H just left to head for Boston with the cats, and when I walked him out, Mom said, "Why so quiet in the house"?
It has been quiet today. H and I were each working on our writing - mostly in different rooms. Mom has been reading the NY Times. beside the wood stove. It is all in sharp contrast to the days that preceded this one.
I drove down to NY to teach on Monday night, and Mom and I packed the car to drive back to VT on Tuesday, where Herb was ensconced with the cats and making a bump in the income of the local supermarket, the local organic farm (for the turkey) and a dent in the food budget. On Wednesday we started preparing for the holiday meal and of course, Thanksgiving was consumed (pun intended) with vacuuming, cooking, dish washing and a modicum of furniture moving. Our friends Linda and Ursula came over to add stuffed squash and pecan pie and wine to the banquet, and we talked and laughed and compared notes on the Penn State debacle, books we had read, travels around the country, relatives, and friends in common, and ate until I could barely move.
Friday we digested large quantities of left-over risotto, stuffing and turkey, and visited with our farmer friend, Amanda, who was stuck in her town for three weeks because of the Hurricane in August. Her husband had used a clothesline attached at one end to a tree and to the house at the other, to shimmy through ice cold storm water with floating propane tanks to rescue an 80 year old neighbor who had stopped into his neighbors' house to check their sump pump and was then caught on the second floor in suddenly rising waters. The owners were at Dartmouth Hospital where he was in kidney or liver failure and she was by his side. Everyone survived and the home owners are now back in the house thanks to a month's volunteer work by a relative who gutted and restored the house from the damage of water soaked walls and utilities.
We got caught up with Amanda's life, finding routes around severed roads and bridges to milk their goat, building new 50 foot greenhouses on leased land, and we heard about her sister who had a baby one month ago, breaking or straining her tail bone in the process. She is still unable to drive. We got caught up on Amanda's part time job as an LNA and her plans to eventually take on training as an LPN. We heard about her grandfather's stroke that has him in rehab in Rutland, and her grandmother's dementia that has necessitated moving her into Amanda's parents' home. She left so she could drive the hour back to Stockbridge to wake up her husband for his 12 hour night shift making snow at the local resort. We hugged and promised to get together again soon.
Yesterday, we took Mom to the Weston craft fair which was profoundly disappointing other than the work of our friends the Morgans and the Munyaks, and then we went over to the classic Vermont Country Store for a dose of tourist excess. We drove to the Northshire bookstore after that and then home, having had our fill of people and churn.
So today is indeed quiet. We haven't gone anywhere. Emmett called to say that he got his plow on his truck so he can plow us out if needed. Jeanette called to say she has a stomach virus and can't stop down to see Mom before I take her back to NYC. The cats slept in their boxes after making a perimeter tour of the house. We spoke to Coreen, our across-the-street neighbor, for a few minutes while we were walking the cats. All in all, a low key day.
And now the cats and Herb are on their way to Boston.
Yes, it's quiet. We hope it's quiet where you are too.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Writing Phillipe
The week has been filled with visiting and cooking and preparation for meals, but I've had a couple of opportunities to write. On Sunday and Monday, I finalized the story I'd been working on for the North Coast Journal, the interviews with people who had left Humboldt County and now looked back upon it. And yesterday, I spent several hours working on the fiction project I've had going for the past two months.
When I haven't written on a particular project for a couple of weeks, getting started again is like plowing the driveway. You shove the snow three feet ahead, then you back up, cover that same ground again and go another two feet further, and then you back up, cover all that ground again and go two more feet. That's what I did yesterday. I read the whole 50 pages I had so far, sometimes more than once, tweaking and tuning and cleaning; and once I got to the end of what I'd had, I moved another five pages further down the road.
I told Nora, during a break, that my characters were engaging in a lot of unearned exposition. "We don't know them well enough for them to be talking this much," I said. "But it's helping me to get to know them, so that's okay for now." So far, most of my characters have been pleasant, articulate, good natured... they've been me dressed up in various costumes. But I had written one guy, Joel, who was funny and abrasive, and Mellisa the over-educated UPS driver, and two or three others who might be able to grow into their skins and become interesting. But yesterday, I wrote the side character of Phillipe, the smug and condescending Belgian. Phillipe may become an enjoyable foil to all of the other serious business going on around him.
