Family Ski and Snowboard Time

This week we drove up to Gore Mountain in the Adirondacks to squeeze in a little family skiing and snowboarding. We had a great time. It rained on our way up to Lake George but as we got closer the rain turned to snow. Yay!! The next morning we had four to five new inches of the white stuff. Good news! Unfortunately, half of New York State also decided to go skiing at Gore so the lift lines were long and the slopes crowded. We managed to have a lot of fun anyhow. Overnight it rained and then froze, just as it always does in New England, so the next day we had "fast conditions".

My son, Sean, who normally skis, decided to rent a snowboard for a day. Halfway through the day, his cousin, Teri (an accomplished skier), asked if she could try it. My other son, Derek, caught her first attempts on video and this is the funny result. My husband is in the yellow coat trying to help, even though he knows little about snowboarding.

I'm so grateful nobody captured my first attempts at skiing on video. That would have been high comedy. At one point, I think I fell between the ski instructor's legs.

Class Picture

Every year the kids have their class picture taken. Like every other kid, I have my own collection of old class photos. I found this one recently among my mother's boxes and boxes of pictures, old report cards and checking statements. It's a picture of my first grade class. The teacher's name was Miss Clink. My dad said she was a kid -- only 21 years old at the time and fresh out of the state college. The next year she was gone -- to marry her sweetheart, settle down in a split level house someplace and start her own little family.

Class pictures aren't something you appreciate until many years have gone by. You look back at them and wonder, whatever became of Stanley Lincoln who cried every morning? In the above picture, he's sitting to my left. Does Robin Rubel., in the second row, still have that idiotic grin? In ninth grade when we had to bring in a current event from the newspaper every morning, he brought in the obituaries each day without fail. I wonder if he grew up to become a mortician. And what happened to my good friend, Rhona?  She moved at the end of first grade. We hadn't yet acquired the necessary letter writing skills to keep in touch. She's sitting in the first row three seats to my left. Was Terry a little retarded? He never got out of the Blue Birds reading group. Maybe he just had a learning disability. Why did they put me next to two boys for this picture? Was I too chatty? And what about George sitting at the end of the front row there in his bow tie? He liked to catch garter snakes from the woods behind the school and chase the girls around the playground with them. I bet he had a good time in college.


It's fun to look back at these old pictures and remember the people you played with, envied, fought with, competed with on the playground for a turn on the swings or a chance to use that waxed paper you'd saved from your ham sandwich so you could zip down the slide at 100 m.p.h. (so it seemed anyhow). I don't know what became of any of the people in this picture. Except me, of course. Do you know which one is me? My sons figured it out after a while -- mostly because my son, Sean, has my smile. I'm sitting in the front row, third from the left. Missing a few teeth, too.

New York Friendly

New Yorkers, especially city people, have a reputation for being cold and unfriendly. Every man for himself. A dog-eat-dog world. On a recent trip into the city, I was reminded that this is simply not true.

On taking the subway from Penn Station to the Met, we managed to get on the wrong train and wound up in Brooklyn -- a far cry from where we planned to be. Oops. A few people overheard us discussing our plight and offered directions. One kind woman instructed us to follow her. She was going to work on Park Avenue. So, we did. We had to hustle to keep up with her as she hopped off the train, bounded up the escalator two steps at a time, and practically ran through the turnstiles to catch the uptown subway. And she was by no means young.

Later, we went to Greenwich Village to have dinner and once again, somebody overheard us discussing which subway we had to take and stopped to offer us directions. He said he'd walk us over there if we'd like. Both times we were astounded by how friendly and willing to go out of their way for others New Yorkers truly are.

Get New Yorkers into their cars, though, and it's a different story. On the roads and bridges, they don't give you an inch and it's back to being the dog-eat-dog people they're reputed to be.

Manic Monday

I'm home from work today with a cold and a sore foot with a blister that's infected. I can barely put a shoe on. Ouch! How did all this happen at once? Just when I'm busiest, I get sick.

So, I'm soaking my foot while I'm waiting to go see the podiatrist and meanwhile, blowing my nose. I'm miserable. Tomorrow I'm suppose to have my Books and Bagels Breakfast for the staff. I even bought something for a raffle (a Godiva chocolate basket). Usually I set up all the new books the night before but now, provided I can walk, I'm going to have to go in real early tomorrow -- like 6:30 am -- to set up. I don't want to postpone it any longer.

Why am I doing this? None of the other librarians host a new books breakfast. It costs me something and includes a fruit salad and a few other goodies besides bagels. I guess I just like to let the staff see the new books and have a chance to check them out before the kids get to them. Besides, before I left my old building, one of the teachers told me that the new books and bagels breakfast was her favorite school event and that she looked forward to it every year. I know there's other bookaholics out there.

Anyhow, it's always good to pay it forward.

A Portrait

Here's a portrait I worked on recently. Still needs work but I ran out of model time. It looks like her but sort of a cartoonish version of her (Cara). She doesn't really have her eyes closed. She was reading a book but I was going crazy trying to capture her hands and arms position (which changed constantly) so Robert finally told me to ditch the book, arms and hands. That was a study unto itself. Consequently, I couldn't see the bottom part of the painting so I had to guess a lot. I just didn't have time to go in and refine it. I also snapped this as it was beginning to get dark out. It looks a mite better in real life. I think.

Painting is always a humbling experience. Always.

Biographies For Kids

I'm currently doing a unit on biographies with my third grade students. I always enjoy this unit because I often learn something new myself. Last year, for instance, I read Flight, by Robert Burleigh, about Lindbergh's famous trans Atlantic flight. Since Lindbergh took off from Long Island (about where the Roosevelt Field Shopping Mall is now located), it also served as a little slice of Long Island history. The book is only a partial biography so I supplemented with some information from the internet -- where Lindbergh grew up, how his son was kidnapped and murdered, his interest in the environment and so on. The next time the kids came to library, one girl, Renee, raised her hand. Her great grandmother, she said, had worked as the Lindbergh baby's nanny. Wow. That was pretty fascinating.

When I read a biography of Neil Armstrong, one boy raised his hand to tell me that his grandpa had worked on the LEM that transported the first three astronauts from the Saturn 5 rocket to the moon's surface. Another little slice of Long Island history. Grumann, an aerospace company, used to be Long Island's biggest employer.

I do read some bios of a few dead white guys because, honestly, everybody should know who Thomas Edison, Ben Franklin and James Madison were. Besides, the kids often learn they weren't perfect humans either. Thomas Edison got in trouble in school for gazing out the window and not paying attention. Ben Franklin ran away from home.

I also read some slightly offbeat bios. I like Kathleen Krull's biography of Wilma Rudolph, Wilma Unlimited, because it's as much about hope and perseverance in the face of unbelievable odds as it is about one woman's incredible life.

Another book I enjoy reading to the kids is Eleanor, by Barbara Cooney, about Eleanor Roosevelt's early life. As a child, she had such a sad life. Her mother was disappointed by her and died at a young age and her father was an alcoholic. Now and then, somebody questions if kids need to hear about all that. My answer is always YES. Who knows, maybe the disheveled boy sitting there in the back -- the one whose mother is an alcoholic and whose father is never around -- will take some heart in knowing that he's not the only one whose life is less than perfect.

Biographies not only give kids role models but they offer up hope and inspiration. Still, it's hard to find good ones that draw children in. A lot of biographies tend to be a little dry and laden with dates. A good biography brings a person to life for a child.

Anybody know of some great biographies for children? If so, feel free to share them.

The Banned Book Is Back

Okay, I finally had a chance to speak with my principal about the banned book, Blubber. As I expected, she listened carefully and agreed with me that we can't remove a book every time a parent complains. I explained the need to develop a district wide selection policy and a uniform method of handling complaints.

