The quick brown Fox

The Quick Brown Fox

A fox visits us this year. As Bob watches TV late in the evening, he's spotted the scurrying fox several times. trotting along the frosty grasslands or edge of the pond. It's always an unexpected event, too quick for a precise click of Bob's camera. I haven't seen the wild urban creature yet, since I'm in bed during his prowling hours. Still, imagining his billowing tail flying by in the dark add a magical flurry to the winter night. Commonly characterized as sly,wily, and mysterious, the fox is viewed differently in Japan mythology, where symbols of longevity and protection against evil are found.Some Northern Native American tribes thought of the fox as a wise, noble messenger and in certain Celtic realms, the fox is considered a guide and honored for its wisdom. As our dancing, prancing fox moves in and out of focus and time, I think of the surprising people, pets, events and moments that visit our lives. ... intriguing ... illusive. They come and go, with reminders to be grateful for unexpected things that happen along the way, fleeting or lingering.

This season, my message comes from the fox, a wish for wisdom, longevity, and beauitiful surprises. Do keep a look out. You never know who you'll meet or what you'll seee. I intend to.

The trip to ALA

Bob and I set off, driving to my signing of my mystery The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies at the American Library Assoc. Conference, in San Francisco. First stop on this western book tour was Laramie, WY where I waited for the door to open and sought out the librarian. Her eyes lit up when I told her the erotica was Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Every librarian I visited on the trip was welcoming and interested in my mystery/women's fiction. All in all, a trip that was an author's dream.

Father Leland Lubbers, S.J.

Tomorrow Bob and I will travel out into the countryside to McClelland, IA, to the home of SCOLA, a non-profit educational organization that receives and re-transmits TV programming from more than 140 countries in more than 170 native languages. It was started by the amazing Father Leland Lubbers, S..J. at Creighton University. Bob and I were lucky to be students there at that time and we got to know him. The first thing I heard about him was that he studied in Paris at the Sorbonne. That impressed me. Still does. He was the first avant-garde person I ever met - a priest and artist who did kinetic sculptures from junkyard pieces. Big sculptures with hidden meanings. It was the enthralling opening to unlimited possibilities for my mind. And that's what college should be.
Much later our production company did a video to explain and show what SCOLA did. I remember especially watching Russian newscasts come in. That technology showed me how small and close the world could be.
Father L. died in 2008. Tomorrow is a special memorial and the dedication of one of his sculptures - Smashed Axle - on the SCOLA grounds. I can hardly wait to see it.
First thing, I must remember to take a picture of it.
2nd thing, I must remember how to post it on my blog.
Wish me luck.

Looking out my writing window.
In my bio, to seem like an interesting writer to readers, I say that Bob and I live next to a secret pond in Omaha, NE, visited by mink, fox, grebes, a Great Blue Heron and other lurking wildlife. I thought perhaps it was time to show blog, face book visitors and readers that my magical window was real and not a figment of an imaginative mind. Called secret because not too many know about this unusual city neighborhood, we found it only because our daughter is a real estate agent. There's a handful of townhouses and three single dwellings built around four interconnected ponds. If I look over my left shoulder, I see the view above. In the future, I'll post other shots of wildlife as they stroll by. Previously I wrote two photographically illustrated nature books, so this was the perfect place to be. In Tucson, we left a house set between two washes that functioned as roadways for all kinds of desert wildlife. I was worried the move from AZ to NE would take me away from nature, but looking out inspires me to write any and everything, including a quirky mystery.    

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH and as I think of my mother, gone for many years, I remember the blank verse I wrote below and later, published in my poetry book - cover above. The book later had a different cover, but this morning, I use the one with the goose, in honor of the mother goose who lost her nest and eggs a few days ago, a nest near my writer window. I'm sure it was removed by the organization or a resident unappreciative of the wild life drawn to our ponds. Bob and I had watched her steadfast care of the nest, sitting tight during wild rainstorms and a snowfall that occurred. My heart broke the day the nest was gone, because we were going to enjoy a perfect view of her goslings and their growing up. She and the gander are still here, so we've sent our sympathy to them. Here are the words written some time ago after my mother died in a nursing home.

Sacred Datura

One day, before dawn, my blind, independent mother, died at age 94. Afterward. I walked the desert, thinking of her life, so intertwined with mine. Down the road, in a sloping ditch, I stopped by a blooming Jimson Weed, flower of mystery and power. Also called Sacred Datura, Southwestern Native Americans use it for ceremony. This day, I gathered strength from the pureness of this early morning offering of Jimson Weed.  Soon, the heat of the sun would close the flower against the intense light of the day. Back home, I wrote memorial words for my mother, as writers feel the need to do.

Fragile soul so close to sleep, so near to dreams,

Enclosed in life’s deepening shadows,

You too, become translucent in the morning light.

The sun shows hot through your thin petals.

Shines and burns through your thin skin,

Cuts through a mind uneasy

Until prayer transforms to angel song.

Like feathered wings now reaching up.

Soon it will be time to close,

A coda from the pale, white tips,

As another frail, old soul

Escapes toward the sky.

THE IMPRESSION OF A WORD

Years ago in Tucson, three women, Joanne, Ruth and I met to talk about all sorts of things, arts, literature, music, philosophy, ideas, family and friends. One day the subject was erotica and we admitted our curiosity. The next day I dashed off to Bookman's Used Books and asked the college age clerk if they carried that category. I told her I was a author, who liked keeping up on all kinds of writing. In excitement, she grabbed another young woman to escort me to their expansive selection. The two showed me their favorites and I left with two anthologies. Above is an image of the books I bought. Imagine my surprise at home, when I opened the first one and found Emily Dickinson. In the Table of Contents, I also found Jane Austen, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Emily and Charlotte Bronte, as well as George Eliot, George Sand, Virginia Woolf, Jean Rhys, Anais Nin, and Sappho. It made me realize how the meaning of words changes through time and cultural shifts. I knew one day these volumes would be a valuable resource for a book I'd write. And though it took a decade, the words of these classical women authors kept whispering in my ear until the book was finished and the print was dry.      