I know I'll eventually have sixteen or seventeen people inhabiting this place I'm creating, and that not all of them will be as distinctly drawn as the others. I'd created about seven of them through my previous work, and each one of them had an interesting bio if you wrote it in one sentence. For instance: Carson, 77, is a retired civil engineer (Bechtel) whose husband recently died. That's an interesting type, a frame to ultimately hang compelling behavior from. But Carson and the others are far from being characters yet.
In a way, it's kind of like casting a reality show like Survivor. You have to have the retired professional athlete, the CEO, the drama queen, the single mom... but they aren't very interesting until they start working together or screaming at each other.
So Phillipe occurred because I needed another character at a point where my hero was about to embark on a new challenge. I brought his frame into being in about thirty seconds, and then he just started to act up on me. He's a jerk, and there's no other way around it. He's very talented... and boy, does he know it.
Today, Nora and Mom and I have the dump and the post office and a shower and then the Weston Craft Fair... but a rendezvous with Phillipe awaits me this evening.
When I haven't written on a particular project for a couple of weeks, getting started again is like plowing the driveway. You shove the snow three feet ahead, then you back up, cover that same ground again and go another two feet further, and then you back up, cover all that ground again and go two more feet. That's what I did yesterday. I read the whole 50 pages I had so far, sometimes more than once, tweaking and tuning and cleaning; and once I got to the end of what I'd had, I moved another five pages further down the road.
I told Nora, during a break, that my characters were engaging in a lot of unearned exposition. "We don't know them well enough for them to be talking this much," I said. "But it's helping me to get to know them, so that's okay for now." So far, most of my characters have been pleasant, articulate, good natured... they've been me dressed up in various costumes. But I had written one guy, Joel, who was funny and abrasive, and Mellisa the over-educated UPS driver, and two or three others who might be able to grow into their skins and become interesting. But yesterday, I wrote the side character of Phillipe, the smug and condescending Belgian. Phillipe may become an enjoyable foil to all of the other serious business going on around him.
I know I'll eventually have sixteen or seventeen people inhabiting this place I'm creating, and that not all of them will be as distinctly drawn as the others. I'd created about seven of them through my previous work, and each one of them had an interesting bio if you wrote it in one sentence. For instance: Carson, 77, is a retired civil engineer (Bechtel) whose husband recently died. That's an interesting type, a frame to ultimately hang compelling behavior from. But Carson and the others are far from being characters yet.
In a way, it's kind of like casting a reality show like Survivor. You have to have the retired professional athlete, the CEO, the drama queen, the single mom... but they aren't very interesting until they start working together or screaming at each other.
So Phillipe occurred because I needed another character at a point where my hero was about to embark on a new challenge. I brought his frame into being in about thirty seconds, and then he just started to act up on me. He's a jerk, and there's no other way around it. He's very talented... and boy, does he know it.
Today, Nora and Mom and I have the dump and the post office and a shower and then the Weston Craft Fair... but a rendezvous with Phillipe awaits me this evening.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanksgiving – Part 3
It's a little before 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning. I've started a fire in the kitchen stove, Nora has started a fire in the living room stove. Mom is still asleep upstairs.
I see that someone has found our blog through doing a Google search on the phrase "bride nora from wear the bride dress." Clearly I haven't been using Google correctly...
Our friends Ursula and Linda will be with us for dinner at about 5:30, bringing stuffed acorn squash and a pecan pie. Leading to that moment, the agenda for the day is to roast the turkey that's brining in the garage (who needs a refrigerator when you've got Vermont in November?); to bake cranberries and oranges; to make mashed potatoes with leeks, and risotto with sun-dried tomatoes and cherry peppers; to bake cornbread stuffing; to set wine and prosecco to chill; to vacuum and sweep and move the table out; and to put the chocolate lava cakes into the oven right as we're clearing the turkey bones off the table.
And to say good morning to you all, and happy Thanksgiving.
I see that someone has found our blog through doing a Google search on the phrase "bride nora from wear the bride dress." Clearly I haven't been using Google correctly...
Our friends Ursula and Linda will be with us for dinner at about 5:30, bringing stuffed acorn squash and a pecan pie. Leading to that moment, the agenda for the day is to roast the turkey that's brining in the garage (who needs a refrigerator when you've got Vermont in November?); to bake cranberries and oranges; to make mashed potatoes with leeks, and risotto with sun-dried tomatoes and cherry peppers; to bake cornbread stuffing; to set wine and prosecco to chill; to vacuum and sweep and move the table out; and to put the chocolate lava cakes into the oven right as we're clearing the turkey bones off the table.
