New England's New Year

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

~ Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

Despite the briskly falling snow in New Hampshire, the new year brought temperate weather

uncharacteristic of most January firsts. In Sugar Hill, there was not enough fluffly ground cover for the tread of our cross country skis and, certainly not, for our snow shoes. Our cargo carrier remained unopen the entire weekend—all the winter sports apparatus untouched. 

Rain fell on Saturday concocting a mud-slush, so we drove into Littleton, had lunch and poked around in Main Street's shops. It was there, in just L, an intriguing little shop that sells vintage-mod furnishings and accessories, that I found a collection of pastel linen-covered children's novels, like Little Women, The Heart of Dog,  Kim and The Water Babies, that charmed me for some time. I wanted to pull them from the antique bookshelf, but they were all so delicately pretty that all of them, all of them, spoke to me so, reminded me of the children's book I'd always wanted to write, and I fell into a gentle trance that precluded the stroke of my fingers upon their spines.

* * *

On our route from Rhode Island to New Hampshire, a portion of the highway we travel cuts just below Lowell, MA—an old mill city where Jack Kerouac was born. Each time we drive below Lowell, I think of Kerouac. I wonder what he may have written had he lived more than his too short forty-seven years. I think about his travels, his search for the Absolute Being, for God. And as I write this passage, I think how I may never, ever, remove from my writing literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition,* and how I often feel that what I'm writing may never, ever, be as original or unique as anything Kerouac put out for the world, and wonder why I can't stop fretting over perfection of sentence and paragraph, all too aware that it threatens every work on which I embark.

Except for one piece: the children's book I'd always wanted to write, which I wrote (the project I mentioned here), finally, and which my son illustrated in one crazed month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Hence, my long absence.) I didn't, per se, have a specific story I wanted to write, but I had a long standing vision that I would, at some point in my life, get to a children's story. Christmas, and my young nephew, gave me the impetus—and those of you who read me know I work better (or shall I say, work with more discipline?) with looming deadlines.

So...

Here is a photo sampling—not necessarily in order by page— of Klute and the River Flute:

And I think the words are fairly simple! (To get there, though, my son had to drop a few hints about some of my word choices.)  Though the process of writing this book, the research, the illustration work, the water colors over Max's illustrations by myself and my dear friend Linda—whose water color over Max's pencil sketches is shown above on the cover and on the second and third photo (you can see the difference in her skill level versus mine)—consumed a multitude of hours, and was much more work than I had anticipated. There were a few mistakes, setbacks and frustrations, like technical glitches converting the project to a printed book, and not using the proper paper for water color. Learning how to water color, alone, was quite an undertaking, and I owe Linda more than just a few paint brushes for her kind tutelage and expertise. I was not only surprised by the sheer amount of work that was required, but also, by how much I enjoyed the process. I have to admit, too, that I was surprised that the book was finished in time (by the skin of my teeth) for Max and me to give it to my nephew as a Christmas present.

Who knows, I may just attempt it again. But perhaps I'll give myself more than a month's time.

Anyway, that Kerouac quote above, that's my resolution for 2012. I'd like to make it stick.

Happy New Year!

* Jack Kerouc, “Belief & Technique For Modern Prose: List of Essentials” from a 1958 letter to Don Allen, published in Heaven & Other Poems, copyright © 1958, 1977, 1983. Grey Fox Press.

________________________________

The accompanying Klute doll, made from an old sweater and felt scraps. A (very) limited edition. ;)

Christmas, Cards and Cookies (Just in Case)

Fa la la la la, la la la la...  ♪♫

(I know, I know, a month long absence but I hadn't planned it! I've been involved in a writing project, a collaborative effort, of which I may share a bit here at SS at a later date. Now, on to other current happenings...)

And just how was I supposed to get a respectable Christmas card from this photo session? It's nearly impossible with my two. That's because my two are what you might call, well, "non-directable." Which is why I only got to mailing semi-decent photo cards on Thursday night. 

Here is the thing about having card-age children: their shiny facsimile simply must appear on the annual Christmas cards. This is one of the unwritten rules of parenting. And as you know, I am not a professional photographer. It wouldn't make any difference if I were, either. The one and only time I brought my children to see a professional photographer (who took--it seemed--hundreds of pictures) for a photo shoot, I secured from him only two semi-decent photos. Of course, it didn't help that we were in a big, beautiful park on a bright and warm day, and the children were simply beguiled by the parks stunning landscape. They clawed and climbed every tree, chased every duck, jumped in the pond, and mauled the poor photographer for his camera.

