Writing

/ marydpierce / 6 Comments

Because Washington Irving was one of my favorite authors when I was a kid (the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow fame scared the bejeezus out of me, which was thrilling, and the notion of sleeping 20 years like Rip Van Winkle was kind of awesome), I wanted to share this fun post via the folks at Interesting Literature. And it is World Book Day in the UK today.

Enjoy!

InterestingLiterature's avatarInteresting Literature

By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University)

Washington Irving. Who was that man? Find out just a handful of reasons why we should all have his name on our lips.

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The boy who wanted to be a stunt man.

/ marydpierce / 29 Comments

We noticed when he began throwing himself down the stairs.

“What are you doing, trying to kill yourself?”

“No,” he said.  “I’m practicing to be a stunt man.”

Sometimes he’d start at the top of the stairs.  Seized by a heart attack at the age of seven, he’d clutch his chest, crumble to his knees, and then roll – bump, bump, bump – down each step.  Other times he’d start at the bottom and dash up – chased by a knife-wielding or gun-toting villain – only to be stabbed or shot in the back half-way up, whereupon he would crumble to his knees, and then roll – bump, bump, bump – down each step.  Backwards.

When he perfected falling down stairs, he moved on to leaping over trees.  Short trees to be sure, sapling evergreens, but a fair leap for a kid.  Eventually he graduated to flinging himself sling-shot fashion out of bigger trees.

The year my parents took part in a local theater production of Dracula, he pretended to be the lunatic Renfield, and collected flies in a jar.  He went around saying heh heh heh and wringing his hands for a year.

He had a paper route and accidentally set himself on fire.  He graduated high school and started lifting weights.  He grew muscles.  He went to college and studied chemistry.  He thought about becoming a pharmacist.  He got married and had two sons, instead.  When I got married he was best man at my wedding.  He showed up shortly before zero hour in a car with a door that wouldn’t open.

For a while he chased demons.

What happens from there to here?  From boy to man?  From lost to found?  Life.  Life happens.  And we manage somehow to muddle our way through it.

For the love of a good woman (my take on it), he has now found his way to where he needs to be.  He is not a stunt man.  He’s a research scientist/engineer and he would like to go to the moon.  Or at least into outer space.  I think that he is happy now.  Which is the best stunt ever.

He wins.

Boy bundled up & reading on a cold winter afternoon. Stunt boy bundled up & reading on a cold winter afternoon.

N.B.  I started this as last week’s DPChallenge on Character.  I like stories, and what are stories, but a study of character?

We interrupt this broadcast. . . .

/ marydpierce / 29 Comments

I live on the southern coast of Rhode Island, so when we heard that a major snow storm was headed our way, we prepared ourselves.  We went to the store two days before Nemo’s arrival, we filled the cars up with gas.  We bought plenty of bread and milk.  And wine – because this woman does not live on bread and milk alone.

Friday morning my husband went into work early so that he could leave early, before little Nemo grew into a bigger, meaner fish.  I made meatloaf with baked potatoes and vegetables, because, if you’re going to be stuck inside for a few days, you want your belly full of comfort food.  And chocolate.  And wine.

Nemo as seen through the window Friday evening. Looks lovely, almost magical, but you can't hear the way the wind was howling, nor the tree branches scratching at the windows.

Nemo as seen through the window Friday evening. Looks lovely, almost magical, though you can’t hear the wind roaring, nor the tree branches scratching at the windows.

The wind began to howl.  There is something about the ferocity of that sound that fills me with anxiety.  The lights flickered.  We were prepared to lose power, though we hoped we wouldn’t.  (Our electrical line taps into the main line on a grid, so that in the past, when we lose power, we’re generally the first ones to get it back.)

But the power stayed on.  Which meant I could watch CSI NY.  The second of a two-parter, AND a crossover from the CSI set in Vegas a few nights earlier, I was really looking forward to watching Mac Taylor and D. B. Russell race together to save Mac’s girlfriend.  A glass of wine, my love beside me, and a favorite TV show.  Blow, Nemo, blow.

Alas.  To paraphrase my birthday pal, Robert Burns:  the best-laid plans of mice and ardent CSI fans are often thwarted.

Do you know what happens when mega storms hit?  Every local TV news station usurps air time with constant blather coverage of the storm (except for insertion of all the usual commercials, naturally).  They tell you obvious important stuff like, it’s really nasty out there, don’t go outside, stay off the roads.  And to prove how nasty it is, they send news teams out to drive the hazardous roads so they can film the wind and the snow.  They point to the banks left by plows.  “See if you can get a shot of that,” one reporter says to the camera person, as the snow swirls furiously, making it impossible to see much of anything.  “Look at how high the snow is there.  I don’t know if you can really tell, but it’s high.”  They tell you how many homes are without power.  That number increases rapidly.

