"I" Is For Ignorant

Ignorant, as in ignorant dolt.  That's mostly what I've been these past few months.  This transition from the familiar, family, and old friends to the unfamiliar, missing family, and the challenge of making new friends has not been done with grace.  I've made a lot of quick and unfair judgements along the way, and have been quite the whiny little brat about it all.  But I couldn't see any of that until the natural (and unpleasant) course of adjustment played out.  This past weekend was a tipping point of sorts, and I've begun feeling I just might find a place here where I fit.  Once that began, the rear view mirror of my attitude, fear, and behavior emerged from the fog.  I didn't like what I saw.

I saw old, familiar patterns of reacting to insecurity with anger and judgement; patterns of reacting to others having friends as something personal they did to shun me; patterns of romanticizing what used to be without trying to romance what I've got--give it a little love and a smile and flirting with every strange thing that came my way.  I've heard it said that whatever you want, you first have to give.  Well, that might hold true for others, but I want what I want, and I want it now (and without giving anything first, thank you very much).  This is some raw honesty I'm dishing up about myself, and I don't do it easily, nor do I do it with expectations of being petted and told I'm not really that way. 

I just want what I want, and I want it now, and what I've discovered I want most is strength of character.  Once that's in the bag, nothing is beyond my reach.  Nothing is given to me gratis and with secret guilt.  To get that strength, there must be bold, clean strokes of honesty.

Ouch.

Seriously, I mean "Ouch!" as in physical pain.  My first attempt to get over myself was stopping by the workshop at the Performing Arts Center, where I knew a dedicated crew was working late.  My intention was getting over my expectation of formal invitations and offering to be part of the community by lending a helping hand.  Luckily, their day was winding down and there wasn't much to do.  But I offered, and I asked the tech director if he'd mind teaching me to weld when he wasn't busy so I could help out some other time.  Who knew he had plenty of time right then and there and an extra face guard?  Before panic had. a chance to take root, I had a blow torch in my hands and sparks flying every which way.  The difference between my first attempt at welding a joint and my last attempt was the difference between a slasher movie and a cozy mystery novel.  I did pretty good, aside from some burnt hair and a few singed toes (that was the physical pain part), and the only reason I did that well was because my teacher was patient.  What my defenses had judged as Southern laziness popped into Southern flow and tolerance of ignorant dolts barging in and asking for impromptu lessons.  Nothing had to be perfect because people are people and all people have something to learn.  That Southern hospitality I'd been so pissed off about because people weren't flocking to my door with pecan pies and sweet tea turned out to be hospitality of spirit.  I just couldn't see it in my state of snit.

It was also a weekend where I made a friend.  That made a difference.  Joseph Campbell said that the best and most important things in the world and our spirit can't be talked about, only the second best.  Finding a friend is a lot like that.  Explaining what it was like and what it meant to me, and as it turned out, meant to her, would only be talking about the second best part of it.  I made a friend.  That says everything that can't be said.

In keeping with the simplicity of three, the third thing that put its weight on the platform, causing things to tip, was good news from my daughter back home.  Not only did she reach out for a job that was way beyond her education and experience, she wowed them silly and made them cry when she accepted the position.  Literally.  The VP of a certain division of the mega-corporation actually cried when my daughter took the job.  It doesn't matter how grown up your children are, if they're not growing into their own unique strengths, a little bit of us dies inside.  When they're putting their independent footprint in the sand, it's the step that puts the world in balance.  Aside from the thrill of this new challenge in her life, it's something new and demanding that will shift her focus from our family scattering, giving her more time for adjusting to this change with less loneliness.  That stitches up a lot of places where I'd been falling apart.

Today I started planting my garden.  I've been digging in the soil and adding nutrients that will help my plants grow strong for years to come.  I've never taken this much care with a garden before, but somehow it just seems like the thing to be doing right now.

It's what people do when they stop running and settle down in a home.

