An Extra Day

Once every four years we get an extra day. Seems like it ought to be something special--a national holiday for running around and howling at the moon. Or whatever fun and foolish endeavor one might be drawn to.

Back in high school, we had Sadie Hawkins Day, on which girls asked boys to a dance called Twerp Twirl. It was kinda a big deal--the girl made a corsage for her date--of vegetables rather than flowers--and, if possible, took him to dinner before the dance. 

In our senior year, I took John. We double-dated, as we often did, with our friends Stephanie and Steve. I don't remember anything about the dance or the corsage, but I do remember that we splurged and took our dates to a really nice steakhouse called Steve's (different Steve) Rustic Lodge on Lake Thonotosassa.

Stephanie and Steve didn't endure as a couple, but John and I will be celebrating our 64th Sadie Hawkins Day together. We might howl at the moon--if we're still awake when she rises.

 

Time Was...

                                                                             

Looking through my pictures for something to post, this called to me. Taken on one of the walks through our woods, one where I used to take the dogs (that's Molly, a sweet Golden mix I inherited when her person went to a nursing home--Molly and my friend are both long gone now.)

This is the mental health walk I used to take every day when my invalid (and cranky) mother-in-law was living with us.

It was down this leafy path that I was dragged on my belly by our two Akitas, who, in determined pursuit of a squirrel, jerked me over. I didn't let go and eventually managed to pull them to a stop.

And this was the path on which I visualized Elizabeth Goodweather (Old Wounds) having a brief, guilty encounter with an attractive neighbor . . .

Good times--not forgotten.

Fuchsias and Coming to the Mountains

The first fuchsia I ever saw was hanging on my friend Vicky Owen's front porch, a little ballerina of a flower. It seemed magical to me like everything in this part of the world--the muted roar of the branch that ran in front of their old cabin, the dance of the hummingbirds feeding in the fluffy pink flowers of the mimosa tree just below the porch, the lilt of the fiddle and dulcimer--back in Chapel Hill, Vicky and Malcom had been members of the Fuzzy Mountain String Band.

My Mothers' Day fuchsias are going strong, thanks to frequent watering. And I've actually rooted some -- a first for me.  Besides being beautiful, fuchsias hold a special lovely memory for me.

In 1973, John and I and not-quite-one Ethan were on a quest to find a new place to live--more nature and fewer people. Florida had become too hot and way too crowded. We were headed north to look at some land in New York state, maybe even in Canada.

But, first, we stopped to visit my old college friend Vicky and her husband on the farm they'd bought only a year ago. After navigating the winding river road from Asheville and finding our way to the Barnard bridge, our hand-drawn map assured us we were almost there--only eight miles! In Florida, that's about eight minutes.

The road up Big Pine is winding and narrow with steep drop offs here and there. That eight miles seemed to take an hour and a half, and we were at the point of turning around, sure we were in the wrong place, when we spotted a landmark the map had shown.

We turned off, at last, onto the road up to the cabin. It was full of large rocks that our Scout could just barely crawl over. But at last we found our friends, ensconced in the old house they were slowly renovating. And I drank in the beauty of the land and felt the appeal of the simple mountain life our friends were living.

What was going to be a brief visit turned into a search for land and an introduction to a community.

 And here we are, with fuchsias on our own front porch and grateful memories of departed friends.

 

Goldfish Memories-- Gail Armour and Jeanie the Half-Girl

 

Sitting out on the deck with John and our adult beverages, I was mesmerized by the goldfish. It's always challenging to count them--we think we have eleven gold and two or three dark ones,

But as I watched them darting about, a very old memory surfaced.

I was very young--maybe six or seven--and was enrolled in ballet classes at Gail Armour's dance studio. (More about Gail HERE) The studio was one wing of a house that wrapped around a big goldfish pond and we students walked beside the pond and the silent circling goldfish to get to the studio. The other wing contained a costume shop that seemed to do a thriving business.

