The Last Day of Poetry Month

Carl Sandburg's ten definitions of poetry -- and each one is a poem in itself.

1. Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break the silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllable, wave lengths.

2.Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

3. Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

4. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

5. Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

6. Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

7. Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.

8. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

9.Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

10. Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen in a moment.

As I read these, trying to decide which was my favorite (2, or maybe 5, or possibly 6, oh, wait, 9), it seemed to me that each of these would work equally well as a definition for Life itself.

NOTICE! Today is the last day to leave a comment and ask to be entered in the drawing for the quilt book. Contest closes at 9 pm EST -- winner announced tomorrow.

Fabric Commentary

My friend Nora, the med student who is spending a year in Mali, sent me a length of this charming fabric which honors our president. Her accompanying note said: "I hope you like this Obama fabric. It's so Malian -- there is a fabric for everything -- a fabric for the gynecology conference, the rotary club, TB prevention week . . . and people make coordinated outfits with all of it and wear it to the prescribed event or during the aforementioned week. Amazing. 200 gynecologist in matching purple skirt/shirt or pant/shirt ensembles."

It's wonderful to think of people so far away celebrating our president, wearing his smiling face and sporting the American flag as they walk along dusty roads under African skies.

I see it as a hopeful sign. . . a very hopeful sign.

And now I have to decide how best to use my bit of cross-cultural material -- some sort of quilted wall hanging . . . hmmm . . .

Thrift

Yesterday, when I was fetching an empty sunflower seed bag to use to hold paper for recycling, I found myself absently pulling the string from the strip that had held the bag closed and shoving it into my pocket.

This simple act reminded me of my mentor in matters of mountain economy -- Louise Freeman. Louise was the one who showed me that the sturdy cotton string used to sew shut bags of feed was worth saving. It wouldn't have occurred to Louise not to save it, having lived her life in a culture that couldn't afford wastefulness of any kind.

So I have a little ball of string in my kitchen drawer -- just right for trussing up a chicken to roast or making a toy for a cat to chase.

The saving here is minuscule -- but it always makes me smile when I wind on another piece of string.

Of course, back in the Twenties and well into the Fifties, feed and flour sacks were often made of cloth, not paper or plastic. This cloth, originally a plain unbleached muslin, often with the brand name stenciled on it, was prized for dish towels, undergarments, and the like. Then some marketing genius had the idea to print patterns on the bags. And suddenly, poor countrywomen had 'free' pretty material to make dresses and curtains and the like.

And with the scraps, they made quilts! Quilts of such wild exuberance that they knock your socks off!

This one below is a Nine-Patch. Blocks composed of nine squares -- four of one print and five of another -- are joined with sashing strips of still more different prints. And all of these fabrics, I'm pretty sure, were from feed/flour sacks.

All I know about this quilt (which I bought some years ago in downtown Marshall) is that it was made by a lady named Esta Gentry and she lived in Jupiter -- which is just across the county line.

As time went on, there was another source of 'free' fabric. Almost everyone had a friend or a relative working in the mills or garment manufacturing industry in the area. I remember Louise giving me stacks of scraps -- literally, stacks, layered with paper in between the fabric -- odd shapes left when a collar or a sleeve was carved from a larger stack of material.

The tied 'quilt' below was made from a combination of flour sack fabric and mill ends. "These were the last squares Mama made," said my friend Grace, handing me a box of strip pieced squares. "Maybe you can do something with them."

The squares were made by sewing strips diagonally across a square of paper (cut from Sears catalogue pages, for the most part -- again, no waste.) I joined the squares in fours to make a diamond pattern then joined these larger squares with blue sashing strips.

I didn't quilt it (honestly, I think I'd have gone blind had I tried to -- it is rather loud), instead I tied it with red crochet thread, put a binding on it and gave it back to Grace.

And then, several years later, she gave it back to me.

Literary Discussion Continued

A few days ago we were talking about what people look for in a protagonist and there were lots of interesting thoughts posted in the comments. One comment, however, came to me via email, from Bo Parker aka The Old Word Cobbler. And since it kind of ties in with an on-going question of my own, I'm posting it (with his permission) here.