"H" Is For Heroes

Choose your heroes wisely, their influence can be pervasive.  Justine Musk, a Big Kahuna in the blosphere, suggests that bloggers chose just three bloggers to follow when they're starting out and want to see how it's done. More than three and confusion sets in.  I came across her advice long after I'd realized my own need for the clarity of three driving forces in my life.  It's always seemed to me that there was something mystical in the number three. It's the first prime number, and the sum total of the Golden Mean, which can be found in everything.

As a writer, I'm very careful who my heroes are.  Family is the soil that keeps me rooted, and friends are the golden streaks that run through my days.  Heroes are the raw materials from which I build my dreams.

I have just three, and they are:

1. Bill Moyers.  I look up to him because of his unapologetic curiosity, and his child-like manner of debating issues that genuinely seeks to understand before being understood.  He's not afraid of his naivete and seeks to cure it with layers of questions and a quick mind working on overdrive to take in what he hears, integrating one answer with another.  When he comes across a belief that is not his own, he's fascinated rather than defensive.  
2. John Steinbeck.  He's fallen out of fashion lately, but I think he might be staging a comeback.  His body is no longer living, but his voice is still as strong as ever, perhaps a voice we want to hear again.  The man loved language, and language was my love long before I understood it as an instrument of writing.  Steinbeck never swore because he considered it a sign of a lazy mind, instead training himself to instantaneously come up with emphatic language as strong and bold and clean as the raw emotion he was feeling.  I'm a little cautious of this hero because of his ruthlessness.  As a woman, it feels traitorous having him as a hero because of how he used his first wife, Carol, then threw her and her butchered uterus aside once his writing found its readers.  Perhaps I don't like one of my heroes because I can be just as ruthless as him. Perhaps I flatter myself too much.
3. Dorothy Parker.  A whip sharp wit bigger than her fragile, often-broken heart.  She, unlike me, was never paralyzed under the grip of wanting to be liked, wanting to please, needing friendship more than mastery, desperate to please others.  Damnit!  Others were supposed to please her, and when they failed, that wit came out like a sword and slashed them across the face, making others laugh as the damage was done.  Her words cut so deep she could almost be forgiven for her brutality, which was so wickedly fast and sharp it seemed like a joke about a joke.  Could twitter survive if she were still around?

If there's any one quality these three have in common, it's that they are all their own unique creation.  Something strong and clean and bold kept them on that "road less traveled by," which is, if the poem is carefully read, very confusing.  The narrator states he came to a fork in the road with two paths, both equally worn.  How can they both be equally worn if one is "less traveled by"?

Because those who take the path the majority pass, wander back and forth and up three steps then back down two, before finding what belongs to only them.

"G" Is For Gumption

Gumption: noun informal

resourceful, initiative; aggressiveness; innovation; courage; spunk; guts

I made it to the Fayetteville Farmer’s Market yesterday, but I was too tuckered at day’s end to even think about blogging. (Bad little competitor, eh?) I guess you could say I lacked the gumption for digging down and making it to the finish line.

Lots happened yesterday that dazzled my senses and emptied my bank account, but the best part of was having a new friend with me for the day, and the half-hour journey outside of Fayetteville to visit her aging aunt and uncle. They’re Arkansas born and raised, and as my friend said, “real country.”

After traveling in a direction I didn’t know existed, which included crossing a one-car bridge that looked centuries old, we reached their house, set in the midst of cleared land stretching as far as the eye could see. We passed their old barn that was buckled and leaning under the weight of its years, a small building constructed of stone and intended for storage of “put up” fruits and vegetables, several ponds, trees, hills and creeks. At the modest house, we were met by Aunt Tilley, her cane shaking unsteadily in one hand, the other stretched out to pull her niece in for a hug. A big grin rumpled her face, and that grin didn’t ease one bit when she was introduced to me, a stranger.

Aunt Tilley told us to come on in, come on in, and my friend pulled two chairs up close to the one Aunt Tilley eased down into. She doesn’t hear much these days, so you’ve got to shout and sit close to be heard.  But then Aunt Tilley quickly forgets whatever it is you’ve said and asks the same questions many times over, mostly about spring gardens.  It was easy thinking how sad it was to see the deterioration of this spunky woman’s memory, but she wasn’t bothered by it at all. Each time the re-telling of spring gardens was told, her smile freshed up a bit because everything was new again.

