Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Home Builders Show (Or: Friday Night)
Friday evening my husband surprised me by suggesting we grab dinner out and then go to Salem to the Home Builders Show.
I always enjoy the home builders show but he has never cared for it. I don't know why; maybe be he is in the business as one of his three jobs?
So off we went. The place was full of displays. I was amazed.
We looked at replacement window places because we are considering making that investment. Our 22-year-old windows leak badly and in the winter I know all the heat goes out the cracks. We have attempted to put up things to stop the draft but to no avail.
Another thing I would like to do is put in a walk-in shower. One with a seat. This is forward-thinking for when we are too old to get over the side of the tub. I figure we should go on and make the house relatively handicapped accessible before we need it, you know? An accessible bathroom is the missing piece.
The third thing I would like to do is add on a sun room. I don't think that will ever happen because my husband doesn't like sun rooms, mostly because he claims they always leak.
Barring that, I would like to get an outdoor shed because if I can't bring myself to throw junk out of the house, I would like to store it if nothing else. That isn't going to happen either, though.
Anyway, we looked at those kinds of things. We still haven't made up our minds on the windows but we did see a few things we liked and will investigate. That is the purpose of the Home Builder's Show. To bring in business at a later date.
After we left, we found ourselves in a police blockade on US 419 as we headed for the interstate. This was a sobriety check. It was pouring rain and the policemen were in yellow slickers checking licenses. Their little police hats were in plastic and water raced off their brims.
I have been driving for 30 years and this was the first time I'd ever been in a sobriety check. I guess we aren't out late enough or in the city at the right times. We miss all of the excitement.
I have a problem with sobriety checks and similar things because I think they are fundamentally un-American.
Of course we breezed through that without incident - neither of us drink. It rained very hard all the way.
And that was the end of our Friday night.
I always enjoy the home builders show but he has never cared for it. I don't know why; maybe be he is in the business as one of his three jobs?
So off we went. The place was full of displays. I was amazed.
We looked at replacement window places because we are considering making that investment. Our 22-year-old windows leak badly and in the winter I know all the heat goes out the cracks. We have attempted to put up things to stop the draft but to no avail.
Another thing I would like to do is put in a walk-in shower. One with a seat. This is forward-thinking for when we are too old to get over the side of the tub. I figure we should go on and make the house relatively handicapped accessible before we need it, you know? An accessible bathroom is the missing piece.
The third thing I would like to do is add on a sun room. I don't think that will ever happen because my husband doesn't like sun rooms, mostly because he claims they always leak.
Barring that, I would like to get an outdoor shed because if I can't bring myself to throw junk out of the house, I would like to store it if nothing else. That isn't going to happen either, though.
Anyway, we looked at those kinds of things. We still haven't made up our minds on the windows but we did see a few things we liked and will investigate. That is the purpose of the Home Builder's Show. To bring in business at a later date.
After we left, we found ourselves in a police blockade on US 419 as we headed for the interstate. This was a sobriety check. It was pouring rain and the policemen were in yellow slickers checking licenses. Their little police hats were in plastic and water raced off their brims.
I have been driving for 30 years and this was the first time I'd ever been in a sobriety check. I guess we aren't out late enough or in the city at the right times. We miss all of the excitement.
I have a problem with sobriety checks and similar things because I think they are fundamentally un-American.
Of course we breezed through that without incident - neither of us drink. It rained very hard all the way.
And that was the end of our Friday night.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Socks
I don't know how to darn a sock.
This thought came to me in the middle of the afternoon on this day, a Friday, when I was supposed to be working on the backlog of articles that await my attention.
Instead, I was cleaning out my husband's sock drawer.
We both have a lot of socks. We collect them. My husband in particular never wants me to throw out his hosiery.
So I was surprised yesterday when I sent him out on errands and he actually followed my suggestion to buy himself new socks. If he did, I told him, I would throw out every one of his old socks and replace them with new.
I actually had already purchased 12 pairs of new socks for my drawer with the intention of doing the same. I made that purchase three weeks ago and had left them in the bag because I hadn't found the time to dump my sock drawer.
I always feel guilty when I throw out old socks. Shouldn't I darn them, fix the holes, shore them up for reuse? Doesn't this make me one of the consumers, part of the disposable society?
Well, yes. But I don't know how to darn a sock. Nor do I have the time to learn. And when you think about how long you wear a sock, they're pretty cheap.
Old socks can be used for dust clothes or for stuffing a stuffed animal, or for an oil rag out in the garage. But generally I just throw them out because if I don't they end up back in the drawer.
If I were really keen to preserve and reuse, I would make a sock quilt out of them. "See, honey, that's the sock from that time you stepped into the pond when you were saving the cow and your boot came back all covered with black gunk that wouldn't come out. Remember?" I can see us now, in our 80s, recalling those fond times.
My husband's socks are filthy even after they've been washed three times. The man is a farmer and a fireman and he digs ditches (he does have those three jobs) and they are all dirty jobs. He grinds the dirt into his socks and no amount of bleach will get it all out.
His work boots also bleed color into his socks, so they often turn brown.
His socks get very thin quite quickly, too, and I have been remiss in not replacing them sooner.
Perhaps it was for this reason that he brought home 24 pairs of brand new socks yesterday.
And a few hours ago I dumped them in the wash (we wash everything before we wear it around here), and then I ignored the writing that beckoned me and headed for the sock drawers.
Because my husband is a hard-working man, and he deserves comfy socks on his well-worn feet.
This thought came to me in the middle of the afternoon on this day, a Friday, when I was supposed to be working on the backlog of articles that await my attention.
Instead, I was cleaning out my husband's sock drawer.
We both have a lot of socks. We collect them. My husband in particular never wants me to throw out his hosiery.
So I was surprised yesterday when I sent him out on errands and he actually followed my suggestion to buy himself new socks. If he did, I told him, I would throw out every one of his old socks and replace them with new.
I actually had already purchased 12 pairs of new socks for my drawer with the intention of doing the same. I made that purchase three weeks ago and had left them in the bag because I hadn't found the time to dump my sock drawer.
I always feel guilty when I throw out old socks. Shouldn't I darn them, fix the holes, shore them up for reuse? Doesn't this make me one of the consumers, part of the disposable society?
Well, yes. But I don't know how to darn a sock. Nor do I have the time to learn. And when you think about how long you wear a sock, they're pretty cheap.
Old socks can be used for dust clothes or for stuffing a stuffed animal, or for an oil rag out in the garage. But generally I just throw them out because if I don't they end up back in the drawer.
If I were really keen to preserve and reuse, I would make a sock quilt out of them. "See, honey, that's the sock from that time you stepped into the pond when you were saving the cow and your boot came back all covered with black gunk that wouldn't come out. Remember?" I can see us now, in our 80s, recalling those fond times.
My husband's socks are filthy even after they've been washed three times. The man is a farmer and a fireman and he digs ditches (he does have those three jobs) and they are all dirty jobs. He grinds the dirt into his socks and no amount of bleach will get it all out.
His work boots also bleed color into his socks, so they often turn brown.
His socks get very thin quite quickly, too, and I have been remiss in not replacing them sooner.
Perhaps it was for this reason that he brought home 24 pairs of brand new socks yesterday.
And a few hours ago I dumped them in the wash (we wash everything before we wear it around here), and then I ignored the writing that beckoned me and headed for the sock drawers.
