2011 finds me back where I was born and lived until early adulthood. It is an interesting thing to return home. Of course, no one ever truly returns home. What is familiar is changed somehow. I, too, am different, and the scenes of my childhood have blurred into this present reality. Sometimes, I find myself driving down a road that takes me to a place I recognize but don't remember. Or, to a place I remember but don't recognize. A new jag in the route. A lost canopy of oaks that stood on either side. Full sun replaces the filtered shadows from the ancient overarching limbs and leaf that I remember. I think back to when I squinted through that stretch of road, in and out of light and shade. Now sun blazes across an open empty field, unrelenting and bright in its intensity. There is a new house on the distant hillside, already well established with large pines and draping yews. It became comfortable there without me.
My memory page is filled with more than landscape. There are the people, too. Some have moved on. Just as I did. But, some have stayed. With those who remained here, we have re-introduced ourselves, picked up where we left each other long ago. Could it really be years, not minutes since last we spoke? Grown older, they have altered their roles, matured in who they are. The children are mothers now. The mothers are grandmothers. The teachers, no longer naive and new to their craft, are masters of the classroom. Revered. We all have changed. I am not the girl who moved away.
As I think about the starts and stops and turns in the path that led me back here, I am reminded of Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken - so well read and quoted, it has become cliché, almost. The symbol of Frost's "two roads diverged in a wood" remains relevant, however. We make choices throughout our lives that shape our existence. Those choices often appear equally attractive but in the end result in a large difference of experience. As opposed to those roads "not taken" I reflect more often on those that I did take. The former suggests regret. I do not regret my choices, some that led to pain or difficulty, yes, but all that gave me friendships, connections, and the nuance of who I am. I like where I have traveled. It has made all the difference.
Now in my new "old" setting, I turn to the pen again. The limbo of the past couple years fades and a renewed spirit of adventure and memory-making is before me. I am home.
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Journey Home
Monday, January 4, 2010
New Year 2010
A long time in coming. It is a difficult thing to write when life challenges us in the day-to-day. I haven't entered a word into my blog since the spring of 2008. Appropriate. The time since then is a blur. The loss of Ollie, our Springer spaniel in June 08 and then the decline of my mother leading to her death in March 09 have pretty much consumed me. What was left of my physical self has been busy maintaining home and hearth. Only dabbling in writing. With the advent of a new year, it is time to move on and make a positive turn toward creativity again. It is time to feed the soul.
The book? In limbo, as has been my life, but that will change. Good interest from an editor in Berkeley. Will follow up with her today. I've joined a critique group and look forward to the monthly meetings. Good group of women with the common goal of writing children's literature. In addition to the Elliott story, I've branched out with other projects. Touch upon each a little here, a little there. Some, I've shared with my colleagues.
To work! Happy New Year!
The book? In limbo, as has been my life, but that will change. Good interest from an editor in Berkeley. Will follow up with her today. I've joined a critique group and look forward to the monthly meetings. Good group of women with the common goal of writing children's literature. In addition to the Elliott story, I've branched out with other projects. Touch upon each a little here, a little there. Some, I've shared with my colleagues.
To work! Happy New Year!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Memorial Day
We spent a crystalline holiday in and out of Richmond this year. Each day was filled with sunshine, blue skies with puffy white clouds ( a Paris sky ), and sweet breezes. In our city garden were fragrant ligustrum in bloom, emitting a kind of grape perfume. We sat by the fire on crisp evenings drinking it all in. Bernie remained on guard, observing the squirrel families eat bird seed and the flitting feathers of the intended eaters diving above them. We took out "the red car" and went for a few rides in the countryside.
But best was our trek to the farm. During one of those idyllic days we gathered up food stuffs, Gramma, and Bernie, and we joined our friends at Windrows Farm to sit above the pond and gaze out at the beauty that surrounded us. We gazed. Bernie leaped and rolled and swam. She was so happy to be in her favorite place... endless Frisbee tosses, fetching, exploring, gnawing on bones, and smiling. Bernie smiles.
Befitting Memorial Day we visited Ollie and placed a beautiful white field stone at her grave. She joins three dogs, our cat Smokey, a rooster, a bunny, a goat, and two horses. All look out for eternity on the pond, mountains in the distance that are visible in winter, and a field of wild flowers. It is peaceful there. Amen.
