Full Circle

My son Justin and his girlfriend Claui are setting up a small blacksmith's shop under the shed of the old corncrib. Claui learned some blacksmithing when she was a student at Warren Wilson and both of them are eager to explore the possibilities of the craft.

I'm thrilled because it's a return to what was. Clifford, who lived here before us, had a small coal-fired forge. He could repair his horse-drawn equipment and make simple tools.
We have a few artifacts remaining from Clifford's forge -- a single small andiron and an elegantly curved something that we use as a hose guide

It'll be exciting to see where this leads. At present Claui is working on a set of hooks to hold up curtain rods in their living room. I like to think that the farm is happy to hear the ring of the blacksmith's hammer again.

Salix gracilistyla var. melanostachys

A beautiful day -- time to clear away some of the winter debris and make the garden and flower beds ready for planting and new growth. And a time to greet old friends returning -- especially the ones that usually go unnoticed.

My black pussy willow (Salix gracilistyla var. melanostachys) is a rather nondescript shrub for most of the year but I knew I had to have it when I saw one in spring, its deep red stems covered, it seemed, with fuzzy black caterpillars. At first the little catkins wear a tiny brown dunce cap which quickly falls off, revealing a startling scarlet tip on the black. Then, over a week or two, the pussies grow and bloom with the most delicate pink and green.

But you have to get up close to see them -- and after raking and pruning and raking some more, I'm happy to stop and appreciate the pussy willow.

I'm not alone in my appreciation. You'll find more pictures at http://www.paghat.com/blackpussywillow.html

New Growth

At this time of year so many plants are just beginning to unfurl new leaves, giving tantalizing hints of what a season of growth will eventually reveal. These odd, somewhat Seussian, olive and magenta shoots of a tree peony will spread and develop into glossy deep-green leaves -- if a hard freeze doesn't get them.

I see a parallel with the burgeoning writers in my writing class. Tonight was our fourth meeting and it's so delightful to see their work expanding and deepening even in such a short time.

They're a diverse group -- three men and three women -- writing on a variety of subjects in a variety of styles. But they pay attention -- and this is the key -- to the text, to one another , and to their teacher, (who occasionally wonders why in the world she has the effrontery to set up as a teacher. Then, of course, she remembers, "Oh, yes, the fella from UNCA asked me to -- and then there was the money.")

It's not easy, reading your work aloud to a bunch of strangers -- especially when you know that they've been tasked with pointing out any and all weaknesses. But I believe it's one of the best things a writer can do to improve his craft. First, in the reading aloud the writer can hear exactly what those words sound like -- is the dialogue realistic? does the narrative flow? And secondly, in listening to the comments of others, the writer acknowledges that he's writing not for only for himself but for potential readers. If they don't understand something, the job's not done.

Criticism -- as long as it's not of the hard freeze variety, withering those tender shoots before they mature -- can nurture a budding writer. I look forward to seeing what the season brings for the folks in my class. The promise is definitely there.

Forty Wild Turkeys

Forty wild turkeys, grazing their way across a hill just above the road! I had to stop and take their picture. (Couldn't get all of them in the shot but there really were forty, cross my heart!)

Wildlife has made a big comeback in our area as the old farms grow up and pastures and fields become tangles of multiflora rose, hateful stuff to us but a safe haven for many creatures.

Our summertime view -- masses of green trees with only an occasional clearing -- isn't what folks would have seen a hundred years ago. Back then, all but the very steepest slopes were laboriously cleared and put to pasture, hay, or crops.

Clifford, who farmed this land before us, told of cutting hay on a slope so steep that he had to tie a long rope to his mowing machine and station two of his big sons uphill from him, hanging on to the rope to keep the mowing machine from tipping over.

Now those were farmers!

As the Darkness Falls

Speaking last night with a friend whose mother is slipping into dementia, I was reminded of times I spent with a college friend who fell prey to this insidious illness. And this morning, looking through my pictures for something to adorn a blog, I saw this puzzling scene, taken yesterday with a storm cloud lowering, a tree full of twittering birds and one brilliant shot of light -- as well as a puzzling spherical object in the foreground. I almost deleted the picture but then I realized that it was a good representation of a confused mind with the darkness closing in.

And I offer to you -- hoping all the while that you'll never need it, this poem that floated across the internet some time back.


