Tena Loveland Russ

Like you care

2012-01-31T07:42:00.001-06:00

Your writing sucks. Your novel has no plot. The characters say stupid things. What were you thinking?

Relax in the knowledge that your novel will never be perfect. It just won't. The thing is, you care. Others may not find the nuanced lyrical sentences in your writing, but you care enough to sweat them out of your pores. If you've revised that sentence a hundred times, you can go to bed knowing that you've cared. Caring is not in vain. It's the only way to go. If you don't care, how can you expect anyone else to?

Writers must tell the stories they are given. Sometimes it takes a decade or so to figure out what that story is and why you were chosen to tell it. When you finish writing that novel, you will know why you wrote it.

Critics might devalue what you write. Criticism is tough to hear, but if you give a shit about your art and the reason for making it, you will persevere.

Expectations

2012-01-27T07:12:00.000-06:00

We watched the American Idol auditions last night and were blown away at some of the talent. However.

Some contestants needed a lot of Kleenex.

What makes people think they can be or do anything their heart desires? If your mommy says you can, seek a second opinion. Some mommies give out trophies if their kid brushes his teeth in the morning.

Everyone has dreams. Dreams are good. Dreams give us goals and focus. They lead us to new places, often destinations we never anticipated. It's a great journey that should be appreciated for opening our eyes, minds, and hearts. Some people (cough) even dream of getting a novel published. It is not promised. Nothing is promised.

Keeping it real.

Slogging away

2012-01-24T17:08:00.000-06:00

Late entry today with no fun picture or graphic for you to admire.

I finished the revision of my novel #1 and sent it to a contest. Sometimes the simplest things are complicated: I had to reformat the header of my Word doc and had problems doing it even though I've done it many times. The monkey brain gets in the way of clarity.

Scarf tying lessons: a public service to non-French women

2012-01-20T07:14:00.000-06:00

French women seem to be born with a special scarf-tying gene. Don't be intimidated! Here's help.

Dream catcher

2012-01-17T07:04:00.000-06:00

In my dream, Kathy Bates is the realtor who gives me the key to my new house. My husband is not present. The previous owner has died and left many of her possessions for me to sort through. As I wander though the house I keep finding more and more rooms. Some are empty, but some are cluttered with furniture that isn’t my taste.

Kitchens—there are several. I must choose which one I’ll use, probably the one with the window facing a pleasant courtyard. Outside, the sun is shining. I see a desert and mountains. This house is apparently in Arizona. (In real life, I have no interest in living in Arizona.)

My friend R. has spent the night in one of the bedrooms. She’s on the phone with her daughter. A long cord stretches down the hall. I move through the rooms, attempting to clean things up, but my many children distract me from the task. I discover that they’ve eaten stale candy left by the previous owner. I worry that it will make them sick. I want my oldest child to go to the grocery store for food. I give him a pad of paper and ask him to make a list, but he gets distracted by the other children.

A neighbor, a handsome young man with dark hair (maybe in the military) arrives at the back door and gives me elaborate directions to the grocery store. When he leaves, an older man (also in the military) has come to visit. He’s so pleasant that I can’t ask him to leave so I can finish my cleaning.

In one of the kitchen drawers I find an old newspaper clipping with paper money paper clipped to it. According to the clipping, the previous owner was a woman with a fondness for dogs. I must find her relatives and return the money to them. I study the clipping, trying to find out who she was, but the words are too blurry to read. I’ll never know who she was.

I understand completely what this dream is about, but Kathy Bates?

Hotel Dementia

2012-01-13T07:35:00.001-06:00

If you’re my Facebook friend or if you know me personally, you probably know that I make visits to the VA with my therapy dog, Cami. The patients are active duty soldiers and veterans (both men and women) in the locked wards of the mental hospital. They are there for a variety of reasons. Cami and I are accompanied by one of two staff members and it's completely safe. Without compromising anyone’s privacy, I want to share a story about one particular patient.

He was older than most, in his sixties. He had a vague smile and voice so soft that I had to lean in to hear him. He was happy to pet Cami and wanted to know if we went to the Hotel something-or-other. I dismissed the question (and him) as drifty. I said no, we didn’t visit that place—whatever it was. Maybe it was in his mind: Hotel Dementia, a place you can never leave.

I took Cami around the room to visit with other patients. The old soldier came and sat down next to a young soldier I was talking with. I whispered to the younger guy, asking if he knew what Hotel something-or-other was. He said it was a residential facility for retired veterans. It was a real place.

The old soldier wanted to talk with me. He wanted me to know that he’d been a Lieutenant, had spent 18 months in Vietnam, 9 years in the Navy, and had been a SEAL. I don’t know why he was in the locked ward that day, but he was as lucid as they come. I had completely made the wrong assumption about him.

You should never make assumptions about people. You never know what hero is behind that vague smile.

THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD

2012-01-10T16:53:00.000-06:00

So far revisions of novel #1 are going well. I'm on page 191 of 374. The rest of the job will be trickier, but I'm determined to make a contest deadline of January 31.

Like the little engine that could, I-think-I can-I think-I can.

Can't make that trip to Italy this year?

2012-01-06T21:13:00.000-06:00

Take a virtual tour of The Sistine Chapel

To view Michelangelo' masterpiece, click and drag the arrow in the lower left. Click the (+) to move closer or the (-) to move away. Move the arrow and you'll see every part of the chapel. Enjoy the your private tour and the music.

The sound of silence....

2012-01-03T09:34:00.000-06:00

.... is me, writing fearlessly.

January 31

2011-12-30T16:30:00.000-06:00

A small press is conducting an annual competition in which one novel will be chosen for publication and will win $1000.00 prize money. The submission deadline is January 31, 2012.

I'm in the process of a substantial revision of my first novel. (The second one is still in progress.) Novel #1 won the James Jones First Novel Fellowship and was best novel-in-progress in the Faulkner-Wisdom competition. I've struggled to find the right literary agent for it. I can't give up on it and let it become the first pancake.

The revision will be contest-ready by January 31, hell or high water. Whether or not it wins the competition isn't the point. The deadline is. Only twenty-two more chapters to go....

Always a good year for fruitcake

2011-12-26T10:49:00.000-06:00

You probably have many wonderful holiday traditions, but you probably don’t have this one.

In 1985, my husband’s well-intentioned stepmother sent us a fruitcake for Christmas. It arrived sealed in a plastic bag inside a festive holiday tin. Neither of us can stand fruitcake. This one remained in situ for a year, the forlorn example of wrong gift-giving.

Then we decided to re-gift it to our good friends, the C.’s, who have deposited on our porch such tasteless items as a statue of a surfing armadillo wearing a necktie. We have retaliated by leaving them an outdoor TV antenna, toilet seats that we replaced with new ones (I hasten to assure you that our donation was clean), a For Sale sign advertising their house (which was not for sale), and so on. The fruitcake was a natural. So, in the dark of night, we left it on their porch.

We received no thanks for this generous gift or for the accompanying card.

Every year since then we have traded this same fruitcake back and forth. One year, during a holiday party, they left it in our guest room closet. Another year they left it buried in the snow in our front yard. We found it in March.

No mention is ever made this covert exchange. If one of the kids asks who has the fruitcake now, we look at each other with a puzzled expression and say, “What fruitcake?”

Last year, along with the fruitcake, we included a pair of latex gloves suitable for handling haz-mat.

They re-gifted us, this year cleverly inserting the original tin into a metal box that once held Jack Daniel's Single Barrel Select Tennessee Whiskey. We were not fooled and went searching for our Geiger counter. And there is was, the fruitcake and the original greeting card that says, "To our dear (adding on dear, dear, dear dear dear) friends."

Clearly, as one of our kids pointed out, there was some kind of mold....

Friends do not let friends eat fruitcake.

A good year for fruitcake

2011-12-26T10:40:00.001-06:00

You probably have many wonderful holiday traditions, but you probably don’t have this one.

We received no thanks for this generous gift or for the accompanying card.

No mention is ever made this covert exchange. If one of the kids asks who has the fruitcake now, we look at each other with a puzzled expression and say, “What fruitcake?”

Last year, along with the fruitcake, we included a pair of latex gloves suitable for handling haz-mat.

Clearly, as one of our kids pointed out, there was some kind of mold....

Friends do not let friends eat fruitcake.

What a year!

2011-12-23T16:00:00.000-06:00

Wishing you a peaceful, productive and prosperous 2012.

