollander's is, in all seriousness, heaven for those who love paper. It's a bookbinder's store. It's beautiful. Here's a link to the store: Hollander's.

See how lovely it is? Don't you want to go there. (If so, let me know: I'll come along) (If you drive. Me no likey driving on 94.)

Well, I could have bought some very lovely gifts there, and indeed, I did consider it. But when I'm in a crafty, creative place like this, I get these urges.

The urges to make something. To touch and fold paper. To glue it to other pieces of paper. So that's what I did. I made journals for my girls. It was a little bit tricky and I almost had to waste a piece of paper (but I salvaged it!). Also, I have a very small wound on the fleshy part of my hand and I'm still scrubbing the glue off my fingers and the counter. But other than that, it was lovely work indeed.

Here are the things you'll need to make one book:

24 sheets of paper (I bought a pad of drawing paper--9 x 12 sheets--and took it apart 'cause I wanted nice, heavy paper) (but you can use copy paper too!)

Two 1/2" strips of heavy-ish cardstock to reinforce the binding (I cut apart the backing of a crappy notebook) (Maybe a cereal box would work?)

12" x 12" piece of heavy-ish cardstock for the cover

Two 3" x 12" pieces of coordinating cardstock to cover up the edges of the cover

Two 5" x 9" (or so) pieces of another coordinating paper to finish the inside cover

Some DMC floss or heavy thread (more colorful = better)

A really beastly heavy needle. Like the kind you'd use to stab...no...just kidding

Here's how you do it:

1) Find the middle of the cover and glue the two strips of 1/2" cardboardy-stuff to it. Right on top of each other. If you're smart, you'll wait till it dries to proceed. You don't have to, but just be warned: glue is sticky. Very sticky.

2) Make a template for hole placement. I made marks 1/2" from the top and bottom, and then one right in the middle. Keep the template! You'll use it again. Oh, and mark the spot on your binding for the holes.

3) Use that beastly heavy needle to poke three holes right next to each other in the binding. That's right: three holes per measured mark (Here's why: once you make your four folio thingies--that's the little booklets of folded paper, which I'll explain in a minute--you will be sewing each one to the binding. It's going to be tight, but that's how you want your book, right?). I put something under the cover like a piece of foamy-foam or--better yet--my pincushion so I can get a nice jab going. (PS: Watch your fingers! Don't get too crazy with the stabbing)

4) Paper folding time. Fold your sheets in half (you can do 4 at a time, but not more than that; you'll lose the level of perfection I'm sure you want). Put 8 of the folded sheets together, so you'll have 3 booklets (I think they're called folios) (Not sure though. If I'm wrong, just pretend I'm right, okay?).

5) Then use your template to mark the hole placements on these and use that beastly needle to bore the holes through each folio. Take your time and make sure everything is precise.

6) Did you notice I stopped taking pictures? Yeah, sorry about that. Honestly, I'm surprised I took as many as I did.

7) Thread some of that DMC floss on your needle. You'll need three pieces, each about 18" long.

8) Line up your first folio on the spine (the cover), and attack it with the needle. Well, what I mean is, poke the needle through the spine in the middle hole, pushing it through the first folio in the middle hole too. (Make sure you hold on to the end of your thread!)

9) Then push that needle through the top hole, this time from the INSIDE of the book. You're halfway through the first folio! Woohoo!

10) Bring the needle in the bottom hole (your thread is still in the eye of the needle, of course) from the OUTSIDE of the book.

11) Last step: go back out the middle hole from the INSIDE of the book.

12) Now all you have to do is make sure you've drawn the thread NICE AND TIGHT and then tie it off (on the OUTSIDE) with a double knot.

13) Repeat this process with the second and third folio, but using the other holes you bored in the spine.

Now you're ready to finish off the bottle of wine---NO the book. The book. That's what I'm talking about.

14) Fold the edges of the book along the edge of the spine so it actually looks like it has a spine. Then, trim down to the spine along the folds. You'll have two tiny little strips of paper, one on each end of the book. It will look a lot like an antennae. Trim those puppies off, and fold the upper and lower excess of the cover down to cover the first page. This will keep those folios IN THEIR RIGHTFUL PLACE within the society of the book.

15) Line up the 3" strip of coordinating cardstock so that it is centered on the edge of the front binding. You'll want a few inches to the top and bottom and another inch overlapping the front. Apply glue to this strip with either a) reckless abandon or b) caution. I'll let you decide. Glue that sucker to the front cover and then fold the front edge in and the top and bottom edges in too.

(See? This is how the front cover will look. Those are the coordinating papers I was talking about.)

16) Finally, glue the 5" x 9" paper on the inside cover to conceal all your glue mistakes--uh, I mean--your folded papers. Try to get it nice and close to the spine. It will look like this.

Then, you can write something really cool inside. Like I did. And if you give this as a gift, make sure you sign it somewhere so everyone knows you're the artist.

So there we go! My first tutorial. Please let me know if this doesn't make sense or if you need clarification. And if you make a book of your own, send me a picture!

The Good, the Better, and the Pretty Boring

2010-05-23T18:49:00.003-04:00

As I usually do when faced with a task that is potentially unsavory, I'll start with worst first. I hesitated not one bit to slap down the dollars for Matthew Pearl's new book because his others were quite engrossing (especially The Dante Club). Where could you go wrong, really, when writing a literary thriller? A swashbuckling novel for people like to read? Doesn't seem that far fetched to me.

This one is about the last (unfinished) Dickens novel (one I had--embarrassed to admit--never heard of) (if you haven't either, it's called The Mystery of Edwin Drood) (do you feel smart now?). The novel's premise is certainly interesting: Charles Dickens has died while writing one of the middle chapters of his latest serial novel, and his American publishers are desperate to find out whether he may have written more--but just not sent it. Apparently, publishing in Boston in the mid-1800s was a cutthroat business, and a young boy is killed trying to deliver some of those middle chapters to his publisher. And not just killed but doped up with opium, tortured a bit, and chased down by a creepy dude with a scary little gold statue on the end of his walking stick.

That's the first chapter, really, and now that I write all that, it does sound pretty exciting. It's not the story that was at fault. It was the execution of it. I never really got sucked in, never really cared about the characters. It was interesting to read about Charles Dickens's last few years (flashbacks are so handy, aren't they?) and to read about the dangers of publishing. But that was all it was. Just interesting. Not riveting like The Dante Club. Just--eh. Boring. Don't waste your time and dollars on it.