REMEMBER ME
Do not discuss me as if I am not present
My mind is foggy, but my heart is clear.
Do not resent my frequent questions.
I am scared and confused. Your answers slip from my desperate grasp.
Do not stop loving me because my actions are inappropriate.
Use patience and kindness to remind me of my manners for they have disappeared with other fragments of my mind.
Do not resent my frequent pacing or attempts to “go home.”
This is not my home. Nothing here is familiar or reassuring. If only I could go home, I would surely find my memory there.
Do not remind me of my recent hurts.
I do not recall that my mate has passed or my house burned to the ground.

Do not speak to me as a child.
I have a lifetime of experiences despite my childlike ways.
Remind me of your name and the place you hold in my life.
I would love to recall, for I feel your love and kindness.
Show me the world – nature, music, art – for I have forgotten the amazing joy it holds.
Allow me to use the tools that remain, to hammer out my mark and unwrench my heart.
Forgive me for my imperfect past;
If only I remembered, I would surely apologize.
You need not fill our time with many words.
Your presence helps fill my void.
The blame does not lie with you or me.
Love me for who I am now and the person I used to be.
J. Al-hafez
June 1997

Tony Earley and The Blue Star

After finishing Tony Earley’s new novel The Blue Star, I spent much of yesterday in a bit of a daze, reluctant to leave this perfect gem of a book.

The long-awaited sequel to Jim the Boy, Earley’s critically acclaimed bestseller, The Blue Star takes up Jim’s story when, as a senior in high school at the beginning of WWII, he falls in love with Chrissie, a beautiful, half-Cherokee classmate. But Chrissie is the reluctant girlfriend of an older boy, recently enlisted in the Navy, and Jim’s path to true love is full of obstacles.

The writing is spare and heart-breakingly beautiful. Set in rural North Carolina, this deceptively simple story is a small masterpiece.

Full disclosure along with name-dropping: I’m proud to claim acquaintance with Tony Earley. We met at a book fair, back when I had an agent but no publisher as yet and he was kind and encouraging to an aspiring author of (oh dear) genre mysteries. Then, when my first book came out, he was even kinder, taking time from his writing and teaching to read my book and give it a nice quote. (I suspect that the Little Sylvie part of the book was more nearly his cup of tea than the rest.) He has continued to go out of his way to encourage me whenever our paths have crossed -- and one of my fondest memories is of having dinner with him and his lovely wife and daughter, after which Tony read me a story of his which would soon be in The New Yorker. Is that cool, or what!?! (Do I sound like a groupie?)

If I had fully realized, back when I first met him, what an amazing and important writer Tony is, I’d never have had the nerve to do more than humbly ask for his autograph. Luckily for me, he’s as nice a person as the folks he writes about.

The New York Times reviewed the book at length on Thursday --
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/06/books/06masl.html
(And by the way, I heartily disagree with this reviewer’s two small quibbles. What the reviewer found fault with, I particularly enjoyed.)

And tomorrow, it’s the lead story for the NYT Book Review. With a review by Scott Turow.
http://www.nytimes.com/pages/books/

Couldn’t happen to a better writer or a nicer guy!

Autumn Joy in Spring

Pushing past last year's

Dry stems, grey-green leaves unfurl,

Beginning again.



Autumn Joy sedum -- what a wonderful plant! Easily rooted from a cutting, drought-resistant, winter hardy, it dies back each winter only to start all over in spring.All summer it will grow, taller and taller, and little broccoli-like heads will appear at the ends of each leafy stem. Come fall, those green heads will begin to blush, culminating in a beautiful deep rose aggregation of tiny flowers.

Even in the depths of winter, the dried and blackened stems still retain a certain stark and sculptural elegance in the barren landscape. Then, when the new growth begins to show, I whack off the old stems and stand back so that the cycle of growth and rebirth can continue.

Compost on my Mind

It probably takes a gardener to appreciate a picture of dirt -- but this isn't just any dirt; it's composted soil/hay/manure, courtesy of our little herd of cows. My husband brought up load ofter load and today I've been cleaning off the asparagus beds and top-dressing them with this wonderful stuff.

At the end of the day, of course, I'm stiff and sore -- a winter spent sitting in a comfy chair with a laptop is not a good preparation for physical labor. But it's the same every Spring and the aches are good aches.