Anyhow... those now teenaged children let me in on a little secret this year. It went something like this:

Oh, Ma, the girl said, You don't have to play that game anymore. Max and I know there's no Santa. And we've known for a while, really.

(I'd asked her only for a list. The usual Christmas list for Santa.)

Ok, well, you may not believe, I replied, but you should probably write something up for Santa anyway. You know, just in case.

(She may be over Santa, but I intended to perpetuate the charade.)

So the girl gave me not only a multi-paged list written on lined paper torn from a small notebook, but she also stuck raised bunny stickers to mark--like asterisks--the special items, and stapled applicable coupons at the top of her list (which, by the way, is no longer addressed: Dear Santa).

Every year Lulu's list looks the same. Boots, clothing and stocking stuffers like lip balm, nail polish, eye mask, body lotion, socks, duct tape and anything else that happens to cross her mind at the moment the list is suggested. Pages and pages. This year, she added a laptop to the manifest and then crossed it off when she realized that she had virtually no chance of getting one. (She tinkers on my old clunker--as if that's not good enough!)

Meanwhile, her brother can barely produce a single page. Oh, whatever Santa wants to bring is fine, he says. Listen kid, I want to tell him, I need something! I can't go hunting without a list, I need to follow a scent, something to scratch and stalk! I suppose I could have said that to him this year--and probably the past several years--but then the poor kid wouldn't have been able to carry on the charade, himself. And he certainly doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

Last night, as we put finishing touches on some of the festive  decorations, Lu announced that she'd still like to leave milk and cookies on a tray for Santa. Is that so, I said.

Well, Mom, she smiled, even though I know that Santa doesn't really exist, I'd like to leave the milk and cookies for him. And, you know, pretend. Just in case.

Just in case. I think no matter how old we get, we all want to preserve the magic of Christmas. Tonight, we'll put the milk and cookies out. And then the magic will begin...

Merry, merry, merry!

Thank Hues

Newell Convers Wyeth

I see trees of green, red roses too

I see 'em bloom, for me and for you

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world

I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces, of people going by
I see friends shaking hands, sayin', "How do you do?"
They're really sayin', "I love you"

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow
They'll learn much more, than I'll ever know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Oh yeah



Of course, all is not entirely well with the world. But these are the graces of today, this one designated day of the year in which we pause to consider and give thanks for our blessings, like (this morning's) pale blue skies, warm harvest moons, sweet potato pie, persimmon smiles, turkey-feathered giggles. And for family and for friends and for you.

To all of You: Thank you for being here—for reading, for contributing, for taking the time. For that I am forever grateful, I am.

Wishing you all a very happy Thanksgiving.

[I'll be traveling this holiday. And more, I've taken on a short-term project that will demand a good chunk of my time, at least, through Christmas. You may notice fewer postings—including the usual Friday Night Frolic—during the next month, but I will, sporadically, be posting and saying hello to you, as time permits. Be well.]

Hallo It Be Thy Ween

Goodbye October. Goodbye. The nor'easter took you out in fiery-lion fashion, and ushered in a little lamb of November. Oh, she's sweet and lemony today except for the shaded corner of the deck where, on the edge of the rooftop, the storm's evaporating snowy surplus hits the wood planks in a fury. We were powerless at the end—had, even, to temporarily move to Mother's place when temperatures dropped suddenly during the weekend's electrical outage. Monday morning I returned home to a chugging furnace and well lit kitchen. We were lucky, others still remain powerless.

Mother's is always a treat. She has Enrico Caruso 33 1/3 rpm vinyls stored in their original accordion case. But the children... well the children had to plug laptops and printers into real live sizzling outlets and crank out end-of-quarter schoolwork. Kids don't write longhand any longer, you know. Teachers prefer the typed word, which is an impossible endeavor in a candlelit house.  So we clanked the night away at Mother's. 

(I'll be back to Mother's for Caruso.)

I imagined that the kids would be too old for trick-or-treating this year, but there's the candy. There's the neighborhood where Tedy Bruschi lives (with real candy bars!), there's peer pressure and teen-All-Hallows-Eve worshippers who are in no way ready or willing to give up the quest. There's being on the streets, in the dark, void of parental oversight. 

Doors will be slammed in your faces! I said.

Ha, Mom, they love us!, the monsters replied.