Bo says: "As I chewed my way into the craft of writing a mystery novel, creating a main character out of figments of my imagination, I had to stop and ask. Who is this guy? What does he stand for? What makes him tick? Once my mind was fixed on the guy's core values and if I were to keep him true to his core values, I had to consider the scenes into which he would be placed, how he would react to different situations, different people, his actions, reactions, and even dialogue, how he would talk, what he would say."

Bo continues:"I recently read a novel in Susan Wittig Albert's China Bayles series that in my opinion demonstrates how this works, or I should say, did not work, at least for me, and was part of the reason I asked the question via DorothyL about characters staying at home. Over the course of seventeen books, I had come to form an opinion about the character China Bayles, based on her interactions with family and friends in and around the fictional town of Pecan Springs.

However, in the latest book, WORMWOOD, China is pulled out of Pecan Springs, removed from all family, all close personal friends, and put on the road with a person who is more business than personal friend. For the rest of the story, China is in a totally foreign environment, a Shaker Settlement in Kentucky.

"The story is well presented as to how a character would conduct themselves as an outsider. However, in my opinion, she is a totally different in this setting. For me, it created an impression of a character that I did not find as compelling, enjoyable, unique, or as strong as the China Bayles I'd come to know in Pecan Springs. If this book and one of the earlier ones in the series were given to separate groups; each asked to read their book and write an analysis of China Bayles, my bet is that there would be two totally different reactions as to China Bayles' character."

That was what Bo asked. And it got me thinking. As some of you may remember, my first attempt at a novel (never published) featured Elizabeth on vacation at the coast of NC. I think that she stayed pretty true to herself -- after all, she's a bit of an outsider back in Marshall County, being a transplant from Florida - and she's an outsider at the coast. But the question under discussion over on Dorothy L was whether you want your series to stay put or whether you're okay with excursions.

It's just idle curiosity that make me ask. I have, at present, no plans to take Elizabeth out of the mountains. But I'm interested to know what others think. Would you like to read about our girl off some where else -- pony trekking in Paraguay . . . sightseeing in Samoa . . . visiting in Vermont . . . or doing anything, anywhere away from the mountains?

I Can See Clearly Now . ..

The flowering quince at the base of the birdfeeder had grown so tall that it was blocking my view of the garden beyond. So on Friday I attacked it with my trusty Felco pruners. The stuff is dense, thorny, interlaced with poison ivy vines, and, to make it more of a challenge, it grows on a steep slope.

It took all morning to beat it into submission, of sorts, but when I was done, once more I could see all the way down to the garden from the kitchen window.

On Saturday, I woke to find every muscle in my body aching from the battle, a huge blister on my thumb, and my right forearm itching with red weals from the poison ivy. I decided to give the pruners a rest ( I have my eye on a forsythia in sore need of radical pruning) but to continue on with improving the view.

As the day was forecast to be warm -- up to the eighties -- I spent my time washing windows and putting up screens.

It's a lovely Spring time thing to do and improves the view immensely.

Here're some more things I saw on this warm day.

April in Paris

Sophie sent me some pictures taken in the Jardin du Luxembourg, one of Paris's beautiful public parks.













I asked for pictures of the famous chestnut trees.









Here's a little French music to add to the ambiance -- now if only there were wine and cheese and a baguette or two . . .





Hemingway said, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

A Day Outside

A day like yesterday -- bright and clear with temperatures in the seventies -- made hoeing in the garden a pleasure. Maggie waited patiently.

And then she suggested a walk in the woods.



You come too.

What Do You Look for in a Protagonist??

Last night, in the writing class/critique group that I lead, one of the class members expressed her dislike for the protagonist of the novel under discussion. 'Too weak . . . too indecisive . . . was the chief complaint. Most of the class eventually chimed in, expressing similar reservations about this character.

The character in question had, however, a defendant -- a psychologist who is writing a memoir . . . and whose main characters have also drawn fire for some of the same reasons. The psychologist contends that the personalities are interesting.

And then we got a little way into the question of literary fiction versus genre/popular fiction.

Oy! What a can of worms!