Because my husband is a hard-working man, and he deserves comfy socks on his well-worn feet.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday Thirteen
1. Some days thinking of something for Thursday Thirteen seems next to impossible.
2. What can I write about that I haven't written about in the previous 90 entries?
3. Hmm.
4. I can't think of anything to put for the remaining sentences.
5. Okay, I will list the books on the bookshelf that I have yet to read.
6. Wish You Well, by David Baldacci
7. Where I Want to Be, by Adele Griffin
8. The Hex Witch of Seldom, by Nancy Springer
9. The High City, by Cecelia Holland
10. A New Earth, by Eckhart Tolle
11. The Shock Doctrine, by Naomi Klein
12. The Dragon's Son, by Mararet Weis
13. Quentins, by Maeve Binchy.
Not the best TT I've ever done, that's certain!
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 91st one.
2. What can I write about that I haven't written about in the previous 90 entries?
3. Hmm.
4. I can't think of anything to put for the remaining sentences.
5. Okay, I will list the books on the bookshelf that I have yet to read.
6. Wish You Well, by David Baldacci
7. Where I Want to Be, by Adele Griffin
8. The Hex Witch of Seldom, by Nancy Springer
9. The High City, by Cecelia Holland
10. A New Earth, by Eckhart Tolle
11. The Shock Doctrine, by Naomi Klein
12. The Dragon's Son, by Mararet Weis
13. Quentins, by Maeve Binchy.
Not the best TT I've ever done, that's certain!
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 91st one.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Mark your calendar
In light of recent interest in a bloggers meet up, I propose May 7 at 1 p.m. at Bellacino's in Daleville.
Bellacino's is easy to get to. It's about a mile or so away from Interstate 81 at Exit 150 on US 220. I can give directions if anyone needs them.
They serve pizza and grinders and the food is good. I'm afraid its buy your own, though.
This is a meet and greet, nothing formal.
We'll meet and talk blogging and local stuff and go from there!
Diane at Blue Ridge Gal says she will be there, too.
I look forward to seeing you!
Bellacino's is easy to get to. It's about a mile or so away from Interstate 81 at Exit 150 on US 220. I can give directions if anyone needs them.
They serve pizza and grinders and the food is good. I'm afraid its buy your own, though.
This is a meet and greet, nothing formal.
We'll meet and talk blogging and local stuff and go from there!
Diane at Blue Ridge Gal says she will be there, too.
I look forward to seeing you!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
99 Red Balloons
Saturday morning when I went out to get the newspaper, I found a red balloon in the side yard.
Obviously it had drifted down from the heavens after being a decoration at a party.
Maybe the party was 50 miles away or next door. I had no way to know.
Other balloons were tied to the string and the lone survivor vainly attempted to hoist its deflated companions back into the sky.
I really wanted to release the red balloon from its tether and send it back out from whence it came. But I didn't because released balloons, particularly ones with strings on them, are bad for the environment. Animals can get caught in the strings and the plastic certainly doesn't degrade well.
So I carried the balloon into the garage, where I left it to deflate on its own.
Balloons make me sad because they yearn so much to be free and to fly off. They don't want to stay trapped on the earth, bound to a string. They want to visit the clouds and float above the ground, seeing trees, houses and cars from a totally different vantage point.
So I could not pop the balloon and throw it in the trash. Instead I left it and found it completely deflated the next morning.
Now I keep thinking of the words to the song 99 Red Balloons.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
The Local Locals
I know of a number of different bloggers from my county; I have met six of them. That doesn't count some business bloggers, either. If I count those there are more.
I know there are others, but maybe they don't mention their location (which is how I usually find local bloggers) or for some other reason their blog just doesn't come up in search.
The local bloggers that I have met in person are:
landuvmilknhoney
Brambleberry blog
Summit Manor
Gracefully Bound
The Blue Ridge Gal (just met her Friday!)
Destiny Booze
I think there are only three bloggers on my Botetourt list that I have not met.
Aside from the bloggers listed on my sidebar, local business bloggers are Botetourt Foot Doctor (a local podiatrist; a good read if you have trouble with your feet), and the Botetourt Paranormal Society (some spooky sort of folks). I have met the people behind these two blogs, too.
To be fair I have to mention the Roanoke Times Botetourt View blog; the author of that, which they call The Notebook, is a good friend (and competitor) of mine who also lives out here.
That's a lot of people I have met personally who blog. A lot of local blogs, too, though really not so many given that we have 32,000 people in this county now.
To my knowledge, few of the bloggers are what you might consider real "locals."
About 2/3 of the people who live here now aren't from here originally. They moved in from elsewhere, from the northern states or the western states or from somewhere in the valley.
To the real locals, unless your momma and granny lived here too, you're not a local. That's as true for folks who moved here 40 years ago as the ones who just got here yesterday.
I am not a true local even though my grandfather grew up on a farm at the foot of Caldwell Mountain and I can trace my ancestors back to 1790 or some such. That's because for a little while my mother's family lived in Salem and didn't stay in the county. My mother and father returned here in 1969, when I was seven years old. I consider myself local, though, even if I lack the full pedigree.
I was saddened today to read a comment from one of the area bloggers about local folks not being very welcoming. The blogger said she had yet to make friends with folks in the area.
I don't know how long this person has been here, but I don't doubt for a moment what she says. I haven't lived anywhere else as an adult so I can't say how folks make friends in other places, but making friends here is difficult.
It's hard even if you know people already and went to school here. And it is particularly hard if like me you're rather introverted and shy and not prone to making the first move.
Unless you go to church, there simply aren't a lot of places to go and meet people. Many of the folks I know because of my work.
That's one reason I enjoy blogging. It opens up a whole new world of friends, and some of them I get to meet in person. And while I may never meet some of you, there you are. Truthfully it's a comfort to know that you are out there, too (because I never imagine that you're reading me because you're up to no good).
Some folks must read my blog and never leave a comment, based on my stat numbers, and that's okay. I hope I entertain you, if nothing else. I consider my unknown visitors my secret friends.
The folks who do comment bring a smile to my face. Frequent commenters make me feel warm and fuzzy when I see their names on my posts. It's the cyberspace equivalent of having somebody drop in for tea!
If you're a local blogger I hope you point me toward your blog so I can read your work, too, if I don't already. I greatly enjoy reading other people's take on life in our area.
And I hope I get to meet you in person. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll really be dropping in for tea!
I know there are others, but maybe they don't mention their location (which is how I usually find local bloggers) or for some other reason their blog just doesn't come up in search.
The local bloggers that I have met in person are:
landuvmilknhoney
Brambleberry blog
Summit Manor
Gracefully Bound
The Blue Ridge Gal (just met her Friday!)
Destiny Booze
I think there are only three bloggers on my Botetourt list that I have not met.
Aside from the bloggers listed on my sidebar, local business bloggers are Botetourt Foot Doctor (a local podiatrist; a good read if you have trouble with your feet), and the Botetourt Paranormal Society (some spooky sort of folks). I have met the people behind these two blogs, too.
To be fair I have to mention the Roanoke Times Botetourt View blog; the author of that, which they call The Notebook, is a good friend (and competitor) of mine who also lives out here.
That's a lot of people I have met personally who blog. A lot of local blogs, too, though really not so many given that we have 32,000 people in this county now.
To my knowledge, few of the bloggers are what you might consider real "locals."
About 2/3 of the people who live here now aren't from here originally. They moved in from elsewhere, from the northern states or the western states or from somewhere in the valley.
To the real locals, unless your momma and granny lived here too, you're not a local. That's as true for folks who moved here 40 years ago as the ones who just got here yesterday.