And to say good morning to you all, and happy Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thanksgiving - Part 2
H and I just watched a documentary on bowling. Yes, bowling. He once bowled seriously, as he now plays pool. The documentary, The League of Ordinary Gentlemen, followed four men through a season of what felt something like the circus coming to town. In 1997 the PBA broadcast on ABC for the last time and in 2003, three Microsoft execs (retired) bought the franchise for $5 million and brought in some ex-Nike guys to revive it. It was all reminiscent of another documentary on the Big Apple Circus ("Circus") that played out many of the same themes. A caravan of recreational vehicles traveled the roads from tournament to tournament (or show to show). Careers were built and lost. Families were built and lost. Lives were fit around the needs of the tour. Personalities were built for the benefit of the media.
Of course one man won. Three lost. Their stories of success and failure would be familiar to most. Each one represented some archetype; the hero, the bad boy, the kid on the rise, and the old-timer whose luck had run out.
When we were finished, I took out a book that I have been reading, by Lisa Knopp: "The Nature of Home." I read about her decision to leave a full time teaching position with benefits, in what she calls "the estranging place," so that she could settle with her children in southeastern Nebraska. She gave up what was safe, for something that would take her to her "belonging place."
It is a struggle that H and I have taken on for some time now... and we have opted for the familiar over the risky in times that are economically extreme. Academic and writer Richard Wolff recently claimed that the government's statistics on those who are unemployed, underemployed or who have given up looking for work is now at 18%. So familiar has trumped our decision to start over, for the weeks to come. And I am struck by how many people live and work in their "estranging places" because it is what they know and the risks seem too great... or as Wayne Webb (the old timer) said, while driving through the rain from one show to another, bowling is all he knows. He has bowled professionally since he was 18; at the time of this documentary, he was 45. "I never did college. I don't have another way of making a living. I thought bowling would always be there." Replace "bowling" with "the factory" or "the department" and you have the stories of millions of hardworking and successful people who suddenly find themselves with no next steps. If he is to give up the tour, what is there for him to do? If we give up the work we know and that we do well, who are we in its absence? Lisa Knopp writes "Faith I told myself. Faith will make this work. I thought often about Jesus' disciple Peter. The moment Peter thought about the impossibility of walking on water, he began to sink. I could sustain myself in my belonging--place as long as my faith exceeded my doubts".
We are exhorted to take the risk, jump off the cliff..."at least you will be in a place different from where you were stuck." I have heard this much of my life and from many people. But most of those people have health insurance and a steady income and a clear knowledge of what they are jumping toward. We hear the stories of the successes... these are the stories ginned up to give us faith. But there are legions of people who are sinking in this country, whose faith in themselves and the system were not enough to keep them walking on water.
Knopp patched together jobs as church secretary and interim school administrator, and writing book reviews for a local paper. I have worked as a consultant and adjunct teacher for much of my life and have patched together a business and a life. But tonight, I am aware of how many people are patching lives together, and how few of those lives are shaped as we had imagined, in our belonging places. The MVP of the Professional Bowlers Tour is last seen chipping the ice off the roof of his motor home, late on the night of winning the national championship, on his way to the next tournament, the next round, the next circus.
Of course one man won. Three lost. Their stories of success and failure would be familiar to most. Each one represented some archetype; the hero, the bad boy, the kid on the rise, and the old-timer whose luck had run out.
When we were finished, I took out a book that I have been reading, by Lisa Knopp: "The Nature of Home." I read about her decision to leave a full time teaching position with benefits, in what she calls "the estranging place," so that she could settle with her children in southeastern Nebraska. She gave up what was safe, for something that would take her to her "belonging place."