I write and teach popular fiction -- and I'm working from the point of view of one who wants to write something that a lot of people will want to read. In the realm of popular fiction, standard wisdom says that your protagonist should be someone whom the reader will like or admire or, at least, be intrigued by to the point that the reader will want to know more. The protagonist also, according to standard wisdom again, should not be passive, should act rather than be acted on. Sure the protag can observe -- but then those observations should be translated into action.

The psychologist felt that those who demanded a strong competent heroine had unrealistic expectations -- "People aren't perfect," she argued.

And of course they aren't. It's another bit of standard wisdom that the protagonist must have a flaw, a weakness, if you will. But there's a big difference between a flawed but mostly strong character and a character who seems to be just kind of wimpy without even a good flaw.

I'm sure that a good book can be written with an unlikeable set of characters . . . probably has been written.

Lolita comes to mind. Humbert Humbert is an ingenious monster; his infatuation with Lo is his flaw and there is such excellence of writing, such artistry with words -- as well as the tantalizing story line -- that people tend to read on. Awful though the characters are, they're interesting.

But, says the psychologist, all people are interesting to me.

So I don't know -- What do you all think? Any opinions on what makes a good protagonist? And do the rules differ for male or female protagonists?

Shrinking violets or in-your-face types or some combination thereof -- what's your fancy?

Earth Day

This seems, to me, a suitable song for the day.

FERN HILL by Dylan Thomas

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

And here's a web album with pictures of Earthly Delights.

Wanderlust

There are so very many places in the world that I'd like to see -- but see as a resident, not as a tourist passing through. It doesn't seem likely that I'll accomplish this -- after all, there's a garden to tend and a a life to be lived here at the farm. Not to mention more books to write.

Plus, real life travel can be expensive and sometimes uncomfortable. So, while I wait to hear back from Herself about Miss Birdie, I'm enjoying a little virtual voyaging, visiting blogs in other lands -- you may have noticed some recent additions.





Somerset Seasons/Dorset Days

This one's from Leanne in England who seems to share many of my own preoccupations - gardening, chickens, old books, nature and her seasons. . .







Miss_Yves' Photograff is from France -- in French. I can read a bit of it--a very little bit -- but it's mostly photos -- and there's music. If you're checking it out at work, you might want to hit MUTE first.






In the Netherlands Reader Wil
shares pictures from her travels as well as her beautiful homeland.







There are a surprising three blogs from Africa:

The Egypt Experience is from Robyn, a South African who teaches English in Egypt. . .

Millet Love is the infrequent but fascinating journal of Nora, an American med student working in Mali . . .

and Thatchwick Cottage-- Eleanor's lovely words and pictures from South Africa.



Who knows where my travels will lead me next?


Is someone blogging in Mongolia?

Kaleidoscope

Oh, my goodness! Look at this! And thanks to Reader Wil for leading me down this particular primrose path.

I could stare at this for hours. Wait, I guess already have.

As always, click on the imge to biggify.

National Poetry Month

It's National Poetry month and I urge you to check out this post of Kay Byer's. Her poem sequence "Searcher" has been nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize and she shares two poems from the work.

Years ago in England, a searcher was a woman employed to check bodies before burial to ensure that they had been clothed in English wool cloth, rather than in prohibited foreign goods.

Kay takes this dark material and weaves a deeply-felt and beautifully-imaged web of words.

But that's what poets do.

Community Quilts -- The Book

Several of you have asked about my previous gig as co-author of quilt books. I mentioned it back in my November 1 post and I've mentioned in my bio on my website but, what the heck, here I go again. (Not that it'll do me any monetary good as the book is out of print and the only copies available are remainders and used copies on Amazon.)

The book was written under my married name, as you can see on the cover. (The suggestion to use my maiden name for the mysteries was my editor's. ("Middle of the shelf. middle of the bookstore," said she.)

But how'd I come to write a quilting book?

Well, when we moved to the mountains and began to make friends with other newly arrived back-to-the-landers, sooner or later we found that we had become a community. When the first wedding was announced, several of us decided to make a quilt for the couple and have a quilting bee because that fit in with our idea of life in the country. We made a gorgeous quilt and from then on we were hooked. There were lots of baby quilts, more wedding quilts, some friendship quilts, and a few going away quilts. The blue and purple beauty below (the pattern is Sister's Choice) was given to John and me for our anniversary.