It's true

2011-12-20T07:19:00.001-06:00

Legends and fables abound at Christmas time, like the one about the jolly man in the red suit whose sleigh is flown by eight reindeer (nine, counting the one with the black nose) (actually, reindeer are caribou). It is true that female reindeer/caribou do have antlers (see Snopes).

I believe this story might be true.

A Nativity scene was erected in a church yard. During the night, folks came across this scene. An abandoned dog (looks like a young German shepherd) was seeking somewhere comfortable and protected to sleep. He chose to lie down with baby Jesus. No one had the heart to send him away so he stayed there all night.

It is no stretch of the imagination that a German shepherd would be capable of such an intelligent decision.

Merry Christmas to you.

Santa recommends Solace

2011-12-16T07:04:00.001-06:00

I own this anthology and have to say it is fabulous. It makes a great gift for the writer in your life, your friends and family, or to yourself.

From lybrary.com:

"How can you find consolation? What sets your mind at ease? What can you hold onto when the world around you crumbles? What is solace and how do you find it?

This insightful anthology features essays, poetry, and fiction on these vital questions. By the very nature of its theme, this collection delves into global problems such as our endangered planet and the effects of war and hate as well as individual struggles like the death of a loved one and the consequences of aging and illness. Whether read cover-to-cover or savored one contribution at a time, Solace in So Many Words connects with readers through the heartfelt and compelling writing of more than 50 writers, including Antler, T. C. Boyle, Philip Levine, and Joe Meno, as well as newer literary discoveries who offer well-crafted words on what solace can mean to us today. A timely and timeless book to give as a gift to comfort a friend or to keep for yourself to gain a new perspective on coping with life's difficulties. Each entry feels fresh, as it offers another angle on finding a way to remain intact through life's complexity."

More praise for Solace in So Many Words:

Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul: "This collection offers an engaging account . . . of what it is to be human, vulnerable, and how to keep on loving in spite of it all."

Doug Holder, Ibbetson Street Press: "A trip around the world of experience and reflection."

Sharon Fiffer, editor of Home: American Writers Remember Rooms of Their Own, Family: American Writers Remember Their Own, Body and author of the Jane Wheel mystery series: "The diverse bedfellows who appear here prove artful words can be a balm for pain, one's own or the wider world's."

Solace in So Many Words is also available at Amazon and feedbooks.com

The virtual village green

2011-12-13T07:33:00.000-06:00

My friend who lives in the boonies mentioned a neighbor who was obsessed with his new iPhone. All the neighbor could talk about was this fabulous device. My friend couldn't fathom such enthusiasm for an electronic object. Where was the humanity?

The neighbor's iPhone is more than a gadget; it's a village green.

Even though the external circumstances of our world have changed greatly, humans will always care about other humans. Except for sociopaths, we're hard-wired to connect.

"Back in the day," when we lived in smaller communities, we'd spend social time on the village green or whatever meeting spot passed for a village green: The Sweet Shoppe, the bowling alley, the church basement, the Elder Lane beach. We'd hang out and get the scoop, which we'd consume while enjoying a scoop of ice cream. We were interested in hearing stories about our friends' and neighbors' lives, how things were for them, because it gave our own lives context.

Email and Facebook (I'm a big fan), Twitter (not so much) and personal blogs have become the new virtual village green. On this blog, comments are turned off, yet I know this is not a one-way conversation. Thanks to my stat counter, I know when readers visit and what they're reading. I don't know who you are specifically, or what you think about what I've written, but I thank you for spending some time here. I hope you've enjoyed your scoop of ice cream.

Down to the micro

2011-12-09T07:26:00.002-06:00

I always thought microwave ovens were just for reheating of coffee or boiling water for tea: more speed than finesse. They were muscle cars rather than nimble Mini Coopers. I'd never bothered to make friends with a microwave until our current one. Made of stainless steel, it's a Kitchen Aid that matches the rest of the appliances except for the dishwasher, which conked out so we replaced it with a blessedly silent Bosch.

The appliances were all purchased at the same time, in 2003 when we moved into this house. The house was a foreclosure before foreclosures were trendy. To say it was a wreck is like calling the Grand Canyon cute. I mean, it was a massive wreck. We knew there'd be problems, but we just didn't know where or how b a d. The previous owner had abandoned the house during a cold winter and didn't bother to shut the water off = frozen pipes. When we turned the water on, it gushed out of the walls like the fountains of Versailles. Suffice to say that we had mold aplenty. Mold remediation is not a fun project because it involves cutting out large portions of drywall and then replacing it.

Before we bought the ~~ranch~~ house, the previous owner stripped the kitchen of everything he could lay his mitts on from the fixtures to the kitchen sink. Literally down to the drywall, there were no counter tops, no appliances. Yet, we moved in. It was Outward Bound in the northern suburbs of Chicago. During construction our "field" kitchen consisted of the new refrigerator we'd bought and an electric hot plate. The only source of water was the sink in the hall powder room, which was shared with our construction crew.

Seven weeks later, we had an actual kitchen with all the usual appliances including a microwave, of which I've become fond. I thought it was dying last week. It took forever to boil water. I'm not married to this piece of metal, but there's one setting that I will miss when it goes. It is "Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound." I feel like I've discovered a secret weapon. Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound is the gentle exhalation of warm breath.

Can I tell you what this terrific setting does? It not only defrosts fish nicely, but it reheats food without making it too hot. Such as the dogs' meat. Yes, I cook for the dogs. Do not ask who spoiled the dogs. One of them prefers his chopped chicken breast warmed slightly before it gets mixed with his kibble.

Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound thaws perfectly a frozen English muffin or half a blueberry muffin.

Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound reheats leftover roast leg of lamb without turning it gray.

Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound liquefies sluggish honey.

Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound revives Hollandaise sauce without curdling it!

Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound warms my heart.

Our microwave seems to have made a recovery, but next time it might be on the DNR list. I'm sure going to miss Custom Defrost/Fish/.1 pound.

Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change.

2011-12-06T08:54:00.002-06:00

One of my favorite radio stations plays all-holiday music beginning November 1. I find that premature, as is walking into Walgreen’s before Halloween and being assaulted by a cheesy rendition of Silent Night.

I listen to the radio in my car a lot. Other than rock or country, my choices are “smooth jazz” (the musical equivalent of iceberg lettuce), the Oldies station (which I love but not as a steady diet), Hispanic, and Chicago’s lone classical station. We used to have a second classical station that was owned by an older couple. During broadcasts, you could hear their dogs barking in the background. This, I loved. The couple sold the station and retired.

Must I listen to Brenda Lee's Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree every day until December 26? I never liked it in the first place. I do love certain Christmas songs:

Nat King Cole’s Christmas Song

Shawn Colvin’s funky version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Karen Carpenter’s I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Vince Vance and the Valiants All I Want for Christmas is You

Schumann’s Ave Maria

I find most irritating:

Little Drummer Boy

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
Santa Baby

Only 20 days left until can I tune into WLIT again.

Since our expiration date has apparently been extended

2011-12-02T13:59:00.000-06:00

See the previous post about this plane crash, which occurred three houses north of ours.

No fuel was found on the 250 foot path of wreckage. In the Deerfield Review, the National Transportation Safety Board investigator is quoted as saying that he would not speculate if the lack of fuel caused the plane to crash, but the possibility shouldn't be ignored.

Um, probably not.

This tragic event still bothers me a lot. I hear a small plane overhead (we are often in the flight pattern) and my head goes up. I drive past the spot where that plane landed three nights ago and I'm drawn to look, again. The debris of the crash has been removed and yet, something is still there.

What remains is my gratitude for being on this side of the grass for another day.

Out of gas

2011-11-30T13:35:00.000-06:00

This medical transport plane crashed three houses north of ours, two days ago. Not only is the sight of that splintered plane unnerving, but so are the trees that were sheared off on the descent. Two passengers and the pilot died. A medic and the co-pilot survived. The plane ran out of gas just ten minutes from the airport. Most likely the pilot (who had 40 years of flight experience and was an instructor) desperately searched for a place to put down that wasn't in someone's living room -- like ours -- and chose to land in the woods. Thank you, sir, and R.I.P.

K-9 Reading Buddies

2011-11-29T07:35:00.000-06:00

How does reading to an animal help raise a child’s self-esteem?

When a seven year-old boy (I'll call him "Sam") first met Reading Buddy Cami, he was unable to read his favorite book about sharks. Sam would sound out the first letter of a word and then give up. Frustrated, he'd put the book aside and tell Cami all about sharks in his own words.