To be fair, there are probably a lot of people who do want to know – constantly – what’s happening during times like this.  It may reassure them that everything is under control.  I am not one of them.

We had options, though:  DVDs and books, board games, candles, flash lights with extra batteries, heat, and running water.  We made it through the night.  We did lose power twice for short periods.  We were fortunate.

Aftermath - shoveling out. Not so fun.

Aftermath – shoveling out. Not so fun.

The snow-shrouded branch pointing at my kitchen window was actually touching the glass. Made me think of a blink angel getting closer and closer. . . .

The snow-shrouded branch pointing at my kitchen window in the morning was actually touching the glass. Made me think of a blink angel getting closer and closer. . . .

My husband has managed, with the help of our kind neighbor and his snow-blower, and an anonymous good Samaritan with a backhoe, to dig us out.  We still have lots of comfort food – I’m making a beef with red wine stew next.  And chocolate chip cookies.  Later, I may go see if I can find the CSI NY episode I missed online.  Even if I don’t, it’s all good.

For those of you who were also in the path of Nemo, how did you fare?  I’d love to know.

Spring buds. . . .

/ marydpierce / 26 Comments

On a gloomy afternoon, there’s a knock at my door.  I recognize the sharp two-rap code that announces a package from UPS, followed by the soft thud of a box being set on the porch.  It’s so cold outside, I don’t even want to open the door.  I briefly entertain the idea of waiting until my husband gets home from work when he will see the package sitting outside and bring it in with him.  But I’m not expecting a package, and so I decide to brave the shrill rush of arctic air long enough to sate my curiosity.

It was worth it.  This is what the package contained: a cheery basket of spring bulbs.  Sent by a couple of friends who live somewhere much warmer than Rhode Island.  Buds from buds to their bud.

I’m so blessed!

P.S.  Curiosity doesn’t always kill the cat.

P.P.S.  Thank you to my generous buds for remembering my birthday in such a delightful way!

spring buds sig

I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. . . .

/ marydpierce / 23 Comments

It’s my birthday today.  Most of my adult life I have been less than thrilled with birthdays (outside the great excuse for eating lots of chocolate cake).  On my twenty-first birthday I happened to pick up an issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, which just happened to have an article – swear to God! – about how physically, it’s all downhill after twenty one.

But life is nothing, if not an interesting journey, right?  This morning I woke up, and in my still dream-fogged brain, this thought occurred to me:  I am not so much getting older, as I am getting more practice at living well and good and happily (most of the time. . .or at least, a proportionately larger percent of the time).  I credit my friend Bob Lee as the reason for this new insight.  He posted a birthday message to me last night that said, Happy 21st again! You must be so good at having those birthdays now. It must have sunk in while I was sleeping.

So, yeah.  Happy Birthday to me!  I am the star of my day today.

The 'Moose hat" picture explained: This was at a fancy dress party (costume party here in the US) at the Fforde Ffiesta June, 2012. I was 'Moose' Havisham (a combo of Transient Moose and Miss Havisham who are both characters in Jasper Fforde books. I won first place.

The ‘Moose hat” picture explained: This was at a fancy dress party (costume party here in the US) at the Fforde Ffiesta June, 2012. I was ‘Moose’ Havisham (a combo of Transient Moose and Miss Havisham who are both characters in Jasper Fforde books. I won first place.

It is also my sister’s birthday today.  We are not twins, but we are near twins.  Irish twins, some people tell us, as we are one year apart to the day.  Sharing a birthday was not always easy for us.  Kids do not like sharing birthday gifts, which was something we occasionally had to do.  And we have very different personalities and interests.  About the only trait we have in common is stubbornness, so you can guess how well we got along.

To add to our illusion of our twin-ness, my mother dressed us alike until we revolted.

To add to the illusion of our twin-ness, my mother dressed us alike until we revolted.

But we are grown-ups now, we get along really well and enjoy each other’s company when we can spend time together.  And we never, ever have to share birthday gifts anymore.  Which is good, because she is getting lobster and tequila for her birthday, neither of which I like and one of those things I’m allergic to.  And this is what I got today for my birthday, because I am an avid Dr. Who fan.

Tardis 2 web sz

Care to guess what I plan on keeping in my Tardis?

So, here’s to me and here’s to my birthday twin.  May we live our lives guided by love.

Cheers, y’all!

Oh, little children . . . .

/ marydpierce / 19 Comments

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “Speak to us of Children.”
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. 

— Kahlil Gibran

The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary school tore through my heart and has left me numb these past several days.  Like most people I have struggled with feelings of grief and outrage and anger – for the guns and the violence, and for an imperfect mental health system that too often fails the people who need it most.

I’ve gone back and forth about writing anything; so many have already talked about, and written eloquently on the complex issues surrounding this tragedy.  I doubted that I could add much to the conversation.  My voice is small, my words feeble.  What more can there possible be to say?

But, I can’t stop thinking about those children.  Those beautiful, beautiful children.