Years passed-- around twenty of them. Suddenly we had a body of work -- about fifty quilts, ranging from very simple to very ambitious. We were given a show at the Folk Art Center in Asheville and more than one person at that show suggested that a book should be done to document our work.

And so, knowing nothing about writing a book but thinking this might be worth a try, my friend Karol and I gave it a shot. We decided to showcase each quilt and give a brief history of how it came to be made, along with quotes from the recipients and the makers.

We also decided to have a section detailing the process of planning and organizing a community quilt -- something we'd each had a lot of practice in over the years. (It's not easy, working with all levels of skill and dedication.) And there would be a section of the basics of quilt-making, along with some patterns.

Our book proposal was accepted by Lark Press -- a well-known publisher of crafts books --and we had the guidance of an editor as we worked to flesh out our bare-bones synopsis.

I'm very proud of this book -- The quilts are the stars and pretty much speak for themselves but I think we did a good job explaining the process. The layout and the photography (Lark's professional -- not mine) is outstanding. (Many of the 'beauty shots' were done at our farm -- another reason I really like the photos.) The book was distributed through a crafts book club, as well as book stores.

Karol and I went on to do another book for Lark on weekend quilting projects and after that I turned to a life of crime and craziness in (fictional ) Appalachia.

But I probably wouldn't have learned to use a computer had I not been forced to for the quilting books. And I wouldn't have signed up for the "Writing Fiction That Sells" class, out of which came Elizabeth Goodweather, had I not already gotten a taste of the intangible joys of being an author.

It's all connected.


Maybe this would be a good time to do a drawing for a copy of this book. If you'd like in, leave a comment saying so (only one per reader this time). I'll close the contest on April 30 at 9 PM e.s.t. and announce the winner May 1.

Senseless

My sense of smell disappeared completely during the late unpleasantness of a fierce head cold (note 'late' -- it's clearing up nicely and this really will be the last post on the subject.) And along with smell went taste -- completely.

It's a strange feeling to bite into a slice of raw onion and taste exactly nothing. Or to nibble a garlic clove with the same null result.

After a little on line research, I learned that anywhere from 70% to 90% of perceived taste is dependent on smell. The taste buds on our tongues can let us know if a food is bitter, salty, sweet. or sour -- but that's it.

I kept trying food after food: tortilla chips -- crunchy and salty; salad greens with vinaigrette -- sour; coffee -- so godawful bitter that I immediately switched to tea with honey -- sweet.

It seems that with a stopped-up nose, the odor molecules drifting from the food can't reach the olfactory receptor cells farther back in the nasal passage and consequently everything tastes the same -- which is to say, like nothing.

Everything smells the same too. "Clean!" I thought, sniffing a throw pillow that I knew well should smell of dog.

Thursday morning, as I made a cup of chai -- the scent of which is usually Very aggressive -- I sniffed at the mix and thought I caught the merest whisper of cinnamon. Later in the garden, I picked a sprig of thyme and, oh joy, could smell it -- though just barely.

It was like going from total blindness to being able to make out shapes.

As I made dinner, I experimented. Raw red peppers -- deliciously cool and crunchy and I believe I could taste them. Or maybe they were just sweet. Asparagus -- a little bitter. Onion and garlic -- I smelled them but they were pale imitations of the real thing. Very pale. Ditto pesto, shrimp, and shitakes.

When I sauteed the lot together, the rising steam didn't bring to my olfactory receptors the information I needed to season the dish properly so I had to get John to give it a taste.

He pronounced it good, suggested the addition of grated Asiago -- which I could detect -- and we sat down to dinner. He said it was very good -- I enjoyed the textures and colors immensely.

When I was very young, I read a book called Smeller Martin (by Robert Lawson, who also wrote Ben and Me). Smeller was a boy whose sense of smell was similar to that of a bloodhound and he used this super power to solve a mystery, as I recall.