Aunt Tilley may di-remember things in her recent memory, but once something sparked her memory of long ago, she was off telling tales from 50 years passed with a clarity for detail that brought you right in there with her memories, living it all over again with her.

“We came in across the bridge,” my friend shouted to Aunt Tilley, describing our journey to the house.

“Oh, I don’t cross those bridges,” Aunt Tilley said, giving her head a shake. “Not since we was almost washed away.”

“Washed away?” my friend said in alarm.

“That’s right. We’s goin’ ‘cross it and there was a crackin’ and down we went into the water. It’s been a wet winter that year and the water was a rushin’ real fast. Cold, too. My daddy got mother and sister up to the banks and safe, but I’s the last one he could git. Never worried. Knew he’d get me.” Her smile stayed fixed and genuine. “No, don’t go cross those bridges since then.”

I wondered if she’d been up in this remote part of the Arkansas mountains her entire life.

“Got your garden goin’ yet?” she asked my friend.

As stories of peas, onions, and potatoes were told yet again, a hulk of camouflage approached the screen door of the house. The door was opened and an immediate nod of acknowledgment was given to me, a hello to my friend, and then a gentle but loud voice was directed towards Aunt Tilley.

“Heard that tom cluck fifty-tooooo times, Tilley.” The camo hat came off and a long, blond pony tail cascaded down the back of the camo outfit.

“This here’s Corine,” Aunt Tilley explained to me. “Just like one of us, one of our own.”

Corine shrugged herself out of her camo backpack, camo jacket and placed them carefully on the sofa. “Fifty-tooooo times,” she repeated to Aunt Tilley. “Then about 15 minutes later he yelled out thirty-fooooor times.” She sat on the couch and quickly stood up again. “I figure I’ll get him tomorrow,” Corine said as she removed the holstered .45 from her waistband, the object that had caused her discomfort when she first sat down.

“Oh, she’s got her gun,” Aunt Tilley said with amusement.

“I was tempted to shoot one of them crows,” Corine said, resting her elbows on her knees, leaning forward to look intently at Aunt Tilley. Then she turned and looked at me. “It’s such a sorrow seeing her slip away like this,” and I got a look at her soft green eyes, flawless complexion of rosewater and country cream, and slender hands bunched into fists that she rested her chin on.

“You going to shoot wild turkey with a pistol?” I asked her.

“Oh, no. I’ll have my rifle when the time’s ready.”

“She hunts wild hog, too,” Aunt Tilley said, her eyes more lively with adoration. “One of our own.”

A short conversation continued from that point on to Lewis and Uncle Vernon out bass fishing and how they’d be back soon. Corine said she’d better get home and take care of some things before it was time to start frying fish.”

“I must be getting lazy,” Aunt Tilley said. “I don’t like guttin’ and cleanin’ what they catch.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Corine said, her .45 now tucked into her backpack and headed for the door. She bent down and gave her aunt a long kiss on the cheek, gave a nod to both me and my friend, then headed out the door.

“Don’t like cleanin’ fish anymore,” Aunt Tilley repeated after she’d told Corine she loved her.

Two steps out of the door and Corine stopped, turned back and motioned for me to follow her outside.

If I hadn’t been mesmerized by the landscape and the people, I might have had my city sense about me and been scared. As it was, I felt as safe as a puppy tucked up close to a warm belly and followed Corine without thought.

“See that there,” she said, pointing to a four wheel ATV parked close to the front door. I nodded that I did. “That’s Uncle Vernon’s. He rides it every day all over these 60 acres.” I figured Tilley must’ve married a younger man when I heard that. “Yep,” Corine continued. “The man’s 98 years old and still out every day tending his land. But today’s bass fishing. I suspect he’ll bring home some good ones.” She planted a square and kindly look directly in my eye, smiled, and said it was nice meeting me, then headed off towards her car.

Ninety-eight?