But best was our trek to the farm. During one of those idyllic days we gathered up food stuffs, Gramma, and Bernie, and we joined our friends at Windrows Farm to sit above the pond and gaze out at the beauty that surrounded us. We gazed. Bernie leaped and rolled and swam. She was so happy to be in her favorite place... endless Frisbee tosses, fetching, exploring, gnawing on bones, and smiling. Bernie smiles.
Befitting Memorial Day we visited Ollie and placed a beautiful white field stone at her grave. She joins three dogs, our cat Smokey, a rooster, a bunny, a goat, and two horses. All look out for eternity on the pond, mountains in the distance that are visible in winter, and a field of wild flowers. It is peaceful there. Amen.
Monday, May 12, 2008
May's Promise
At last I am returning to the blog with hopes of regaining my first of the year momentum and focus. Writing as a process has been haphazard for the past couple of months with personal tugs and everyday kinds of distractions that have kept me from a regular schedule. Knowing myself, I am resolved to tow the line and give predictability back to my output. Monday morning blog time will be part of that regimen!
Indeed, if haphazard, there has been output. Some of it, like the entry that follows, hard to write because it is emotional. Our Ollie's illness and slow decline have been hard to watch; then, there are days that I try to put our sadness into perspective, look into her wise yet innocent eyes, and realize that we should just be grateful for her sweet presence as long as we have it. That positive outlook is not easy to maintain, but I will try. We have many wonderful memories to hold and a little bit of time yet to make more...
Ollie's Last Swim took place a month ago during a visit to her favorite place, Windrow's Farm...
Venturing into the wood on this early spring day made hot by full sun and few leaves for canopy, the people and dogs follow a meandering pathway through undulating terrain, over criss-crossed fallen hardwoods and pine, twisted roots, and gnarly scrub brush. Hints of summer’s lushness peak through the brown floor beneath their feet and paws. Green tufts of fern and purple violet dot the landscape, and along the path on either side is new-leafed holly. Dogwoods, budded in white bloom, portend exploding splendor. The silence of greening is interrupted briefly by the interlopers.
Ollie trips from the trail in spurts and starts. She splashes through the stream and chases the elusive buried beetle, the just hatched bee. Emerging from the muddy bank, she trots through a wide swath of the peopled- path, from side-to-side and forward-and-back, joined by her sister, who returns to the trail from a whirlwind foray into the wood. Running circles around their more seasoned rural friends who have learned to pace their woods’ walks in a reasonable way, the city girls lap up every moment of this day. In frenzy, they seek each smell, see all movement, and hear the call to every adventure. The farm dogs take a measured gait in the confidence of knowing that tomorrow they will return, and what is lost today can be found at a later time. Their visitors, soon to return to their urban walks tempered by leads, rely on now to find it all.
In single file, the sisters trudge the trail, Ollie leading. Smiles beaming, their eyes scan right and left to find the squirrel, the twittering leaf, the possible interesting pebble. They spy in unison the creek, its serpentine path camouflaged within the undergrowth and fallen branches, its embankment rimmed in fern among the dead oak leaves, belying early seasonal frosts and radiational cooling that has swept into the wood with twilight this past week. As one, they charge the bream, creating white-water in their wake.
Sweet earthen odors mingle with detritus to create a kind of dog perfume. A springtime fragrance. Ollie’s sister wiggles forward and continues on along the path with abandon, leaving Ollie to pause and gaze, to catch the song, the chirp, the skitter, and most, the wind. She glimpses into the ancient past of tree and root and of other dogs on other trails, different and yet the same. Her reflection gives her little meaning except for the feeling of what is good in life. She knows the joy of mud between the toes, the smell of tadpoles, and the croaking of peepers in springtime. She senses the coming of warmer days and fuller blooms. For now, though, it is good to breathe in the scents of earth and stream.
Not far ahead, her sister barks in delight at the mouth of the pond, where the creek flows into a shaded cove. She calls to Ollie to join her in exploration of the scum mired in the shallows there and where she wades and makes brown stockings of her once white feathers. Ollie hesitates then springs out of the wood, rushes onto the path, and speeds past the people, who have stopped to see the first curled fronds of the fiddle fern.