I always thought that an enhanced sense of smell would be a wonderful gift, just as I always envy my hound Maggie when she lifts her nose to the air and takes in far more information than I'll ever have.

Right now though, I'll settle for getting my lost senses back.



Here's another little web album with pictures from yesterday -- and nothing at all about my cold.

Cold Reading

One thing about having a cold, it means I can sit (or lie) and read to my heart's content. So on Monday afternoon, after the worst of the cleanup was over, I curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and lemon and honey and leapt into Notes from No Man's Land. a collection of American essays by Eula Biss.

Since I still have a cold (she whined), I'll quote a bit from the back cover, rather than force my brain into originality:

"Eula Biss is the author of The Balloonists. She teaches nonfiction writing at Northwestern University . . . Her essays have appeared in the Believer and Harper's."

"Like Blake, that other mystic poet, Biss sees the world in a grain of sand. Without missing a beat, she looks at a telephone pole as a symbol of our universal connection, the intrusion of technology, an instrument of lynch mobs, a reminder of her grandfather's death, and a symbol of life sprouting new leaves even after it is strung with wires."

This is some beautiful, mind-stretching writing. I've followed Eula's career with some interest as I first met her years ago when she was still a baby. Eula is the niece of one of my very dear friends who handed me a copy of this book at the Easter party. I had devoured Eula's first book, in awe of her way with a word and her truly original turns of thought, so I was eager to see what awaited me in No Man's Land.

No disappointment here. I highly recommend this collection of quirky, iconoclastic, idiosyncratic thoughts from the heartland.

But that was Monday. On Tuesday I re-entered the seamy underside of modern day London which Elizabeth George, like some Dickens of today, lays out in heartbreaking detail. What Came Before He Shot Her traces the events that led to the murder of one of George's most beloved characters. It's testimony to George's power as a writer that I found myself deeply engaged with most of the characters and eager to follow their stories even though the setting is a far cry from the idyllic English countryside.

And when I finished this one (I read really, really fast -- knowing that if I like a book, I'll re-read it eventually), the next in the series awaited me. While WCBHSH, is almost a standalone (no Thomas Lynley or Barbara Havers), Careless in Red returns the faithful reader to the familiar characters. Here the setting is Cornwall -- not Daphne DuMaurier's romantic Cornwall of smugglers and Cavaliers but the modern tourist-infested Cornwall where surfing looms large as a way of life. And here again, George drew me in as I followed the heartsore Lynley through the investigation of a murder and wondered . . . but I don't want to spoil anything for those of you who might be tempted to read this latest one. I will say, I'm eager for the next but will wait patiently because I know how long it takes.

I Hab a Very Bad Code in the Head

. . . and my head feels stuffed with some wool-like substance. I spent Tuesday reading and sleeping and drinking liquids and sniffling and snarfling and coughing and hacking. I cannot taste anything, even leftover pizza.

A sad state of affairs -- I hope to be back tomorrow to tell you about my reading.

The picture is a yellow trillium -- they grow wild here in abundance. They're not as pretty or showy as some of the others but, in their understated way, they seem to me the essence of Spring.

Breaking Up Easter

Like Cinderella after midnight, the workshop has been stripped of its finery: quilts taken down, pastel-dyed sheets removed to our basement to await a wash, crepe paper streamers tossed into the garbage along with the detritus of a huge potluck -- even the balloons have been disposed of, lovingly popped by our two year old grand-nephew Jack who came (with his parents) to aid in the Monday morning clean up.

Well, really he came so he could ride on the Kubota but balloon popping proved to be a job at which he excelled












The outdoor furniture was loaded up to be returned to our porch and deck --

And our house guests packed the car for their own return to Virginia.

It was a great weekend -- made possible by the many willing helpers and by the kindness of Mother Nature who provided a beautiful Easter Sunday before returning to chilly damp on Monday.

Easter Party 2009

The day dawned foggy but soon the sky was blue, providing a perfect day to celebrate Spring.

There was food and drink in plenty, dogs and a friendly heifer to pat, and, of course, there were eggs to hunt and parents and grandparents to take pictures.