I am not a true local even though my grandfather grew up on a farm at the foot of Caldwell Mountain and I can trace my ancestors back to 1790 or some such. That's because for a little while my mother's family lived in Salem and didn't stay in the county. My mother and father returned here in 1969, when I was seven years old. I consider myself local, though, even if I lack the full pedigree.
I was saddened today to read a comment from one of the area bloggers about local folks not being very welcoming. The blogger said she had yet to make friends with folks in the area.
I don't know how long this person has been here, but I don't doubt for a moment what she says. I haven't lived anywhere else as an adult so I can't say how folks make friends in other places, but making friends here is difficult.
It's hard even if you know people already and went to school here. And it is particularly hard if like me you're rather introverted and shy and not prone to making the first move.
Unless you go to church, there simply aren't a lot of places to go and meet people. Many of the folks I know because of my work.
That's one reason I enjoy blogging. It opens up a whole new world of friends, and some of them I get to meet in person. And while I may never meet some of you, there you are. Truthfully it's a comfort to know that you are out there, too (because I never imagine that you're reading me because you're up to no good).
Some folks must read my blog and never leave a comment, based on my stat numbers, and that's okay. I hope I entertain you, if nothing else. I consider my unknown visitors my secret friends.
The folks who do comment bring a smile to my face. Frequent commenters make me feel warm and fuzzy when I see their names on my posts. It's the cyberspace equivalent of having somebody drop in for tea!
If you're a local blogger I hope you point me toward your blog so I can read your work, too, if I don't already. I greatly enjoy reading other people's take on life in our area.
And I hope I get to meet you in person. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll really be dropping in for tea!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Happy Birthday Grandma
Today is my paternal grandmother's birthday.
She is 89.
My Grandma B. lives in California. I haven't seen her since 1987 or thereabouts.
Before that, I saw her only a few times. She and my grandfather left Virginia during my first year of life and headed west in hopes of finding greener pastures.
All of my father's family went with them, except him. He stayed here. I don't know why.
Anyway, until I was 10 years old, my father's parents were folks I talked to on the phone a few times a year. They were people who sent me somewhat inappropriate Christmas gifts (because of course they knew nothing of who I was or what I liked to do.)
They visited when I was 10 and stayed several weeks. My grandmother and I did not connect as well as my grandpa and I did. Grandpa and I were cut from the same cloth, so to speak.
Grandma has a very loud voice and she likes to talk. She also likes to read and stay to herself. She was always nice to me, though.
When I was 12, my father drove us out to California to visit his family out there. The trip was long and when we arrived the family was in turmoil because one of my teenage cousins had run away from home. Again.
Unfortunately I have not been back since and I don't know when I might return. These days, since I have so much trouble with my ear (pain, dizziness, nausea) when I am driving up a mountain, I am afraid to fly. I can only imagine what that would do to me.
My grandparents returned again in 1981. They arrived in March and planned to stay through June to see my graduation from high school. I was very excited about that. Then after about two weeks my grandmother announced they had to go home. The reason she gave was because she was afraid no one was cutting the grass at the house.
Really, she was sick I think but I didn't know that. I was very hurt and quite unhappy with this particular state of affairs. Being 17 and thinking 17-year-old thoughts, I took it quite personally.
My grandparents returned again in 1987 and met my husband for the first time. That is the last time I saw them. My grandfather passed away two years later.
I called my grandmother yesterday to wish her happy birthday. I used to call quite frequently but in recent years she's been unable to hear me. She still lives alone so unless I think my uncle might be there I don't call. Instead I send her cards and letters and copies of the newspaper when we have a special edition and I've written lots of stories.
She was feeling pretty perky yesterday and she answered the phone herself. She said she could hear me fine. We talked for 45 minutes.
So Happy Birthday, Grandma B! I hope you have a great day.
She is 89.
My Grandma B. lives in California. I haven't seen her since 1987 or thereabouts.
Before that, I saw her only a few times. She and my grandfather left Virginia during my first year of life and headed west in hopes of finding greener pastures.
All of my father's family went with them, except him. He stayed here. I don't know why.
Anyway, until I was 10 years old, my father's parents were folks I talked to on the phone a few times a year. They were people who sent me somewhat inappropriate Christmas gifts (because of course they knew nothing of who I was or what I liked to do.)
They visited when I was 10 and stayed several weeks. My grandmother and I did not connect as well as my grandpa and I did. Grandpa and I were cut from the same cloth, so to speak.
Grandma has a very loud voice and she likes to talk. She also likes to read and stay to herself. She was always nice to me, though.
When I was 12, my father drove us out to California to visit his family out there. The trip was long and when we arrived the family was in turmoil because one of my teenage cousins had run away from home. Again.
Unfortunately I have not been back since and I don't know when I might return. These days, since I have so much trouble with my ear (pain, dizziness, nausea) when I am driving up a mountain, I am afraid to fly. I can only imagine what that would do to me.
My grandparents returned again in 1981. They arrived in March and planned to stay through June to see my graduation from high school. I was very excited about that. Then after about two weeks my grandmother announced they had to go home. The reason she gave was because she was afraid no one was cutting the grass at the house.
Really, she was sick I think but I didn't know that. I was very hurt and quite unhappy with this particular state of affairs. Being 17 and thinking 17-year-old thoughts, I took it quite personally.
My grandparents returned again in 1987 and met my husband for the first time. That is the last time I saw them. My grandfather passed away two years later.
I called my grandmother yesterday to wish her happy birthday. I used to call quite frequently but in recent years she's been unable to hear me. She still lives alone so unless I think my uncle might be there I don't call. Instead I send her cards and letters and copies of the newspaper when we have a special edition and I've written lots of stories.
She was feeling pretty perky yesterday and she answered the phone herself. She said she could hear me fine. We talked for 45 minutes.
So Happy Birthday, Grandma B! I hope you have a great day.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday Thirteen
Places within driving distance of my home that I'd like to visit:
1. The Greenbrier. I really want to see the bunker where the bigwigs would have holed up during an apocalypse.
2. Richmond. I haven't been to the state capital since I was 11 years old. I would like to tour the Capital building, see some civil war sites, visit museums, and see the Hollywood Cemetery.
3. Mill Mountain Zoo. The zoo is in Roanoke, and I'm only 20 minutes from it. I haven't been since I was a child, though. I would like to visit it sometime this year just for fun.
4. Natural Bridge Zoo. Just because I've never been there.
5. Attend the Highland Maple Festival. It is this weekend and I've never been, and I won't get to go this year, either. But can't you just taste pancakes with fresh maple syrup on them? Yum.
6. Virginia Festival of the Book. This is also going on right now, and once again I won't be attending. This always sneaks up on me. Since it occurs in March when I am either working on a special edition for the paper or sick, I don't know when I will get to go.
7. Mount Vernon. The home of George Washington. I've seen Monticello and would like to see this as well.
8. Cass Scenic Railroad in West Virginia. I have heard about this and it sounds like fun. It's a steam locomotive!
9. Big Stone Gap. Mostly because I love Adriana Trigiani's books about the place.
10. The Swinging Bridge Restaurant in Paint Bank.
11. Visit the Library of Congress. Okay, so Washington D.C. is a bit of a drive, but it's doable.
12. While I am in D.C., I should visit the Smithsonian.
13. And finally, I would like to tour Dixie Caverns. It's located just outside of Salem and I haven't been in the caves since I was a child.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 90th one.
1. The Greenbrier. I really want to see the bunker where the bigwigs would have holed up during an apocalypse.
2. Richmond. I haven't been to the state capital since I was 11 years old. I would like to tour the Capital building, see some civil war sites, visit museums, and see the Hollywood Cemetery.