As Sam's bond with Cami grew stronger, he would suggest places he thought she would enjoy visiting; among them, Shedd Aquarium. He thought she would like the dolphins. Clearly he thought of Cami as his friend. He was even concerned about her comfort. Once he covered her with his jacket because he thought she might be cold.

Gradually Sam’s reading skills began to improve and so did his self-confidence. He started to read the first sentence in each paragraph. Then he read entire paragraphs! Eventually Sam amazed Cami by reading a two-page story in Highlights Magazine. Even though he stumbled over a few unfamiliar words, he was determined to finish the story. Sam’s accomplishment was rewarded with a high-five from Cami and high praise from Cami's mom.

A photo of Cami with two of her young readers appears in the 2012 K-9 Reading Buddies of the North Shore calendar. Each month features a different Reading Buddy. Cami, whose birthday is March 20, is appropriately Miss March.

When the K-9 Reading Buddies of the North Shore was launched in June of 2007, Cami was one of five original reading dogs. Currently 18 human mentors and 26 dogs volunteer in the reading program. To purchase a calendar for $10.00 or make any size donation to help fund the program, visit K-9 Reading Buddies of the North Shore

PS: I tried reading some chapters of my novel-in-progress to Cami. She listened carefully and said, "Daisy (my protagonist) would never say that." Everyone's an art critic.

The first pancake

2011-11-22T07:14:00.002-06:00

The first pancake is the test to see if the pan is hot enough. In our house, the test pancake is fed to the dogs, who will eat even the flabbiest flapjack with enthusisam.

Analogous to the first pancake, many first novels are considered process, rather than product. My first novel won two major awards (one was a Fellowship) and was recently short-listed for Finalist in a well-known writing competition. It seems to have literary merit and yet, I am without a literary agent. I had one briefly, but that’s a story I won’t share here.

I've queried quite a few agents. Some have sent gracious words praising the writing, the characters, the dialogue, etc., but with regret they have decided to “step aside,” a polite phrase for rejection. Some have said that if the economy hadn’t gone to hell in a handkerchief my novel would be on the shelves now. (What shelves?) Others never bothered to respond to my query. I understand that some agents are getting out of the business altogether. This is ironic because more people than ever are writing novels with the goal of publication in mind. Good luck with that. Many of them will self-publish. Some probably shouldn’t. With an agent, the manuscript gets vetted before it's offered to throngs of eager editors at major publishing houses, unless they’ve quit the day job, too.

Although self-publishing has become respectable and is no longer the proverbial red-headed, left-handed stepchild (my apologies if you are an actual red-headed, left-handed stepchild; I don't mean to offend) I just don’t know if it's for me.

I think I’ll take some time to revise. I'll make my novel even more unique and quirky and harder to "sell." What have I got to lose? If and when I query again, that novel will be smokin’ hot. Or it will be out of the frying pan and into the dog dish.

Dear Occupant

2011-11-17T21:31:00.002-06:00

The Occupy (wherever) inhabitants remind me of the peace-loving flower children of the Sixties. You can almost hear the music to Hair. I’m not saying it’s not good to be idealistic, but you can’t shovel fog. What do they want to happen, specifically? What is the agenda and how do they hope to achieve it? They seem to be waiting for is “someone” to fix things. Fixing things requires clear vision, strong leadership, and someone to articulate it.

The world needs visionaries. Consider Walt Disney who became an entrepreneur at the age of ten, when he was a newsboy. His ability to harness his dreams made possible a career as film producer, director, screenwriter, voice-over talent, animator, and philanthropist. Thanks to Walt, we have The Magic Kingdom.

I sympathize with the Occupiers, I do. However, to get anywhere with their agenda—whatever it is—they must establish a coherent plan with real leadership. Gathering in public places may bring about “awareness,” but if they can’t shape their vision into a specific form, their hopes and dreams will remain forever in Tomorrowland.

Painting a small room

2011-11-15T07:14:00.002-06:00

Small rooms are more challenging to paint than large ones. In a small room, you maneuver around obstacles, often forcing yourself into awkward and sometimes unnatural positions. You see only what's right in front of your nose.

In a larger space, you're able to move your ladder around, make necessary adjustments, paint broader and freer strokes.

My point? Get out of your own way. Step back and get some perspective. Then you will see what you need to do next.

Da Ballet

2011-11-04T21:52:00.000-05:00

Move over NYC and LA. We have plenty of cul-cha here in the Chicago area, AKA "Chicagoland." We have the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Lyric Opera, the Joffrey Ballet, Hubbard Street Dancers, and the Village Follies.

The Follies corps (corpse?) de ballet was "long in the tooth" back 1995, but will be elephant tusks if this classic is resurrected for the 2012 Follies. The production benefits the Winnetka Community House.

Yours truly danced the role of the Swan and with luck, might do so again. Barring any complications, Mr. Yours Truly will once again portray the Hunter. The trick will be finding someone capable of hoisting me without busting a gut.

For your viewing pleasure, Swamp Lake:

Life's too short

2011-11-01T07:18:00.000-05:00

Life's too short to:

Finish a boring book

Wear uncomfortable shoes

Criticize someone for something they can't fix in five minutes

Repaint a room

Apologize for being the person you are becoming/have become

Remain a victim or become a martyr

Wish it were tomorrow

Obsess over your own mortality
Wait for Godot or anyone who doesn't respect your time

Life's too short not to:

Smile and nod to a bald woman. She's probably had chemo.
Learn how to whistle, paint, dance

Own the car you really want, for once

Visit Paris, Prague, or Peru. Get out of Dodge.

Decline an invitation when you'd rather stay home

Say: "Here, use mine."

Fall in love with a stranger's child

Draw a door and walk through it

Send that thank you note

Wouldn't hurt a fly

2011-10-28T07:32:00.000-05:00

Jackson Russ, three months old.

When we adopted Jackson he weighed sixteen pounds, his tail was broken, and someone had sheared off his rear dew claws. He was afraid of men, especially big men. We aren't sure how he made it to the shelter, but the neighborhood he lived in was rough. Judging from his reaction to shiny, rumbling machines, there were probably motorcycles.

Since he was so skinny, shy, and sensitive, he was put in foster care for a while. His foster mom told me that when he was brave enough to come out from behind the sofa, she thought it was time for him to find a permanent home.

As with many rescued dogs, Jackson arrived with baggage. His reaction to stressful situations was to flatten out and become as small as possible. We had no idea what had happened to him as a puppy, but it probably wasn't pleasant. Maybe someone beat him.

That was nine years ago. With a lot of TLC, training, and socialization, he has become a stellar canine citizen. He still has a few idiosyncrasies, though. For instance, he hates the sound of a mosquito. Instead of smacking it dead, I discovered that I can immobilize it with a shot of hairspray. This technique especially good for dispatching other flying insects like wasps. It gums up their wings and they can't fly. It's a silent death.

The other night Jackson went into the bathroom and sat in a corner as far from the door as possible. His ears were back, head down, eyes averted. Clearly something was disturbing him but I couldn't figure out what it was.

The problem was a fly. It was black and v-shaped. Like a miniature stealth bomber, it circled silently around the bedroom. The very presence of this tiny creature sent Jackson scooting off to the dining room at the front of the house. Nothing could entice him to come back to the bedroom.

I zapped the fly with hairspray (pray for my murderous soul) and gave it a burial at sea. I called Jackson to come to his bed, but he wouldn't. He must have worked up the courage sometime in the night when the coast was clear.

It's in Jackson's DNA to be brilliant, as most shepherds are, but given the wrong environment, he could have ended up being a fear-biter instead of a cuddly pacifist. He could have gone either way.

Adopt a dog if you can. Be kind to it, train it, and reap the rewards. You'll make the world a better place.

Alternate ways of counting to twelve

2011-10-26T07:52:00.003-05:00

We usually swim twice a week. At pool at the health and fitness club, 16 complete laps equal one mile. My threshold of boredom is 12 laps, or 24 -- if you're counting both directions, which my husband does not. 24 sounds more heroic than 12.

Even varying my strokes (breast, back, side; different arms and kicks), swimming is mind-numbing. I try to think of distractions -- what tasty thing to have for dinner, or how to inflict more pain and suffering on the protagonist in my novel. While I'm contemplating these things I have to remember how many laps I have done. It's easy to lose my place when I'm considering killing off a character.