When a parent complains about a book in the library, the A.L.A. recommends that we listen attentively to the parent. After all, parents are taxpayers and have a right to air their opinions. Then we give them a copy of our selection policy explaining the criteria used in selecting books for the library. Finally, we give them a complaint form to fill out. Usually the complaint form asks for the title, author, if the person represents a group or sect, has he/she read the entire book and, if so, could he please summarize it. A reconsideration form should also ask the complainer to explain what he didn't like about the book, why he feels it should be removed from the library, if he's aware of what the critics had to say about the book and so on. Usually a reconsideration form is too much bother for most people. In fact, when the complainer gets to the question about whether or not he's read the entire book, he usually stops. The truth is, most of the people who have complaints about library books and materials haven't read the whole book. They usually stop reading when they reach the part they don't like.

Funny, I learned that most of the upper grade teachers (grades 3-6) have a copy of Blubber in their classroom library and, in fact, our school Prevention program uses Blubber when addressing issues of bullying.

Anyhow, I am relieved. Yay for intellectual freedom and First Amendment rights!

A Pumpkin Patch of Book Characters

This year I'm running a contest for the school where I work -- a pumpkin decorating contest. Children's Book Week is in November and in celebration, I invited my students to each bring in a pumpkin decorated as a favorite character from children's literature. So far, the results have been terrific and so creative and I expect a lot of kids will be working on their entry this weekend.

We have a Junie B. Jones pumpkin, the Little Mermaid, the three little pigs, Capt. Underpants, Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, Curious George, Chester the Raccoon from The Kissing Hand, Make Way For Ducklings (one of my personal favorites), the Cat in the Hat, Frankenstein, Arthur, the Rainbow Fish (another personal favorite), Cinderella and so on. At first only a handful of kids brought in pumpkins but when the kids saw what others were doing, many of them decided to get in on the fun, too. The rule is that it must be a character from children's literature -- no Sponge Bob Square Pants, Hannah Montana, WWF figures or characters from the Simpsons.

My favorite of favorites, I guiltily admit, is Capt'n Underpants. I know the student, Brianna, and she did her own work. I think it's fabulous. Anyhow, this is one fun way to promote children's books and to get the kids thinking about literature. Maybe in the spring we'll do Easter eggs.

Columbus Day

Last Monday was Columbus Day and the kindergartners spent some time learning about Christopher Columbus and his famous voyage. As a few of them waited for the bus in their Columbus style three cornered paper hats, I asked them a few questions.

"Do you know who Columbus was?" I asked.

"Yes," said Richie, "he was a guy and he discovered America."

"And he had three boats," offered Rocco.

"Why did he need three boats?"

"Cause," said Rocco, "he had a lot of stuff."

"Yeah," said Richie, "and a lot of friends who wanted to go with him."

Hmmm. "Do you know the name of his boats?"

"I do!" said Rocco, raising his hand (guess he forgot we weren't in class). "The Nina , the Tita and ...." He stopped to whisper a question to Richie. "And the Santa Margarita."

A girl sitting in the back of the line overheard him. "No, it's the Ninja, the Pinta and the Santa Marina. And everybody thought they were gonna go over the end of the world."

"You're right -- almost." Then the bus arrived and we had to put an end to our discussion. So goes a little slice of world history according to five year olds. I keep wondering when the teachers are going to explain Amerigo Vespucci to the kids. The only problem is, Vespucci didn't have a holiday named after him -- just a country and a continent.

Banned Book Week Hits Home

In honor of Banned Book Week, every September I do a unit on banned and challenged books with my sixth graders. I begin by showing them some books that have either been challenged or banned. Then I ask the kids what they think the books have in common. I offer a Hershey bar to anybody who has the right answer -- a giant one. The kids drool. "They all have words," offers one boy. "They have pages," offers somebody else.

"Obviously," I tell him. "Go deeper, beyond the parts of a book." Their answers range from "They're all fiction" to "They're all award winners." None of them ever get it right. Just in case, though, I have that giant Hershey bar on hand. I hold it up. Often. Honestly, I'd love to give it away sometime.

After many wrong answers, I have to tell them these are all books that have either been banned or challenged. We discuss the difference between a ban and a challenge. Then I pass out a bibliography of the top one hundred banned or challenged children's books of all time. The kids tally up how many they've read from the list. The list ranges from Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree to Harry Potter. Then we get to the more pressing questions. The biggest one is always "Why?" The next biggest question is "Who are these people?" I break the kids into small groups and they make a list of possible reasons for banning books and a list of who the censors might be. We discuss it. Then we delve into the repercussions of censorship. The kids enjoy the discussion. Later, they creep up to me and whisper "Can we borrow any of those books?"

"Sure," I whisper back, "Help yourself."

Okay, the topic of banned books makes for a lively discussion. And I admit, it hooks the kids and gets them reading. By sixth grade, their interest in reading is often waning. I'd stand on my head if I actually thought it would get them to open a book.

Now I work in two school libraries. A few years ago, the district where I worked changed over from a once a week special schedule to a six day rotation for the special area teachers. So, I'm now in one school for four days out of the cycle and in the other school for two days out of the cycle. Last Friday, when I came to one of the two schools, I found two copies of Judy Blume's book, Blubber on the desk with a note attached to them. "Remove these books," it said. "Some bad language."

It sounded like a joke. The day before, I'd finished my unit on banned and challenged books with my sixth graders. Now I was looking the issue straight in the face. Since it was the end of the day, I didn't get a chance to speak with the principal who wrote the note. I will speak to her though. Next week I hope.

Yeah, I know it would be easier to just remove the books from the shelf. Don't rock the boat. Keep everybody happy. And certainly it sounds innocent enough. I feel pretty certain that some student brought Blubber home and began reading it, came across the bad word, then showed it to her mom. Her mom showed it to the principal who decided that the best way to handle it was to remove the book from the library. There, problem solved. But this is no way to deal with the problem. Do we cave in to every parent who doesn't like a book and wants it removed from the library? No, of course not otherwise we may not have a library that consists of anything but pablum. The principal is honestly a very sweet and kind person. I like her very much. She probably thinks she is doing the best thing on behalf of the students. She's wrong. Once we open the door to censorship, there's no telling when it may stop. What's next? Fairy tales? Poetry? Really, I do hope we can find a peaceful resolution. I hope I don't have to contact outside groups. The ALA offers support.

So, anybody care to share their thoughts? If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

The Listening Walk

Each fall, the first grade teachers in the school where I work usually take their students for a listening walk. The walk usually coincides with a unit on the five senses. They don't go far -- around the perimeter of the school grounds or, if the teacher is feeling adventurous, perhaps all the way around the block. When you have twenty or so six year olds to keep track of, even a short distance can seem like a long way. Sometimes it's a lot like herding sheep. The idea is to get the kids to stop talking long enough to listen to the world around them. When they get back to class, the kids, with the help of their teacher, make a list of the things they heard and write sentences about them.

Most of the time, their observations are pretty mundane. "I heard some crickets. I heard the wind blowing the branches. I heard a dog barking. I heard a car. I heard a fire truck." Now and then, though, some real gems crop up. "Today I heard Mr. B. saying some bad words to the slide." Mr B. was the custodian and he'd had to clean some graffiti off the playground equipment.Occasionally, when the teacher isn't looking, some peculiar things also find their into a few pockets.

Last year, a teacher found one of her student's desk filled with wads of cotton. Upon further investigation, she learned the cotton came from a couple of tampons (unused, I should point out) three boys had found during the listening walk. At first they thought they were bullets of some kind. After taking them apart and finding nothing but boring cotton, they'd concluded they weren't bullets at all. In fact, they weren't sure what the heck they were. In previous years, kids have pocketed other things - lipstick cases, condoms, a rock somebody thought was a fossil but, in fact, was a dried out dog turd. This was the first time for tampons, however. There's been a debate about whether or they should put an end to the listening walk. But, as somebody pointed out, you can't stop kids from exploring their world. That's part of being a kid.