The party began at 1 -- though folks started arriving at noon -- and went on till eight-ish at which time those of us who were left adjourned to our house for barbecue sandwiches.

There will be cleanup on Monday. And there are more pictures HERE.

The Pre-Party

Saturday was chilly and rainy but, undeterred, we prepared for the Easter Party, draping the workshops with quilts and dyed sheets to make ready for the Sunday festivities.

And there was time for food and fun with all those who come for this annual reunion, from as far away as Nicaragua and San Francisco.

Click HERE for more pictures from Saturday.

Young America Speaks

During my recent bookshelf cleaning and reorganization, I happened on this bit of history -- dating from, I think, my junior year in high school -- and that would have been 1958-59. As far as I can recall, we were assigned a subject to write on and the "best" essays were chosen for inclusion in this modest little book.

There are essays from all the states and the titles include such winners as 'Honour,' 'Youth,' Courage or Cowardice,' 'Preparing for a Formal,' 'What Democracy Means to Me,' and 'Opportunities of the American Youth of Today.'

In Mrs. Opal Dudney's class, an earnest teenager named Vicki Lane chose to write about two things that were important to her. Her punctuation and expression are dreadful (she needed an editor very badly) but I find that, even after all these years, I pretty much agree with her sentiments.

Two Important Things

These two things I am about to write on, individuality and love of life, are perhaps not as important as some of the rights and freedoms we in a free country take for granted; but without them, I could not be happy.

Freedom to be an individual belongs to everyone, but relatively few people exercise it. Our society is one in which a person who does not conform, is an outcast. All people are not cast in the same mold, for which I am thankful. What a dull world it would be if each person were a replica of his fellow man! "Know thyself and be thyself!"

By love of life I mean the capacity to be able to look forward to each day, eager for what it may bring.

These abstract qualities are those most important to me. To another they may seem trivial but to me they are essential.

What Is It?

These pretty pink blossoms are on the flowering quince down at Justin's house. The snow and cold of a few days ago seem not to have damaged the bloom, thank goodness.

And this big bird is a wild turkey hen who's become a daily visitor to our bird feeder. She's a little shy -- when she catches sight of me she doesn't panic and fly off but she's still a bit uneasy and begins to move away.

But this box-like thing below . . . this has me baffled. This is cropped from the picture in yesterday's post -- and it wasn't really there.

I took the picture of the room at night, did the post, and then noticed the . . . object. What's this, then? I wondered and trundled back upstairs to see what it could be.

And there was NOTHING there.

A hazy, wispy shape suggesting a woman with flowing draperies would be one thing but the ghost of a box? And it casting a shadow?

I don't know; this has got me puzzled.

Books and More Books

With company coming to stay this weekend, I at last tackled the long-overdue task of cleaning our upstairs guest room. This one doesn't get a lot of use as we have another, more convenient spare room downstairs. This one, originally a loft over the living room, tends to collect junk, waiting to be disposed of. It also collects dust, cat hair, and dead lady bugs. So it was a real pleasure to put it to rights, including taking all the books off the shelves, dusting shelves and books, and re-organizing.

The shelves to the left hold the books of my childhood and teen years. I was a great reader of science fiction in the Fifties and, now that I've handled some of these old friends, I have a feeling I'm going to have to reacquaint myself with this old passion.

Before sci-fi, I was a faithful reader of the Oz books; some of these are mine and some belong to my older son ( who left them to me as he acquired nicer hardback reproductions.)

To the right of the door are mostly gardening books and photo albums --each one a temptation to sit down and wander through -- one reason the cleanup took so long.

But what a pleasure, now that it's done -- floors mopped, shelves wiped with lemon wax, the bedding washed and (mostly) free of cat hair.

All the time I was struggling to finish Miss Birdie, I was actually looking forward to some really satisfying house cleaning -- and this was just the beginning.

Paint . . . I'm ready to paint some walls now. And reorganize the pantry and finish cleaning my workroom and . . .

Spring always does that to me -- the desire for a clean sweep, a new start.

Everything seems possible.

Really . . .!