For example: On lap #1, my mind will sometimes will jump ahead and count the return trip as lap #2. The real lap #2 will be designated (incorrectly) as the beginning of lap #3, and so on.

I try different systems to keep track. One involves the astrological signs. The first lap is Aries, the second is Taurus, third is Gemini, forth is Cancer and so on all the way to the 12th sign, Pisces.

Easy.

I've tried using the elements: fire, earth, air, and water as they relate to the astrological signs. Describing that system would make your head hurt.

This week I'm doing colors. Overhead, near either end of the pool, is a rope strung across the width of the pool. On it are colored flags. If you're doing a backstroke, the flags will give you some advance warning that you're about to crack your head against the wall. The flags are red, blue, green, white, and yellow. Aries is a Fire sign, so that's a red flag. Taurus is an earth sign = green. Gemini is air = white. Cancer is water = blue. Rinse and repeat three times. It all adds up to 12!

The problem is the yellow flag, the fifth color. I have no astrological association for it. Maybe it's the sign of surrender.

A state of grace

2011-10-24T07:19:00.000-05:00

I've been reading the short stories of Grace Paley whose writing is like French silk pie, so rich that you can eat only a little at a time. Consider the first sentence of Faith in a Tree:

"Just when I most needed important conversation, a sniff of the man-wide world, that is, a brainy companion who could translate my friendly language into his tongue of undying carnal love, I was forced to lounge in our neighborhood park, surrounded by children."

It's all there in that one sentence: character, setting, the yearning for something unattained and perhaps unattainable. Voice. How did she do it? Did those perfect words simply spill out onto the page or did she have to hold her head underwater until they rose like golden bubbles from her subconscious?

The protagonist of my novel-in-progress is a Vietnam vet suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and guilt from his past actions. Working on his story feels like I'm underwater and can't get my bearings, let alone my breath.

Yesterday my husband, who says he never remembers his dreams, dreamed that he saved me from drowning when I lost my buoyancy. I could sure use the help.

Vanity

2011-10-21T07:31:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I attended a talk given by a literary agent. The more she spoke about the changes in the publishing world, the more I considered that the traditional way -- an agent sells the manuscript to an editor at one of the publishing houses -- might not be the way to go. Small presses -- if you can get one -- are another option and so is self-publishing, which no longer carries the "last chance" stigma. In any case, it's worth considering.

There is precedence for self-publishing in my family.

The summer I was eighteen, courtesy of familial nepotism, I worked at my step-dad's publishing company in the "Circulation Department." I'd just been sprung from prep school. It was mid-June and my friends had already snagged the good jobs.

Mornings, I rode with Dad to the place my mother referred to as "the dumb old office." (Business wasn't her deal.) Dad would kiss me goodbye in the lobby and then take the elevator up to the Executive floor to have coffee with Granddad, who founded the company. My work station was on the first floor, at a desk in a big room full of people who were understandably leery of working alongside the boss'a kid. In the background, the clanking of the Linotype machines could be heard. My job was to sort through computer punch cards. Exactly why I was sorting them was a mystery. I had no clue what I was doing or why. I can't imagine how many subscriptions I sorted into oblivion.

The room with the Linotype machines smelled of oil and ink. The Linotype machine was an improvement over manual typesetting. The operator would enter text on a 90 character keyboard. The assembled lines were called slugs. Slugs held the information that filled the periodicals the company's customers subscribed to. The business still exists, but is no longer owned by my family.

Granddad, whose formal education ended at eight grade, self-published a book of poetry and a memoir about a trip to Hawaii. One book is leather-bound; the other is covered with the kind of grass paper found in expensive wallpaper. Granddad had patrician tastes. I don't know where he had his books published.

My biological father was also a would-be writer. In 1960, he self-published a slim volume titled How to Put Up With People (Including Yourself): Avoiding Psychoanalysis. I should mention that he dedicated the book to his long-time friend, “a great clinical psychologist, most understanding of friends.” The setting is a bar. The action is a long conversation between two guys as they slurp cocktails; art imitating Dad's life:

“You ask what’s wrong with psychology?” said the man on the next stool. "Plenty! You could write a book about it. But who wants to write when it’s easier to think out loud? Besides, those writers make it sound like nothing you ever heard of.”

“They certainly managed to confuse me,” I said.

The book is as witty and wordsmithy as Dad was, but it meanders and philosophizes, as he did. Nothing happens. Reading it, I feel like I’ve had one too many myself. Sorry, Dad, wherever you are, but what you needed was a good editor, not a shrink. A good editor can convert merde into magic.

Back then, self-publishing was called vanity publishing. The new term -- independent publishing -- sounds slightly perfumed.

And now I might go the same route. Still, there's a part of me (vanity, I suppose) that would love to say my book was published by Random House, Penguin, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, Hachette Book Group, or Macmillan. Ironically, Macmillan bought Granddad's company.

Maybe they would give me a job in the mail room.

The best gig ever

2011-10-19T08:14:00.000-05:00

The other night at the library the most adorable first grade boy read to my therapy dog, Cami. A post about what we do in dog therapy can be found here. Dog therapy is a great way to share my wonderful dog. She is beautiful (check out those Cleopatra eyes) and she's very calm, especially for a German shepherd.

Back to the little boy. Not only was he the most confident (and competent) reader I've ever encountered for his age, but he could pronounce Spanish words correctly. Like the "j" in jalapeño. He's taking Spanish in first grade. The book he read to Cami concerned a mash-up between an ever-expanding bunch of kittens and a beleaguered Chihuahua (I had to Google the spelling of that word) and it got sillier and sillier as the action and dialogue escalated and I was laughing out loud. This pleased my little reader immensely, and he kept checking for my reactions, giving me an impish grin when he scored a laugh.

I wish I could post his photo with Cami here so you could see what I'm talking about, but it's against privacy rules.

I would like to borrow this child for an indefinite period of time. I believe his parents would understand.

The Law of Attraction

2011-10-17T07:57:00.002-05:00

According to the wisdom of Abraham, spoken through Esther Hicks, we are here to experience joy. In simplest terms, Abraham says we attract to ourselves that which we put our attention on. (It's more complicated than that.)

So, last Saturday a day of reunions.

The first reunion was a luncheon for my grade school classmates, hosted by my erstwhile friend Judy. Judy and I used to play dolls. Our dolls were the sisters from Little Women. I can't remember which doll Judy's was, but mine was Meg. I must have been about 8 years old when I had that doll, because I remember that my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother. She hand-sewed clothes for my doll. One item was a beige satin peignoir with lace trim. My mother, to my recollection, never sewed anything else.

Anyway, I hadn't seen most of these classmates since 6th grade, when my family moved to a different town. Seeing these childhood friends was mind-blowing. So many memories! Everyone was warm and welcoming, and our reconnection was joyful.

My conundrum concerning reunion #2 is mentioned here.

Once again, the Law of Attraction was most beautifully at work: What I wanted was a quiet reunion with a few high school classmates that I cared about, rather than party with literally hundreds. Not only did my four friends (mentioned in the previous post) show up at the hotel bar, but we ended up being a table of ten. There's some kind of collective magic going on here.

My friend Sue asked me who I used to date when I was a freshman. I said his name, and reminisced that he'd owned a red Corvette, the classic 1957. Sue had seen him the night before at the cocktail party. Several minutes later, she nudged me. There he was, standing alone at the bar, having a beer. I went over to him and said, "I know you." I wasn't sure he'd recognize me. He looked me in the eye and said, "Tena." Then he told me I'd been the love of his life until I broke his heart by going away to boarding school. He even remembered the name of the school.

Well.

I hadn't consciously conjured up a reunion with an old boyfriend, but maybe he was part of what I wanted.

Several of us "girls" are plotting a weekend together next summer, another reunion I will definitely not miss.

Happiness revealed

2011-10-16T16:07:00.000-05:00

I will be back to my reunion stories. Meanwhile, I invite you to watch this beautiful video a friend shared with me.

A party in your head, part 2

2011-10-14T07:17:00.005-05:00

All I wanted was to say hello to the few people I remember from public high school. My class reunion is this weekend. (As I said in the previous post, I attended this school freshman year only. Our class was over 1000 students.) Tonight's get-together will be at one of the local hotels. Nibbles, cash bar. Saturday night's dinner dance will be at a private club: Mob scene, yelling over loud music, squinting at name tags.