 I loved ballet--the wonderful sound of the commands -- plie, tour jete, arabesque--and to this day I remember the five positions of arms and feet. 

But I was and am an awkward sort and lessons stopped before long. (There was a recital in which I was one of three Green Pea Fairies and I got to wear a tutu!)

The memory that came to me yesterday was from over seventy years ago, but I can still see it. I was outside the house, maybe waiting for my mother. A car pulled up and a tiny woman emerged. She seemed to have been cut off at the waist and the garment she was wearing was a kind of sack ending in a leather oval. Her hands were on the ground, and she propelled herself up the walkway, swinging her body between her arms, toward the costume shop.

I can't remember if I ever told anyone about this. So much in the world is strange and inexplicable to young children. But when the memory came back to me, I did some online research and discovered Jeanie Tomaini--born without legs, a longtime circus/sideshow attraction who lived in Gibsonton, near Tampa. So, there she was, coming to the costumers who could deal with her special case and making an indelible impression on me.

There's more about Jeannie and her husband Al Tomaini, the Giant,  OVER HERE.

                                                                                  

Remembrance . . .

 The new email address has necessitated going through my email address book and sending notifications to those who I think might be interested. And that has stirred up so many memories…

Of course there are many names about which I haven’t a clue. More than many – most. But others bring back times and places . . .

Deb Dandolino – the first bookseller to be excited about my first book. I met her at the SIBA and we stayed in touch even after her bookstore closed and, indeed, till she died.

Two others gone but not forgotten are Bo, “The Adverb Guy” and Mike, a friend from Wildacres (see LINK.)

And there are the early fans – Elaine in Hawaii who wrote that when they had to leave their hotel room because of some impending disaster (earthquake?) she took SIGNS IN THE BLOOD with her so she could finish reading it. And Pat in Tennessee who told me of locking herself in the bathroom when they had company so she could finish a crucial chapter.

Lots of authors – some even famous, some less so. I cherish having gotten to know (however slightly) some of my literary heroes as well as all those others struggling with this writing thing.

There are lists of folks who signed up for my newsletter – either on line or at appearances at book stores or book clubs or libraries over the past ten years.  Some of the names conjure up specific people like the lady from Cherokee who gave me a little bracelet of olive wood beads from the Holy Land. Or the nice lady who bought my quilt book and wanted guidance on reproducing one of the quilts therein for her nonagenarian mother. The fan who wrote to say she enjoyed my books even though she was a Republican. The fella who told me about the Melungeon family, thus inspiring my Melungeons in IN A DARK SEASON. 

 And the addresses of students from various writing classes. My goodness, there have been a lot of them. Some I hear from now and then and that’s a delight – like the woman who created a character and began a novel in one of my John C. Campbell classes and now is working on the third in the series. Others spring to mind as I read their names – like the archaeologist who was writing about a murder on a dig in Crete and introduced me to the wonderful word chryselephantine (made of gold and ivory.)

And there’s the email addy of the fella who read a piece during our first class that was so deeply creepy that no one could find anything to say about it as we all shifted uncomfortably in our chairs. And the very good writer who knew everything and had a tendency to take over the class if I didn’t stop her. And the one who wrote so magically about a New England village on an island . . .

Family, old friends, new friends, blog friends, readers, writers – all have enriched my life in one way or another. 

A Romantic Tale . . . Again

. . . for Valentine's Day. . . a repost from 2010 . . .

This pair of Dresden candlesticks always adorned either end of the mantelpiece in my parents' living room and when I was very little, I asked who the man and the lady were. 

"Why," said my mother, "that's your grandparents when they were young. Your grandfather Frank has gone out hunting and Memaw is looking to see if he'll be back soon.

Would my mother lie to me? Surely not . . .  so I believed this story, in spite of the fact that these romantic figures looked nothing like my grandparents -- well, except for the gray hair.