This one, on the other hand. Pretty good. It's number two in what I hope becomes a long, long series of books. This man (I'm talking about Alan Bradley): pure genius. He's gotta be around 50 and I think he's Canadian, and he's created a wholly believable 11 year old British girl (circa 1950ish) named Flavia de Luce. She lives in a rambling old manor house with her philatelic (stamp collector, obviously) father, two self-absorbed older sisters, and her chemistry lab. Flavia likes to solve crimes in her spare time and also sometimes think about poisoning her sisters. She really, really likes poison. She thinks it's beautiful.

In this book, Flavia solves a crime that I can't tell you about. It would give too much away. But I'll tell you this: there's a very, very talented puppeteer in this novel. He's got some SERIOUS clever skills. Wish he was real; I want to go to a show of his. And it would help if he didn't die a horrible, electrifying death (oops: forget I said that).

It's pretty good but not (I think) quite as good as #1 (see below).

This is the book you REALLY need to read! I told you all sorts of stuff above about Flavia, but this book...this is the best! I've read it twice now, and I'm still laughing a few weeks later when I think about it. The similes are fabulous and chuckle-out-loud-worthy.

It begins whe Flavia's cook finds a dead jack-snipe on the kitchen steps. But this isn't just a dead bird: it's a dead bird with a stamp impaled on its beak. And it isn't just an impaled stamp: it's something that makes her father go pale and shove the stamp into his waistcoat pocket. There is also a tube of lipstick imbued with the essential oils of toxicodendron radicans (that's poison ivy, if you didn't know). And Flavia has a bicycle she has named Gladys, which I think is pretty cool. (Speaking of bicycles, I got the t-shirt. Clint bought a sailboat this weekend; I got a t-shirt.) (Wait: that doesn't sound fair) (I need MORE t-shirts!)

So yeah, this book: you definitely need to read it. You can borrow it from me, if you promise to return it. And if you don't get food on it or bend the pages. And you'll probably want to borrow the purple one, too. You can. You can even borrow the Dickens one, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Alligator on a Bike

2010-05-17T08:54:00.004-04:00

Why wouldn't you want this shirt?
I certainly do!
HINT TO CLINT: free shipping too, babe

Mother's Day

2010-05-16T17:56:00.005-04:00

I have a very wise friend who told me that she has stopped celebrating her birthday on just one day. For her, her birthday celebration lasts the whole month of June, not just one day of it. How brilliant!
So, this Mother's Day, we stretched our celebration over the course of a weekend. We left Friday morning and caravaned up to Traverse City with friends, where we spent a rainy hour in Horizon Books, my favorite bookstore. We didn't let the driving wind or the sheeting rain stop us. Our frends had to leave to visit a loved one in the hospital in TC, so we walked around and browsed the shops. This is what I found: a beautiful chocolate shop, and the saleswoman was so nice. She recommended the lemon infused dark chocolate for me, which was fabulous. We each picked a different chocolate, and all of them were divine.
Dinner at Pangea's, where we got a little crazy and ordered the Caribbean Jerk Chicken pizza. We'd gotten a Greek pizza last time we were there, and I whole-heartedly recommend that one over the Caribbean. Not so tasty.
Soon, we arrived in Boyne, where our friends had rented 3 condos. Our was really nice, and as it was the largest, that's where we all gathered in the evenings and for breakfasts.

Jonah and his friend had fun playing Pass the Pigs, although there was quite a bit of Pig Tossing, rather more than Pig Passing.

And Jared was quite the fan of Jennifer's whole wheat pancakes.
We spent Saturday in Mackinaw City, which--I must admit--was not very much fun on a cold, dreary day before the summer season has started (read: most of the shops were closed. And really, in Mack City, most of the shops are just souvenir shops--not my fave), but at least it wasn't snowing. And joy of joys: we found two wonderful places, a bookstore and a cupcake shop! Yes, of course I had a cupcake (or two) (but the second one was tiny) (and a free gift from the very nice gentleman at the counter). Oh, and Lauren and I got to have uninterrupted shopping time, as Clint took the boys to a waterpark (the indoor kind).

Sunday we left for home after the dads cooked breakfast and the kids washed dishes. We got to make a very pleasant Mother's Day shop at General Jim's, a peach of an army surplus store. Clint's just always thinking about what I would like to do. I didn't buy anything, although I was quite torn between a pair of shiny new combat boots and a gray woolen sleeping bag. Hard to choose, I know. That's what made me realize I shouldn't get either. (This is a good rule of thumb, impluse shoppers: if you can't decide between two, DON'T BUY BOTH--buy neither.) (Oh seriously, do you really think I do that? OF COURSE I buy both.) (But I almost fooled you, didn't I?)

A few more hours and we were home.

We had snacked a bit in the car, so were weren't very hungry for dinner. After unpacking the van and sorting cleans and dirties, Clint skedaddled to the store "to get some crickets for Jonah's lizards" (which I knew was code for: MOTHER'S DAY?!?!? I forgot to get a gift!).

Sure enough, he came back an hour later with something secret hiding behind his back. He got me an orchid (beautiful) and a Bob Marley CD (which led quite naturally to this Friday Night's first annual Bob Marley Night, which a few of my dear readers were fortunate enough to attend--that's because they're spontaneous, folks--that and they too wait till Friday night to make plans for Friday night).

The kids got me presents too. Here's one:

(front and back)

In summation, it's a pretty formal sounding agreement between the kids not to fight with each other for a period of three days. If any fighting does occur, those responsible will be punished by having to do dishes for a week. You may have noticed above that only two of the kids signed it. Jonah abstained, and Lauren added her commentary about that at the bottom. Let me share an overheard conversation that happened Friday:

Lauren: Jonah! Just sign it!

Jonah: NO!

Lauren: It's for MOM!

Jonah: She's not going to die if we don't give her something [I must add: I think this kid has some serious maternal misconceptions] [...I'm talking about Jonah]

That's when I walked away because if there's one thing I like more than a present, it's a cupcake. I mean, no--a SURPRISE.

I didn't want to ruin their plan.