I had planned to pay for tonight's party at the door. I emailed the reunion committee asking the cost, but received no reply. Then, a few days ago, the website stated that the fixed cost for any or all events is $165. Whoa. All I wanted was to stop for a glass of wine and a very short stroll down memory lane. $165 for a glass of wine seems a little steep, especially at a cash bar.

I emailed the contact at the reunion committee, who agreed that the cost was steep for just one night. Why didn't I pay to join them for all of the events? It was a much better deal and I would have a great time. I emailed back saying, hundreds of you have spent four years with each other and will have many memories to share. Not a great scene for someone who wasn’t part of it.

I offered to make a donation of $50 if I could attend the Friday night event. The reunion committee discussed my offer and decided that I would have to pay $165, no matter what. And by the way, my $50 wouldn't cover their costs. (Apparently they lost sight of the fact that my donation would have been incremental income.)

Would $75 have done the trick? $125? I'll never know. It wasn't about the money, at least not for me. As I said, all I wanted to do was stop by and buy a drink at the cash bar. I wouldn't even eat their food.

One of my out-of-town friends suggested that we meet at the hotel bar before the dinner dance. Now three more friends will be joining us. Since the committee declined my donation, I'll use it to buy drinks for my girlfriends.

I'll let you know how that party goes.

A party in your head

2011-10-12T09:14:00.000-05:00

Previous post words: Old friends

This weekend is my high school reunion -- that is, the public high school I attended freshman year. I didn't sign up for the parties because I don't know many of my former classmates (our class was well over 1000) and I'm sure they don't remember me. I was fairly anonymous, and hung out on the margins of a cloud of girls. Unfortunately, my closest friend from those days died a few years ago.

The school I graduated from was an all-girls boarding school in upstate New York. Going there was not my idea. I went at my parents' insistence. I wrote about my first day here.

In a very real way, my fellow prep school classmates (inmates) became my family. As teenagers, life in general is intense. Alliances and animosities are common. We had our reunion last June and it was beyond wonderful. There were no factions, no jealousies, no quarrels, only great tenderness for those who formerly shared our days and nights. Of 103 classmates, 8 have died. Over 40 of us showed up for the milestone 50th reunion. One woman came all the way from New Zealand. For most of us, this will be the last reunion we attend. It was good to part with such warm feelings.

I regret somewhat that I won't be attending my public high school reunion, but hope to meet up with a couple of the ladies over a glass of wine. Later, at the parties, they will have their own memories to share with hundreds of people I don't know.

The nice thing about memories is that you can have your own personal reunion anytime. It's a party in your head.

The Other Side

2011-10-10T09:13:00.001-05:00

Word(s) from the previous post: The Other Side

I'm referring here to the other side of a glorious weekend spent in Door County, Wisconsin. We were a group of twenty-two diverse pairs and spares who converged from several different states for the fall foliage tour. The weather was perfect: sunny, breezy, warm. The trees cooperated by turning vivid shades of red and gold. Our destinations: a lighthouse, a very special art gallery, the beach. Someone is always missing in the group photo.

Several of us had not met before; many were old friends. We are all friends now. We have team hats. Didn't matter whom you were seated next to at lunch or dinner. There was always lots of good-natured bantering going on. If there was one complaint, it was the noise level. How can you complain about fun?

Saying goodbye reminded me of the last day of camp. You hug and promise to email each other. See you next year.

Hope so.

Au revoir

2011-10-07T06:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's word, again: French.

Au revoir, Mr. Jobs. Thank you for making that dent in the universe. If you're as awesome on the Other Side as you were here, you'll probably create a new way to communicate telepathically.

Namaste.

Frenchy

2011-10-05T07:11:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's word: French

Charles Aznavour is almost 88 years-old and still singing.

Listen to Hier Encore and think about yesterday, when you were young.

The language of love

2011-10-03T07:49:00.004-05:00

Word from the previous post: High school

I was a freshman in public high school when she was a junior. I can still see her in her cheerleading outfit: short green and white skirt, thick white sweater, and of course, the ponytail. Since there were no athletic shoes back then, she probably wore white Keds. That girl could jump into a perfect second-position split in the air, seemingly defying the laws of gravity. She was perky.

Watching sports that require cheerleaders leaves me as depleted as a day spent at the Louvre. I could watch dancing all day. I wish there were a dance channel on TV. I began ballet lessons at the ripe old age of fifteen, when I went to an all-girls boarding school. The ballet teacher was a tiny, irascible Frenchwoman who felt as unhappy at that institution as I did. (That's another story, possibly a memoir.)

Thanks to Mme. Daumas, I learned the basics of ballet and fell in love with it. As an adult, I took ballet classes for decades, finally stopping because of foot problems and creaky joints. Ballet isn't for sissies or old people.

My husband and I recently began ballroom dancing lessons. Dance is not his forte, but he's a real trooper. We started out learning the rumba and then the American tango. And then, the Argentine tango. The Argentine tango is the antithesis of perky. It is a smouldering, intimate conversation between lovers or prospective lovers.

I wonder what that cheerleader's doing now.

A season, a reason. or forever

2011-10-01T09:22:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's word: friends.

It's high school reunion time, which prompts me to think about old friends.

My closest friend (of 33 years) is the only person with whom I can have an hour-long phone conversation and not want to hang myself after the first eight minutes. Our connection goes beyond Facebook, phone, or email. We are sisters, emerged from the wombs of different mothers. Astrologically, her Sun is at 0 degrees Capricorn.

Going in the way-back machine: At the age of fifteen I met my prep school roommate. We don't see each other often, sometimes for decades, but it doesn't seem to matter. We remain sisters of a sort. Her Sun is at 1 degree Capricorn.

Another even older friend (we met when I was 14) has Moon at 2 degrees Capricorn.

My Capricorn friends are as permanent as epoxy glue.

Kosher

2011-09-30T07:07:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's word: Kosher

L'Shana Tova to all my Jewish friends.

The

2011-09-29T07:06:00.000-05:00

Today's word taken from yesterday's post is "the."

Yes, I said the.

It can be pronounced "thuh" or "thee."

I wanted to know what part of speech the word "the" is. (That sentence probably isn't gramatically kosher).

According to this website: "It's the Big Four (noun, verb, adjective, adverb) and the Little Two or Three (preposition, conjunction, sometimes pronoun), plus an appendage (interjection). Everything has to fit in here somewhere, and since the parts of speech are defined semantically in this tradition, "the" just has to be an adjective, because it's a kind of modifier."

I'll buy that.

In my current novel-in-progress I have a Latina character. Rosalinda is Mexican and has been in the United States for eight years. Her accent is unmistakable, and generally her grammar is okay, but I'm working on her speech patterns. One of her quirks was stolen from a woman I met while walking my dog, Jackson. The woman, who worked for my neighbor, was also Latina. I don't know which country she came from. We'd be in the park with our dogs and every morning she'd ask, "How is the Jackson today?" I was charmed with the extra "the" and decided that it would be Rosalinda's trademark.

The end.

Sweating it

2011-09-28T07:28:00.001-05:00

The tag word from yesterday's post: sweating.

The expression "don't sweat it" said in a certain tone of voice is dismissive. It's what all-knowing parent -- who comes from a higher perspective -- might say to a child.

Get over it.

Calm down.

Chill.

Thank you for your concern, but I have the lowest blood pressure of anyone I know. I'm not about to blow a fuse. In the dentist's office I practically flat-line, I'm that calm. So when someone tells me not to sweat something, I have to think they're projecting on my screen. Write your own movie.

And speaking of movies, TV, and YouTube videos, could they stop putting sappy music behind everything? It's annoying and manipulative. It's telling me how I should feel, as if I couldn't figure that out by myself. Allow me the experience without interference. I'll draw my own conclusions.

Thank you for respecting my intelligence.

Horses

2011-09-27T07:11:00.001-05:00

I used the word "horses" yesterday. Hooking on to that:

The names of the moons of Jupiter -- Io, Callisto, Ganymeade, Europa -- would be great names for horses. Strong, noble, massive. You can almost hear the thunder of hooves as they charge across a field, their skins shining with warm, clean sweat.

My characters' names tend to be more prosaic: Daisy. Sam. Clyde. People who don't seek the limelight. As Holly Golighly once said (paraphrasing): Certain shades of limelight can ruin a girl's complexion.

Knitting

2011-09-26T07:54:00.000-05:00

The idea is to take a word or a thought from the previous post and build on that. Eventually all of my posts will all be connected like stitches in a sweater.