3. Mill Mountain Zoo. The zoo is in Roanoke, and I'm only 20 minutes from it. I haven't been since I was a child, though. I would like to visit it sometime this year just for fun.
4. Natural Bridge Zoo. Just because I've never been there.
5. Attend the Highland Maple Festival. It is this weekend and I've never been, and I won't get to go this year, either. But can't you just taste pancakes with fresh maple syrup on them? Yum.
6. Virginia Festival of the Book. This is also going on right now, and once again I won't be attending. This always sneaks up on me. Since it occurs in March when I am either working on a special edition for the paper or sick, I don't know when I will get to go.
7. Mount Vernon. The home of George Washington. I've seen Monticello and would like to see this as well.
8. Cass Scenic Railroad in West Virginia. I have heard about this and it sounds like fun. It's a steam locomotive!
9. Big Stone Gap. Mostly because I love Adriana Trigiani's books about the place.
10. The Swinging Bridge Restaurant in Paint Bank.
11. Visit the Library of Congress. Okay, so Washington D.C. is a bit of a drive, but it's doable.
12. While I am in D.C., I should visit the Smithsonian.
13. And finally, I would like to tour Dixie Caverns. It's located just outside of Salem and I haven't been in the caves since I was a child.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 90th one.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Adventures in Reporting #1
A few weeks ago I was telling someone that I have been a news reporter of some kind since 1985.
"I bet you have some stories to tell," the person said.
And I do. Only I rarely tell them.
However I thought I might offer up some of the more interesting things that have happened in my work. The stories that have stuck with me.
These are the things that never make print. Not secrets, because I don't tell the secrets, but things I've seen and done and people I have interacted with.
I'm not going to write about anything current, so if I've interviewed you lately, don't worry! I also won't use real names. But this is a small area and it might not take much detail for someone to figure out who someone is.
This first story has recently came to mind, so I am going to relay it.
The Interview with Ms. Rose
Many years ago I went to interview one of the local historians for a story one afternoon. It was a sunny day in March. The birds were singing and daffodils were blooming. Spring was upon us.
Ms. Rose, as I shall call her, had in the past let me know that she did not like me very much. We'd had a falling out many years ago over some historic preservation issues. I once was quite active in historic preservation and similar activities (I am not active in those things now though I remain quite interested in them.). We had disagreed on certain aspects of some things going on at the time which I won't go into in an effort to be vague.
In any event, I had let it be known through various channels that I harbored no hard feelings and hoped she felt the same way. It took a little while but things between us had mended to the point where I was not uncomfortable with the idea of meeting to do a story on her pet project at the time.
Her house in one of our local small towns was a piece of history itself and I stood outside for a few minutes admiring the architecture and enjoying her flowers before knocking on the door. She was waiting. Papers were strewn across the table and books filled with information that she thought I might need for my story were piled on the kitchen counter.
Ms. Rose was a large woman with a powerful voice and keen, piercing eyes. She was never wrong about anything, either. Least ways, not that she would admit to someone like me.
We sat down to talk and as I took notes and asked questions I became aware of a change that came over Ms. Rose.
She started stumbling over her words and she leaned a little to one side. She couldn't complete a sentence and seemed to be having trouble connecting her thoughts.
"Ms. Rose, are you okay?" I said, setting aside my notebook and camera. "Do you feel alright?"
She laughed shakily and asked me why I asked. "You're missing some words," I said. "This isn't like you."
"I think it's my blood sugar," she replied. "I just need some juice."
Visions of Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias flashed through my mind as I hurried to the refrigerator. I took a glass from the dish drain and poured her juice and hustled it back to her.
She drank it and shortly thereafter she seemed to be better. Not quite her old self, but better.
However, she still was leaning a little to one side, and while the slurring of her words wasn't as pronounced, it was still there.
I could not continue the interview because I was so worried about her. I thought she should go to the doctor or the hospital and said so. I offered to take her myself.
She said she was fine and that she thought maybe she just needed to lie down. She cut me off mid-sentence as I attempted to cajole her into seeing the doctor and told me to leave.
Ms. Rose's forceful personality told me she would broach no more nonsense from me, so I didn't argue perhaps like I should have.
I know I suggested again that she see her doctor before she closed the door behind me.
I was rather shaken myself as I drove home because I knew something wasn't right. I worried about leaving Ms. Rose because she did not have family close. I knew no one would check on her for a long time.
When I arrived home, I decided to call her stepson, since I knew who he was and I thought he was the closest family in the area (this was before I had a cellphone). I left a message for him on his machine. I told him what had happened and asked him to check on his stepmother. I wasn't sure he would; the word on the street indicated strained relations there.
Late that evening, when I'd heard nothing from the stepson (I thought he would at least call, but he never did), I phoned Ms. Rose.
There was no answer, and I feared the worse.
I called back intending to leave a message telling her that I was on my way into town to check on her when she picked up the phone.
I told her I had been worried about her and so was calling to see if she was okay.
"After you left, I thought about what you said and I drove myself to the doctor," she told me (fortunately that was only three blocks away). "He thinks I might have had just a little stroke. Nothing serious, though."
I was stunned. I had never seen someone have a stroke before, and I hope I never do again. To be sure, I had feared that might be the case, but then the juice had seemed to help and I couldn't be sure. I didn't have much experience with blood sugar issues, either so I didn't know the difference.
I wrote the story from the notes I'd taken before she began slurring her words and from a follow-up telephone call, I think.
Ms. Rose did not suffer damage from this small stroke that I was aware of, but not long after that she began losing weight. A year or so later, when she died from a fall, she had dwindled down to next to nothing.
I have often wondered if the stroke affected her appetite.
I also have wished I'd had the fortitude to order her into my car so I could have driven her to the doctor myself. Maybe those few minutes would have made some difference in her life, but I suppose there is no way to know.
Anyway, that's the story of the day I interviewed Ms. Rose and learned that I am not very good in a medical crisis.
"I bet you have some stories to tell," the person said.
And I do. Only I rarely tell them.
However I thought I might offer up some of the more interesting things that have happened in my work. The stories that have stuck with me.
These are the things that never make print. Not secrets, because I don't tell the secrets, but things I've seen and done and people I have interacted with.
I'm not going to write about anything current, so if I've interviewed you lately, don't worry! I also won't use real names. But this is a small area and it might not take much detail for someone to figure out who someone is.
This first story has recently came to mind, so I am going to relay it.
The Interview with Ms. Rose
Many years ago I went to interview one of the local historians for a story one afternoon. It was a sunny day in March. The birds were singing and daffodils were blooming. Spring was upon us.
Ms. Rose, as I shall call her, had in the past let me know that she did not like me very much. We'd had a falling out many years ago over some historic preservation issues. I once was quite active in historic preservation and similar activities (I am not active in those things now though I remain quite interested in them.). We had disagreed on certain aspects of some things going on at the time which I won't go into in an effort to be vague.
In any event, I had let it be known through various channels that I harbored no hard feelings and hoped she felt the same way. It took a little while but things between us had mended to the point where I was not uncomfortable with the idea of meeting to do a story on her pet project at the time.
Her house in one of our local small towns was a piece of history itself and I stood outside for a few minutes admiring the architecture and enjoying her flowers before knocking on the door. She was waiting. Papers were strewn across the table and books filled with information that she thought I might need for my story were piled on the kitchen counter.
Ms. Rose was a large woman with a powerful voice and keen, piercing eyes. She was never wrong about anything, either. Least ways, not that she would admit to someone like me.
We sat down to talk and as I took notes and asked questions I became aware of a change that came over Ms. Rose.