Well, when I opened and read the Non-Aggression Pact on Mother's Day, I had to ask Jonah why he hadn't signed it--it was only a Three Day Commitment, after all. His eyes bugged out a little at that. He had thought Lauren was asking him to literally sign his life away--that he had to agree to never fight with her or Jared again. And he didn't think he could handle Jared's near-constant tormenting in particular.

Anyway, he had his own present for me:

A pair of robins built a nest above the lintel of Clint's hobbit house (don't ask) and the chicks hatched over the weekend. Jonah took this picture for me.

So all in all, it was a nice relaxing day. I got sweet presents all around, a nice weekend, and peace to read to my heart's content all day Sunday.

Happy Mother's Month to all the rest of you. Don't let your holidays be over and done in just one day any more. You owe it to yourself to live it up.

A Whole Lot of Randomness

2010-05-13T12:04:00.004-04:00

It's been awhile since I've posted, I know. See, I have really wonderful inspirations at the most optimally inopportune moments. For your elucidation, ranked in order of frequency, these are times and places in which I have my best thinking and greatest ideas about all sorts of Very Important and Creative Things.

1. while I'm driving to work, especially when the conditions are hazardous

2. while I'm trying to fall asleep and also (these two are tied) in those random moments when I wake up in the middle of the night

3. while I'm in the shower

4. while I'm sitting on the potty chair

5. while I'm in a (boring) staff meeting

6. while I'm talking to a student

Do you notice anything about this list? Cause I do. Here it is: in all of these circumstances, I do not have access to a computer. Sometimes I write little lists to myself, jot down ideas if I am in the midst of #5 or #6 and can do it discreetly, but the others, alas, are beyond hope. Okay, and also, since I'm being honest and realistic, I also don't have a lot of Time (when I'm not grading/teaching/doing housework) and I also like to Read Too Much. Which is really what keeps me from faithful blogging. But books are just SO MUCH FUN! And just when I finish one and set it gently back in its place on the bookshelf, my spine stiffened with the resolve to Stop Reading so much and Start Blogging and Writing some more, my fingers hover over another book. And before I even know what I'm doing, really, I am reading something else.

Okay, somehow, this has turned into yet another confessional post. Get thee gone, guilt!

Okay, back on track now.

Here's what I meant to be talking about: all the things I'm going to be blogging about in the next few days, just so you can get excited. Here they are:

1. What I've been writing lately

2. How I plan to spend my summer

3. What I've been reading (the good, the bad, and the really cool)

4. What happened on Mother's Day

And I'll leave you with this while you're waiting for my next post. Just something overheard one sunny Saturday afternoon.

As I said, it was one of those warm spring days a few weeks ago (remember those? the ones where the sun shone?) and we were all out working on the flower beds, getting all the hopeful new weeds of spring out so we could lay down some mulch. Okay, maybe I should be honest. Clint and I were weeding. Jonah was throwing paper airplanes around and Lauren was still in bed (at 11am). Jared was looking in the dirt for Critters. New pets, you know. He already had found a toad, which he named Lisa.

Then, as Clint walked around the front of the house, he passed Jared sitting on the deck, hunched over with his head nearly touching his knees. "Okay, Wiener," Clint overheard Jared say, "it's time for you to go back in your home."

Just picture Clint doing a double take. You can laugh. I still am.

So of course, Daddy had to go check out what new mischief our youngest son had landed in. As he approached, Jared looked up and smiled a crooked smile. "Hi Dad!" he said, holding out his hand. "I have a new pet. His name is Wiener."

He was holding an earthworm.

Sabbatical Proposal

2010-04-27T09:18:00.004-04:00

Dear Principal:

I am writing to request permission to take a sabbatical. Before you start to hold up your hands and shake your head, just give it a thought. Forget about budgets and money and think about how illustrious our school could become. Will become.
Think about what great work I could accomplish if I had the time to devote my brain power fully to writing each day for 365 days. Not just the few hours (more like minutes, really) between the last bell and the clock at home that ticks sluggishly by as I grade yet another paper.
Here is what I propose: let me have just one teensy little school year. Just one. Maybe one every five years. In that year, you can fill my teaching position with someone else while I stay home and write. Of course, I will still also draw a salary and will need the assurance that I'll get to slide right back into my original position after the year is up.
In exchange for this, I promise to spend the hours from 7:30 till 2:30 each week day diligently writing. I will finish my novel, keep up my blog, and send out query letters to prospective agents. By the end of the year, you will be able to tell the school board that you have a best selling authoress on staff. I will even donate an autographed copy of my novel to the library. I will come back to school rejuvenated, ready to devote a fully un-preoccupied brain to my lesson plans and grading and teaching. I will not be distracted by that pesky novel that's chirping away in my brain, battering against my skull in a desperate hope for its release. Well, okay. Actually, I probably will. There's always something new. But I should be able to stave it off, resting on the laurels of my publishing deal, content to wait five more years until the next sabbatical.
I really can't fathom how you could pass this opportunity up, really. Although the school board may balk initially at the idea of awarding a sabbatical to a teacher, it is truly a win-win situation for all involved. You will be lauded as that rarest of administrators: one who can look beyond dollar signs to the true value of the written word, one who truly values the arts. In truth, you will likely receive national recognition, at the least from the NEA, for your commitment to fostering the voice of this one English teacher, the girl who just needs a bit more time to foster her genius. The school board will surely be able to glean a bit of that reflected glory, as well. The district will have the distinct honor of calling a celebrated authoress one of its own.
Thank you for considering my proposal, Mr. Principal, and I look eagerly forward to hearing your response.