Sisters meet, nose to nose and bodies taut; then, turning, they gaze across the expanse of water. Its tranquil ripples glisten blue-green-black in the sunshine. At the far end of the pond they spy the earthen dam and hurry to the causeway where they follow the perimeter of the pond, farm dogs ahead of them now and the people bringing up the rear. Soon, the sisters take the lead and dash to the staging area of the dock. Ollie whimpers and shakes at the sight of sticks being gathered and looks to the water then back at the people, whose arms are full to brimming. She rushes to the pond’s edge. Easing into the water, first knee-deep then submerged with head erect, Ollie makes long even strokes that propel her forward. Her curly brown ears float outward on either side of her freckled face. She is clothed in otter-fur, brown and dark and sleek. Shining in her wet coat, she glides with ease through the wake of other swimmers, eyes intent to see the first-thrown stick.
Beside her flails a Golden Retriever mix, a landlubber in pretend-wet-suit, surviving with floppy dog paddle. His country cousin, a large Yellow Lab, muscles his way in smooth, long strokes away from his splashing companion, and as alert as Ollie, prepares to grab the branch that is sure to be tossed. Little Sister quakes on the shore, primed to leap in time with the release. The height of her spring is in tandem with the apex of the throw; stick and dog are suspended. Time stops. Attention is rapt. Then, a haphazard rhythm of paddles, long strokes, short flaps, and splashes move toward the floating object that each dog seeks.
More sticks fly, attention diverted, as the swimmers disband and move in their own way to other targets. Except Ollie. She keeps her sights on her intended trophy, the first toss of the day. Meeting the ever-expanding circles reverberating out from the source, Ollie retrieves her treasure. She swims toward shore, evading the would-be-robbers who sense that she has won the prize. Their sticks lie abandoned, floating like stray timber downstream from a felled forest.
Reaching shore, Ollie parades. She is the conquering hero displaying the spoils of victory. She marches quick time with head erect, pauses, and gazes as before in the forest; this time she looks into the depths of water and mud. She sees the trickle that expanded, eroded, gullied, and created this site, where people dammed the source and made the pond. For this moment, her pond. And she is glad.
Smiling through clenched teeth surrounding her stick, Ollie turns and runs the length of the dam again, galloping past the envious swimmers. Her sister pours out of the water, joins in the triumphal march, and side-by-liver-and-white-spaniel-side, they trot in companionable joy for the day, this day of woods’ walks and warm sunshine beaming through the naked trees onto their shiny wet coats.
This day of Ollie’s last swim.
April 19, 2008
Indeed, if haphazard, there has been output. Some of it, like the entry that follows, hard to write because it is emotional. Our Ollie's illness and slow decline have been hard to watch; then, there are days that I try to put our sadness into perspective, look into her wise yet innocent eyes, and realize that we should just be grateful for her sweet presence as long as we have it. That positive outlook is not easy to maintain, but I will try. We have many wonderful memories to hold and a little bit of time yet to make more...
Ollie's Last Swim took place a month ago during a visit to her favorite place, Windrow's Farm...
Ollie’s Last Swim
Venturing into the wood on this early spring day made hot by full sun and few leaves for canopy, the people and dogs follow a meandering pathway through undulating terrain, over criss-crossed fallen hardwoods and pine, twisted roots, and gnarly scrub brush. Hints of summer’s lushness peak through the brown floor beneath their feet and paws. Green tufts of fern and purple violet dot the landscape, and along the path on either side is new-leafed holly. Dogwoods, budded in white bloom, portend exploding splendor. The silence of greening is interrupted briefly by the interlopers.
Ollie trips from the trail in spurts and starts. She splashes through the stream and chases the elusive buried beetle, the just hatched bee. Emerging from the muddy bank, she trots through a wide swath of the peopled- path, from side-to-side and forward-and-back, joined by her sister, who returns to the trail from a whirlwind foray into the wood. Running circles around their more seasoned rural friends who have learned to pace their woods’ walks in a reasonable way, the city girls lap up every moment of this day. In frenzy, they seek each smell, see all movement, and hear the call to every adventure. The farm dogs take a measured gait in the confidence of knowing that tomorrow they will return, and what is lost today can be found at a later time. Their visitors, soon to return to their urban walks tempered by leads, rely on now to find it all.