She started stumbling over her words and she leaned a little to one side. She couldn't complete a sentence and seemed to be having trouble connecting her thoughts.
"Ms. Rose, are you okay?" I said, setting aside my notebook and camera. "Do you feel alright?"
She laughed shakily and asked me why I asked. "You're missing some words," I said. "This isn't like you."
"I think it's my blood sugar," she replied. "I just need some juice."
Visions of Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias flashed through my mind as I hurried to the refrigerator. I took a glass from the dish drain and poured her juice and hustled it back to her.
She drank it and shortly thereafter she seemed to be better. Not quite her old self, but better.
However, she still was leaning a little to one side, and while the slurring of her words wasn't as pronounced, it was still there.
I could not continue the interview because I was so worried about her. I thought she should go to the doctor or the hospital and said so. I offered to take her myself.
She said she was fine and that she thought maybe she just needed to lie down. She cut me off mid-sentence as I attempted to cajole her into seeing the doctor and told me to leave.
Ms. Rose's forceful personality told me she would broach no more nonsense from me, so I didn't argue perhaps like I should have.
I know I suggested again that she see her doctor before she closed the door behind me.
I was rather shaken myself as I drove home because I knew something wasn't right. I worried about leaving Ms. Rose because she did not have family close. I knew no one would check on her for a long time.
When I arrived home, I decided to call her stepson, since I knew who he was and I thought he was the closest family in the area (this was before I had a cellphone). I left a message for him on his machine. I told him what had happened and asked him to check on his stepmother. I wasn't sure he would; the word on the street indicated strained relations there.
Late that evening, when I'd heard nothing from the stepson (I thought he would at least call, but he never did), I phoned Ms. Rose.
There was no answer, and I feared the worse.
I called back intending to leave a message telling her that I was on my way into town to check on her when she picked up the phone.
I told her I had been worried about her and so was calling to see if she was okay.
"After you left, I thought about what you said and I drove myself to the doctor," she told me (fortunately that was only three blocks away). "He thinks I might have had just a little stroke. Nothing serious, though."
I was stunned. I had never seen someone have a stroke before, and I hope I never do again. To be sure, I had feared that might be the case, but then the juice had seemed to help and I couldn't be sure. I didn't have much experience with blood sugar issues, either so I didn't know the difference.
I wrote the story from the notes I'd taken before she began slurring her words and from a follow-up telephone call, I think.
Ms. Rose did not suffer damage from this small stroke that I was aware of, but not long after that she began losing weight. A year or so later, when she died from a fall, she had dwindled down to next to nothing.
I have often wondered if the stroke affected her appetite.
I also have wished I'd had the fortitude to order her into my car so I could have driven her to the doctor myself. Maybe those few minutes would have made some difference in her life, but I suppose there is no way to know.
Anyway, that's the story of the day I interviewed Ms. Rose and learned that I am not very good in a medical crisis.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Books: The Grand Finale
The Grand Finale
by Janet Evanovich
246 pages
Copyright 1988
Stephanie Plum as pizza shop owner, without mystery and more romance, is the way I would characterize this early Janet Evanovich book.
Berry (what is with the fruit names?) owns a pizza shop. She's young, trying to get through school, just hired three old ladies who moved in with her (think Grandma in the Stephanie Plum books), and has no time to fall in love.
She falls at the feet of Jake when she's rescuing a kitty from a tree.
Lack of communication keeps them apart, etc. etc., follow the formula.
Easy reading, good for a rainy day when you don't want to think but your eyes need to move.
by Janet Evanovich
246 pages
Copyright 1988
Stephanie Plum as pizza shop owner, without mystery and more romance, is the way I would characterize this early Janet Evanovich book.
Berry (what is with the fruit names?) owns a pizza shop. She's young, trying to get through school, just hired three old ladies who moved in with her (think Grandma in the Stephanie Plum books), and has no time to fall in love.
She falls at the feet of Jake when she's rescuing a kitty from a tree.
Lack of communication keeps them apart, etc. etc., follow the formula.
Easy reading, good for a rainy day when you don't want to think but your eyes need to move.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Miscellaneous Monday
I spent the weekend trying to be quiet and relax. I understand that is good for the ol' blood pressure.
This morning, I looked out the window and spied a few does roaming around the backyard in the rain and fog.
So I grabbed the Nikon.
This deer bolted when I opened the door.
These looked at me for a moment before vanishing in the mist themselves.
This is a shot to show the greening grass in the snow. We had a little dusting on Friday and I liked the way the white snow and the grass looked together.
After three different medication changes, I am hopeful that my blood pressure is on the verge of being regulated by medications. This morning I had my best reading yet, though it is still a little high.
I am also cautiously reporting that I have lost a little weight, according to the Wii Fit, anyway. Not anything to brag about but my pants feel loose. After playing on the video game for 80 days, I am glad to have accomplished something productive with it.
This morning, I looked out the window and spied a few does roaming around the backyard in the rain and fog.
So I grabbed the Nikon.
This deer bolted when I opened the door.
These looked at me for a moment before vanishing in the mist themselves.
This is a shot to show the greening grass in the snow. We had a little dusting on Friday and I liked the way the white snow and the grass looked together.
After three different medication changes, I am hopeful that my blood pressure is on the verge of being regulated by medications. This morning I had my best reading yet, though it is still a little high.
I am also cautiously reporting that I have lost a little weight, according to the Wii Fit, anyway. Not anything to brag about but my pants feel loose. After playing on the video game for 80 days, I am glad to have accomplished something productive with it.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Book: On Bear Mountain
On Bear Mountain
By Deborah Smith
Read by Dick Hill & Susie Breck
Copyright 2001
6 hours
This was an interesting romance-type but not novel.
Richard Ricconi is a New York starving artist who gets a break when a wealthy old woman in the Appalachian Mountains commissions a metal sculpture of a bear from him.
His son, Quinten, doesn't understand the allure of his father's art.
Meanwhile, back on Bear Creek, the old woman's family hates the sculpture, which as been placed on the college campus the family formed long ago. Tom Powell, a cousin, doesn't hate the sculpture but loves it, and when the old woman dies he buys it off the college for $200.
That was money that should have gone to the doctor to care for his wife. His daughter, Ursula, grows up with a love/hate relationship for the bear.
Nearly 30 years later, Ursula and Quinten come together under the power of the bear and the legends of the Appalachian lands.
3.5 stars
By Deborah Smith
Read by Dick Hill & Susie Breck
Copyright 2001
6 hours
This was an interesting romance-type but not novel.
Richard Ricconi is a New York starving artist who gets a break when a wealthy old woman in the Appalachian Mountains commissions a metal sculpture of a bear from him.
His son, Quinten, doesn't understand the allure of his father's art.
Meanwhile, back on Bear Creek, the old woman's family hates the sculpture, which as been placed on the college campus the family formed long ago. Tom Powell, a cousin, doesn't hate the sculpture but loves it, and when the old woman dies he buys it off the college for $200.
That was money that should have gone to the doctor to care for his wife. His daughter, Ursula, grows up with a love/hate relationship for the bear.
Nearly 30 years later, Ursula and Quinten come together under the power of the bear and the legends of the Appalachian lands.
3.5 stars
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday Thirteen
What I like about Spring:
1. The colorful parade of blooming things.
2. Cute little baby deer.
3. Tree frogs on my back door singing to the moon.
4. Warm breezes (and then cool breezes when it is hot!)
5. A glowing sun bringing heat and renewal.
6. The green leaves of the forest.
7. The change of light as sun and clouds move across a springtime sky.
8. The smell of grass being cut and of flowers blooming (even if I am highly allergic).
9. The crisp morning air.
10. No need to wear a coat!
11. Cooking out on the grill.
12. Butterflies!
13. The feeling of rebirth, renewal and rejoicing that comes to the heart as the season changes.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 89th one.