With all seriousness,

Me

Wisdom of the Ancients

2010-04-21T08:06:00.004-04:00

You know, the people who pen the sentences that survive to become old adages really are infinitely wise. One of them said you never really appreciate what you have till it's gone. And I have found that statement in particular to be true.
After I recovered from the extreme guilt pants of the mother who forgot to kiss her boy goodbye before he left for school and immediately thereafter for a weekend-long youth group retreat, I helped myself recover by organizing an impromptu wine and cheese party.
And since I don't like to pay a babysitter (which, thanks to Lauren (I love my teenager)), I rarely do, I couldn't feel entirely comfortable making the thing sans kids. I do love children--my own and my students. Most of them. Others are okay if they are a) quiet b) cuddly or c) infants who don't puke or poo on me. Otherwise, tolerable at best.
I had a brief flashback to the running and screaming of our New Year's Party, but then I recovered and hit the send button.
And you know what? It was all fine. The number of kids was fewer and the volume significantly decreased. The cheese was pungent and plentiful, and the wine even more so. I learned a valuable lesson that night as well: an orange dipped in a chocolate fountain may be tasty, but a garlic-stuffed green olive is not.
It wasn't really until the tail end of the weekend that I realized how much I missed Jonah. See, he and Lauren are the oldest of 15 Greiner grandchildren. Not only that, but 10 of those 15 are boys, and the only two who don't idolize Jonah are the babies. They just don't yet recognize the god in their midst. Their eyes are still milky with innocence. But their day of enlightenment will soon come; there is no doubt in my mind.
To a young boy, Jonah is indeed godlike. He speaks with quiet power, armed with a wealth of knowledge about reptiles indigenous to Michigan (and the world), about every single dinosaur, about how to create weapons. His hands have crafted bows and knives, daggers and swords with precision and cunning. His focus is intense and whole: when he is creating, he cannot be interrupted. He is patient but capricious. He is changeable as one of the gods of old, and the boys adore him for it.
They came to our house, three of them, on Sunday, and when they realized Jonah wasn't there, their despair nearly overwhelmed them. It was too damp and muddy, really, for outside play. So they had to scrabble together a godless existence indoors.
I almost forgot to mention: we adults know full well that this myopic boy, while possessed of a genius that occasionally shakes us to our souls, is not divine. However, we do appreciate his gift for channeling the youthful--ah--exuberance of his cousins and brother. He does sometimes seem a bit omniscient, and we adults are fully culpable of taking advantage of his prescience. He knows what they're doing and he knows how to impel them.
Okay, it's true: he also knows that he can shift blame for his crimes on his younger counterparts and they will nod eagerly, not realizing at what cost their admission will come. He's not a wholly blameless sort of god. Not at all.
But the story: here it is. So they were bereft without him but they soon turned from a morose sort of daze to a wild sort of rumpus. There was running and a good deal of screaming, and within maybe eight minutes, I was not the only adult in the house who sorely missed Jonah's magical touch of soothing balm--the quiet he could instill.
Then it got very quiet in the house, almost like our joint desperate wish for him had shaped him into being. We shared smiles and lowered our voices to a normal level as we sipped coffee and nibbled on coffeecake.
I think the realization hit all of us at the same time: four boys under the age of seven should NEVER be quiet. That meant certain trouble.
We scattered to investigate.

I was the one who found them. They were sitting in the family room, posed neatly on the couch with Jared and Sam in the middle grinning like fiends. The older two wore their innocence more comfortably. They had more practice.
As I left them sitting there silent together and walked toward Jonah's bedroom, I wonder what I would have seen had the eye in the back of my head chosen that moment to open. I wonder if I would have seen Jacob staring into Jared's eyes, slowly drawing his finger across his throat. I wonder if I would have seen Sam's curly head tucked close to Elijah's chest, Elijah's hand pressed over his brother's mouth.
But I delight in my naivete and enjoy taking the best measure of people, so I didn't open that eye. Indeed, I walked toward Jonah's room with no other plan than to check on Squirt, his lizard.
You can imagine my dismay when I stepped into his room and saw what had kept four boys so quiet for so long.

Every god has his holy of holies, and for Jonah, this place is his white cupboard. It's small, three shelved with doors. At one point, he had a padlock on it, but that was gone. Here he keeps his treasures: his lego catalogs, the notes he writes himself about reptiles and plans for general mayhem, his drawings for daggers, his candy, rocks he's collected in the driveway, acorn caps, a set of tired markers...you know: boy stuff. And that's when I saw it.
Something that drove the blood screaming out from my heart. Something that curdled the coffee creamer churning in my stomach. Something that made my hair curl to its roots. Something I never thought to see in my son's holy of holies.
It was a squirrel. It wasn't alive.

Okay, actually, it was just the skin. But it was not cool. Not at all. I can handle junk and garbage and childish treasures in my son's hiding place. But a dead animal? One that may have chattered at me the previous fall as I sat on the patio reading? One that had once had a fine bushy tail it liked to twitch at twitterpated maiden squirrels? This was not good.
I called the boys in, each of whom (wide-eyed) denied knowing anything about the mess. We worked together to clean it all up, but all the while, my brain was working furiously. Who was this boy I tried to tuck--sharp boned and knobby--into my arms? When had he become the sort of person who (remember: I like to be naive and positive) found a perfectly good squirrel skin lying on the ground and decided to keep it? What was I going to find next time some young boys looking for fun decided to dig through his secret cupboard?

Clint, being much more practical and clear-eyed just nodded quietly when I told him about the squirrel skin and signed Jonah up for the next available hunter's safety class. And I--I just hugged Jonah more tightly and kissed him more fiercely when he came home. I helped him rearrange his cupboard while he muttered imprecations against certain related young people. And I didn't ask him one question about the squirrel.

The Bell Is Ringing

2010-04-18T15:31:00.003-04:00

If you had asked me five years ago about family traditions, I wouldn't have much to say. The kind I remember from Growing Up, that is. We did the same sorts of things everyone else did, aside from the song and dance routines we devised to convince my dad to do just about anything, ranging from letting the girls go to the mall to driving someone to the video rental store. Those were good. But other than that, it was just normal stuff.

But lately, my mom has become a different sort of person (in a good way--an interesting way). She has become interested in new things, and one of them is establishing family traditions (along with other things, like starting new collections and shopping like a fiend). One of these is The Bell. At family gatherings when we sit down to eat, anyone with an announcement has to ring the Announcement Bell to signal the general quiet (which, now that there are something like 6,000 grandchildren under the age of 15, really doesn't happen unless the bell rings). So, mom, consider the bell rung. I have announcement to make.

We are pleased to welcome a new member of the family. Her name is Willa the Veiled Chameleon. So far, she doesn't seem to have many superpowers aside from Ginormous Appetite (Jonah thinks she's eaten 20 crickets today alone--talk about a food budget, eh?) and Ability to Climb Seemingly Smooth Surfaces like Jonah's Face.

Here she is hanging out on Jonah's finger. Isn't her curled tail so cute? Yeah, I know. Adorable.