Spring blossoms, SCN & a Spring Review

Tulips blooming. Forsythia too. Even a clump of William Wordsworth remembrance appeared outside my writer window. Do you remember? Daffodils - I wandered lonely a a cloud. Our 3rd grade class in Wagner, S.D. memorized it and the words echo in mind whenever I see those flowers. What poems are filed away inside your head?
Anyway, it's a beautiful spring day and one for me to be grateful to the Story Circle Network, one of the most supportive women writers' organizations I've encountered. It's a not-for-profit with international members and chapters. Dedicated to women and their stories. Posted on their website www.storycircle.org/index.php are the words of Susan Wittig Albert. "Storytelling is healing," from her  book Writing From Life. They have a newsletter, publish a Journal, feature a writer competition - the Sarton Women's Literary Awards for women's memoir, contemporary and historical fiction, have a conference. And offer reviews of books by women, for women. Yesterday, my cozy mystery was featured in the review section and you're invited to take a look.
http://www.storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/eroticabookclub.shtml

THE PRICKLIES

Who'd guess I'd be nostalgic over prickly things? Last weekend the Omaha Branch of Pen Women, actually the American League of American Pen Women - NLAPW, visited the 4-room glass house conservatory at our city's Lauritzen Gardens. Our March monthly meeting, set around the coming of Spring, was expressly chosen to inspire the creative work of our members who are professional artists, authors and composers. What a trip to the Mediterranean and Tropical Zones it was. Rivers of vivid colored cyclamen wandered along the first pathways. Fountains sang water music along the paths. Magnolia trees and blooming bushes invited us to linger. But I was drawn to the cacti and succulents. I admired the Teddy Bear cactus, so soft and cuddly looking you wanted to reach out and touch it. But it's a cruel April Fool joke if you do, because its spines are tipped with multi-points that embed in the skin and are almost impossible to remove. I remember not being able to resist the impulse to see how it felt. Oh my! Never did that again. As I looked at the hardy examples of cactus, I remembered my first days in the Sonoran Desert, strolling the yard, then walking the wash, learning the names and nicknames of plants growing on our property. Night Blooming Cereus. Jumping Cholla. Hedgehog. Barrel. Staghorn. Bunny Ears. Pincushion. Beaver Tail. Darning Needle. Fish Hook. Horse Crippler. One thing for sure, the persons who came up with these cactus designations had a sense of humor and a most eloquent turn of phrase.

THE NAME TAG

   In February, I attended the PubWest Conference in Pasadena, CA. The participants wore name  badges with their company or other designation. Mine said - Author.
   I discovered this brought  about lots of conversations with people not attending the conference. As I rode up and down the elevator of the hotel, up to my room and down to the meeting spaces, someone would note the badge and say, "Oh,you're an author. What have you written?" The perfect query for me to launch into a sentence or two about my quirky, cozy mystery THE EROTICA BOOK CLUB FOR NICE LADIES. The title always brought a smile and usually a question about the plot, which I was happy to answer.
   Later I remembered a term I thought was used primarily for promoting movie plots but now applied to all kinds of projects.I found out it's credited to Ilene Rosenzweig and Michael Caruso, while he was editor of Vanity Fair. The term came from a scenario of an accidental meeting with someone important in the elevator - and trying to make a lasting impression. Now a variety of people, project managers, salespeople, evangelists and policy makers commonly rehearse and use this way to get their point across quickly - from 30 seconds to two minutes is suggested.
   Unplanned and unknowingly, I'd made several "elevator pitches." I wonder how many books I sold.

The Paper Bag

This morning I sorted a maze of things on my part of the garage shelves, a task put off all winter - or longer. I picked up a small, empty brown paper bag from Chipotle's that had paragraphs of printed words down one side. I was surprised to read a legend from Paul Coehlo. At the bottom of the bag was printed the fantastic logo, "Cultivating Thought - Author Series."
Here's a brief synopsis of a familiar tale. A man carried water every day to his village, using 2 old pitchers... tied to a piece of wood across his shoulders. One water pot had small cracks and each day, the man lost most of the water from it. One day, the pitcher apologized for the flaw and the man smiled. "Look at the path tomorrow. The edge of the path is filled with growing vegetables and flowers. Each day I water this garden path line to turn your flaw into my advantage. On the other side of the bag, was a message from Paul. "We all, at some point, grow old and acquire other qualities, and these can always be turned to good advantage." Now I can hardly wait to read another Chipotle bag.

   Years ago, my graphic designer daughter Jami, after graduating from the University of Iowa, brought home the semester-end boxes of stuff. I looked through the items she wasn't interested in keeping and found this book from an art course she'd taken. Inside I found the architectural plan of a Carolingian era monastery named St. Gall in Switzerland. It had existed since 719 and was founded by Saint Othmar on the spot where Saint Gall built his hermitage. For many centuries it was one of the chief Benedictine abbeys in Europe.The book had pages of drawings of various buildings and the grounds. I was taken with the garden and its listing of vegetables and herbs. I saved the book, knowing I would write about it one day. So, years and years later, when I started The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies, the prologue began in a monastery in the 15th century. A couple of versions later, the location changed to a chateau in Alsace, because of difficulty in researching monastic practices in that early time period.
   I still have the book. I still love the book. But that's how things sometime happen. An image set a spark, but the fire did not light for decades.