**The photos are all from 2006 and 2007.
1. The colorful parade of blooming things.
2. Cute little baby deer.
3. Tree frogs on my back door singing to the moon.
4. Warm breezes (and then cool breezes when it is hot!)
5. A glowing sun bringing heat and renewal.
6. The green leaves of the forest.
7. The change of light as sun and clouds move across a springtime sky.
8. The smell of grass being cut and of flowers blooming (even if I am highly allergic).
9. The crisp morning air.
10. No need to wear a coat!
11. Cooking out on the grill.
12. Butterflies!
13. The feeling of rebirth, renewal and rejoicing that comes to the heart as the season changes.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 89th one.
**The photos are all from 2006 and 2007.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
I'm missing you
When I was three or four years old, I had imaginary friends.
I suppose many youngsters do. It must be fairly common or there would not be a song called Puff the Magic Dragon, which for those who don't know is about Jackie Paper, a little boy who had an imaginary dragon friend until he reaches a certain age.
In any event, I had not one but a series of imaginary playmates.
Davy, for instance, was a troublemaker. If something bad happened and I was assessed the blame, I promptly told my mother that I didn't do it - Davy did. Broken vase? Davy did it. Outside when I was supposed to be in the house? Davy made me go out to play.
Davy was a bad boy.
Jamie was my friend and companion. He played with me on the swings and in the sandbox. He was VERY good.
(My mother later told me, when I married a man named James, that she wondered long ago if I was having visions of my future, but that's another blog entry.)
I had one female playmate, but I seldom mentioned her to anyone. Her name was Sister. I had to hide her because my mother was pregnant about this time with my brother. When I said I wanted a sister, I was reprimanded.
My parents wanted a boy.
So I took Sister into hiding. Sister heard my deepest, darkest secrets. If I was lonely in the night, Sister comforted me. If I was sad, Sister patted me on the shoulder. If I needed to talk, Sister listened.
Sister stood by me when my little brother came home and helped me watch over him. Or so I imagine today, anyway. I really can't recall since I was only three.
There were times when I longed so hard for a real sister, for the confidant that I felt came only with having a sister, that I cried in despair. It was as if I were missing a part of myself.
These days I infrequently feel that same longing, a desperate yearning for . . . something. An indescribable kind of despair and grief that suddenly washes over me in a quiet moment. If someone were to ask me about it, I could only say, "I am missing my sister." But since I've never had a sister, I know that isn't right, though the description rings true.
Sometimes the longing for someone to talk to, someone who would understand everything, is so great that it makes my heart weep, even if my eyes stay dry. It's so intense at times that I have occasionally wondered if there was an unborn twin in my mother's womb with me.
It's a hole that I fill with my husband, my in-laws, my friends - sometimes just words on a blog. Sometimes it seems impossible to fill, but then it's a new day and the longing goes away.
Sometimes I think I must be a little crazy, missing someone who never was and something I never had.
Does it make any sense to you?
I suppose many youngsters do. It must be fairly common or there would not be a song called Puff the Magic Dragon, which for those who don't know is about Jackie Paper, a little boy who had an imaginary dragon friend until he reaches a certain age.
In any event, I had not one but a series of imaginary playmates.
Davy, for instance, was a troublemaker. If something bad happened and I was assessed the blame, I promptly told my mother that I didn't do it - Davy did. Broken vase? Davy did it. Outside when I was supposed to be in the house? Davy made me go out to play.
Davy was a bad boy.
Jamie was my friend and companion. He played with me on the swings and in the sandbox. He was VERY good.
(My mother later told me, when I married a man named James, that she wondered long ago if I was having visions of my future, but that's another blog entry.)
I had one female playmate, but I seldom mentioned her to anyone. Her name was Sister. I had to hide her because my mother was pregnant about this time with my brother. When I said I wanted a sister, I was reprimanded.
My parents wanted a boy.
So I took Sister into hiding. Sister heard my deepest, darkest secrets. If I was lonely in the night, Sister comforted me. If I was sad, Sister patted me on the shoulder. If I needed to talk, Sister listened.
Sister stood by me when my little brother came home and helped me watch over him. Or so I imagine today, anyway. I really can't recall since I was only three.
There were times when I longed so hard for a real sister, for the confidant that I felt came only with having a sister, that I cried in despair. It was as if I were missing a part of myself.
These days I infrequently feel that same longing, a desperate yearning for . . . something. An indescribable kind of despair and grief that suddenly washes over me in a quiet moment. If someone were to ask me about it, I could only say, "I am missing my sister." But since I've never had a sister, I know that isn't right, though the description rings true.
Sometimes the longing for someone to talk to, someone who would understand everything, is so great that it makes my heart weep, even if my eyes stay dry. It's so intense at times that I have occasionally wondered if there was an unborn twin in my mother's womb with me.
It's a hole that I fill with my husband, my in-laws, my friends - sometimes just words on a blog. Sometimes it seems impossible to fill, but then it's a new day and the longing goes away.
Sometimes I think I must be a little crazy, missing someone who never was and something I never had.
Does it make any sense to you?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Books: The Sharing Knife series
The Sharing Knife: Beguilement
The Sharing Knife: Legacy
The Sharing Knife: Passage
The Sharing Knife: Horizon
By Lois McMaster Bujold
Last book copyright 2009
453 pages
The Sharing Knife series is a set of fantasy stories that I enjoyed very much. The four books make a whole but I hope that the author will revisit this particular world.
I wrote about the first book here. I read it in January and have since completed the other three books.
Dag is a Lakewalker. These folks have a special ability to sense the ground, or maybe the aura, if you're looking for something to compare it to, of other people. This gives them innate abilities and only a Lakewalker sharing knife can kill a bad beastie called a malice.
Dag meets Fawn, a farmer girl. The farmers and the Lakewalkers generally don't care for one other and don't get along. But Dag falls for Fawn and vice verse.
During the four books, they marry and have great adventures. The characters grow and learn and the world grows and learns along with them, which I liked very much. The author skillfully draws this fantasy world, based very much on a primitive era of this world.
The last book brings us an epilogue that assures peace for the main characters, which is always welcome. While I think the author is through with these folks, there is plenty of room for other stories if she wants to return to this place and time.
I recommend these for all readers, but a few mature themes - pregnancy outside of marriage, a lost pregnancy, etc. - may warrant review by a parent for younger readers.
This is some of the best fantasy I have read in a while.
4.5 stars
The Sharing Knife: Legacy
The Sharing Knife: Passage
The Sharing Knife: Horizon
By Lois McMaster Bujold
Last book copyright 2009
453 pages
The Sharing Knife series is a set of fantasy stories that I enjoyed very much. The four books make a whole but I hope that the author will revisit this particular world.
I wrote about the first book here. I read it in January and have since completed the other three books.
Dag is a Lakewalker. These folks have a special ability to sense the ground, or maybe the aura, if you're looking for something to compare it to, of other people. This gives them innate abilities and only a Lakewalker sharing knife can kill a bad beastie called a malice.
Dag meets Fawn, a farmer girl. The farmers and the Lakewalkers generally don't care for one other and don't get along. But Dag falls for Fawn and vice verse.
During the four books, they marry and have great adventures. The characters grow and learn and the world grows and learns along with them, which I liked very much. The author skillfully draws this fantasy world, based very much on a primitive era of this world.
