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.