Since I wrote about family yesterday, this post is about people who feel related. Confession: my words below are taken from a letter I sent a friend. Still, they're my words and I can do what I want with them, which is the purpose of this blog.

I met "J.,"our friend's seven year-old granddaughter, at a recent event. My husband and I watched as she moved around dreamily. It was as though she were listening to a song playing in her head. I remarked to my husband, "Something about J. seems like a Pisces to me. I'm going to find out." So I asked her grandfather if he knew her birthday. He couldn't remember it exactly. "Is it in March?" I asked. Yes. Then J.'s father offered that her birthday is March 9. That is my birthday.

This little girl reminded me so much of myself at that age. It was like identifying my own DNA in someone else's child. Her eyes are even the same gray-blue as mine.

When I told J. we were birthday twins, I became her buddy. She wanted to know where I lived. She asked if I wanted to color with her. She had a book of stickers and some markers. We sat and colored for while. I found out that she loves to swim (so do I), loves horses (ditto), her favorite colors are the same as mine, and the best thing about second grade is writing.

I told J.'s grandfather that if J. ever wanted to run away from home to give her my address. A "lucky" guess about her birthday? There are 364 other days of the year it could have been.

Backstory

2011-09-25T12:04:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, at the baby shower, I had a conversation with a woman who is an actress. She wanted to know about my novel, how it began, why I decided to write, and was the narrator of the story me. I am not Chinese (obviously) and I am not adopted. "Where did that character come from?" she asked.

I gestured, thin air.

She persisted as a gentle therapist might. "Surely there was something that drove your story." As an actress, she's trained to look the emotional backstory of the characters she portrays.

Sometimes you have to pry the truth out with a boning knife.

"The character," I said, finally, "is a young woman who doesn't feel that she has full membership in her family. Disenfranchised, she seeks her true family, whether it be biological or assembled."

The real backstory, one I couldn't articulate until that moment, is that I am a stepchild who did not inherit as my step-siblings did.

Thank you, Joan, for asking.

Party pooper

2011-09-24T07:17:00.001-05:00

It's not that I don't like being with people. Really, I do. I'm a friendly introvert. When I was young I thought I loved parties. Doesn't everyone? These days I can't talk loud enough over the din to be heard, let alone hear what the person next to me is saying. Can I go home now? But, if there's dancing! That's a different story. My husband will roll his eyes, knowing he'll have to drag me out of there. Today there are two parties. One's a baby shower. At the second party, the guests are ballroom dancers. I can already feel the blisters on my feet.

Walking the walk; talking the talk

2011-09-23T09:29:00.000-05:00

I'm a writer. As such, I should write something every single day. In my own voice. Doesn't make a difference if it's a sentence, paragraph, or page. I'm turning comments off. If you want to reach me, feel free to email.

Happiness

2011-08-26T08:01:00.001-05:00

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. -- Helen Keller

A kink in the hose

2011-08-01T11:29:00.000-05:00

Three times a year the information flow is disrupted, not unlike a kink in the garden hose.

Wednesday, August 3 begins a Mercury retrograde period that will last until August 26. For those of you who know diddly about astrology, Mercury retrograde signifies a time when communications and connections of all kinds get messed up. You make plans to have lunch with someone and you go to the wrong restaurant. Your car gets a flat tire, making you late for the lunch date at the wrong restaurant. Sign an agreement or buy a car or a house (DON'T) under a Mercury retrograde and you will rue the day. Usually it's nothing fatal, but annoying and inconvenient. Patience and prudence (they used to be a singing duo) are advised. Most active days are on either end of the retrograde.

I'd be interested in hearing how you experience this retrograde.

Don't blame me

2011-05-16T15:26:00.003-05:00

I’ve been called a flirt, as though flirting were a suspect activity. I suspect I'm misunderstood sometimes.

For me, what people call "flirting" is a way of playing with another person that's not necessarily a come-on. It's not phony, either. There's no hidden agenda; it just means I like you. I won’t flirt with anyone I don’t like and I know when not to flirt, if I'm flirting with trouble. Women can even flirt with other women in a non-sexual way. It's saying, "Do you get me? Do we have something in common? Do you share my sense of humor? Do you get the freaking joke that life is? Let’s cook up some fun together."

I’ll even flirt with a bored or grumpy check-out clerk in the grocery store if it causes her to smile. Not the eyelash-batting kind of thing, the flirtation is usually invisible. It's an attempt to coax her back into the world. Her smile makes me smile and maybe she’ll pass the favor on to her next customer. It’s circular. The world is a friendlier place.

I especially flirt with my husband. He flirts back, bless his heart. It keeps the home fires burning.

The condition seems to be hereditary. An old boyfriend from a kazillion years ago once told me that my mother (the beautiful woman in the photo above, who is clearly flirting with someone off-camera -- look at those eyes!) was a flirt. Of course she was. The apple falls from the tree, does it not? Don't blame me.

Have youself a merry little

2010-12-13T18:57:00.002-06:00

Dog Therapy - (a re-post)

2007-12-03T08:43:00.143-06:00

Cami and I currently volunteer with the K-9 Reading Buddies, a literacy program for children, and with soldiers in a Veterans Administration mental hospital. We used to work with autistic children ages 3-6.

Our visits were scheduled for every other Thursday, a job I shared with another dog owner. Many autistic children are fearful, including the fear of animals. Cami must have seemed like a big, furry monster. When some of the kids first met her they wouldn't come near. One even screamed in terror. Eventually, the kids’ comfort level improved and some of them enjoyed petting Cami. One little boy would pet her using his teacher’s hand.

With the teacher, we'd walk Cami around the school. I'd give the kids a long leash, so they thought they were “driving,” but I was really using my own short leash. The teachers and I collaborated on improving the kids’ responses to commands like “listen, stop, go, watch”—behaviors that make the world of an autistic child safer. Cami obeyed these commands and acted as a role model. Sometimes we'd teach the kids new words or phrases. If they were nonverbal and/or enjoy singing, I’d make up a song to the tune of “Mary had a Little Lamb” or “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and put the child’s name in it. (I’m not above making a fool of myself.)

Autism is more prevalent among boys, and each child has his or her own particular set of challenges. Several of the kids we worked with “graduated” to other schools, including one very special little girl.

Miss A came to the school when she was five and a half. She arrived with a full-time, one-on-one teacher. She was a wild-child. She threw tantrums. She thrashed and grunted. She had no language. She didn’t seem especially bright.

It was thought that Miss A would probably not speak, so she was given a portable computer called a “talker box.” (Think early iPad.) It was about the size of an Etch-a-Sketch, only thicker, with picture icons that were programmed to say different words. Press a button and the talker would name basic objects, shapes, colors, people, and so on. The device could either hang around Miss A's neck on a strap or she could carry it.

Miss A took to her talker like Chopin to the piano. Once she got the basics, she immediately began to "vocalize." If you asked her what Cami was, she'd press the key with a dog image and the talker said dog. Ask her what color Cami is and she pressed a button that took her to different screen. She'd find the appropriate button and the voice said brown. Gold star! Miss A could search for additional information and make refinements. Dog. Brown. Ears. Tail. Feet.

One day she kept pointing to an empty key on her talker. I asked if I could see it. At first she was a little reluctant. Who could blame her for not wanting to relinquish her newly found voice? I asked if there were something she wanted in that empty square. She nodded yes. I asked, “Is it Cami's name?” She looked me in straight in the eye and then placed her hand on my chest. The word she wanted on her talker was my name. I can't tell you how touched I was.

New words had to be programmed in the talker. I told the school director what Miss A wanted, and she made it happen. The next time I saw Miss A, her face got a “have-I-got-something-cool-to-show-you!” expression. Her talker could now say Tena and Cami.

At the end of the year, Miss A was a very different child than when I first met her. She was less fearful and more confident. Her determination to learn was inspiring. The intelligence that had been buried under a mountain of frustration now shone through. With her new ability to communicate, she was eager to learn more words. Having basic communication skills must have been an enormous relief. Finally, and best of all, Miss A had begun to talk using her own words. She had a voice.

I’m not suggesting that her progress was only because she had the talker. The patience and talent of her teachers were huge factors in her spectacular progress. Miss A will always be autistic, but now she’s better equipped to face the world.