The lady we bought her from at the reptile expo said she's about one month old, and she'll be full grown in seven months, when she'll be about seven inches long. (She also sold us 500 crickets for $9, which considering Willa's previously mentioned eating superpower, was a great deal. We'll be looking for more of those good deals, as Willa is not going to be eating a whole box of crickets from the local pet store each day--at $3 per box.)

So welcome, Willa. I hope you live a long and magnificent life. I vow to keep all rubber lizards far from your delicate (voracious) jaws.

Something new

2010-04-10T11:29:00.004-04:00

After browsing (okay: I'll be honest, drooling) over Helen Dardik's watercolors like this one above, especially, I decided to try my hand again at watercolor.

Also, I know full well that my forsythia have not much time left in this world (don't tell them , please), so I'll need a replacement on my mantel--and I'd much rather make something or repurpose it than buy something. I'm a pincher that way. Here is what I made:

That nice little girl wants to share her sushi. Isn't she kind?

And who wouldn't want a whale for a balloon? Imagine how fun that would be.

And this poem by ee cummings always makes me feel warm and springy inside. This one's going over the mantel in the living room for sure. Not sure yet where the others will go.

But today, I've got my watercolors set out, happy music on pandora, and I'm ready to go. If only the boys will stop begging for an outing to the bookstore (jonah) and the toy store (jared). Maybe daddy can stop chopping wood long enough to take them...

PS: I know my pics are darkish and smallish. Working on my photographic techniques too. Drrgg.

Leviathan

2010-04-09T10:39:00.004-04:00

Oh, you didn't know that World War I Europe looked like this? Really? Well, it does--in Scott Westerfeld's new novel, Leviathan. In his world, it all comes down to different divisions of science. Austria and Germany have spent the last 100 years or so perfecting mechaniks, the science of engines and machines. Their war machines can walk on two or four or six or even eight legs. They fire bombs and bullets and sometimes sticky phosphorus. They're called the Clankers.
The Darwinists, on the other hand, have taken Darwin's observations about species and run with them. He proposed that every living thing is comprised of life threads (like DNA) that, when unraveled, can be combined with the life threads of other living things. Genetic engineering, of course. So, the Darwinists have war machines like the one below, an ecosystem (really) that incorporates a giant airborne whale, some cilia to direct airflow, bats that poop metal darts, talking messenger lizards, and hawks that fly in formation with razor-wire nets to cut enemy planes to pieces. Simple science, if you think about it.

So, in this slightly altered world, there is still an assassination that sparks it all: the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife are murdered by Serbians (or maybe that's just a conspiracy; maybe the Germans killed them because they wanted to get the war started). Their son, Aleksandar, is whisked away to safety in a Cyclops Stormwalker by a few loyal friends. (Franz and Sophie didn't have a son named Alek, of course, and none of their children had to be whisked to safety. But this makes it all much more interesting.)

Meanwhile, a young girl named Deryn poses as a boy to join the British Air Service, and she's a natural--in the air, that is. It's a bit harder for her to nail the boy routine.

You've probably already figured out that Alek and Deryn are going to meet up somehow, and that's only because you're a barking genius. But I'm not going to tell you anything else. Like, I'm not going to tell you about the illustrations in each chapter and how glorious they are. I'm also not going to tell you about Alek's transformation from priveleged lordling to slightly-more-responsible almost-man. Or about Deryn's many, many adventures in the air. And certainly not about who Dr. Nora Barlow is related to. It's just too much to give away.

I'll just say that if you've been thinking about reading some steampunk, this is the book to break in with. It's fun, and funny, and a blast of an adventure. The only downfall is this: it's the first book and a series, and it just came out in October, so who knows how long we'll have to wait for more. But, you could always read it again when #2 comes out.

Why Teachers SHOULD Have Spring Break

2010-04-07T18:33:00.005-04:00

Because sometimes, we make something beautiful.

(don't you love forsythia? these are from a bush in our backyard)

And sometimes, we bring the outside in.

Clint finished the mantel a few weeks ago and we painted the accent wall. it's called prussian blue. i really love it. also, there are two little chicks hanging out up there. see them?

And that makes everyone feel happy.

Why Teachers Should Not Have Spring Break

2010-04-06T18:56:00.002-04:00

The best Viking warriors were called berserkers. Maybe it was the stress of battle, maybe those brightly colored mushrooms they found in the cold, dark forest. Whatever it was, those berserker warriors became killing machines. They didn't carry shields, they didn't wear armor (or clothes, actually), they just stormed into battle and began to slaughter people. And strangely, afterward, they didn't remember any of it.
Sometimes, I think I've got a bit of a Viking warrior complex. But just sometimes.
From September to June, I teach high school English and history. On a typical school day after I get home, I jog, make dinner, grade papers, do dishes and a bit of laundry, and then keep grading until bedtime. Also, I somehow squeeze in time to make cards and sew a little and stop in here at my blog. Also, shopping, of course, and baking. And snuggling with kiddos and husband.
(I am not making myself out to be a superhero, not even close. I'm just creating a point of comparison.)
If that weren't impressive (and insane?) enough, a few years ago, I got my MFA while teaching full time and growing a baby--and then taking care of said offspring.
In both cases, when I look back on my days and weeks and consider that my hours are routinely 60 minutes long and my days are 24 of those hours, I have no idea how I was so productive.
Because every inclination of my body leans toward laziness.
Case in point:
You would think that a girl like the one described above would do something breathtakingly industrious on her spring break. She would probably design (and sew) her summer wardrobe, while also making birthday cards for all the family birthdays in May and June (there are twenty, in case you're wondering) (she's thinking she'll make all the rest of the year's cards during summer vacation). She would also perfect bread making and finish writing the novel she started last summer. Not too much for this girl to tackle in the ten days she has free of school work.
That's what anyone would think.
But here is the strange thing (and it's not just limited to this particular girl; she has talked to at least ONE other teacher in a highly scientific, controlled chat over the phone): when she (okay, it's me--I'll stop using third person now. Too annoying) has so many days in a row with NOTHING URGENT TO DO, she reverts from near-superhero-hood to her natural state: lazy.
This is what I did today: (well actually, I went grocery shopping this morning. Does that count for something?) I drank some coffee, thought about going for a jog, gave the lizard some food, took a nap, and read nearly an entire book. Oh, and I also checked my email. That's it.
It's a plague, I'm telling you, a plague. Two teachers have already succumbed to its mind-numbing lethargy, and I fear if I (I mean, we) don't get back to school soon, it can only get worse. Much worse.