Exploring the world is also part of the writer's job. If something catches my attention, I stop to look and listen. I want to know more about it. If we lose our curiosity about the world, how can we ever hope to write about it? Last year during the holiday season, I was in Lord and Taylor's when I heard a child crying and screaming. Soon I saw a kid about 10 years old or so being led out of the store by two adults. Wondering what all the noise was about, of course I stopped and stared. One of the adults holding the boy's arm glared at me. "Hasn't anybody ever taught you it's impolite to stare? He's autistic! Get a life!"

Well, I do have a life and much of it involves examining things closely. Besides, I had no way of knowing he was autistic.

Don't Eat the Still Life

My art instructor has been after me for ages to work on a still life at home. I go to my painting class once every Saturday almost without fail and I love it. But, if I want to improve markedly, I need to spend more time painting. Same goes for writing or any other creative endeavor.

Last week I finally set up a still life at home -- a simple bowl of summer peaches. I think peaches are gorgeous. I love their fuzzy nap and the way the pinks and reds fade into the yellows. For me, they are the most beautiful of all summer fruit. Anyhow, I did a drawing, then a grisaille underpainting using raw umber. After my underpainting dried, I spent a few days laying in my first skin of paint on the peaches. Since I had to work last week, I set the bowl of peaches in the fridge to prevent them from going bad.

This weekend I took the bowl out of the fridge to resume work on my painting. Alas, only one peach was left in the bowl! Grrrrrr. "Who ate my still life?"

Husband raises his hand. "I did. Weren't you finished with them?"

"No. I only painted the first skin."

"Oh. Sorry. I really thought you were done with them. They were going to go bad."

Well, fortunately, peaches are still in season so I can use replacements. It's just that they'll look a little different. Next time I guess I'd better post a note. "Don't eat the still life."

Remembering September 11th

An anniversary is coming up, a sad one that's hard to think about. It's a day when I'll always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news. I teach on Long Island and I was at work that day, organizing my card trays. My friend Barbara, came down to my room. "A plane flew into the World Trade Center!" she announced.

We turned on the television in the library to see a burning tail piece sticking out of one of the towers. A shocking sight, to say the least, but we figured it was probably a bizarre accident. What we witnessed next, though , was even more horrifying -- another plane flying into the second tower. Clearly, this was no accident. For the rest of the day, our school was in lockdown, meaning nobody could enter or leave the building. The teachers whispered to each other in the halls. "What's wrong?" the kids asked. "What happened?" How could we tell them? Would they understand? What if somebody's mom or dad worked there? No, we couldn't tell them -- not yet.

For weeks after the attack, an eerie silence settled the parkways and streets of Long Island. The roads that were usually jammed bumper to bumper with traffic were almost empty. Homemade signs dangled from the overpasses -- Pray for the missing EMTs, David come home, Pray for the missing firefighters.

A figure model from my drawing class lost both of his daughters in the World Trade Center. They worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, on the top floor of one of the towers.

A young woman who babysat for our boys when they were small lost her husband. He didn't even work in the WTC. She talked to him on the phone as smoke engulfed the conference room where he was trapped. "I love you," he told her before she lost contact with him forever. He had been there for a one day meeting.

A newlywed music teacher my husband worked with lost her husband. She was in denial about it for weeks, claiming he was probably lost and disoriented but, sadly, nobody ever found him.

A friend of ours had just stepped off the subway when the second plane hit. He worked across the street from the WTC. He immediately got back on the subway and took the train home. Later he found he'd lost 10 of his colleagues, including his golf partner. For a year afterward he had trouble sleeping and suffered from depression.

Almost everybody on Long Island lost somebody that day -- a soccer coach, a fire fighter, a police officer, a cook. A friend of my husband's niece -- a Suffolk Co. Police officer -- was on the site with her cadaver dogs in the weeks following, looking for bodies. She can't even talk about what she found. Let's just say, she didn't find any bodies in tact.

For some strange reason I still think of the time we took a plane from Islip Airport on Long Island to Newark, the first leg of a longer flight out west to ski. It was a small, twin engine plane with about 40 passangers aboard. The pilot decided to give us a thrill and fly a few loops around the WTC. We could see people sitting at their desks working, people standing and talking while drinking their morning coffee. It was strange but thrilling at the same time. Now I often wonder how many of those people later lost their lives and, if they survived, what their lives are like now. I know that ours will never be the same.

We lost more than lives that day. We lost our innocence and the feeling of security we had always enjoyed.

The Habit of Reading

So, here I am staring down the road at the advent of another school year and wondering, as always, where the summer went. When I was a kid growing up in Michigan, the summers seemed to stretch on forever. Perhaps it was because we lived at the western edge of the time zone where the sky clung to every last drop of pink dusky light. Around the time of the summer solstice, sunset wasn't until nearly ten o'clock.

Or maybe it was because, outside of caring for my big white rabbit, Whiskey, and weeding the garden, there was nothing I had to do and nowhere I had to be each day. For the most part, my time was my own. I spent a lot of it playing kickball in the street with my friends, swimming in the pool and reading through the stack of books I brought home from the library every few weeks. Growing up in war ravaged England, my parents had only attended school until they were 14. Still, they recognized the power of books and established the habit of reading in us at an early age. As I got older and began working, the summers seemed to shrink. Those lazy days spent reading, swimming and playing kickball had gone forever.

While I haven't played kickball since I was fifteen and rarely swim much anymore, I still go to the library. During the course of the school year, I go to the library every day. I am a librarian, after all. And no matter how busy I get, I usually find time to curl up with a book each night before turning out the light. Some habits we just never grow out of.

A Book Quiz

I found this little book quiz on somebody else's blog. I'm not sure how any of these questions correspond to the book titles but, hey, it's kind of fun. Anyhow, all you book lovers might enjoy it. Check it out. I was, The Giver, by Lois Lowry -- one of my favorite YA books by one of my favorite authors. Not so bad I guess.

New School Year, New Books

So, here it is the middle of August and those obnoxious back to school ads are beginning to pop up on t.v. and in the circulars left on my driveway (pure litter). When people look at me I can see the question forming in their brain, the hated question -- "So, when do you go back to work?" Cringe! I'm not ready to think about that. Honestly, I haven't checked the calendar. It's not foremost in my thoughts. I'll wait until I get that letter from my superintendent, then I'll think about it. Now leave me alone.

Still, one of the nice things about going back to work in the fall is opening the new boxes of books that arrived over the summer. For me, it's like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. I love the bright, crisp dust jackets, the stiff feel of the spine when I open a book for the first time. I love to drool over the new picture books, savor the poetry, pore over the stunning new nonfiction books with their beautiful photographs and drawings. Children's books have come a long way over the past thirty years.

Maybe one day I, too, will have a book in a box that some librarian is opening for the first time. Maybe. Of course, I still have a lot of work ahead so I can't let myself dream about anything until I have the legwork done.

So, back to my manuscript. Where was I? Oh yes, trying to write some paragraphs in Middle English. I must be nuts. Thank God for my son's Chaucer glossary. I just wish it worked in reverse. I can only use it to look up the meaning of Middle English words. How to say "pair of wings" in Middle English? Anybody know? How about shoe? After trying every known combination and then some, I'm convinced that the people of the Middle English period all walked around barefoot.

So it goes, as Vonnegut might have said.

Ta Da!