At the year-end picnic, Miss A opened my zippered fanny pack. She loved to riffle through it and explore the contents. She found my identification card from Therapy Dogs International, which has a photograph Cami. It was clear that Miss A wanted to keep that photo. Since the card had expired, I let her have it. She also found my digital camera. She seized it and immediately started clicking away. A self-portrait of the artist:

I think the composition of this photograph is uncanny. The images are perfectly aligned in negative space.

This photo strikes me as a metaphor for an autistic child: someone whose inner world is only partly visable.

South America Part V: Parting Thoughts

2007-09-30T13:04:00.002-05:00

To those of you who left messages on this blog while I was out of the country, thanks for keeping in touch. Hearing from you made my day.

Our last day in Buenos Aires was spent on foot, as usual, with the exception of a ride on the Subte (the Subway) to the Museo Evita. But first, we stopped by the tiny Museo de la Cuidad. This nearly impossible-to-find place was an enigma: Half of the displays were dedicated to the great religions of the world; the other half was devoted to the history of toys. I’m still trying to figure out the connection.

The Museo Evita, not to be missed, is in the beautiful Recoleta area. An enormous botanic park is just around the corner, as well as the city zoo. The museum is immaculate. That it is under the direction of Evita’s niece accounts for the obvious adulation of the subject. The propagandistic presentation (likely a sign of the times) of the life of Eva Perón damages her credibility. Her social and political reforms -- voting for women and a foundation for orphans -- could speak for themselves. Other than the film montages, highlights for this visitor included the displays of Evita’s clothes, which are so meticulously preserved that they look almost new. Also interesting were the accompanying photographs of Evita in those very dresses and hats. Her shoes were wonderful. Made in France, they would be stylish today. (Her feet, if I were to guess, were about size five.)

Evita wasn’t universally loved. After she died at age 33 of cervical cancer, some cried out, “God bless cancer!” Her body was stolen, recovered and reburied elsewhere, finally ending up in the family crypt in Buenos Aires.

In a touching speech, Evita’s sister tells of posthumous wounds inflicted on Evita’s head and body by those who hated her. Someone even cut off a finger. What is surprising is that they didn’t cut her hair, which is shown in a film as still long and flowing.

Just outside the Recoleta Cemetery is this enormous tree, planted in 1800:

After Evita, for some levity, we went to the zoo. We stayed for a long time, mesmerized by the animals. Some were species we had never seen before. Some were just plain wacky.

Back near our hotel, we encountered the stray dogs which were now familiar to us. One was a small white shepherd—a skinny old male—who likes to hang out with the Prefecture. (The Prefecture is/are sort of rent-a-cops who like to stand around in groups to talk, smoke, and tell jokes. Their apparent job is to guard each other.) I’m assuming that they’ve adopted this dog and hope that they’re feeding him. When I called to him, he ambled over and put his head in my lap. When I stroked his head I felt bumps that could have been ticks. Obviously, he receives no medical care. Looking now at my own beautiful dogs, I appreciate their good health and send good thoughts to that sweet stray.

Looking back, I’m glad we visited both Uruguay and Argentina. Anytime you travel way outside of your own zip code is good. The people we met were friendly to non-Spanish speaking tourists; the prices (relative to the US) were good; tipping wasn’t mandatory but 10% was welcome, if you were so inclined. Good food; good wine; good scenery.

What we missed were peanuts. We looked for them, but peanuts don’t seem to be available in either Uruguay or Argentina.

We also missed quick lunches and efficiently run airports. The crumbling, littered sidewalks seem a metaphor for the economic problems of these countries.

It’s wonderful to travel but better still to return. Even if things aren’t perfect in the US, being away makes you appreciate living here. Glad to be home.

South America Part IV Tango!

2007-09-25T15:21:00.002-05:00

Last night we attended Madero Tango. The food was good but Argentinean tango danced to live music was fantastico, the ultimate in pairs dancing. The show featured five incredibly talented couples and a male Flamenco-type dancer. I have never seen anyone’s feet move so fast that they were literally a blur. Today my husband and I bought a how-to-tango CD so we can learn some steps and amaze our friends and embarrass our children. However, I don’t think we’ll be up to the lifts for a while.

We visited the Recoleta Cemetery. This photo gives you an idea of the opulence to be found here.

Evita Perón is buried in this cemetery but because her body has been stolen many times after her husband’s fall from grace, she’s buried 27 feet underground in a concrete vault. Many of the dead in this cemetery are buried underground, with elaborate above-ground family monuments. This cemetery is beautiful, well-organized and well-maintained, but I must say I prefer the quirky disorder of Père-Lachaisse Cemetery in Paris.

The fifteen or more cats that live in the Recoleta cemetery are provided food by a volunteer women’s group, who also sees to their medical needs. This somewhat flea-bitten kitty is napping beside a canine pal.

We finally went shopping and were happy to find some potential Christmas gifts as well as a few things for ourselves. The Recoleta area is very upscale, especially Ralph Lauren’s store in a turn-of-the-20th-century Art Nouveau mansion. The prices are lower than in the US, but still a bit too heady for the likes of us.

South America Part III: Buenos Aires

2007-09-24T15:04:00.002-05:00

Another useful word I have learned in Spanish is demorado, which means delayed (as in, airplane).

My husband and I arrived in Buenos Aires on Saturday afternoon. What a difference from Montevideo, which is a relatively small city of about a million and a half people. This amounts to half of the population of Uruguay. Buenos Aires is absolutely sprawling, with about eleven million inhabitants. On the way in from the airport, row after row of apartment buildings cantilever over the expressway. Heaven forbid your cat should fall from the balcony. While both cities have their share of dodgy neighborhoods, crumbling buildings, and sidewalks made treacherous by missing tiles, we felt concern for Montevideo. Lacking BA’s tourist trade, it appears to be losing ground. However, we enjoyed the people and the food was excellent. Inexpensive, too, relative to US prices.

Yesterday we walked from 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM. First we went aboard the Frigate A.R.A. Presidente Sarmiento.
Built in 1897 as a training ship for the Argentine Navy, it’s now a museum.

Then we walked around both the San Telmo and La Boca districts. On Sundays in San Telmo an open air market stretches for many blocks. The streets are filled with shoppers and wanderers who are looking for bargains and treasures. You can live without most of what’s for sale, but in this area you’ll also find antiques shops and some specialty shops. It’s probably best if you’re on a mission to find a specific item. Since we had no agenda we simply strolled, took pictures, and enjoyed the tango dancers and the music.

Our two favorite experiences occurred at the same street intersection. The first was listening to a group named Trio Gotico, who played the most beautiful music on acoustic guitar. We bought two CDs from them, which turned out to be the only purchase we made that day with the exception of a pair of Cokes. The second wonderful thing was a street mime. We’ve seen street mimes before in other cities, but this one was charming. Dressed like an old-fashioned lady, she is clad completely in gold, down to her false eyelashes. She stands perfectly still until someone drops a coin into the can at her feet and then she comes to life. She is especially wonderful with children, bending down to tenderly stroke their cheek or their hair.

She’ll give the men a pretend kiss for the camera. For the ladies and children, she places a tiny pink heart in your hand.

La Boca is unabashedly touristy with its colorful corrugated tin buildings and street vendors with their assortment of merchandise, food, and street tango dancers. Lots of fun.

We’ve had two incidences of attempted theft in BA. The first occurred when someone unzipped my backpack. Fortunately, they didn’t get lucky because the backpack was too deep to reach anything. The second incidence occurred when a young couple came up to us exclaiming that we had something all over the back of our clothes. Indeed, some kind of gray mud had been mysteriously splashed on us. This “helpful” couple came to our rescue by blotting us down with Kleenex, front and back. Those fast fingers were searching for stuff to poach. Once again, we lost nothing. I’ve learned to leave my backpack at the hotel and zip money, etc. inside my jacket. Later, we decided probably a third person had squirted us. Nice try, kids.

I am disheartened by the large number of stray dogs in this city. They survive by rooting through garbage bags, which pile up along the curbs. Many of these dogs appear to be distant relatives of the German shepherd dog. One was a car chaser. (You have to imagine the amount of the traffic in this city. One street has sixteen lanes!) This dog lowered his head and actually waited for a car whiz by. Then he ran like hell, barking and biting at the tires. A wonder he's survived this long. Some of the strays simply stand in the street to watch the world go by. Or sleep in a sunny corner.

Tonight we’re going to a tango show. Olé, baby.

For now,
Besos y abrazos.