"Must really say damn . . . "

I'm quoting, of course. Those are the words of the Dowager Duchess of Denver in the opening pages of Dorothy L. Sayers' immortal Busman's Honeymoon. They sprang to mind when I looked outside yesterday morning at the crab apple, rosy beneath the snow.

I had picked a bit of lilac for the kitchen window -- and beyond it I can see the parent bush with its heavy frosting. (Can anyone guess why an ex-English major would have planted a lilac by her front steps?)

In the afternoon the sun came out; the sky was blue; and the snow began to melt . . .

And then it began again. It was still snowing at 10 pm.

But I cheered myself up by rereading the email I had from Liz whose friends, recently returned from France, told her they saw my own La Montagne des Secrets (the French translation of Signs in the Blood) on sale in the grocery store.

I find that kinda cool. Unlike the weather, except in the literal sense.

Marigold at Home

Marigold is at the farm now, settling in nicely and winning hearts everywhere. She's as friendly as a puppy, running to meet you if you come near her little enclosure, and eager for pats (and sweet feed.)

Jerseys really are some of the prettiest of cows . . . dainty and almost deer-like . . . if not always lady-like.

And in other news . . . the bad weather report . . .

The front that we saw moving in yesterday morning did, indeed, bring snow.

This is what we had by 10 pm.

Another Meme

This set of questions was taken from over at Willow's place.

What are your current obsessions?
Getting ready for our annual Easter party . . . and weeding. . .

Which item from your closet are you wearing most often?
Grungy black stretch pants . . .

Last thing you bought?
A fig tree and a heather plant . . .














Favorite vacation spots.
The English countryside . . .

















Say something to the person who tagged you.
Willow -- your blog is like a mini vacation.

Reading right now?
The Other Boleyn Girl by Phillipa Gregory

Guilty pleasure?
Sitting, doing nothing -- aka Dolce far niente.

First spring thing?
Hellebores
















What spring flower are you most anxious to see?
Tree peony. . .
















What's for dinner?
Broiled chicken, yellow squash stuffed with breadcrumbs and onion, and a saute of our own fresh asparagus and shitakes . . .

Best thing you ate or drank lately?
Sauteed shitakes and asparagus. . .

What are you listening to?
The voices in my head . . . the cooing of doves . . . The Voyage of the Dawn Treader . . . BBC cricket news

Care to share some wisdom?
It's good to dig in the dirt.

Four words to describe yourself.
Sleepy, Muscle-tired, Happy . . .

Rules of the meme: Respond and rework.

Answer questions on your own blog.
Replace one question. Add one question.
You are supposed to tag eight bloggers, but I'm going to
leave this one open to anyone who would like to participate.

A Lovely Day

Yesterday was a beautiful day to weed and plant and enjoy being outside without the nagging feeling that I should be with Miss Birdie.

The daffodils are at their peak, the spicy scent of viburnum wafts on the breeze, and the Kieffer pears are lacy with sharply sweet-smelling blossoms.

I wonder if any of you out there recognize this double daffodil. It's very common around here, growing in profusion around all the old homeplaces. But I don't recall seeing anything similar in the bulb catalogues. Marta?

And to cap the lovely day, we had dinner at our friends' house -- which made me happy as I enjoy their company and I didn't have to cook -- and Carolina won and will be in the finals on Monday -- which made John and the other fans very happy indeed.

A Moderate Celebration

What does one do to celebrate sending off a manuscript (again)? Well, this one doesn't celebrate very much, knowing that Herself may bounce this version back for yet another rewrite. (Maybe we need to put Myrna Louise back and take out Dorothy this time. Or get rid of all that woo woo Cherokee magic that has found its way into the story.)

But I had to do something. So I took my writing chair, a little upholstered slipper chair that was originally in my bedroom at my grandparent's house, in for a long overdue re-furbishing.

It's only about sixty years old and the springs are sagging and the stuffing is falling out. But it's small enough to make it up the narrow stairway to my workroom -- a prime requirement. I have looked around for a replacement but all new chairs seem to be super-sized these days.

The man at the upholstery shop was kind of aghast. "Looks like you've got your money's worth out of this one," he said as he carried the wreck into his shop.