Well, he did it! Derek scaled Mt. Kahadin, touched the sign, posed for a quick photo or two and then scrambled down as fast, yet as cautiously, as he could over the treacherous outcroppings of slippery rocks. It stormed his whole time on the mountain, with 50 mile per hour wind gusts and sideways rain. He was, he said, genuinely afraid.

My husband hiked the last 100 miles or so of the AT with him, including Mt. Katahdin. Four other people joined them -- Derek's friend Cheeze (from Wisconsin), Lonah (that's loner but with a Maine accent), Halfway ('cause he hiked half the trail last year) and Retro ("cause of his twenty year old hiking equipment). Is Derek happy? Yes, of course. Happy to make it through relatively unscathed. Happy to finish what he'd set out to do, a journey lots of people begin but only an estimated ten percent actually get around to completing.

Now he has to reacquaint himself with walking horizontally over land again instead of over land that slopes, twists and curves precipitously up and down and around again.

The photos were all taken in Maine. Most of them feature Mt. Katahdin but some were taken a few days before Derek reached the summit.

More of Maine

Last I heard (about 2 weeks ago), Derek had just entered the state of Maine and was atop a mountain somewhere looking down on the world. The tops of mountains apparently have better cell phone reception than most other sections of the trail. Also, the view is better.

Upon our return home, my husband spent several days getting ready for Maine himself. Not only was he going to pick up Derek and drive him home, but he wanted to hike The Hundred Mile Wilderness with him. He left on Monday, July 29th. I last heard from him on Wednesday, July 31st (also from atop a mountain). Apparently one of his new hiking poles had snapped and he was surprised by how difficult the early part of the wilderness was. He said it was comparable to skiing a steep, icy mogul field with bad equipment. I can only guess he more than likely has absolutely no cell phone reception or he's hurt or a little of both. It's hard, waiting to hear, but what other choice do I have? I have a feeling everybody is fine and, in fact, having a good time. When they can call, they will. So, here I sit....waiting and wondering..

Following Your Heart

When I majored in English and French some years ago, I did so out of a love for language and literature, not because I was thinking about a career. Maybe I should have been thinking about a career but I was 17 at the time and had no clearly defined vision of what I wanted to be. Honestly, how many teenagers do? I knew I didn't want to spend my life parked permanently in the suburbs with 3 kids and a station wagon -- what all the women in my neighborhood did back then, with few exceptions.

So, off to college I went, not really certain what road I was going to take. But I enjoyed learning and that was fine. I took liberal arts courses - ecology, French 18h century literature, poetry, 19th century American lit., Shakespeare, creative writing, oceanography, art appreciation, sociology, nature study, math, western civilization etc. After a while, I noticed the way various fields of knowledge intertwined and complemented each other. I made new friends, studied, partied and learned a few hard lessons in love and independence. Time was suspended. One day, while home for Christmas break, an acquaintance of my dad's asked what I was majoring in. "English and French," I told him.

He frowned and said, "You'll never get anywhere with that." He went on to tell me I should be thinking about the future -- about taking classes that would help me get a job. "

Like what?" I asked him. And he told me. Like accounting, business or nursing. "But I'm not interested in those things and I faint at the sight of blood," I said.

"Well, you'll never get anywhere with English." I let it drop. What was the point of arguing with somebody who suffered from tunnel vision? Flash forward 25 years into the future. It's Easter. and we're at my brother in law's house for dinner. Our sons are with us. A friend of my brother in law - a rich guy with a 100 foot yacht and a huge lavish house -- asks my eldest, Derek, what he's majoring in.

"I'm majoring in English and minoring in political science and music," he says.

The guy frowns. "You'll never get anywhere with that," he tells him. I don't remember how Derek responded - or if he even responded at all - but I think he thought the guy was arrogant. What business was it of his, anyway? Lately, Derek has been thinking about pursuing a career in writing. I wonder what he'd say to that?

If all the artists of the world listened to the naysayers, we wouldn't have any writers, painters, dancers, sculptors, musicians, actors etc. Think how boring and sterile our world would be then. Yes, it's tough to make a living in the arts but it can be done, even if it means taking side jobs to keep a roof over your head and the wolf from the door. And just because you elect to go into the arts, it doesn't mean you're taking a vow of poverty -- almost, perhaps, but not necessarily.

Not too long ago, a high school student in my art class asked me if I thought it was a waste of time for him to go into art. Apparently a few guidance counselors and family friends had been advising him to pursue a more "sensible" field. "It might be hard," I told him, "but you have to listen to your heart and make your own decisions about your life. After all, you have to live with yourself a long time." He thanked me and walked away. I wondered, if I'd given him wise advice. I hope so.

Onward to Maine

I spoke with Derek yesterday. He'd left his cell phone behind at one of the hostels so we weren't able to contact him for a while. When he finally did call, we were already in Michigan for my mom's funeral. He was shaken, to say the least, and took a zero (or a do nothing) day. My mom had been one of Derek's biggest supporters and was very proud of her grandson for not only graduating from college last year, but for his courage to follow through on his hike. She was also very proud of the articles he'd written for our local newspaper chronicling his journey (I'd been mailing her copies).

On speaking with Derek yesterday, he'd just entered the state of Maine and was about 25 miles into it. This is the last leg of his journey which ends at Mt. Katahdin Mt. Katahdin reaches a height of 5,268 feet and is the highest peak in the state. It's situated in Baxter State Park in an area known as the Hundred Mile Wilderness (not to be confused with The Hundred Acre Wood). The second highest peak, by the way, is Sugarloaf Mt. where we skied some years ago. While it only goes up to about 4300 feet, the temperature in the winter never seems to rise much above 10 degrees, especially at the top. Brrrr!

Is he looking forward to the end? Yes, but he said he's also going to miss lots of things -- the heartstopping scenery, the friends he's made etc. Maybe, when he gets home, he'll post something here on my blog.

Goodbye, Mom

I got a 3:00 o'clock phone call early Sunday morning -- one of those calls that makes your blood run cold. For me, a middle of the night call can only mean one of three things: 1. somebody dialed the wrong number 2. somebody got hurt 3. somebody died. For me, it was number three. It was my sister, Vicky, on the other end. She lives in Baton Rouge and wouldn't think of calling in the middle of the night. Our mom, she said, had died in a violent car accident - side impacted by a Suburban (she drove a Toyota Corolla) as she turned left out of her subdivision onto a busy street.

For us it's been a sad and chaotic time. My mom lived in Michigan and so we packed up and drove out to her home to tend to funeral arrangements and the legalities of death.

The hardest part, for me, was going into her house for the first time since she'd died. A cup of tea on the counter had chilled. Her cat was crying for food. Mail had collected in her box and everywhere I looked I sensed my mother's presence. Only one thing was missing -- my mom. I cried. I wanted to give her a big hug and tell her how special she was to me, how much I loved her. Not that I didn't tell her that every time I talked to her.

So, we try to remember my mom how she was -- the good times and the many kind and wonderful things she did for so many people. She volunteered for The American Cancer Society, for her church where she worked in their office and always made newcomers feel welcome. When an elderly neighbor suddenly found herself widowed and alone in the world, my mom brought her dinner each night and often sat watching television with her to keep her company. When another elderly friend lost her sight, she drove her to the doctor's and ran errands for her. My mom sold Avon but, more often than not, became good friends with her clients, bringing them baby gifts, housewarming presents etc. My mom never forgot a birthday, an anniversary or a special occasion until the past few years when she began showing some early signs of dementia.