In single file, the sisters trudge the trail, Ollie leading. Smiles beaming, their eyes scan right and left to find the squirrel, the twittering leaf, the possible interesting pebble. They spy in unison the creek, its serpentine path camouflaged within the undergrowth and fallen branches, its embankment rimmed in fern among the dead oak leaves, belying early seasonal frosts and radiational cooling that has swept into the wood with twilight this past week. As one, they charge the bream, creating white-water in their wake.
Sweet earthen odors mingle with detritus to create a kind of dog perfume. A springtime fragrance. Ollie’s sister wiggles forward and continues on along the path with abandon, leaving Ollie to pause and gaze, to catch the song, the chirp, the skitter, and most, the wind. She glimpses into the ancient past of tree and root and of other dogs on other trails, different and yet the same. Her reflection gives her little meaning except for the feeling of what is good in life. She knows the joy of mud between the toes, the smell of tadpoles, and the croaking of peepers in springtime. She senses the coming of warmer days and fuller blooms. For now, though, it is good to breathe in the scents of earth and stream.
Not far ahead, her sister barks in delight at the mouth of the pond, where the creek flows into a shaded cove. She calls to Ollie to join her in exploration of the scum mired in the shallows there and where she wades and makes brown stockings of her once white feathers. Ollie hesitates then springs out of the wood, rushes onto the path, and speeds past the people, who have stopped to see the first curled fronds of the fiddle fern.
Sisters meet, nose to nose and bodies taut; then, turning, they gaze across the expanse of water. Its tranquil ripples glisten blue-green-black in the sunshine. At the far end of the pond they spy the earthen dam and hurry to the causeway where they follow the perimeter of the pond, farm dogs ahead of them now and the people bringing up the rear. Soon, the sisters take the lead and dash to the staging area of the dock. Ollie whimpers and shakes at the sight of sticks being gathered and looks to the water then back at the people, whose arms are full to brimming. She rushes to the pond’s edge. Easing into the water, first knee-deep then submerged with head erect, Ollie makes long even strokes that propel her forward. Her curly brown ears float outward on either side of her freckled face. She is clothed in otter-fur, brown and dark and sleek. Shining in her wet coat, she glides with ease through the wake of other swimmers, eyes intent to see the first-thrown stick.
Beside her flails a Golden Retriever mix, a landlubber in pretend-wet-suit, surviving with floppy dog paddle. His country cousin, a large Yellow Lab, muscles his way in smooth, long strokes away from his splashing companion, and as alert as Ollie, prepares to grab the branch that is sure to be tossed. Little Sister quakes on the shore, primed to leap in time with the release. The height of her spring is in tandem with the apex of the throw; stick and dog are suspended. Time stops. Attention is rapt. Then, a haphazard rhythm of paddles, long strokes, short flaps, and splashes move toward the floating object that each dog seeks.
More sticks fly, attention diverted, as the swimmers disband and move in their own way to other targets. Except Ollie. She keeps her sights on her intended trophy, the first toss of the day. Meeting the ever-expanding circles reverberating out from the source, Ollie retrieves her treasure. She swims toward shore, evading the would-be-robbers who sense that she has won the prize. Their sticks lie abandoned, floating like stray timber downstream from a felled forest.
Reaching shore, Ollie parades. She is the conquering hero displaying the spoils of victory. She marches quick time with head erect, pauses, and gazes as before in the forest; this time she looks into the depths of water and mud. She sees the trickle that expanded, eroded, gullied, and created this site, where people dammed the source and made the pond. For this moment, her pond. And she is glad.
Smiling through clenched teeth surrounding her stick, Ollie turns and runs the length of the dam again, galloping past the envious swimmers. Her sister pours out of the water, joins in the triumphal march, and side-by-liver-and-white-spaniel-side, they trot in companionable joy for the day, this day of woods’ walks and warm sunshine beaming through the naked trees onto their shiny wet coats.
This day of Ollie’s last swim.