And now, back in the comfy chair, I think, as I have before, of of the relevance of compost to writing. Before I begin a book, I throw all sorts of diverse bits of research into my mind. Old textbooks, diaries, half-remembered stories, newspapers, histories, period novels and music -- anything and everything goes into the compost heap of my brain, there to simmer and work and, in time, with luck and labor, it will turn into a novel.

Cue Odin

We had a glorious rain yesterday -- close to two inches -- and the branches are roaring. When it finally stopped, just at sunset, we looked to the west to see a crystal blue sky laced with wispy pink clouds -- the sort of sky that many would dismiss as too sentimental or trite if they saw it in a painting.

To the east, however, was a setting worthy of a Wagnerian opera. Masses of curdled ominous, lowering clouds, still pink, but not at all sweet looking, and billows of white mist roiling up from below.

We stood on the porch, admiring the show, half-expecting Odin to come riding out of all that glory.

Hope Springs Eternal

Yesterday was the sort of day that makes one believe anything is possible -- that this will be the year the yard and the garden attain such heights of horticultural splendor that gardening magazines will be lining up to immortalize every perfect flower and ideal vegetable. Sober experience, of course, suggests that this won't happen. The balmy temperatures will give way to hot days and a Darwinian struggle of weed versus cultivated plant will rage through the flower beds and garden tiers. The masses of stately delphiniums I'd envisioned in March will subside to a sickly straggling few and once again I'll be thankful for the humble, indestructible daylily.




But when I came home yesterday from a morning that included reading Marvin K. Mooney to a charming group of second graders at our library's Seuss Day Celebration, to find that the manure fairy had spread a load of brown gold on our little entry lawn and that the first daffodil had opened, I shed my town-going garments and got into my grubbies to start work on that dream.

In the field above the orchard, my husband was on his tractor, turning under the newly green grass in preparation for a potato patch. The smell of the dark brown earth was intoxicating and it was cheering to think that this, at least, will be a crop with every liklihood of success.





"Taters is easy made," said our mentor, Clifford Freeman, helping us to plant our first potatoes back in the spring of '76. He knew better than to fool with delphiniums.

Looking for a Home

Does anyway living in my area have room in their heart and home for a very sweet, very lonely tuxedo kitty? Since Grace's death, of which I wrote recently, her husband has gone into a nursing home and Polly needs a home.

A neighbor wrote me this morning:

It was so sad coming up our lane yesterday afternoon. Grace would usually be sitting at the window -- waiting to see when I returned, or if not Miss Polly would be sitting on the CD player, perkily watching everything outside. Yesterday Polly was lying with her head down, looking very sad and lonely. I understand Carl & Jackie are taking care of Polly, but we're still trying to find her a good home. Please pass the word if you can think of anyone who might be willing to do so.

I have two cats who hate each other and then there're the six dogs . . . Polly is used to a quiet household and to being inside.

So I'm passing this along, hoping someone out there 'needs' a lonely kitty, elderly but so far as I know, in good health. Used to being the joy of two old folks. If you think you might be able to give her a home, email me (vicki_lane (at) mtnarea.net) and we'll talk about getting her to you.

Making It Real

Headline generators, of which there are many available on the web, are fun to play with. Surprise your friends with announcements of their being tapped for prestigious awards -- or being arrested for various carryings-on!

After sending an faux-article to my husband that he'd been chosen as the unanimous favorite of both political parties and experimenting with several other interesting and spurious news stories, I produced this one. It's a part of The Day of Small Things, my work in progress about Miss Birdie, and seeing it "in print" make it even more real.

Stations of the Walk

At the edge of the woods was a simple bench, a weathered oak plank nailed to two locust posts half-buried in the ground amid clumps of yellow violets. It was one of five benches scattered along this path; Sam had made them as a birthday present for Elizabeth years ago, dubbing them the "stations of the walk." (from Signs in the Blood, p.136.)














Like so many things in Elizabeth's world, the stations of the walk have their reality in mine. My husband built them almost thirty years ago and only one remains -- the rest have rotted away. So, for the big birthday just past, I asked him to make me some new benches.














They're in place now, made of treated wood that should last much longer. The ground around them is raw but I'll go out tomorrow in this blissful spring-like weather and transplant some daffodils into the soft dirt -- and later in the year, I'll put the yellow violets back where Elizabeth would look for them.
The last bench is called Walk's End. It overlooks a little hidden dell. There are wild apple trees and beautiful long views with no buildings at all in sight.

It's a magical place -- made more magical by having a bench to mark it.