My mom was born in Manchester, England, the youngest of five children. During WWII she was evacuated to the countryside to live with a farm couple, Mr. and Mrs. Beddoes, at their home in Shropshire (Manchester was being bombed by the Germans). The house was over 700 years old and had a cobblestone kitchen floor and a big pump at the kitchen sink. It was the first time my mom had ever seen apples growing on trees, picked blueberries for pies or held a baby chick in her hands. After the war was over, she returned to Manchester. Eventually she met my dad, a reporter and editor for The Manchester Guardian. Before long, my parents married, moved to Canada and then the US and settled outside of Detroit where my sisters and I grew up. In 1993, she became an American citizen, something she studied hard for and was very proud of.

We were proud of her too. More than anything, though, we miss her.

Stick To Your Apples

Well, I finally finished my enormous still life. It's nearly four feet long and two feet wide. Actually, I don't know the exact measurements but it required a lot of time, paint and hair pulling. The silver pitcher itself gave me fits. I must have spent three four to five hour sessions mixing and mixing to get the color right and then mixing some more in an effort to make it look metallic. My palette was a smear of umbers, yellows, blacks and blues. Then the green apples began to turn yellowish. Painting has it downside. Fruit and vegetables rot, flowers wilt. I always get paint over me - my hands, face, legs - you name it. Some of the paints aren't really safe -- namely the cadmiums which are heavy metals and penetrate the skin. I run to the bathroom many times during the course of a painting session to wash up.

There were many times when I got frustrated and almost painted a big X across the entire board, times when I felt like smashing it on the ground. But where would I have been then? No, to get something the way you want it, you have to persevere. Nothing comes of nothing, as somebody sang. The same applies to writing. If we give up on our work, then we have nothing to show. So, stick to you apples.

I'm off now to the studio. I talked with Robert yesterday who told me there's still a small problem with a couple of the apples. "It's worth spending a little more time on them." He gives us plenty of encouragement but never lets us get away with sloppy work either. I'm grateful for that.

Stopping Home

Last week, when Derek made his way into New York State, he called. Could he bring some friends home for a few days? Of course, we said. So, my husband drove to Harriman State Park and picked up him and three of his hiking friends, and brought them all here for a brief sojourn from their arduous journey. So, we had Widowmaker, Cheeze, Katerpillar, Matt and Udog ( possibly the most well behaved dog I've ever met) stay with us for a few days. Matt found Udog in a state park last year, beaten and starving. He took her in, had her spayed and nursed her back to health. Now she accompanies Matt on his hike along the AT. She even carries her own little doggie backpack containing her food and leash.

Cheeze hails from Wisconsin, home of the Cheeseheads, hence his name.

On his first night camping on the trail, Widowmaker pitched his tent under a dead tree. That night a storm toppled the tree onto his tent. He was all right but it a close call. He was immediately dubbed Widowmaker.

The guys camped out on our den floor, grateful for a hot shower, some home cooked meals and a chance to rest their weary feet. Derek took them across the bay to Sunken Forest, Fire Island where they gazed at the ocean and took a quick swim in the chilly salt water. Salt water, by the way, has wonderful healing powers and the dip in the ocean helped to heal their sore feet. If you think of the ocean as a big Epsom Salts bath and you get the general picture. On their last night here, Widowmaker, who attended cooking school, whipped up a chocolate mousse to die for and we treated them to a Long Island specialty -- spaghetti with Littleneck clam sauce. The next morning, Dennis drove them back to the trail and they continued on their trek northward.

Derek, by the way, is now in Vermont where last night the temperature plunged into the upper 30s. This is July? Today he'll be going over Bromley ski area -- a place we skiied as a family many years ago.

Sad News

Some sad news. This past weekend one of my former students died in a motorcycle accident. Apparently, he was drunk and when his friends took his car keys away from him he took off on somebody's motorcycle and lost control, hitting the side of a store. He was booking so it couldn't have been a pretty sight. I'm glad nobody else was hurt or killed.

Jonathan was basically a good hearted guy. He was good looking, charming, talked incessantly and was a gifted athlete. He was also impulsive and his parents were not very involved, at least academically. He had some learning disabilities. I hate this kind of news. I've had other former students die. Two were shot in drug deals gone bad and another died of AIDS. They were all basically good kids with terrible parents.

When you've been teaching for a while, this happens. You lose former students. It comes with the job. Some make it and some don't. My husband taught math for so many years and he lost students as well -- to accidents, disease, suicide and one heroin overdose of a truly gifted pianist. Losing a student never ceases to shock us. All you can say is, "What a waste of a precious life."

When you work in an elementary school, though, as I do, you almost feel that you've lost one of your own. I see these kids every six schools days from the time they enter kindergarten until they graduate in sixth grade. In some small sense, I feel I've helped raised them. If only we could do something to prevent these tragedies.

Meme: Eight Things About Me

Okay, Linda tagged me so now I have to reveal 8 facts/habits about myself. Then, according to the rules, I'm suppose to tag eight other people but I don't think I can. Anyhow, here goes. Hope nobody nods off.

1. I was born with dislocated hips and had to wear a brace until I was two -- when I also learned to walk.

2. When I was little, my hair was blond.

3. I drink eight or more cups of tea every day.

4. When I was in sixth grade, I was voted the service squad leader of the year. I still have my armband and my certificate from the Lion's Club of Wayne, Michigan.

5. I was the first member of my family to ever attend college.

6. I'm good at puzzles and word games -- crossword puzzles, Scrabble, word jumbles, anagrams etc. One of my very favorites is Balderdash. Anybody else ever play this? It's a riot!

7. I have a birthmark on my right thigh shaped like an ice cream cone. If my dad could see that birthmark when I was a teenager, it meant my skirt was too short and I had to change my clothes before I left for school.

8. I lift weights 2-3 times a week and can leg press 270 pounds.

See, I am so boring. I don't know a lot of other people in cyberspace I can tag who Linda hasn't already tagged so I'll just say I did this for the fun of it. Is that all right, Linda?

Summer Solstice

So, here it is, June 21st -- the last day of work and the first day of summer. How often, I wonder, does the beginning of one thing follow on the heels of another? Think of it. For me, the close of the school year signals the beginning of a fresh start -- two months of freedom from classes and getting up at the crack of dawn to buck 30 miles of traffic both to and from work.


I'm thinking about all the things I want to do this summer. Resume running and biking. Do some plein air painting. Plot out the rest of my novel and write, write, write. Savor the salt air, the ocean breezes, lose myself in some great books, meet up with some friends. A lot of my colleagues take classes during the summer but not me; I prefer to chill out. I need the mental and emotional break from the grind. Anyhow, I took a lot of classes during the course of the school year. This fall, I and another librarian may teach a class on picture books at our district's teacher's center. I'm actually kind of excited about it and am already thinking about how I'd like to organize it.

Anyhow, here's to the next eight weeks. Time to kick back and sleep in till at least eight every morning. Sounds like heaven.

A Piece of Good News

A few days ago I received an email from the SCBWI (the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) saying that my poem had been selected the winner of their writing contest. I was shocked! My poem? Surely they had the wrong person. I'd entered a few of their contests in the past and never received so much as an honorable mention. I read the email again. Nope, it was my poem. I won a year's free membership and publication on their website (www.scbwi.org). They wanted me to send them a brief biography.

After a while, I began wondering exactly how many people entered that contest. The challenge was to write a rhyming poem no longer than four stanzas ending with the word June. Maybe they only received a handful of entries. Yesterday the SCBWI published the winning poems as well as the winning illustrations. According to the website, they received over 250 entries so I guess I had some competition after all.

It's been so long since I've won anything that I'm still in a daze. Pinch me, somebody.