My friend finished her visit with Aunt Tilley, then asked if she’d mind if I took some photos while she gathered poke salad from around the fences. Tilley told her to go ahead and help herself, then rose from her chair with a big, warm hug for my friend. She straightened up and pulled back a bit before extending a hand for a goodbye shake in my direction. Everything about her said she was glad to meet me, I was always welcome, but there would be no hug for an outsider just yet. Maybe next time, and she hoped that was soon.

As my friend wandered off to pick poke salad, I took a few photos and hated my camera. There was no way my miserable little piece of expensive electronics could capture the beauty, solitude, and fresh aroma of the people and land around me.

“You get some good pictures,” Tilley’s strong voice came from behind me, causing me to jump, “would you mind sending some up some?” She’d made her way out of the house and to the fence faster than I could have imagined. I told her I certainly would, but said I couldn’t promise to capture the beauty of the place.

“Beauty?” she said with a crisp chuckle. “This was my father’s land and used to be was nothing but trees everywhere so’s you couldn’t see a thing. We cleared it all away.”

“You mean these fields and pastures used to be forest?”

Guess I hadn’t spoken loudly enough because she turned and pointed to a large piece of land that was level and especially lush.”

“Used to be my garden there, every last bit of it. Don’t have a garden this year. You got a garden goin’? How’s it doin’?”

Before I could answer my friend came up the hill with two shopping bags overflowing with poke salad and suddenly everybody became a fluster of hands waving goodbye. I fluttered along with them and hit the road.

Once safely across the one-car bridge, I asked my friend if her uncle Vernon was really 98 years old. I was assured that he was, and that he took good care of his young wife Tilley, who was only 86.

“And they live up here all alone?” I asked, followed by a squeal as I nearly came out from behind the driver’s seat. “That’s a buffalo!” I said, pointing to a big hunk of humped back bovine.

“Yes,” my friend said calmly. “There’s some up here. Over there’s a long horn steer.”

“Wow,” I said. “Ted Turner would come out of his skin if he knew there were buffalo up here in the hills of Arkansas.”

Then I settled down a bit and paid attention to feeling the dirt road under my tires and guiding the car like I was sitting saddle on a horse.

No, Ted Turner wouldn’t come out of his skin because he’d never make it up this far. This was the land where hearty people who’d never heard of self-pity carved out their lives.

These were people made of the kind of love and acceptance only bitter struggle and the grace of survival create, the stuff that no amount of money or fame can ever claim.

This was pure gumption.

"F" Is For Fayetteville

I've been waiting for this since last fall and all through the longest, coldest winter I've ever known.  The locals have gotten a good giggle out of me saying this has been a cold winter because for them it was mild--only a few tornado warnings and two days of snow.  Snow?  I've seen that stuff plenty in the past, but I've never lived with it.  It was fun and interesting, but this California beach kid, then Vegas baby, wondered if it would ever end.  I don't even want to talk about the tornado warnings--it brings on a screaming case of the willies.  Anyway, it seems like it's taken forever, but tomorrow is the kick-off day of the Fayetville Farmers Market.  Got my freezer emptied of all those hearty winter foods and homebaked breads, my canning equipment clean and sterilized, and shiny new vases for all the pretty flowers on display.

The camera is cleaned up and ready to go, too.  No way is this photographer missing all those colors and activities. 

In Vegas, a person couldn't trust a Farmers Market.  It was the desert, for crying out loud, and the only real farming we had there was dairy.  Try selling that at the Market.  Lots of vendors loaded up at Costco or Sam's Club, then pushed off their goods as organic or locally grown.  We went a few times, looked at the offerings, and wondered just how dumb they thought we were.  Obviously, pretty dumb because business was brisk.  We stayed away from the corporate farmed produce and stuck to the healthy stuff, like the funnel cakes and kettle corn and sausage dogs offered at the food vans.

But here, this here is farm land, and the organic farmers are hanging on by their fingernails.  Last year I found out about the Market during the last few weeks before closing of the season, but still managed to bring home the most beautiful produce I've seen since I was a kid and California was still mostly farm land.  I must've opened the refrigerator six times a day, just so I could peek at the huge bowl of water I'd stuck my variety of goodies in and imagine my nutrient-starved cells vibrating in anticipation of good things to come.  Nothing smells better than fruits and veggies with clumps of earth still clinging to them.