And in spite of the fact that they are completely out of place in our rather rustic mountain home, the Dresden pair adorn the shelves of my secretary -- along with other frilly bits and pieces of my past. After all, how could I let go of my grandparents?

Happy St. Valentine's Day!

A Valentine...

 

 

Valentine's Day, 1964 - Camp Lejeune, NC . My husband was an enlisted man in the Marine Corps. We had only been married since November and we were living in a tiny silver trailer surrounded by many other tiny silver trailers grouped tastefully around communal dumpsters. The Marine Corps officially designated Geiger Park as "sub-standard housing" and I suppose it was but we hardly noticed.

The little trailer was snug and clean and wood-paneled -- much like living on a boat. And on that first Valentine's Day of our marriage, my husband brought me a spray of wild plum blossoms from the nearby woods, centered in a metal coat hanger bent into the shape of a heart.

It's been forty-seven years -- we're still together -- and the memory still makes me smile.

Shadow Box Memories

About twenty years ago when my husband and I became by default the oldest generation in our family, I found myself with a plethora of memorabilia. Some I gave to any of the younger generation who showed interest (which is why I have only one of my grandmother's wedding slippers,) some is displayed on walls and cabinets, some is filed away in trunks (three wedding dresses -- mine, my mother's, my grandmother's - what madness is this?)

This shadow box is one result of my trying to find things to do with this wealth of material -- it combines things from my family and John's family.

The eyeglasses and cameo were my grandmother's, as was the little crescent moon pin. ((I think she told me she bought it with money from her first paycheck.) And the stern-looking lady in the brass frame is her grandmother -- Eliza Horn, circa 1850.

My favorite thing is the letter in the lower left corner. It was written by John's grandfather on August 30, 1913 to Miss Fay Parker. Evidently her family had taken her to the beach for a "rest cure" and had forbidden Gene to visit, though family members could -- including a young male cousin who may have aspired to Fay's hand as well. In the inside of the letter, Gene mentions this cousin and says he may have to introduce him to "Sweetlips" -- Gene's name for his shotgun.

However the family may have felt about Gene, who was only two years out of high school, the fact is, as the wedding invitation shows, he and his 'Fairy' were married on October 21 of the same year.

And John and I attended their fiftieth anniversary party!

There's a picture of my grandmother with my mother in her lap, my grandmother's silver thimble, a snap of my grandparents in a rented buggy, a locket, a little book that belonged to Fay, a tin type (daguerreotype?) of her father, and many more bits and pieces. (Click on the pictures to "biggify" for a closer look.)

And on the back of the shadowbox I put an envelope with a description of the various artifacts -- an aid to memory.

A good thing because I had to use it to write this post.

A Random Life

" . . . and then my life flashed before my eyes . . ."

It happens all the time. Up in my work room, where I sit with my laptop adding to the Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mysteries, I have only to glance up to see my backup computer -- a desktop model -- entertaining itself by randomly flashing pictures from my files on its screen.

They're just up for a few seconds -- barely long enough for me to identify time and place . . . Old Fort? last December?

















. . .there are lots of flowers, of course . . .

















. . . and some pictures that make me smile . . .



















Many are of the view to the east -- like this snowy day in winter . . .

















Lots of sunrises . . .
















And some pictures that never got properly edited . . .

There are pictures that make me look twice -- where in the world . . .? Oh, I remember -- Baltimore,the Inner Harbor, Bouchercon last year . . .




















Familiar places -- like the old brick building at the bridge -- the inspiration for the Troll's home in DARK SEASON . . .





















Idyllic places like this lovely old house in the Cotswolds . . .


















Sometimes I'm startled by an unfamiliar face . . .























. . . and sometimes I look up to see my grandmother and her sisters, smiling at me from a hundred years ago . . .
















I am in love with this random slideshow and it is my sincerest wish that should I be comatose, moribund, senile, or otherwise unable to communicate, that my caregivers would provide this for me to watch, rather than television.

(Note to self -- add provision to Living Will.)