Poetry Day Four

2010-03-26T09:36:00.002-04:00

Today we talked about being precise and concise. We read a selection of poems by William Carlos Williams, such as this one and this one and this one.

Here is the poem I wrote:

To Jonah on his 12th birthday

you sit
perched on the edge
of a chair and
armpit hair
I scan your upper lip
before you hug me
hoping not to see
any hopeful hairs
glinting of early stubble

your spine knobs crack and creak
beneath my anxious fingers
you melt into my arms and I
breathe you in
your love is younger
than you are
and infinitely stronger

my eyes sting
as I watch you rushing
through these days
these last days
of your youth
and I fold you up
try to fit the bones
and eager sinews of you
back
where you belong
a small helpless thing
just there
tucked up under
my heart

Poetry Day Three

2010-03-25T08:53:00.003-04:00

Today, we talked about using vivid language, and we read this poem by TS Eliot (one of my favorite poets: have you read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"? Do it.) and this poem by Sharon Olds and this poem by Emily Dickinson.
Then we all wrote poems using vivid language. Here is mine:

on the edge of sight I see
a flag of red
like flame or a tongue
Startled I turn
and see double

they have returned
carved a path through
limpid air cracking
their way north to an earth
still shivering
still dead

they bring something with
them, grasped wriggling in their
beaks
it looks like hope

they pause at my window
deign to glance in at me
blink their yellow eyes
and lift their sharp beaks
to the sky to launch
their primeval cry sky-
ward

they pass on
beating occasional wings
the sticks of their twig/legs
bending farewell
the wrong way

i settle back against my chair
breathless
waiting (hopeful) for their return

Poetry Day Two

2010-03-24T08:48:00.004-04:00

Today in Creative Writing, we talked about using imagery (a description that appeals to the reader's senses, right? you knew that). We read this poem by Margaret Atwood and this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks and this poem by Lucille Clifton and this poem by Gail Mazur.

(These are bluebonnets...)

The students had to write a poem using imagery, and here is mine:

once more i made the wrong choice
as i slipped down a twilit hall
past any attempted good night hugs
shrugging off sticky kisses
in pursuit of my own dark comfort.

i curled under the blankets one
small light overhead shedding a dim
glare on the pages. i yawned and stretched
and tried to ignore the guilt curled up
cold against my back poking me with
sharp fingers and knobby knees.

maybe if i turn over
maybe if i turn off the light
maybe if i close my eyes

guilt remains and when you open the
door your face spangled with sawdust
your eyes rough with the work
you still must do before you sleep

you don't have to say anything
you dross hard arms against your chest
pushing disapproval deep inside
and you leave, trailing a wake
of golden dust.

i turn out the light and close
my eyes to guilt (grinning)
a death's head
curled up now right beside
Me.

A Week of Poetry

2010-03-23T08:48:00.005-04:00

In my Creative Writing class, we're working on poetry for a week. Each day, I add one more building block, one more technique. Yesterday was their first day, and we talked about what poetry is (my favorite definitions: poetry is memorable speech/poetry helps the reader see something in a new way).
We read a few poems about poetry, such as this poem by Ishmael Reed and this poem by Archibald MacLeish.
Then, the students had to write their own poems about poetry. Here is mine:

an apple freshly picked
smelling of sun and rain and
168 days of life
hums with potential. it could be
anything.

this infant grasps my finger
and smiles a wide milky
smile. her skin smells of
powder and love and something like
rain. she could
be anything.

i lie in my bed, my heart racing/my
ears aching with the still-ringing
jangle of my alarm clock.
the night sky beings to peel itself
away and the new days begins. it
could be anything.

this poem began with an image
an apple freshly picked. adding
a worm lurking inside was considered/discarded.
this poem became what it is.
it may change again: probably will.
it could be anything.

This is MY style

2010-03-21T11:50:00.003-04:00

I love so many beautiful things, but when it comes to picking a style of furniture and architecture, this is what I'm drawn to. The arts and crafts style is perfect because it celebrates the beauty of clean lines, and yet it has a strong substance. Also, it relies on the grace of natural materials to make the design sing. And of course, many of the style books and websites I've looked at have lots and lots of bookcases. Always an indicator of the value those arts and crafts people place on what is really important.
So, as Clint is designing a mantel for the woodburner in our living room, I have been scouring my sources for great arts and crafts mantels. This one is my favorite:

(photo courtesy of craftsmanhome.com)

A bit of a daze

2010-03-11T14:49:00.002-05:00

I have had my eye on this fabric for about a year now, and I finally bought it. It has a satiny feel, and I know it would make something very beautiful--and not to mention, super fun.

But as I was laying it out to cut out the pattern for a sundress I just got, I had to sit back and think. I'm afraid my peacocks may be a bit too much on a dress. Maybe they need to be toned down a bit, maybe made into this pattern?

I KNOW the top would look cute with a denim skirt (and I certainly have plenty of those to choose from), but is a denim skirt dressy enough for Easter? Oh, the dilemma!

Inspiration from my latest read...

2010-02-17T20:58:00.002-05:00

I am just getting into this book (page 58), but I am so hooked I don't want to do anything but read. Fancy that. I know: I'm as surprised as you are. But really, it is unusually engaging. A mysterious request, a secretive author, an obscure bookstore, and a very thoughtful young woman. A woman whose proclivities are so much like mine it's scary. Read these excerpts:

(I never read without making sure I am in a secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in th books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage in my life, and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy. And yet I cann ot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child, books were everything.

"Life is compost."
I blinked
"You think that a strange thing to say, but it's true. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies, everything I have ever read, all of that has been chucked onto the compost heap, where over time it has rotted down to a dark, rich, organic mulch. The process of cellular breakdown makes it unrecognizable. Other people call it the imagination. I think of it as a compost heap. Every so often I tak an idea, plaint it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so forth, until one fine day I have a story, or a novel."

So here's the link to amazon if you want it. The book is called The Thirteenth Tale and it's by Diane Setterfield.