Besides the Market, it gets me out of this little town with its oppressive gossip and hell-and-damnation brand of religion.  I often feel as if I'm walking on eggshells here for fear I'll break some hidden rule and forever be a social outcast, as I am now.  I've never been so lonely in my entire life.  People are extremely friendly to strangers and love to talks a bit, but close human relationships are severely limited by which church you go to and which side of the have and have-not line you fall on.  We're on the have-not side, but not so far over that we're part of the wretched poverty of these parts.  According to the 2010 Census, Arkansas is part of the circle encompassing the largest population living below the poverty line, yet we're the richest state in the entire South.  The circle of poverty ends as it reaches up to Bentonville, which is corporate headquarters for Wall Mart.  Head up that way and you'll see mansions that make Beverly Hills homes look like bungalows. An economic divide that deep is never good, but for now the state seems to be holding steady.

That's why I like Fayetteville and go there as often as possible.  It's not rich, it's not poor, it's a college town, and those are always full of energy, crisp thought, and diversity.  There's a hum in college towns that rides on the breath of hope and promises for the future.  They also tend towards yummy bistros with a lot of imaginative foods.  Born and raised in California, my first words were "mommy," "daddy," and "frijoles."  Just as Southerners know their "Q" I know my Mexican food, and the best I've ever had (no lie) was up in Fayetteville.  After I gather bright, fragrant flowers and whatever produce I stuff in my shopping bags, I'm heading back to that little cafe for some lunch.  I just hope my Spanish isn't so rusty I can't communicate with the waitresses.  

Another thing I like about Fayetteville is the variety of experiences you can have up there.  You want Southern country?  They got it.  You want suburban strip malls of concrete and trendy chains?  You got it.  You want big time college athletics?  You got it (go Hogs!).  It's a nice break from the homogenization that pervades small town life. There are plenty of benefits of the quiet of country living, and a charm to small town living, but at the moment I'm at the saturation point with both.  Give me some open road, a new destination, and some good eats.

The irony of this post is how many photos I could fill it up with, but not until after the fact.  Hopefully, I won't be too tuckered from the drive, the shopping, the chatting with the people, and the stuffing of the face, to edit and post photos tomorrow. 

Until then, I'm on cruise-control, just waiting for my day in Fayetteville and dreaming about the thrill my senses are about to have.

"E" Is For eBook

Physics tells us that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. One kid pumps her knees on the end of a teeter-totter, and the kid on the other end is sent falling back to earth. She then plants her feet, pumps her knees and it's the other little girl's turn for an earthbound journey, if, that is, both girls are of equal weight. None of this would happen without a fulcrum in the middle, balancing the two girl. In the world of writing, the fulcrum is technology, and the equal but opposite forces are the mega-stars of the publishing world and the mass of writers tired of the same old game of publishing, with the same old gatekeepers determining who will be read and who won't. This all adds up to the brave new world of eBooks, and the opportunity for any and all to self-publish their work.

Just as the two girls of equal weight create a tummy-tickling ride of ups and downs on the teeter-totter's fulcrum, the world of writing, and the people who practice the game, are now in for a tummy-tickling, sense dazzling, ride of ups and downs. Thank you technology for smashing down the gates. And who knows? It could turn out that the tag-along of self-publishing, readers ratings on web sites, could turn into the most effective global critique group ever known. This critique group has a public and powerful impact that sends the faint of heart running to other creative outlets, and the doggedly determined into a sweat for excellence.

Watch out world, there are new writers emerging with a writing style that will rock the written word, and they'll shape their punch with the input of people, not Suits in their Ivory Towers.

Let's give a cheer for the democratization of writing! Let's give an extra cheer for the freedom of writers writing for readers, instead of shriveled dinosaurs guarding crumbling gates!

Done cheering, now? Good, because that pump of the knees Free Agent writers have is calling on a whole new set of muscles, and the ride cycles though ups and downs at a tummy-hurling speed.  This isn't just my personal culture shock, it's a culture shock for all of us.