The Half Gallon Challenge

When Derek reached the halfway point along the AT - a place called Pine Grove Furnace State Park in Pennsylvania - he took the half gallon challenge. Apparently a little ice cream shop challenges the thru-hikers to eat a half gallon of their delicious ice cream. They have to pay for this, mind you. And what do the hikers get if they polish off the entire half gallon? They get stomach cramps and a free wooden spoon that says something like "The Half Gallon Challenge". Who could resist? Derek finished it but he didn't feel well afterward. Why do the hikers do this over and over when the only people who benefit from it are the owners of the ice cream shop? I can only think that it must be one of those Appalachian Trail rites of passage

Despite all the calories he ingested, he didn't gain an ounce. In fact, he's been having trouble maintaining his weight. When I last spoke with him last, he'd dropped from 132 to 120 pounds. He's naturally slim but that's thin even for him.

Anyhow, Derek called yesterday. He was at the Delaware Water Gap in New Jersey where he planned to stay the night at a hostel and eat a few slices of pizza. He says the closer he gets to New York, the better the pizza. Of course everybody knows New York has the best pizza! He still has many miles to go before he can he's finished -- much of it pretty tough going as he gets into Vermont and Maine.

Glasses, Who Needs Them? (me)

I finally got a new pair of glasses. One of my students said they make me look like Junie B. Jones. Ha! I swear, I'm getting blinder by the day. I cannot see the numbers in my book catalogs anymore without my specs or even the sign in sheet at work.

I wasn't always like this. From age four to about age thirty nine, I had just plain old astigmatism. Then I turned forty and far sightedness set in like a permanent bad weather system, turning my world to haze. For a while I went about replacing our ordinary lightbulbs with higher wattage bulbs like Reveal. I was thrilled when I picked up a magnifying bookmark at an SCBWI conference last year.

I've talked to doctors about lasic surgery but, frankly, the idea scares me and it wouldn't correct everything. And what if they mess up? My vision, such as it is, is precious to me. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't paint or use a keyboard anymore, not to mention read or countless other little pleasures that involve sight.

Last night I went to a retirement dinner and an amazing peacock strutted past the window. He was a gorgeous bird and I wish I'd had my camera handy. At least I could see him, though.

Why We Still Need Books

If you had $2,800.00 to spend on books for your library, what would you buy? It's truly a pittance. The administration transferred me to a library that needs everything except scary books (which comprise our entire story collection), sports books and another series of Babysitter's Club, Goosebumps, Fear Street etc. We need picture books desperately -- something besides Bob the Builder ( I'm not kidding), Disney books and other commercial books. We also need more outstanding fiction and nonfiction. As I said, just about everything. So, on my list are this year's Caldecotts and Newberys, a lot of the starred reviews from School Library Journal -- among them, The Invention of Hugo Cabret (a visually stunning book), Clementine, by Sarah Pennypacker and some old favorites that are still in print.

I've always maintained that there's a picture book for every person and every occasion and that's one of the reasons why we need good book budgets. I recently bought an old copy of The Blind Men and the Elephant which I read to my first graders. They got it! Maybe Laura Bush should read it to her husband. Mem Fox wrote a great little story called Feathers and Fools which every soldier and general embroiled in a long, ongoing war should be required to read. And I really think every urban planner and developer needs to study Virginia Lee Burton's book, The Little House or Jeanne Baker's wordless book, Window. When I have a painfully shy student, I often pull out Rosemary Well's book, Shy Charles. And Patricia Polacco's Thank You, Mr. Falkner or Lauren Mill's story, The Rag Coat, are two wonderful books that gently show children the emotional impact of bullying. Living in a diverse society in this day and age, children enter school with more baggage than ever and we need books that will address the broad range of their backgrounds, experiences and problems as well books that still make them laugh. Picture books cut to the chase and get their points across more succinctly than just about every other form of writing .

A lot of school administrators are of the opinion that with the internet and databases so readily available, we really don't need as many books as in years past. What they don't know is that we need books more desperately than ever. Like human beings, books have spines. They have stories to tell. When we open them, they speak to us from the depths of the author's heart and soul. One of the hallmarks of a great civilization is a strong storytelling tradition. Stories give us heroes to emulate, problems to consider, lessons to ponder. Books represent lives, both real and imagined. The internet is fun but, like a slide show, the images flit past us rapidly -- so rapidly that we don't really have time to absorb them. A good story slows down time and gives the reader a chance to absorb the meaning, to soak up the poetry of the language. So, I ask, why not more books?

My art instructor, Robert Armetta, won second place in the Portrait Society's annual competition. We're all very excited for him. His portrait was one of 1,300 submissions and he had very stiff competition. Robert is not only a phenomenal artist, but a truly gifted teacher and a warm and compassionate human being with a great sense of humor. He's also very humble. Last Saturday when he told us he wouldn't be there for art class, he didn't tell us why -- only that it was because of something unavoidable and he apologized. It wasn't until yesterday that we finally learned the real reason; he had to go to Washington to accept his award from the Portrait Society. It's about time he finally got some recognition for his hard work and great talent.

The portrait that snagged him the award is of a model we once drew in our figure class - a rather homely looking guy who, I hear, is now homeless. He's wearing a pair of blue pants but is shirtless. It's a great character study (check it out at www.robertarmetta.com under gallery/portraits). For me, the art of portraiture is about capturing the personality of the subject. Right now I'm struggling to learn how to paint flesh tones. I've drawn people for years but learning how to paint them is going to take a while. Once I've accomplished that, then I can worry about capturing my subject's personality.

While I'm here posting, Happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers and mothers to be. Once a mom, always a mom - even once they're out on their own. Today my two sons are away. Derek is on the Appalachian Trail somewhere in Virginia and Sean is up at SUNY Oswego getting ready for his finals. Doesn't seem so long ago that they were tiny pink bundles I brought home from the hospital. I miss them terribly but, at the same time, I'm happy to watch them making their way in the world. Creating a well adjusted, independent adult is, after all, one of the goals of motherhood.

May in Virginia

My AT hiking son, Derek, has made his way into Virginia. Last Sunday when he called home he was in Pearisburg, outside of Blacksburg (where Virgina Tech is located) -- almost one third of his way to his destination. His biggest enemy so far has been the weather. As the weather warms and the humidity levels increase, I suspect the enemy will morph into insects-- especially the notorious black fly. Black flies, as I recall, are renown for taking enormous bites. They're sort of the vampires of the insect kingdom.

The local newspaper that Derek's been writing for, The Suffolk County News, called yesterday. It seems their owners (I think the paper has been bought out by some conglomerate) are trying to become more solvent and so they're downsizing. Translation: they can no longer afford to pay Derek his whopping $50.00 per article salary. Not like it was a huge amount of money but it did help keep him afloat while out hiking. The looming question is now whether or not he'll want to continue writing his articles. I think he will. He's established a local group of readers. I know the Boy Scouts read his articles aloud at their meetings (Derek is an Eagle Scout). Our friends and neighbors read them, too.

By the way the Suffolk County News may now (finally) be accessed online at the following address: http://www.suffolkcountynews.net. It is free (yay!) but you do have to register, for some weird reason. His latest article is under the news division. I think it's on page 8. Check it out!

The Purple Splot

A few days ago, as I was passing back sign-out cards to a class of second graders, a boy named Frankie raised his hand. "What is it Frankie?" I asked.

He pointed to a spot on the table. "Something's on the table." I took a closer look. Something certainly was. The spot was about the size of a quarter, round, purple and looked like wet ink.

"Okay," I said. "As soon as I finish passing back these cards I'll take care of it. Meanwhile, just don't touch it!" I warned him. He nodded.

A few minutes later, the boy sitting across from Frankie -- a kid named Anthony --- called out. "Mrs. Michel, look at Frankie!" I looked. The purple spot was now a large purple smear that he'd managed to spread all over the tabletop. In addition, his top and his hands were covered in purple ink -- or whatever it was.

"Frankie! Why did you do that? I told you not to touch it."