(Thanks, Laura)

South America Part II: Street People

2007-09-21T08:54:00.002-05:00

Hola,

I’m having a hard time adjusting to the late dining hours. Last night a large group of us had dinner at La Casa Violeta, a beautiful restaurant overlooking the water. They serve salad and meat, period. Oh, and some decadent layered chocolate thing for dessert. But I have to tell you about this meat. It’s unbelievable. We were served thirteen (count ’em) courses of it – everything from various smoked sausages, ham, chicken, pork, to the most tender beef in the world. These are more like samples, not huge pieces, that you can chose or not, and are presented on the skewers they were cooked on. I am all meated out.

Yesterday I wandered around a bit by myself, but not too far from the hotel. I feel like a prime target: the white American female… I’ve been told there’s not a lot of major crime here, but to watch out for purse-snatchers and young boys wearing engaging smiles and larceny in their hearts.

On my return to the hotel, on a side street, I came across a man playing something classical on a violin. I stopped to listen because he seemed especially accomplished. A small crowd gathered but nobody gave him money. When the piece ended, I found some pesos in my jacket pocket and an American dollar bill. Handing him the money, I said that his music was lovely. He thanked me in English. Walking away, I realized that I hadn’t taken his photograph. So I returned to where he was playing and photographed him. When he saw that I had returned, he handed me his CD. I said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that” but he wanted me to have it. It turns out this man is world-class violinist David Juritz! Mr. Juritz is on leave from his job as concertmaster for the London Mozart Players.

From Around the World and Bach:
“On 9 June International violinist David Juritz left London with a backpack and an empty wallet for a 60,000 mile busk around the world, playing Bach's Partitas and Sonatas. He aims to raise money and awareness for a new charity, Musequality, which funds music projects in deprived areas across the world. The first project is the Tender Talents Magnet School for aids orphans in Kampala.”

The CD is beautiful. I’m playing it now, listening to selections from Bach, Vivaldi, Elgar, Debussy and Tchaikovsky. You can be sure that Musequality will be seeing a few more of my dollars. God bless you, Mr. Juritz.

South America Part I: Montevideo

2007-09-20T09:41:00.006-05:00

Buenas días, amigos,

If we thought twenty-two hours (not all spent in flight) was a long time to get from Chicago to Montevideo, Uruguay, consider that it took a member of our group thirty-seven hours to make the trip from Hong Kong. Thanks to Ambien, I got six hours of sleep on the plane—just enough to keep me from becoming psychotic.

All went smoothly until we arrived in Buenos Aires, where our connecting flight to Montevideo was delayed for no particular reason. It seems that airline schedules are somewhat capricious south of the Equator. However, our luggage was waiting when we arrived, unlike last year in Australia when my luggage (but not my husband’s) disappeared for two days without a trace; a nightmare. I didn’t even own a spare rubber band for my ponytail. I digress.

The Montevideo airport is guarded by humorless-looking militia men bearing Uzis. These guys appear to be about twelve years old. To my husband’s enormous relief, I curbed my enthusiasm for taking their photograph. In the BA airport, I did take a photo of a woman wearing the most breathtaking array of silver bracelets, necklaces, and dangly earrings I have ever seen on one individual. Unfortunately this shot shows only the rear version, which sort of tells a story of its own. This old girl was probably well into her eighties. Again, I digress.

When I travel, my attention tends to digress. I notice the quirky stuff other people with their tour books and maps either overlook or chose to ignore, usually for good reason. My hermana, Laura, is the consummate travel writer with her ability to describe the local scene and illustrate her comments with the most gorgeous photos. (Hint, Laura.)

At the BA airport, we had to pay an airport tax. We paid in dollars. At first we thought the clerks were examining the money to see if it was counterfeit. But no. They were amusing themselves—even the police guard was laughing—at some folding trick they did with the bills. Nothing builds a taller wall than laughter in a language you don’t understand.

Speaking of speaking, my Spanish is limited to a few words. One of them is hola. I didn’t think I’d learned much Italian when we were in Italy, but in this country I find myself reverting to it. That, and French, a language I do speak reasonably well. But I seem hopeless to learn another language at this point in my life. Say “Buenas días” to me and I will reply, “Buon giorno.” In the elevator, when asked what floor our room is on, I’ll reply, “Dix-huit.” Brilliant.

To Richard@LonelyPlanet: the grass is not literally greener here. It’s barely spring and rather chilly. Yesterday was blustery. The day before was a big storm that churned up the water, making it a dirty taupe color. Today is overcast. Soon I will take a walk and discover what the temperature is.

The neighborhood of our hotel is a blend of very old and beautiful with ugly Sixties and Seventies-style architecture. Yesterday we found a pedestrian mall with little shops and many street vendors—quite European in feeling. I looked up and discovered angels in the architecture.

Dinner in this part of the world BEGINS at ten o’clock PM. It’s impossible to know how people manage to be in their offices by nine AM. Perhaps they’re still a little bleary from all the late-night food and wine.

Last night’s group at dinner (marketing people from my husband’s firm) were from the US, Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, Puerto Rico, and Hong Kong. On meeting each other, everyone exchanged a kiss on the cheek, even people meeting for the first time. It’s a nice custom that sets a friendly mood. We had a lovely dinner at a restaurant called the Partridge (in Spanish) and some good red wine. When my husband and I and the woman from Hong Kong left at about eleven o’clock (we had arrived "early" at 8:30) the rest of the gang was still carrying on, as was a family whose table was adjacent to ours. These people had very young children, who were shrieking and running around at such a late hour. I guess that’s common here too.

I hope you are having a buenos dias. (Buenos dios apparently means Good God!) BTW, for some reason Blogger here is in Spanish! Buenos Dios!

So, au revoir for now. My Internet connection is rather fragile and I hope I can post this before getting kicked off again. One more photo. This is a cute newstand.

Way South of the Border

2007-09-18T11:08:00.002-05:00

Hola,

My husband and I are about to leave for Montevideo, Uruguay (not Montevideo, Minnesota) and from there we'll be going to Buenos Aires, Argentina, the land of heavy meats and Malbec wine. I know, it's tough duty but someone has to do it.

Stop by for more or less daily posts on this voyage.

Adios, amigos~
Tango Tena

September - a re-post since I'm going to reunion in June

2007-09-06T10:12:00.008-05:00

Me at age fifteen. This photo was taken in September. I'm wearing my new school uniform for the first time. This is the last view my parents will have of me—and I of them—until Christmas break in three months. Home is 800 miles away, in Illinois. At an all-girl prep school in upstate New York, I’m about to find out how it feels to be a stranger in a strange land.

I have don’t remember exactly what I was thinking behind that bright smile but I’m sure it was a combination of terror and despair. I’m sure I fought back tears as my parents drove off.

Boarding school is not my idea. I do not want to be here. I miss public high school and my friends. I don’t know one single person here. Other girls wearing the same uniform as mine seem to know where they’re going. I don’t even remember how to find my room. Is it somewhere on the third floor, overlooking the parking lot? My two roommates, both East coasters, haven’t arrived yet. One will have the bottom bunk in our tiny room. The other girl will sleep in the adjoining room. For now, the closet holds my new uniforms and a few civilian clothes that I will be allowed to wear only at certain times on weekends. This is a place of rules.

The uniforms arrived at my home in August. Two of my best friends were present when I opened the big box. We screeched at the uncool outfits I would be required to wear the remaining three years of high school. (At fifteen, clothes can make or break the woman.) The spring “unies” as we called them, were one-piece dresses that zipped up the front. The collar spread almost to the shoulder seams. These dresses were cotton gingham in yellow, red, green, or blue check. Also in the box were the dresses required for the evening meal. They were rayon and the same basic design as the daytime dresses but in pastel shades. At dinner, I would be required to wear panty hose and heels. Every night. The winter uniform was an austere white blouse, a “serviceable” gray wool A-line skirt, and a gray flannel blazer. The shoes were to be “sturdy brown tie-ups” such as brogues. (Like Doc Martens, only uglier.) My sturdy browns were gum-soled and resembled a pair of beetles. It was official geekdom. My girlfriends wished me well at boarding school and went off to do their own shopping for cool new school clothes. I wondered if they’d still be my friends when I returned home.

Now, in September, I am reminded of those uniforms and the rules and the pain of being torn away from everything I knew. I remember what was lost but what was gained.

Today, on my way to my writing critique group (my “school” of choice) the song September by Earth, Wind, and Fire came on the radio. It starts out, “Do you remember…?”

How could I forget?