The last book brings us an epilogue that assures peace for the main characters, which is always welcome. While I think the author is through with these folks, there is plenty of room for other stories if she wants to return to this place and time.
I recommend these for all readers, but a few mature themes - pregnancy outside of marriage, a lost pregnancy, etc. - may warrant review by a parent for younger readers.
This is some of the best fantasy I have read in a while.
4.5 stars
Sunday, March 08, 2009
One of those days
This is one of those days when there are millions of things to do, a whole day to do them, and no desire to follow through.
One of those days when the whisper of a March wind beckons, and a romp in the grass seems more urgent than the next telephone call.
It's a day when the sky is blue and the faint tinge of green on the pasture is enough to send a heart singing with words flowing toward heaven.
The kind of day when solitary reading and writing seems like a calling and a passion that can't be denied.
It's that kind of day, this Sunday.
One of those days when the whisper of a March wind beckons, and a romp in the grass seems more urgent than the next telephone call.
It's a day when the sky is blue and the faint tinge of green on the pasture is enough to send a heart singing with words flowing toward heaven.
The kind of day when solitary reading and writing seems like a calling and a passion that can't be denied.
It's that kind of day, this Sunday.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
The Deep Freeze
One of the unfortunate results of being allergic to most of the world, which I have written about before, is that my allergies also include old books.
I love books in all their forms, but new books command my attention mostly because they do not make me sneeze or wheeze.
Old records in courthouses and ancient libraries fascinate me, but I cannot spend much time viewing them. I have even abandoned a major writing project because the library at University of Virginia overwhelmed me with mold and dust.
A dusty book in my house generally goes to the library as a donation. That means my shelves routinely have varying titles. Unless a book has special significance or is something I might use for research, it doesn't hang around here long.
Library books that have been in the inventory for a long time also gather dust and mold.
My book club this month is reading The Women's Room by Marilyn French. I thought I had a copy of the book here but I couldn't find it. So I requested one from the library in inter library loan, since my local branch did not have the book.
The book came in so musty that I could hardly stand to look at it, much less read it. The helpful library assistant offered to order me another from a different place.
When it arrived, it too was musty, but not as bad as the original. I brought it home three weeks ago.
I have not read it because it has been in a zip locked bag in my freezer covered in baking soda.
At some point I discovered that this will kill mold, provided the book is not too far gone to begin with. The trick is to leave it in the freezer a very long time.
Today I pulled the book out and vacuumed off the baking soda. I smelled the book.
No smell!
Now I will leave it out overnight; if the smell returns by morning, then I know this cure will not work for this book. If there is no smell, then I am in for some reading!
I love books in all their forms, but new books command my attention mostly because they do not make me sneeze or wheeze.
Old records in courthouses and ancient libraries fascinate me, but I cannot spend much time viewing them. I have even abandoned a major writing project because the library at University of Virginia overwhelmed me with mold and dust.
A dusty book in my house generally goes to the library as a donation. That means my shelves routinely have varying titles. Unless a book has special significance or is something I might use for research, it doesn't hang around here long.
Library books that have been in the inventory for a long time also gather dust and mold.
My book club this month is reading The Women's Room by Marilyn French. I thought I had a copy of the book here but I couldn't find it. So I requested one from the library in inter library loan, since my local branch did not have the book.
The book came in so musty that I could hardly stand to look at it, much less read it. The helpful library assistant offered to order me another from a different place.
When it arrived, it too was musty, but not as bad as the original. I brought it home three weeks ago.
I have not read it because it has been in a zip locked bag in my freezer covered in baking soda.
At some point I discovered that this will kill mold, provided the book is not too far gone to begin with. The trick is to leave it in the freezer a very long time.
Today I pulled the book out and vacuumed off the baking soda. I smelled the book.
No smell!
Now I will leave it out overnight; if the smell returns by morning, then I know this cure will not work for this book. If there is no smell, then I am in for some reading!
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Thursday Thirteen: On My Desk
Here are few things on my desk:
1. A little stuffed bear that says "Hollins University."
2. A notebook containing an interview. It's a very good interview, too.
3. A wrist brace because I have trouble with both my wrists, from typing and computer mouse use, I guess.
4. A copy of The Fincastle Herald.
5. My water glass. I drink at least one pitcher of water a day.
6. My calendar. I actually have two; one on the wall and another that I print off each week from Outlook.
7. A calculator because sometimes I have to figure out percentages.
8. The computer (duh).
9. A pair of binoculars (for looking at deer, fox, birds, and whoever is driving down the road).
10. A pair of scissors for cutting out articles I want to keep.
11. A printer that I use only for envelopes (HP Deskjet 812C. It is very old.)
12. Twenty-two ink pens.
13. These books: Shorter Oxford Dictionary, The Chicago Manual of Style, Roget's Thesaurus, Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, National Writer's Union Freelance Writer's Guide, Random House Dictionary, American Heritage Dictionary, Peterson Field Guild, Mammals, Peterson Field Guide, Eastern Trees, National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Southeastern States, and The Book of Dreams.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 88th one.
1. A little stuffed bear that says "Hollins University."
2. A notebook containing an interview. It's a very good interview, too.
3. A wrist brace because I have trouble with both my wrists, from typing and computer mouse use, I guess.
4. A copy of The Fincastle Herald.
5. My water glass. I drink at least one pitcher of water a day.
6. My calendar. I actually have two; one on the wall and another that I print off each week from Outlook.
7. A calculator because sometimes I have to figure out percentages.
8. The computer (duh).
9. A pair of binoculars (for looking at deer, fox, birds, and whoever is driving down the road).
10. A pair of scissors for cutting out articles I want to keep.
11. A printer that I use only for envelopes (HP Deskjet 812C. It is very old.)
12. Twenty-two ink pens.
13. These books: Shorter Oxford Dictionary, The Chicago Manual of Style, Roget's Thesaurus, Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, National Writer's Union Freelance Writer's Guide, Random House Dictionary, American Heritage Dictionary, Peterson Field Guild, Mammals, Peterson Field Guide, Eastern Trees, National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Southeastern States, and The Book of Dreams.
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. This is my 88th one.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Chasing Dreams
I knew at an early age that I wanted to write.
Maybe it was because I learned to read early, or maybe it was because I could lose myself in a story, but whatever the reason, words drew me as if I were being sucked into a vacuum.
Books saved me on many occasions by giving me an escape. They were also great fountains of knowledge, and I valued this. I even liked my math book, though I have never cared much for math.
I vividly remember the day I looked up from reading the local paper and told my mother that one day I would write for that publication. Only I would do it better, I said. I wouldn't have any of this "a little bird tells us" stuff that was often found in the paper at that time. That was in 1974; I was 11 years old
It was 1985, four years after I graduated high school, before I managed to get a byline in The Herald. My first piece was headlined "Making Shiloh Apple Butter" and it was about a church group using apple butter as a fundraiser.
I was ecstatic. I met my mother at Mike's Market (which used to be in Daleville where Bellacino's is now located) to show her the paper. I had fulfilled that dream, and apparently since I am still writing for the newspaper it became a calling, maybe a passion. I have had something published every year since, even when I was putting myself through college. These days I publish an average of 30 articles a month. I am nothing if not consistent.
But other dreams have not come to me quite so easily. I also want to write books. By this time in my life, as I sit here pondering middle age, I had hoped to have a poetry book of some kind published. Even just a little chapbook would be nice.
I also want to write fiction. I have several fiction novels about half written, another that is finished but it is handwritten and needs to be typed. They sit untouched in my computer or in drawers. They are no worse than some published stories I have read but I've never moved further with them.