He looked down and shrugged. "I was trying to help. " I sent him to the bathroom to wash his hands and took out my trusty bottle of Fantastik and cleaned the table. I blamed myself. I should have taken care of the purple spot before continuing with the cards. I should have known that a wet spot of purple ink was just too tempting for a seven and a half year old boy who was a little A.D.D.

It struck me later that sometimes a piece of writing can be a lot like a splot of purple ink. Sometimes the more we try to fix it, the worse we make it until we've turned the little problem into a big ugly smear.

Libraries and Librarians

I haven't blogged about libraries yet because it's a topic so near and dear to my heart that it's hard to keep it short and manageable. And, sniff, I'm still smarting from a hurtful blow that happened nearly a year ago.

For reasons not quite clear to me (except that it had nothing to do with me), I was moved from the library where I worked for the past 13 years -- a library I'd rescued from something akin to a coma and nurtured back to health -- to a library in a different school with an automated card catalog but, alas, hardly any books. A lot of people said, "Well, that's nice. You'll be out of that basement. You'll finally have an automated catalog instead of those cards." People who don't understand libraries didn't get it. The computers aren't what makes a library wonderful and special. It's the collection -- the books. Books and literature are the reason I went into library work and over the years I'd built up one great collection. No bragging, just fact. I read book reviews and a wide variety of professional journals to cull out the cream of what was published each year. A lot of those books -- like Ted Hughes's book, The Iron Giant, or Barbara Cohen's book, The Carp in the Bathtub -- are out of print now and can't be easily or inexpensively replaced.

The library they put me in has a lot of junk -- every Goosebumps book, every Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew etc. but few books of real substance. No books on the Civil War and few of the award winning books. Not even a thesaurus. Certainly no Iron Giant. I've nicknamed the collection "Series Are Us". The previous tenant was more obsessed with computers than books and so, sadly, this is her legacy to me and the children of the school where I now work.

Anyhow, above is a photo of my old library that I took before I left on my last day and took my plants with me. Yeah, I know it was in the basement and had those ugly pipes running through it (it was an 85 year old school) but I loved that collection! And that library was bigger than it appears in this picture.

So, now I'm sort of starting all over again. The PTA donated over $3,000. to help rebuild the collection. It was very generous of them but I'm afraid it's going to take many years as well as thousands of dollars to bring it up to snuff. Still, hope springs eternal. And it is spring, right?

Anticipation

Back when I was slightly younger there was a song I used to sing along with on the radio - "Anticipation" by Carly Simon. Later (but before it became a Heinz Ketchup commercial) I even went out and bought the album. Carly Simon's lyrics seemed to mirror many of the feelings I had growing up and she quickly became one of my favorite recording artists.

Unlike most of the topics explored in Simon's early albums, anticipation is one feeling I still haven't outgrown. It always feels good to finish a painting or a poem, a story, a chapter -- to take something as far as I artistically can. The problem comes with getting ready for the next story, the next chapter, the next painting. I get fidgety and high strung like a sprinter waiting in the starting blocks for the crack of the gun. If I'm getting ready to paint I might clean around my easel, scrape down my palette and squeeze out a fresh array of colors, sharpen my pencils in anticipation of a future drawing or go for a walk. When I'm getting ready to write, I'll assemble the reference books I might need, spend extra time on my background notes or character sketches, work a little more on my rough outline - anything to delay the act of putting my butt in the chair and writing. Once I settle in, however, I'm usually fine.

Maybe it's the transition that's hard to deal with -- the anticipation of change coupled with the hope that maybe this will be a breakthrough painting or a defining chapter in my character's story. Maybe it's the fear that I'll fail miserably. Not that failure is bad. I just finished a portrait that I refuse to share with anybody outside of my painting class. It's dreadful and far below my standards but I did, I admit, learn a lot by doing it. It was, to put it nicely, a learning experience.

Nearly everything we do by our own creative energy should be a learning experience. And if it isn't then what's the point?

What Is a Real Mom?

Linda tagged me so here is my response to "What is a real mom?"

As every mother knows, there's more to being a mom than giving birth. Being a mom to me means:
1. Telling them no sometimes. No, you can't have a tv. in your room. No, you can't have your own cell phone. No, I am not your friend; I am your mom.
2. Teaching them that good manners don't cost anything.
3. Checking the closet for scary monsters before bedtime.
4. Helping them with their homework even after you've worked all day and you're tired and your body is screaming for a nap.
5. Reading Sylvester and the Magic Pebble - again. Or The Little House - again. Or Goodnight Moon - again.
6. Giving up your free time to take them to cello lessons, soccer practice, Cub Scouts, the spring concert, the holiday concert, violin lessons, the library etc.
7. Using a diaper bag in place of a purse for the first few years.
8. Finding it hard to watch your son's wrestling match, even when he's winning.
9. Having a game of catch on a soft summer afternoon.
10. Getting up in the middle of the night to clean up vomit.
11. Worrying when they get their driver's license.
12. Sending them care packages when they go away to college.
13. Never forgetting the moment you held their tiny bodies in your arms for the first time and marveled at how perfect and beautiful they were.

These are just a few of the things that came to my mind -- things I won't forget about being a mom.

A Night On Bald Mountain and the Trail Angel

My mountain man, Derek, called this morning from Erwin, Tennessee. Two nights ago he'd hiked up to a shelter near the top of Bald Mountain (elevation 5500 ft.). The temperature, he said, had plummeted to about zero and so his water had frozen and his shoes -- and even his Snickers bars -- were blocks of ice. He had to hike a lot of miles before he finally warmed up.

While at the shelter, he looked at the log book. Sometimes the hikers leave messages for one another or comments about the scenery, weather conditions, things to look for, thoughts to ponder etc. There, spread across an entire page, was a message about an Easter Dinner that a so-called "trail angel" was hosting for the AT hikers. It was all you can eat- for free! So, Derek copied down the phone number and, when he came to a place with good phone reception, gave the kind angel a call. She picked him up in her truck and brought him to the church where he and about 60 other hikers had gathered for dinner. And eat they did! When you're hiking 12-20 miles a day, you work up a healthy appetite.

Apparently there are many trail angels along the route, people who pass out sandwiches, fruit salad, and even omelettes to the hikers passing through. What a generous thing to do. In a world crowded with too many ugly stories about war, hunger, savagery and neglect it's nice to hear of people performing selfless acts of kindness for total strangers.

Angels don't necessarily wear wings or halos. Sometimes they can look like our next door neighbors.

Procrastination

I believe I've taken the art of procrastination to a new level. It's amazing how many things I can find to distract myself from my writing. Here are just a few, I'm sorry to say.

1. Play game of online Scrabble. Lose to Maven (but at Master level).
2. Check email.
3. Complete NY Times crossword puzzle, except for 3 spaces in lower left hand corner.
4. Read friends' blogs.
5. Throw load of dirty laundry into washer.
6. Stare at last Mallomar in package and wonder if should eat it now or save it for dessert.
7. Fiddle with blog layout.
8. Play another game of Scrabble. Lose again to Maven, sigh.
9. Read another chapter of novel.
10. Throw laundry into dryer.
11. Make cup of tea.
12. Check email again.
13. Take recyclables out to curb.
14. Check Blue Boards.
15. Check SCBWI boards.
16. Look up weather in different parts of country. Then world.
17. Decide what the heck. Eat last Mallomar.
Problem: Husband has already eaten it.
Lesson: Don't procrastinate.

Don't be surprised if the next time you look up procrastinate in the dictionary, you find my picture alongside it. So, how do you while away the time? I know I'm not alone here.