Who loves you? I don't want to see six-foot tall teens at my door. Don't come to my door!

Besides, they hadn't costumes—I refused to buy them, refused to give in to the high commercialism of holidays and hallow days. Refused to believe that my little Lulu was too old for handmade costumes!

(And this is no way to depreciate the value of my two-year-old sewing machine.)

Mama, observed Lu, this isn't about store-bought costumes or me growing up. It's about you wanting to make another oversized ugly doll or an ice cream cone, isn't it?

The Ice Cream Cone 2010

The Ugly Doll 2009

Actually, my favorite was the floppy-eared hound dog with her litter. Come on, it's tradition, Lu.

All right, well maybe it is more about me and the machine and wizardry. But look, I do have to make my Singer Confidence pay for itself.

Last night, the monsters managed to piece together suitable outfits for the spooky occasion. Both came home with giant sacks of goodies. No one slammed doors in faces.

After school today, Lu announced that she'd reached her maximum fill of chocolate for the day (she'd snuck handfuls into her backpack), so I promised that I'd remind her of the same throughout the evening, that perhaps we should take the bonbon trough out of her room. Don't worry, Mom, she responded. It's NOT a temptation! It's under my bed and it's not like I'm going to get up in the middle of the night to eat a candy bar.

... Not a temptation.

... Not eating candy bars in the middle of the night.

Of course not. Mama shouldn't worry in the least.

I'm packing up the glow pumpkins, Draculas and rubber bats. Halloween has closed for another year, but its remnant confections shall remind us of the night for some time to come. At least they'd better.

Maybe it's time to start sewing up something for Christmas. (Poor, poor forgotten Thanksgiving.)

Lu & Max -- Halloween 2008

Tinsel and Tin

Oh, is it Wednesday already? Cripes, Wednesday is actually almost a thing of the past. Not only is it late Wednesday, but it's boxing time, too. By this I don't mean shopping, or the thing those lugheads do in the ring. It's boxing time, as in time to box the tinsel. Remember tinsel? (Is that stuff still legal?) Remember when we used to fling those weightless, metallic fettuccine-length strands all over the Christmas tree? Limp, glimmering icicles drooped in big clumps at various levels around the balsam fir. Then handmade ornaments, painted wood Santas, and origami geese were tucked in every crevice. The big-bulbed tree lights, multicolored and backed by tin reflectors, were turned on with much pomp and circum-stance, Christmas music blaring from the Hi-Fi.

There is no tinsel or tin to take from my tree. None to box. But every once in a while, Mother will haul certain vintage items out of attic storage. I want to tell her how amazing she is for keeping all this stuff, but I don't want to encourage her. Stuff. She keeps it all. Everything. I want to say, Look Mom, you know the only place you can find this Stuff now is in your attic or on Etsy? Sometimes, she'll bring something by the house, asking if I want to keep it (like my elementary school report cards, worn high school jackets, and coupon books—good for one dish washing, redeem for best behavior—that I made for her when I was eight). And of course, I must. So now my basement is starting to look like her attic. And here I am trying to purge, declutter.

But I don't mind.

I love this Stuff. I think I'll get me a warm cup of tea and go boxing now.

Christmas Karma

[Source]

If daily life mimics my silent thoughts—my swirling, nonsensical, crazed inner dialog—and the subconscious imprints of my deeper self, then there must be some rather inauspicious energy floating about the landscape on which I  roam. Or shall I say, race? 

A glacial tempest lashes across the icy expanse, chafing my body and soul. And then, things seem to drop from the sky. Like snow. And trees. 

And Santa Claus.

Internet source unknown

Yes, Santa: the primum mobile of my inane, rubber-soled run across the permafrost—the weight of the world alongside me—my sweep down the crystalline slippery slope, the inescapable impinging icebergs. Panic swells as I dodge the descending, crimson-suited Kringle, with his threatening Santa claws, and the icy peaks jutting from below. My winter wonderland, replete with holiday hurdles, yuletide yack, mistletoe misgivings, tinseled terror, Noël nightmares. 

[Source]

And why this?... when the Christmas landscape should look like this:

Sparkling evenings, merry chatter and cheer; early morning's snowfall slicing the air. 

Why? Perhaps it has something to do with this familiar tag: Procrastination.

Or the indisputable fact that it all just creeps up too quickly? Though I've had, at least, since Halloween.