It took me about five minutes to choose a hunter green cotton duck fabric and he allowed as how I should get my chair back in a week and a half. We'll see. I'm kind of lost without it.

Another special indulgence was to go to the library and check out an armload of books I'd been wanting to read -- books as yet unread by me. Oh joy!

And there was a stop at the nursery for a few more broccoli starts, a heather plant, some Yukon Gold seed potatoes, and and a fig tree -- just a stick, but visions of fresh figs and prosciutto are dancing in my head.

The final part of my celebration was to watch a recent remake of Cold Comfort Farm (the first movie I've watched in a very long time) while enjoying a very special dinner -- bratwurst on a bun and champagne.

Now that's dissipation!

Today, if the weather cooperates, I'll play in the garden.

So many things to do!

The F- Word

Is Elizabeth a feminist? Am I a feminist . . . or a Feminist . . . and if so, is that first, second, or third wave feminism? Or a post-Feminist or a never was anything-ist?

These were the questions I found myself struggling with during my brief visit to Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green where I met a lot of very nice folks and was treated royally. And where I found myself talking to a class on women's studies and part of a discussion of feminism in detective fiction.

I've been away from academia for so very long -- over forty years -- that I'd forgotten all this stuff. If, indeed, I ever knew it. As I told my hosts, Ms. magazine came out just in time for me to read the first issue while I was in labor with my first child. And somehow, between children and back-to-the-land farm life, Feminism just isn't a word that has played a part in my day to day existence.

Had I remained in the working world; had I gone on and gotten my PhD. and taught at the college level, I have no doubt that the question of gender equality would have played a much larger part in my life. And while I do know that the glass ceiling continues to be a reality, that the struggle for equality isn't over here in the U.S., I'm far more concerned with the truly wretched life women in places like Afghanistan or parts of Africa must endure.

The thing is, that for me . . . and by extension, for Elizabeth . . . the label of feminist seems. . . well, maybe unnecessary. I haven't ever felt held back or discriminated against because of my gender. Maybe I just need my consciousness raised.

But I'll gladly accept the label for myself and for Elizabeth if for no other reason than that the F-word makes Rush Limbaugh twitch and foam at the mouth. I would be proud to be counted in with those fine women!

News Flash

I have just sent off the Myrna Lou-less rewrite of The Day of Small Things to Herself!!!

I think it's greatly improved. But only time will tell what Herself thinks.

And this is no April foolery.

Not Your Grandmother's Deviled Eggs

Take five banty hens (rooster optional.) Feed and water faithfully; provide greenery.


When they begin to lay, save the little eggs in the refrigerator a few days before boiling them -- they'll peel more easily if not extremely fresh.

And, actually, don't boil them. Put them in a pot of cold water, bring almost to a boil and remove from heat. Let sit covered about ten minutes. (Regular eggs will take longer) before plunging in cold water till cool.

Peel carefully; cut in half lengthwise. Remove the yolks (about the size of a large marble) and mash. Stir in a dollop of pickle relish and some finely chopped pecans along with a tad of grated onion.

Moisten with mayonnaise (I use homemade) and Durkee's Dressing ( a tangy mustard sauce -- substitute mustard if you don't have Durkee's, you poor thing.) Season with Jane's Krazy Salt and hot curry powder.

Mix well and mound the mixture into the halved whites. Dust with paprika (hot Hungarian for extra devilment.)

Oh, lord, these are good!

I'm back from Bowling Green and will post about that later.

Holy Cow!

And oh my goodness! I've just found out that there is serious interest in making a pilot for a TV series about the adventures of Elizabeth Goodweather.

It would be wonderful, of course, for sales and would help insure that there would be more Elizabeth books. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it works out!

I am, a little surprised at some of the ideas the producer has. He wants to appeal to a younger viewing crowd and so is thinking of casting Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock as Elizabeth and Phillip.





Evidently Pam is pretty excited about it and is working on her rural credibility (note blue jeans.)

Kid Rock says that he hopes to bring a younger, hipper sensibility to the role of Phillip (as well as more hair.)













On the other hand, the producer may opt to go with Fabio . . . in both roles.










Happy Day of All Fools!!!