Some very randomness

2010-02-11T21:22:00.003-05:00

Usually Friday nights are my bleary evenings, the pent up energy of a workweek finally given permission to release itself in a cloudy burst of something that seems like satisfaction. But for whatever reason (maybe because of that blessed/blasted snow day yesterday), tonight feels like a Friday night. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the wine.
I am sitting here before my computer wishing I had something to talk about so that I could sound witty and slightly funny, but all I'm able to muster is a slightly (no, it's a worrisomely) deflated weariness.
But this has been a week of learning for me, and a week of great strides. Here is my week in review, in reverse order:
1. Last Friday, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and stopped complaining about [that thing] at work that has really bothering me. And I talked to [that person] about it in a rather calm and articulate (okay, mostly nervous and shaky) but very passionate way. I haven't heard yet whether my plea had any effect, but it was made and that is something. I have since only complained about [that thing] hmm, well, maybe I'm not done complaining, but I still feel pretty empowered.
2. Lolly, a blogger I stalk (I mean read regularly) gave me great inspiration for card making, and I made somethings that were very beautiful. If you haven't read her blog, stop reading mine and go to hers. It's much more funny. And she puts a lot more pictures on hers. And I must say, posting MORE pictures than I post on my blog is not a difficult feat. You only need two and you win.
3. I discovered bing.com and Barlow Girl. Well, that's a bit of a lie. I KNEW both existed, but I hadn't fallen in love with either. Now I am. In love. Especially with Barlow Girl. This is the song I love: Never Alone. Go to playlist or something and listen to it. If you don't love Jesus, you can pretend they're talking about love. It works, kinda.
4. This is why I love bing. If you search for videos, and then you hover your mouse over one of the little image thingies, it starts to play the video. But it's tiny. That is very cool. I like tiny things. Like babies and small hearts cut out of paper.
5. I also like wine. And chocolate.
6. Another thing I did on bing: find wallpaper. I have always been one of those "I use cute pictures of my kids for my computer wallpaper" sorts of people. No longer. (Sorry, kids. Mommy loves you. She just loves bing more.) And I found a cool picture of people in Paris in the 1940s or something sitting at a cafe. You find it too! Go to bing and search under images for "Paris Cafe Wallpaper." Scroll past the pictures of Paris Hilton and other ladies in their undies and you'll find this lovely picture. It's the wallpaper on my laptop.
7. And today at school (on my prep hour, of course, whilst I was multi-taskingly also grading Creative Writing papers), I found this really neat wallpaper for my computer there. Okay, well, I wanted to show you, but bing is feeling stinkery, so I'm not going to deal with him anymore. Not now.
8. Began groundwork for another article for [that magazine] I've been writing for. (Okay, I've only done one other article so far, but still. It sounds very cool).
9. I heard about something very interesting at Jonah's Science Fair tonight: a liquor luge. I don't know what it is, but I'll find out tomorrow. And, by the way, did I mention Jonah got a First Place ribbon for his art project "Ninja Mask" with other Japanese instruments of death (origami construction) as well as a First Place Ribbon for his science project "Which Paper Airplane Will Fly Farthest?" He got a medal for that too. We have no idea what all those ribbons and the medal signify. But still, they seem pretty cool.
10. My favorite writer friend, the one who is most inspriational, genius, creative, ambitious, and bald, and I embarked on a top-secret CREATIVE PROJECT. Tonight. That's when it all began to unfold. While I was grading papers/drinking wine/listening to my new favorite group (that would be Barlow Girl, in case you forgot about that part already). And we've already got the first TWO PARTS DONE.

Addendum to #7: Just tried bing again. Maybe it's my computer's fault. Since I got her back from the shop, she's been tetchy. Poor girl. All her parts were exposed and analyzed and reformed. I wouldn't like me either. But we will need to do some lessoning. She can't keep moving words around on me and refusing to load my bing.

So that's what I've been up to, and now it's my bedtime. Happy dreamings.

What's for dinner?

2010-02-10T16:10:00.005-05:00

This is gross to think about, but in terms of diet, we humans have a lot in common with rats. Both of us our omnivores, meaning we can eat just about anything. And even though this offers us (both) great variety in terms of diet, it also brings a daily (or more often than that) dilemma: what should we eat?
Michael Pollan probes that question in his book The Omnivore's Dilemma, where he takes a close look at how humans make choices about food and explains (which was even more interesting to me) where our food comes from.