I once thought I might write young adult fiction, a la Nancy Drew, perhaps, but alas, I have not. These days I doubt I could.
Or maybe I'd write a mainstream fiction book, like A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley.
Or maybe I would be another Phyllis Whitney, specializing in Gothic romance, a genre that seems to have completely vanished from the shelves. How I loved those books.
I never thought that at 45 I would be writing only newspaper articles. Or that I would be doing so many that I don't have time for anything else. Or that as I head toward my 46th birthday I would be wondering if I am burned out.
I never thought I'd have 875 posts on a blog, either, but here I am, making my 875th blog post. It's a lot of writing and I am greatly thankful for the relationships I have made through my blog. I am grateful for my loyal readers who seem to have found something here they like.
However, a blog is not a book.
Since my scare on February 20, which greatly highlighted my fear of dying at what is these days a relatively young age, I have been rethinking what I am doing.
I really *like* writing articles. I enjoy writing for the newspaper. I see it as a teaching position. It's a way for me to impart knowledge, to share what I have learned. It is for me a civic duty, a way to give back to the county and the nation that has done so much for me.
Plus, I do okay with it, and isn't it my responsibility to use my talent where it works?
What I don't know is when you stop. Even the Army lets you retire after some many years, and with a full pension. If I retire I will have no pension or no income. There is no safety net when you're an independent contractor, which is what I am.
I also am concerned that I have some innate issue with sticking with a long-term project. It's kind of like weight loss. I can see where I want to be but darned if I can figure out how to get there. I fear it is the same with something like a book. I can see the beginning and the end but can't slog my way through the middle.
Life is a long and interesting journey. I firmly believe it is not the end that matters, but the way we get there. I hope to make some changes in my life this year. I don't know yet what they will be. Maybe it will simply be an hour a day trying to write a piece of fiction. Maybe it will be weight loss and better health.
I am still thinking, still pondering, still wondering. My life is not a bad one - I can stay home and write in my jammies if I want. My husband loves me, and I love him and our marriage is sound and strong. I have a nice house and food to eat. I have much for which to be thankful, and so I am.
But I smell change on my horizon. I wonder where it will lead?
Maybe it was because I learned to read early, or maybe it was because I could lose myself in a story, but whatever the reason, words drew me as if I were being sucked into a vacuum.
Books saved me on many occasions by giving me an escape. They were also great fountains of knowledge, and I valued this. I even liked my math book, though I have never cared much for math.
I vividly remember the day I looked up from reading the local paper and told my mother that one day I would write for that publication. Only I would do it better, I said. I wouldn't have any of this "a little bird tells us" stuff that was often found in the paper at that time. That was in 1974; I was 11 years old
It was 1985, four years after I graduated high school, before I managed to get a byline in The Herald. My first piece was headlined "Making Shiloh Apple Butter" and it was about a church group using apple butter as a fundraiser.
I was ecstatic. I met my mother at Mike's Market (which used to be in Daleville where Bellacino's is now located) to show her the paper. I had fulfilled that dream, and apparently since I am still writing for the newspaper it became a calling, maybe a passion. I have had something published every year since, even when I was putting myself through college. These days I publish an average of 30 articles a month. I am nothing if not consistent.
But other dreams have not come to me quite so easily. I also want to write books. By this time in my life, as I sit here pondering middle age, I had hoped to have a poetry book of some kind published. Even just a little chapbook would be nice.
I also want to write fiction. I have several fiction novels about half written, another that is finished but it is handwritten and needs to be typed. They sit untouched in my computer or in drawers. They are no worse than some published stories I have read but I've never moved further with them.
I once thought I might write young adult fiction, a la Nancy Drew, perhaps, but alas, I have not. These days I doubt I could.
Or maybe I'd write a mainstream fiction book, like A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley.
Or maybe I would be another Phyllis Whitney, specializing in Gothic romance, a genre that seems to have completely vanished from the shelves. How I loved those books.
I never thought that at 45 I would be writing only newspaper articles. Or that I would be doing so many that I don't have time for anything else. Or that as I head toward my 46th birthday I would be wondering if I am burned out.
I never thought I'd have 875 posts on a blog, either, but here I am, making my 875th blog post. It's a lot of writing and I am greatly thankful for the relationships I have made through my blog. I am grateful for my loyal readers who seem to have found something here they like.
However, a blog is not a book.
Since my scare on February 20, which greatly highlighted my fear of dying at what is these days a relatively young age, I have been rethinking what I am doing.
I really *like* writing articles. I enjoy writing for the newspaper. I see it as a teaching position. It's a way for me to impart knowledge, to share what I have learned. It is for me a civic duty, a way to give back to the county and the nation that has done so much for me.
Plus, I do okay with it, and isn't it my responsibility to use my talent where it works?
What I don't know is when you stop. Even the Army lets you retire after some many years, and with a full pension. If I retire I will have no pension or no income. There is no safety net when you're an independent contractor, which is what I am.
I also am concerned that I have some innate issue with sticking with a long-term project. It's kind of like weight loss. I can see where I want to be but darned if I can figure out how to get there. I fear it is the same with something like a book. I can see the beginning and the end but can't slog my way through the middle.
Life is a long and interesting journey. I firmly believe it is not the end that matters, but the way we get there. I hope to make some changes in my life this year. I don't know yet what they will be. Maybe it will simply be an hour a day trying to write a piece of fiction. Maybe it will be weight loss and better health.
I am still thinking, still pondering, still wondering. My life is not a bad one - I can stay home and write in my jammies if I want. My husband loves me, and I love him and our marriage is sound and strong. I have a nice house and food to eat. I have much for which to be thankful, and so I am.
But I smell change on my horizon. I wonder where it will lead?
Monday, March 02, 2009
Like a Postcard
What a difference 24 hours makes. First the world looked dreary and brown and now it's all white and glistening.
Snow totals ranged from 4 to 9 inches. I guessed 6 to 8 at our house, but never measured.
This is the first good snow we've had in about eight years. It was much needed and quite welcome. My husband was very happy. Free nitrogen for the fields, he says. Not to mention some much-needed moisture.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
What's this stuff?
We woke this morning to an unfamiliar site!
About two inches of very wet snow blankets the ground.
I went outside twice before 8 a.m. to take a few photos so that in my older age I can remember what snow looked like.
The birds were chirping their morning greeting. The air was very still, waiting, I think, on more wintry weather. The bird noises echoed off the house. The sounds were quite lovely.
The roads are uncovered. This is a good kind of snow, when you can still travel but the ground gets the benefit of the moisture. From a farming point of view, this was much needed and will be a big help.
About two inches of very wet snow blankets the ground.
I went outside twice before 8 a.m. to take a few photos so that in my older age I can remember what snow looked like.
The birds were chirping their morning greeting. The air was very still, waiting, I think, on more wintry weather. The bird noises echoed off the house. The sounds were quite lovely.
The roads are uncovered. This is a good kind of snow, when you can still travel but the ground gets the benefit of the moisture. From a farming point of view, this was much needed and will be a big help.
You like me, you really like me!
Kristen at Hello Sweet World gave me this award a few days ago; in the excitement of thinking I was having a heart attack and having a busy work week, I misplaced it but I did find it again!
I have a hard time deciding who to pass these things on to, because if I read your blog, I like it and I think it's cool. I read a lot of blogs.
But I will follow Kristen's example and give this to three people: June, Blue Ridge Gal (who I know doesn't do awards, but it's yours anyway and I hope it gives you a warm fuzzy), and Tanya.
Thanks for the kudos.
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