Appalachian Trail Update

My son, Derek, has finished his trek through the Smoky Mountains and is now winding his way through North Carolina and Tennessee (the Appalachian Trail meanders through both states for a while). So far, he's acquired lots of blisters, eaten his way through boxes of food, met some interesting people and taken in some startling beautiful scenery, he says. After hiking 40 miles over two days, yesterday he took a day off to shower at a hostel and email his article to our local newspaper.

The thru-hikers give each other trail names. One guy, a lawyer, is nicknamed Not Guilty and another, a Brit, has the moniker Father Christmas. Derek's nickname is Caterpillar. Not because he moves like one, but because somebody said he looked like a caterpillar threshing around in his sleeping bag. Okay, so maybe he does move a little bit like a caterpillar.

My husband, Dennis and his friend, Matt, drove down to North Carolina yesterday to meet up with Derek and hike part of the trail with him. They left the house at the ungodly hour of four a.m. (to avoid traffic in New York City). So far, so good but for Derek, so many miles and months away from Mt Katahdin, Maine - the end of the journey.

Writing and Painting

The painting above of a vase and a mango is one of my most recent. It's a small portion of a much larger set up. We went through a lot of mangoes before we finally finished. That's one of the problems with painting directly from life - fresh fruit, veggies and flowers soon spoil.

When I get stuck with my writing, I find it therapeutic to paint. Painting allows me to turn off those voices in my brain for a while - the voices of my characters nagging me to please do something, anything to help them out of the predicaments I left them in. Take my character, Lottie, for instance. Ever since I left her as a mouse in a tool shed, she's been pleading with me to turn her back into a human. Her fate is in my hands, after all. I'm thinking about it. It's just that my other characters have also been nagging me to get on with their stories. A little at a time, guys. I do have a day job you know.

Sometimes, despite my best intentions, the words don't flow from me like water from a spigot. Or I get stuck and need to step away from plot lines and characters for a while so I can take a fresh look at everything later. Then I turn to painting or drawing. In addition, every Saturday I take an oil painting class out in Riverhead with Robert Armetta - a wonderful painter and teacher. He looks more like a boxer than an artist but those 3-5 hours I spend painting in the studio every week are, for the most part, an oasis of quiet and relaxation. Even if my painting doesn't always turn out the way I want, I learn something in the process. After a few hours of painting or drawing I feel better prepared to take on the world of my characters and their dilemmas.

The Road Less Traveled

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

So concludes Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken", one of my favorites.

Why do I want to be an author of children's books, of all things? When I tell people my plans, they often look at me and say, "Better stick to being a librarian" or "Yeah, maybe one day I'll write a kid's book, too" as though nothing could be easier. In reality, writing a book that will captivate a child's imagination is a daunting task. Trying to get one published seems nearly impossible. Where to begin?

Well, as I told my son when he began questioning the feasibility of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, you start at the beginning and take one small step at a time. If you stop to think about how long it will take to cover over 2,100 miles, you'll be overwhelmed and perhaps never finish. In my quest to become an author, that is, after all, what I do; I take one step at a time.

For Derek, the beginning started long before the drive down to the approach trail in Georgia. It began months ago with some background reading. He researched the history of the trail, read thru-hiker's journals, took notes on the supplies he'd need, where to camp, how to deal with bears and what obstacles he might encounter. To get in shape, he started running. He made certain he bought lightweight, water resistant clothing and equipment. And he boxed and stockpiled loads of food for us to mail to various towns along the trail.

Becoming a writer requires self-education, too. Even though I write almost daily, I also read a great deal -- children's books, books about characterization, dialogue, plotting and thematic development, books about where to submit and how to get published. I subscribe to a professional writing journal and attend writing conferences from time to time. And I belong to a wonderful critique group who has helped me immensely. Still, I'm not there yet. Neither is Derek. But, with every day he spends on the trail, he gets closer to his goal. He knows, as well as I, that a lot of people begin the journey but few actually finish. It is, after all, an arduous undertaking.

Each of my tiny successes brings me closer to my goal too. How's that? Well, without them, I'd probably never have the will to keep plugging away. Every time I get something else published, I know I must be doing something right. So, I keep at it, one step at a time. Despite the rejections, the occasional feelings of unworthiness and, at times, the long upward climb, I keep at it.

Dylan Hears a What!

This certainly belongs in the Museum of the Hard To Believe. I love Dylan, but aw, give it up Mr. Zimmerman. Check it out.

http://dylanhearsawho.com/home.htm

A Clean Well-Lighted Space

Every aspiring author needs a place to write and here is mine. My husband found the desk at an antique shop years ago, sanded off the ugly black paint and refinished it. I love it! It has roomy drawers with pull out trays on either side.

I cannot write facing a blank wall. I need a window to look out and a little piece of nature to rest my eyes on - a graceful tree and a ribbon of blue sky. In front of my window is a mountain laurel. In the spring when it's covered with sweet smelling white flowers, a family of robins usually builds a nest there.

To the right (where you can't see) is a big bookcase. Half of it is filled with reference books and my writing and art books. The other half is filled with Den's science, math and history books. His desk and computer are on the other side of the room, which you aren't allowed to see (even I try not to see it).

Before I had this space, I wrote on the couch or in bed or wherever I could find a quiet spot. I don't need to have a desk next to a window with a view. It's just, well, nice to have a little place you can call your own.

The Dreaded Violin

The painting on the left gave me more problems than almost anything I've ever worked on (this was a couple of years ago). It was a headache from day one. Right after I gessoed the piece of masonite in preparation for painting, it warped and so, to straighten it out, I had to gesso the back. Then I really didn't get the surface very smooth so I had to sand it, apply more coats of gesso and sand it one more time. About midway through the painting, the whole thing warped - again. And did I mention the drawing? I had trouble lining up the neck of the violin with the bridge and that bottom thing that I can't remember the name of. The tail piece maybe?

Painting the feather was the fun part. Painting the musical notes was the most challenging. My art instructor, Robert, told me I shouldn't paint the notes in detail but, rather, suggest them so that somebody looking at the painting for the first time might say, "Oh, yes, musical notes."

By the time I'd finished painting the entire set up, I couldn't stand to look at it anymore. So, I stashed it in the back of my closet facing the wall. For a long time. A year or so later I took it out and looked at it. Hey, it wasn't that bad. I touched up a few spots, gave it a coat of varnish and had it framed. Now it's hanging on my wall.

I guess writing and painting have more in common than I once thought. They both require self-discipline, the willingness to see a project through to the end and lots of work on the rough spots.

Ramblings

Some people are compelled to do things and go places nearly every waking moment of their lives - climb Mount McKinley, tour South America, raft the Colorado River. We have an acquaintance who felt compelled to run a marathon on each continent - even Antarctica. His scariest marathon, he said, was the one he ran in Africa. Armed guards were posted along the route to protect the runners from any wild animals that might decide to have them for lunch.

My eldest son, Derek, is getting ready to hike the Appalachian Trail. Next weekend, my husband will drive him down to Georgia where he will begin his long trek northward along the spiny back of the Appalachian Mountains to Maine - more than 2,100 miles! As a mother, I worry. Will he have enough to eat? Will he get hurt? Will he tangle with any bears? I can't let myself think about everything that might go wrong, else I will drive myself crazy. Yes, I wish I could protect my sons from every danger they encounter but, at the same time, I know those struggles make them stronger people, better equipped to deal with the bigger obstacles life hurls in their path

Every two weeks, Derek will be writing an article about his observations and adventures for Sayville's local newspaper, The Suffolk County News. He just had his first article published. It focused on the the history of the AT and his personal goals and expectations. I must say, he did a nice job! My sister, Vicky, has a degree in journalism and my dad worked as a reporter for The Manchester Guardian in England when he was young . Perhaps Derek, too, has the writing bug. At any rate, onward and upward. I'll keep an update on his long walk over the following months.