Old mazes of navigation from imagination of the writer's mind to the reader's have been shattered and new ones put in place. The old rules, such as keep turning left in a maze and you'll eventually get out, have changed, and those rules have yet to be understood. And instead of old dinosaurs threatening the creative lives of those who write, there are scam artists aplenty with a new set of deadly teeth we can't yet recognize. An over-eager writer can go bankrupt in a few click of their keyboards.

So what's a writer to do?

Exactly what we've always done—rely on each other. Network with other writers, share experiences and pitfalls. Lucky for us there are trailblazers, and they blog. Some excellent sources for information on ePublishing your eBook can be found   epublishbook.com and The Creative Penn which was voted one of the top blogs for writers 2010-11. There are links to services on these blogs for everything from copy editors to eBook designers (we're judging books by their covers more than ever as we continue shifting to an image-driven culture). And we share on our own blogs what we've learned along the way.

But the most important thing we can do in this new world of eBooks is keep writing. Keep having fun. Keep following our dreams and let our dreams grow ever bigger. The rest will fall into place.

Time Out From The Challenge

I'm new to blogger and testing it out with the A to Z Challenge.  So far, I like, I like.  But the point of this blog, the extreme culture shock of moving from Sin City (Las Vegas) to the Bible Belt (Arkansas), is a bit lost in the hunt of figuring out this platform. 

I'll get there, I promise, one day at a time.  Until then then, please pardon my dust during the remodeling.

"D" Is For Details

When we first moved to Nevada over 30 years ago, all I could see was dirt, rocks, cactus, and a raggedy city struggling for survival around the garish Strip. I saw hostile wasteland. When it rained, the only thing I smelled was dirt. Over time, my eye began distinguishing the differences between cactus and a flowering shrub well-adapted for the dry climate, a city growing out of the desert in harmony with its many colors and textures, and the rain released the fragrance of sage, rosemary, earth, and road oil. It took time for Nevada's details to emerge in my senses, and the more detail recognized, the more I felt at home, the more I fell in love.

Now in Arkansas for less than a year, I'm just beginning to see more than canyons of trees, water, water, water, and road kill along the highways. I see rivers, lakes, creeks, and bayous as I adapt to my surroundings and learn its details. I see a variety of trees with different shapes and seeds, and the thickets around them a staggering variety with details that are still a tangled mess and impossible to love.  I walk different now, keeping loose in I  the ankles, knees, and hips to keep my footing on this rugged terrain. I'm enjoying these changes my environment is bringing to my body and mind, and every chance I get I'm out hiking this varied landscape to experience more, change more, understand more and connect with this place where I now live. I want to fall in love with where I live, but I can't love what I don't yet know exists.

It's the same with writing. There are no plot twists if the reader isn't first drawn into the world of the writer's imagination and the circumstances of the character's lives. There are only senseless twists and loops that irritate the reader. They waste time--the most precious commodity we own because once spent it can never be regained--with characters they can't connect with emotionally or physically. The writing itself might be dazzling and the action smoking with speed, but if the reader doesn't inhabit the same world as the story, all those fancy tricks of the trade leave them saying, “What the..? and determined they'll never read anything you write again.

So am I suggesting the writer should overwhelm readers with endless detail? No. That's another quick and easy way to kill off readers. What I am suggesting is the author be so immersed in the details of the world and people they create that these elements tumble from their thoughts into the written word with clean, bold lines.

This may sound as if I've got a romanticized idea of the writing process. Nope. Been there, done that, won some major prizes, and had an agent. Just because I've known my stories and characters better than I know myself doesn't mean they've tumbled from my thoughts in clean, bold lines when I first sat down to write. Everything first splats on my computer screen and notepads, and my character take slapstick falls before they dance, and even more time before I know whether to direct them in a waltz or pop them into hip-hop. It's a brew without a recipe, but we know when we get it right, when we can serve it to others.

Writers need to know the details of our stories well enough to like it, love it, want to share it with others, but we can only introduce our readers to the people and worlds we love with a friendly handshake and a how-do-you-do.

It's up to us in determining whether the devil or God is in the details, and that takes time.  Time well invested so we won't squander the time of others.