It is a struggle that H and I have taken on for some time now... and we have opted for the familiar over the risky in times that are economically extreme. Academic and writer Richard Wolff recently claimed that the government's statistics on those who are unemployed, underemployed or who have given up looking for work is now at 18%. So familiar has trumped our decision to start over, for the weeks to come. And I am struck by how many people live and work in their "estranging places" because it is what they know and the risks seem too great... or as Wayne Webb (the old timer) said, while driving through the rain from one show to another, bowling is all he knows. He has bowled professionally since he was 18; at the time of this documentary, he was 45. "I never did college. I don't have another way of making a living. I thought bowling would always be there." Replace "bowling" with "the factory" or "the department" and you have the stories of millions of hardworking and successful people who suddenly find themselves with no next steps. If he is to give up the tour, what is there for him to do? If we give up the work we know and that we do well, who are we in its absence? Lisa Knopp writes "Faith I told myself. Faith will make this work. I thought often about Jesus' disciple Peter. The moment Peter thought about the impossibility of walking on water, he began to sink. I could sustain myself in my belonging--place as long as my faith exceeded my doubts".
We are exhorted to take the risk, jump off the cliff..."at least you will be in a place different from where you were stuck." I have heard this much of my life and from many people. But most of those people have health insurance and a steady income and a clear knowledge of what they are jumping toward. We hear the stories of the successes... these are the stories ginned up to give us faith. But there are legions of people who are sinking in this country, whose faith in themselves and the system were not enough to keep them walking on water.
Knopp patched together jobs as church secretary and interim school administrator, and writing book reviews for a local paper. I have worked as a consultant and adjunct teacher for much of my life and have patched together a business and a life. But tonight, I am aware of how many people are patching lives together, and how few of those lives are shaped as we had imagined, in our belonging places. The MVP of the Professional Bowlers Tour is last seen chipping the ice off the roof of his motor home, late on the night of winning the national championship, on his way to the next tournament, the next round, the next circus.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Thanksgiving - Part 1
Thanksgiving is coming, and while I agree with all the politically correct conversation about how we stole the land from the Native Americans only to send them off on the Trail of Tears, and the rhetoric about this being the starting gate to the race to Christmas, I am still thankful this year.
It will be my first married Thanksgiving. I am grateful for that.
It will be a chance for Mom to reclaim her spot in the leather chair in the corner of the living room beside the wood stove, covered in fleece and blankets. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time of cooking and chaos in this tiny ill-prepared kitchen, with bowls and ingredients on every surface, and the resulting turkey and tofu dishes, cranberries and oranges a la mama, sweet potatoes, applesauce from the tree in the backyard, sparkling cider and prosecco. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time to compare notes on recent stories in The New Yorker and the new book on Steve Jobs, and maybe we will read aloud from the Phantom Tollbooth - a children's story celebrating its 50th anniversary. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time to watch the cats play, walk in the dry leaves, wait for snow fall, and see friends who have made this place our home. I am grateful for that.
And maybe, just maybe, we will make some phone calls to those too far away--to Jerry and Bill and Vearla, Kathleen and Julio, Grazyna and Howard, Elie and Deborah and Neoma and Ben and Susan and Jonno and a few more of the hundred or so people who held us close this year. I am grateful for that.
May all of you have much to be thankful for this year. May all of you have peace in both heart and head. May all of our international visitors find that whether or not they share in this most American tradition, they have much to celebrate.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
It will be my first married Thanksgiving. I am grateful for that.
It will be a chance for Mom to reclaim her spot in the leather chair in the corner of the living room beside the wood stove, covered in fleece and blankets. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time of cooking and chaos in this tiny ill-prepared kitchen, with bowls and ingredients on every surface, and the resulting turkey and tofu dishes, cranberries and oranges a la mama, sweet potatoes, applesauce from the tree in the backyard, sparkling cider and prosecco. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time to compare notes on recent stories in The New Yorker and the new book on Steve Jobs, and maybe we will read aloud from the Phantom Tollbooth - a children's story celebrating its 50th anniversary. I am grateful for that.
It will be a time to watch the cats play, walk in the dry leaves, wait for snow fall, and see friends who have made this place our home. I am grateful for that.
And maybe, just maybe, we will make some phone calls to those too far away--to Jerry and Bill and Vearla, Kathleen and Julio, Grazyna and Howard, Elie and Deborah and Neoma and Ben and Susan and Jonno and a few more of the hundred or so people who held us close this year. I am grateful for that.
May all of you have much to be thankful for this year. May all of you have peace in both heart and head. May all of our international visitors find that whether or not they share in this most American tradition, they have much to celebrate.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Nora and I have been in New York since late Friday afternoon. Since then, we've:
But the real event, of course, was dinner last night for Estelle's birthday. Estelle, her two children, their two spouses, and friends Peter and Marti from San Francisco took over the center of Blue Hill for three hours. A lovely evening and a lovely dinner for a lovely person.