April 19, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Leap Year
On the verge of February 29, I am at long last returning to my blog. Writing is work and within this venue I have a structure to use that can get me back into the practice of doing it. I love the feeling of a day that melts into phrases, clauses, sentences, and paragraphs! I have missed my predictable schedule in the "office" and look forward to starting the next chapter in Elliott Rat, as well as work on another Henry-related story... in other words, getting back to a "predictable schedule!"
Interesting to me is that research for this next project has been rewarding, while creating the dialog, the narrative, and the prose has not. My mind wanders in fiction but stays targeted in non-fiction. So, that is what I have been doing mostly... reading about Concord in 1827, its clock makers, printers, cobblers, farmers, manufacturers, ministers, tradesmen, hat designers, carriage makers, and...of course... its young Henry David Thoreau. There is actually very little about the young boy who would become an admired philosopher and naturalist. But, between the lines of history there is a great deal to suppose. The stuff of good historical fiction. Add a little mystery, the grotesque death of his schoolmaster, and you have a good story. What could have been in his past that caught up with the soft-spoken Mr. Jacoby? Perhaps a little smuggling during the War of 1812? Did someone track him down and avenge a wrong done some 15 years before? Ten-year-old Henry, his older brother John, and their friend Lizzie Hosmer will team together to solve the mystery... I feel like Nancy Drew all over again!
Creating a plot for this new book has been a welcome diversion from THE BOOK. My rat is mired down in transcendental malaise, and it helps to put his story aside and then pull it out about every other day. Writer's block? Not exactly. More like writer's "cramp." With different projects on the table, I can pick up each one with a fresher eye. I hope!
My editors, Bernie and Ollie, are asking for a morning break. So, it's outside into the cold but sunny day we go for squirrel hunts, bird sightings, and springer springs in the garden! I think I'll mitten my hot cup of tea while indulging them in their morning jaunt away from the writer's desk... Then, it will be back to work!
Interesting to me is that research for this next project has been rewarding, while creating the dialog, the narrative, and the prose has not. My mind wanders in fiction but stays targeted in non-fiction. So, that is what I have been doing mostly... reading about Concord in 1827, its clock makers, printers, cobblers, farmers, manufacturers, ministers, tradesmen, hat designers, carriage makers, and...of course... its young Henry David Thoreau. There is actually very little about the young boy who would become an admired philosopher and naturalist. But, between the lines of history there is a great deal to suppose. The stuff of good historical fiction. Add a little mystery, the grotesque death of his schoolmaster, and you have a good story. What could have been in his past that caught up with the soft-spoken Mr. Jacoby? Perhaps a little smuggling during the War of 1812? Did someone track him down and avenge a wrong done some 15 years before? Ten-year-old Henry, his older brother John, and their friend Lizzie Hosmer will team together to solve the mystery... I feel like Nancy Drew all over again!
Creating a plot for this new book has been a welcome diversion from THE BOOK. My rat is mired down in transcendental malaise, and it helps to put his story aside and then pull it out about every other day. Writer's block? Not exactly. More like writer's "cramp." With different projects on the table, I can pick up each one with a fresher eye. I hope!
My editors, Bernie and Ollie, are asking for a morning break. So, it's outside into the cold but sunny day we go for squirrel hunts, bird sightings, and springer springs in the garden! I think I'll mitten my hot cup of tea while indulging them in their morning jaunt away from the writer's desk... Then, it will be back to work!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
A Loss of Momentum...
The momentum of January, the New Year, and of starting my Blog and Website has been eclipsed these first two weeks of February by emotions too raw and near the surface for a writer such as myself to overcome. So, I've kept away from my computer, shelved my book and outlines for others, and my poetry (until today) for a little while. First, there is the sadness of losing my uncle on the first of February, Mother's only brother, and then seeing Mom grasp the inevitability of her own mortality. Her longevity (now 88) is amazing, and with the loss of Bud she is acutely aware of how little time she may have left here. For me, it is very hard to think about that.
Other clouds have been looming over my writer's pen, too... A friend with breast cancer and impending surgery; a dear friend's brother who faces cancer, just when the two retired siblings were beginning to enjoy the benefits of retirement and trips together to exotic places in the wake of having cared for an aging father; another friend's courage as she supports her sister-in-law whose husband is in the final stages of hospice care after his long struggle with cancer; and, added to her sadness, Emily tends her mother and father as his illness leaves him more and more a shadow of the man he had been... Then, too, we learned at the beginning of the month that Ollie, my four-year-old spaniel has lymphoma. She began chemotherapy last week. Her playful sweet disposition is already altered, and it makes my heart so very sad...