The book is divided into four basic sections, and each of them revolves around a meal. The first meal (McDonald's) is the product of industrial agriculture, and even more surprising--mostly corn. Corn, or its byproducts, are in the pop (high fructose corn syrup), in the burger and nuggets (filler, starch, frying oil, batter, and much more), in the ketchup, the salad dressing, even partly in the gas tank of his car. Now, corn is a veggie, so it's good for us, right? Well, yes, but I am thinking that THAT much corn may not be. And Pollan proposes (eloquently) that the more stops your food makes between the farm and your dinner plate, the less beneficial it is to your body.
We've all heard stories lately about the horrors of animal processing facilities, but Michael Pollan explains why they are wrong: not just hurtful to the animals but hurtful to us as well. See, cows are made to eat grass, right? That's why they have all those stomachs. But cows in feedlots eat mostly corn (along with antibiotics and liquefied chicken fat) and their bodies aren't really built for it. So they get gassy and need more medicine. And some of that is bound to end up in our meat. Doesn't this sound yummy? Don't get me started on industrial chickens, who are bred to have enormous breasts--and end up so front heavy their legs can't support their weight. Good thing they don't live very long.
Pollan's premise is that all this industrialized food is harmful to the environment as well as our bodies. Planting just one product on hundreds of acres--never any variety--leaches nutrients from the soil, and the pesticides add toxins to the earth. Also, transportation of those goods from the farms to the supermarkets uses up fossil fuels. And when we consume this processed food (fast food, convenience food, you know what I'm talking about), we consume complex, chemically engineered ingredients our bodies don't need--even, perhaps, can't process. Pollan says this is why our nation struggles as it does with obesity and ill health.
And he blames capitalism for all of it. But I'll get to that later.
Next, Pollan investigates organic, and it is a two-pronged investigation. First, he looks at the organic products we could get at a store like Whole Foods. He finds that the nature of the store (national chain) doesn't truly lend itself to the ideals of organic food. Because it is a chain and because it seeks to turn a large profit, it must transport its products across great distances and buy from large producers. Suddenly, organic seems a lot like industrial agriculture.
Pollan waxes most poetic when he writes about a farm in Virginia. The farmer, Joel Salatin, calls himself a grass farmer because grass feeds his enterprise. Most of his animal enclosures are movable, and Joel moves his cows and chickens daily in a complicated rotational pattern to allow them to take full advantage of the grass, the insects, and the fertility of manure. Michael stays on the farm for two weeks, helping move animals, slaughter chickens, and turn compost. He is impressed at Joel's genius for his craft and his deep appreciation for nature. Joel sells his products locally to households and restaurants, refusing to ship anything--for that would compromise his firm belief in the value of freshness.
Pollan's last meal is the product of his garden as well as hunting and foraging expeditions. He says he has gardened since he was a child, but he has to learn how to hunt and forage. He kills a wild pig and learns to hunt mushrooms. This meal, which he shares with those who have taught him to hunt and harvest, is (he says) perfect. But it takes months, really, to prepare. And how much of us have the time, the inclination, or even the opportunity to hunt and gather all we need to survive?
But Pollan says that the intelligent choice is to eschew supermarkets entirely and fight the capitalist system that is sending American into a spiral of obesity and ill health. How realistic is that? We don't all have a Joel Salatin in our neighborhoods, and even if we did, we couldn't all afford him. So what should the intelligent eater do? Languish in dietary misery as I follow one fad after the next? Spend half my income on locally grown produce and cage-free/hormone-free/antibibotic-free/you-name-it-free meats? I don't think it's possible.
But even if Pollan's ideas aren't entirely practical for me or most Americans, in the end, I am glad I read this book. If nothing else, Pollan made me consider the ingredients in my food and renew my desire to eat more local produce (meaning: totally pilfer from my dad's fabulous garden) and to preserve what we don't eat in its season. He's right: locally grown seasonal fruits and veggies ARE much tastier than those you can buy at the supermarket--especially if you buy them out of season. I'm not ever going to be a vegetarian, but I am going to look for alternate sources of meat--and protein.
And there were two more things that made me like the book, one at the beginning and one at the end. In the beginning, Salatin knocks fad diets like the Atkin's diet, which prohibits the consumption of carbs. He says mankind has been eating bread for millenia, so why should we suddenly stop now--and ruin a perfectly good meal? Great point; wholehearted agreement. Then at the end of the book, he compares Joel Salatin (the hero) to Luther (because both men want(ed) to change the system, not destroy it). Endorsements for good bread and Luther: you can't get any better than that.

Techno-spasia

2010-01-20T19:23:00.002-05:00

If you were a man named Tom (as in: the one who has a penchant for peeping) and you were clinging to the limb of our pear tree so as to better see into our house, you'd see a living definition of techno-spasia. It happens almost every night at our house. I wonder if it happens at yours. Here's how it goes:

After coming home from work, kids do homework, Jared pulls out the evening's toys, mom puts off her workout and instead starts dinner/grades papers/does a couple loads of laundry, and dad stokes the woodburners/chops wood/plays with Jared. After dinner and dishes are done, mom and kids retire to the family room to find dad already plugged in. Plugged into what? you may ask. Good question. The answer is headphones and youtube. Usually, an episode of something along the lines of Survivorman or Man vs. Wild. That seems to be the general signal for everyone else to follow suit. Lauren pops open her netbook and does some virtual window shopping. Jared gets sucked into either the TV or a video (current favorites: Dinotopia, Up, and Kung-Fu Panda). Mom often reads, but sometimes she finds facebook a magnet she can't deny. Jonah flutters between Jared's show and other pursuits, ostensibly waiting for me to finish with the computer so he can look up tips for lizard care and play computer games.

My question is: how many other families spend their evenings separately together? At least we're all in the same room; that should count for something. But we're following different pursuits. Some of us have plugged our ears with sound and we can't even participate in a conversation that may occur. But what else do we do? Despite Lauren's desperate wishes, we're not a board game family. We watch movies together often enough (maybe once a week). Is talking a requirement for family time, or do we get enough bonding at the dinner table--and during prep time and clean up?

I'm not really complaining, just wondering, is all...

A confession

2010-01-19T10:11:00.003-05:00

Have you ever noticed that sharing guilty pleasures is okay in some circles and taboo in others? I guess it depends on the guilty pleasure. Good bread: most would agree. Chocolate: nothing to feel guilty about there. Wearing the happy pants as often as possible: certainly acceptable. But I have one guilty pleasure I have never shared with my fellow English teachers or with other writers. Why? They would laugh themselves silly at me. And I don't much like to be laughed at.
But it's a New Year, and I'm feeling brave. And I just got done re-reading one of my favorite series. So here goes: I LOVE reading fantasy. Good fantasy. And finally, I am not ashamed to admit it. Here are books that qualify as good fantasy, in my opinion (in no particular order):
1. The whole Deathgate Cycle by Weis and Hickman
2. Anything by Ursula leGuin, especially the Wizard of Earthsea series
3. Ditto for Jane Yolen
4. The Exiles series by Melanie Rawn (which I would like even better if she'd finish book three and publish it! I want answers, woman!)

5. Illusion by Paula Volsky
6. Madeleine l'Engle. Period.
7. The Dark is Rising series by Susan Cooper
8. Harry Potter. Seriously.
9. Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan

10. ANYTHING by Patricia McKillip (especially, though, Ombria in Shadow)
11. The Bartimaeus Trilogy by Jonathan Stroud

This is why I like fantasy. In any other fiction, the author can take for granted the fact that the reader has heard of the setting, has some general knowledge of place. The rules for that setting have been created; hence, the author needs only create plot and characters. (I say only as if this is an easy task; I know it's not EASY, but bear with me.) In fantasy, the author must not only create the plot and characters, she must also create the world. She must consider geography, social customs, food, names, history, racial tension, the rules of magic and so much else besides. Clothing, money, food, foreign languages, modes of transportation. It's amazing. And whilst juggling all these creative ideas, the writer of good fantasy (like those listed above) also are masters at plot and character development.
I don't know why my fellow teachers and writers turn up their noses at fantasy. Some say it's not "real" literature, that it is too new as a genre, that the plots are too predictable. Whatever. Hogwash.
And here's something better: I AM going to start writing again, and this time, it's going to be fantasy. So there. I have been percolating an idea (percolating: I want more coffee) for a few months now, and I think it's past time to dust off my new notebook and get back to writing.
Keep me honest, dear readers. Check in on me. And thanks for listening.