I adore children.  I’ve always believed that they are sweet, guileless cherubs put here, not merely to propagate the species, but to remind us that, difficult as the world may be, it is still a place filled with magic and wonder, laughter and light.  I marvel at their capacity to love, at their willingness to trust.

When I was nineteen and about to leave home for good, my seven-year-old brother pushed a note under my bedroom door.  It said – I love you – just that, but it touched me more than any words have since.  That was when I first knew that the world was a better place for all the children it contained.  I still have that strip of paper, still curled from my brother wrapping it around his finger before he slid it beneath my door.  It reminds me when I forget.

We pin our bright hope for the future on our children.  Which is why we are all so gutted by this shooting in particular.  So I add my words to the throng, and hope that words do count, and that love can heal what’s broken.

Not so wordless Wednesday . . . .

/ marydpierce / 18 Comments

. . . . because I so can’t not talk when there’s even the smallest opportunity (my first grade teacher once moved my desk behind her upright piano so I couldn’t gab to anyone).  And the title of my blog has “Words” in the title, after all.

Faerie Dance #22

Faerie Dance #22

Frost-swept dreams begin in black & white

Faerie Dance #22 "percolated"

Faerie Dance #22 “percolated”

Erupt in spasms of color & dance you awake.  Ready or not.

$5 in a wallet, or a forgotten notebook. . . .either way a find

/ marydpierce / 20 Comments

As so often happens, I was looking for something and found, instead, something else. In this case a spiral-bound notebook from ten or twelve years ago. I am a notebook hound. They’re everywhere – piled up on shelves, crammed between stacks of books, on the floor beside my bed.  Technology will never completely replace my love of a notebook and the perfect pen.

This particular notebook was at the bottom of a stack of books I read years ago which have languished, untouched, on a shelf in my studio. I wish I could say I had at least dusted the pile occasionally, but that would be a lie.  Finding a notebook you haven’t seen in a decade is like finding an old wallet and discovering a five-dollar bill inside. It’s not something that’s going to change your life, but it is kind of fun. I found poetry in this notebook. In particular, this one:

There is no comfort in the country
when a farm fails.
My father wanted to move us to Florida.
My mother cried.
“The kids won’t need shoes there,” my father said.
So we packed the car
with clothes, a hamper of food, and ourselves.
Roads unraveled before us, ribbons of dirt and tar,
rolling past fields whose owners we didn’t know,
every mile pulling us farther away from the hope
we gave up too soon.
My father hummed while he drove.
My mother set her face in stone and would not be moved.

I hadn’t finished the poem, but I remembered right away why I wrote it. During the last years of her life, my grandmother lived in a nursing home. Her short-term memory was shot, but she could remember everything from her childhood. Asking her questions about those years was a great way to have a conversation with her. I’d sign her out for the day and we’d traverse the area where she grew up. On one of those outings I learned how her father had tried, and failed at farming, and then decided to move his family from upstate New York to Florida, where he thought life would be easier. It wasn’t. They ended up back where they started.

I guess the poem was my attempt to imagine what it must have felt like all those years ago for my grandmother. I’d forgotten that I wrote it. And I’d forgotten my grandmother’s story until now.

Which means, that sometimes, finding a forgotten notebook is way better than finding a wallet with money in it.

My grandmother, Pearl Crawford, age 5, with her brother Ken, age 10

Applied Danverology

/ marydpierce / 13 Comments

My husband and I got diplomas in the mail a couple of days ago. In Applied Danverology. I was so proud of mine that I scanned it and posted it on my Facebook page for all my friends to see. Lots of them liked it, and some commented. More than a few were a little confused. In the interest of clarifying, AND in my perpetual promotion of the previously blogged-about Fforde Ffiesta, I will herein attempt to explain what this diploma means. (Don’t I already sound smarter? My diploma does say With Honours, after all.)

This is what my diploma looks like.

Applied Danverology Diploma

Danvering is a verb based on Mrs. Danvers, the antagonist in the book Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier.  She’s a formidable character.  Scary, even.  In Jasper Fforde‘s Thursday Next series, she is cloned and the resulting multitude of Danvers are used as a special forces team to thwack the Mispeling Vyrus .

This is the the letter that accompanied our diplomas.  We are really happy that we didn’t have to take out school loans for this course of study.  Phew.

This is a photo of the Danvers Brigade mustering for inspection.

Please note that the The Legion of Danvers is an equal opportunity movement.  All that’s required for membership is a black dress, a grey granny wig, dark glasses, and a fearsome demeanor.  Oh, and you must learn the following marching song:

We are Danvers, we are clones . . . we will never be alone . . .

That’s all there is to it.  Follow those simple steps, spend a lovely weekend in Swindon at the Fforde Ffiesta, and you, too, might one day obtain a Higher Diploma in Applied Danverology.

You will be the better for it.  Trust me.