I needed to return to writing, though, before I found that I couldn't do it any more. Before I lost the love of it. In order to re-begin I've shared what is hurting me so very much right now. I hope all this pain will make me stronger, that it will give me empathy and understanding from which to create good stories, real stories about real people (and animals!) with real emotions.
For now, Ray and I send prayers to our friends, and we strive to make each day with Ollie a happy one for her. She has given much happiness to us.
Through tears, I remain,
Ellen
Other clouds have been looming over my writer's pen, too... A friend with breast cancer and impending surgery; a dear friend's brother who faces cancer, just when the two retired siblings were beginning to enjoy the benefits of retirement and trips together to exotic places in the wake of having cared for an aging father; another friend's courage as she supports her sister-in-law whose husband is in the final stages of hospice care after his long struggle with cancer; and, added to her sadness, Emily tends her mother and father as his illness leaves him more and more a shadow of the man he had been... Then, too, we learned at the beginning of the month that Ollie, my four-year-old spaniel has lymphoma. She began chemotherapy last week. Her playful sweet disposition is already altered, and it makes my heart so very sad...
I needed to return to writing, though, before I found that I couldn't do it any more. Before I lost the love of it. In order to re-begin I've shared what is hurting me so very much right now. I hope all this pain will make me stronger, that it will give me empathy and understanding from which to create good stories, real stories about real people (and animals!) with real emotions.
For now, Ray and I send prayers to our friends, and we strive to make each day with Ollie a happy one for her. She has given much happiness to us.
Through tears, I remain,
Ellen
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Editing...
For many of you still involved in academic life, you may find this unbelievable. I like to edit. I actually enjoy it. When I was teaching, I would observe the horror on my students' faces as they received an essay back with RED MARKS everywhere. The blood on their pages blurred and smeared before their eyes into one HUGE "Oh-my-god-you-hated-it-didn't-you?" look as they gazed back up into my face. In fact, I loved it enough to want to make it better. Later, long after graduation, I had students return to their old teacher, me, and thank me for the time I had spent in reading and marking their work. (Thank YOU, Michael Glaser and Betty O and Michael Ouelllette, my English professors at St. Mary's College!)
Now that I find myself on the receiving end of red ink once more, I understand the need for it, and in fact, I respect the "love" that goes into someone's efforts to get through my prose and make constructive criticism for improvement. Writing is a solitary life validated when another writer or editor or publisher or agent cares enough to give you feedback about your work. For that matter, I am invigorated when a reader, someone who loves books and reading, gives me feedback. After all, it is the reader I will be seeking for approval when my novel is finally finished, so I'd best pay attention to what she likes!
I have been blessed this week to receive criticism from BOTH camps, a writer/publisher and a reader have read the beginning of my story and given me suggestions for making my manuscript better. The different perspectives of these people have led me to look at the manuscript with fresh eyes and do some word-smithing and editing. The result is better writing.
Thank you, Rhoda Trooboff and Tenley Circle Press! Thank you Emily Chewning!!
And now to my weekly poem...
Now that I find myself on the receiving end of red ink once more, I understand the need for it, and in fact, I respect the "love" that goes into someone's efforts to get through my prose and make constructive criticism for improvement. Writing is a solitary life validated when another writer or editor or publisher or agent cares enough to give you feedback about your work. For that matter, I am invigorated when a reader, someone who loves books and reading, gives me feedback. After all, it is the reader I will be seeking for approval when my novel is finally finished, so I'd best pay attention to what she likes!
I have been blessed this week to receive criticism from BOTH camps, a writer/publisher and a reader have read the beginning of my story and given me suggestions for making my manuscript better. The different perspectives of these people have led me to look at the manuscript with fresh eyes and do some word-smithing and editing. The result is better writing.
Thank you, Rhoda Trooboff and Tenley Circle Press! Thank you Emily Chewning!!
And now to my weekly poem...
Full Biography
Evy and the Dance Recital
Lillie and the Wizard’s Wand
This Isa, This Izzy, This Isabel