Happy birthday, Mom. Arms around you. We wouldn't have been any place else.
- had hummus and wine and tabouleh and pita and cheese with Sjoerd & Michael & Joseph & Josseline;
- walked the new section of the High Line after brunch at The Park with Grazyna & Howard; and
- are about to have another brunch with Susan and David at the Marketplace Cafe.
But the real event, of course, was dinner last night for Estelle's birthday. Estelle, her two children, their two spouses, and friends Peter and Marti from San Francisco took over the center of Blue Hill for three hours. A lovely evening and a lovely dinner for a lovely person.
Happy birthday, Mom. Arms around you. We wouldn't have been any place else.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
A word to the wise
Nora and I are driving to NYC tomorrow, for Mom's 92nd birthday on Saturday. We'll be driving Georgia, and taking cats. Nora and Ed and Simon have been on the road so much recently that she doesn't want to drive back to Boston on Sunday and then home to Vermont on Monday or Tuesday, so I'm getting back to Boston on my own and she'll head straight to Vermont.
It turns out that Sunday is a pretty tough day to travel. The cheap buses get used by people with weekend friends and parties and boyfriends/girlfriends to visit, and although they may have different departures, they all have to go home on Sunday. So Bolt Bus is sold out. LimoLiner is sold out. Amtrak isn't sold out, but it's $168 one way. Peter Pan has seats; though it's a little downscale compared to Bolt, it'll have to do.
While looking for seats on Peter Pan...
Okay, I have to stop here for a minute. Peter Pan? Who the hell names a bus line Peter Pan? Bolt I get – quick, straight line. LimoLiner I get – purported luxury. MegaBus I get – cheap mass transit. Greyhound, the old dog... fast. Fung Wah? It means something in one of the Chinese languages, but I don't know which language, and Google Translate says that "fung wah" translates from Chinese to English as "fung wah." So let's say it means "the passengers are decoys for drug trafficking," which is the folklore about that company. Whatever, I still get it.
Peter Pan? The bus that won't grow up? It's even got the boy in green tights on the side of the bus. It's a mystery to me. Of course, I wouldn't have named a computer company after a fruit, either, so maybe it's just my lack of marketing acumen.
Anyway, I digress. While looking for seats on Peter Pan, I see on their website that they have three drivers who have accumulated over three million accident-free driving miles with the company. Three million miles! And it's taken each of them about 35 years to do it, so we're looking at 80-90,000 miles a year. But my favorite thing is that two of the drivers in the three million club are brothers, Joseph and Everett Anderson of Springfield, who both started driving with PP in the early '70s. I hope I get to meet Joseph or Everett on this trip. (Rather than Captain Hook...)
It turns out that Sunday is a pretty tough day to travel. The cheap buses get used by people with weekend friends and parties and boyfriends/girlfriends to visit, and although they may have different departures, they all have to go home on Sunday. So Bolt Bus is sold out. LimoLiner is sold out. Amtrak isn't sold out, but it's $168 one way. Peter Pan has seats; though it's a little downscale compared to Bolt, it'll have to do.
While looking for seats on Peter Pan...
Okay, I have to stop here for a minute. Peter Pan? Who the hell names a bus line Peter Pan? Bolt I get – quick, straight line. LimoLiner I get – purported luxury. MegaBus I get – cheap mass transit. Greyhound, the old dog... fast. Fung Wah? It means something in one of the Chinese languages, but I don't know which language, and Google Translate says that "fung wah" translates from Chinese to English as "fung wah." So let's say it means "the passengers are decoys for drug trafficking," which is the folklore about that company. Whatever, I still get it.
Peter Pan? The bus that won't grow up? It's even got the boy in green tights on the side of the bus. It's a mystery to me. Of course, I wouldn't have named a computer company after a fruit, either, so maybe it's just my lack of marketing acumen.
Anyway, I digress. While looking for seats on Peter Pan, I see on their website that they have three drivers who have accumulated over three million accident-free driving miles with the company. Three million miles! And it's taken each of them about 35 years to do it, so we're looking at 80-90,000 miles a year. But my favorite thing is that two of the drivers in the three million club are brothers, Joseph and Everett Anderson of Springfield, who both started driving with PP in the early '70s. I hope I get to meet Joseph or Everett on this trip. (Rather than Captain Hook...)
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