If anyone should ask, all I want for Christmas is this:

Internet source unknown

Walk Right In It's Around the Back

This year, Turkey Day is with my side of the family. At the Barn. With a fryer. And Uncle Ricky. Oh, no. But we'll be with my side of the family! Not that I don't love my husband's side of the family, but it's been eons since we've been with my side for Turkey Day.

So, much thanks to my husband for this gift. And you know I love your side. I do. All your sides. All of them.

Miss you guys!

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

And you. Yes, you, peeking in right now when you should be basting the bird.



(Obviously, Arlo didn't know about Black Friday. Had he, he would have been out by 5:00am like everybody else in the world, thereby missing officer Obie's phone call. Black Friday—how to save yourself a lot of trouble.)

The Lonely Turkey

The holiday season has begun in earnest. It was just the day after Halloween when retailers swapped rubber bats and candy corn for Santa figurines and candy canes. Window displays shed orange and black hues for for the sparkling reds and greens of Christmas without so much as a wink to Thanksgiving.

Or did our retailers even wait until Halloween? Heck, I think I may have seen some Christmas paraphernalia in September (or maybe this was last year's leftovers?). Actually, in some cases, Halloween and Christmas have been known to co-mingle.

Eeewww. Pumpkin and pine do not
 a pretty dalliance make.

The poor Turkey. Crowded out by an ever expanding Christmas season. Flattened by surging Yuletide.

And even if you were shut-in like a hermit—had never ventured beyond your driveway—you would know this by the daily onslaught of catalogs. Before Halloween had come and gone, the catalogs were charging, bulging from our mailboxes.

This is nothing - just a small sampling of the onslaught.

Catalogs. I have never even ordered from any of these (ahem). Well, except for Garnet Hill (where my sister is Managing Editor—so I'd better order—course it helps that I love GH, too. Check it out!).

Not to mention mid-autumn jingle bell music and movies...

These days, the only nod to Turkey Day:  Black Friday.

It wasn't like this when I was growing up. Wouldn't dream of thinking about Christmas until after the much loved and anticipated Thanksgiving. This, I remember. Back then, we had respect for a Turkey.

I Feel Bad About Everything I Ever Said About Donuts…

… or if I made anyone who ever ingested—or thought about ingesting—a donut feel guilty. Give no attention to any of my remarks regarding National Donut Day (more on that below) for I discovered that there’s a genuine history behind this special day that occurs on the first Friday of June each year: it was born out of the Donut Day event that was created by the Salvation Army in 1938 to honor those women who served donuts to soldiers during World War I. So there it is—a patriotic remembrance of our nation’s First World War. Thank you Dunkin’ Donuts, and Krispy Kremes of the nation for keeping this tradition alive. And to think, all these years past, I could have devoured French crullers and chocolate éclairs guilt free. I’ll be sure to take advantage of it next year; I’ve already plugged the date into my Outlook calendar.

 But truthfully, the real reason for my remorse is this morning's Lemon Meringue Pie binge. I can explain: I dreamt about the pie last night—a lemon-aroma-infused twilight illusion. I'm pretty certain I even talked about it. And then I woke, and remembered that a pie, the pie, the lemon meringue pie, was in the fridge. It had been there for a few days, covered by a bag of arugula, had been my daughter’s birthday pie, in fact. But she fancied the oversized Oreo Cookie cupcake, and the pie went neglected but for the sliver I consumed that rainy Thursday evening as we celebrated the little one's big 11.

When I opened the fridge (the first thing I always do when I walk into my kitchen) this morning, there it sat, the pungent pie, fate gawking at me, staring me down like a pelican does a fish. I had no choice but to quickly, quietly grab a fork and plunge-dive through the curd and meringue before it could get the best of me. And—fuhyew—as you can see by its remains, it did not. I wish I could credit self-control with preventing me from wiping out the entire lemon meringue species, but I have none, and therefore cannot; however, and thankfully, my throat pouch isn’t nearly as big as a pelicans.

 Mind you, this was not a guilt-free all-on attack. Penance is a salad-only dinner (and maybe a few prunes). And I’d love to announce to the world that it won’t ever happen again, but guess what guys?...

August 15th is NATIONAL LEMON MERINGUE PIE DAY!!!
(No kidding, it's one of many American Food Holidays.)
 

Can you believe this?! Oh yes, it’s on my calendar… one more guilty (or maybe not so guilty) pleasured, lard-laced holiday reserved. I wonder if Dunkin’ Donuts has a lemon meringue pie donut??