I have excuses, but you don't want to hear them, and I'm tired of making them. All I'll say is that I'll have no excuses at all for April, because I signed up again for the A to Z Challenge and so I'll be forced to post 26 times in that month (every day except Sundays). And since at this point I have pre-written zero of my 26 posts, I would say that I have a pretty busy March and April ahead of me.
I might also mention, not as an excuse or anything, that my flight from Israel landed at 4:00 a.m. today after a mind-numbing 12 hours in the air, so I'll just wrap up for now. But I'll include one photo of me, my daughter and my mom, with my 5'3" daughter looming over us the rest of us midgets like a giant:
It's good to be back home.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Friday, February 12, 2016
GOOD TIMING
Just what I needed... being around new life. This guy is my less-than-2-week-old great-nephew snoozing during our visit yesterday.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
DOG MATH
Subtract:
1 joyous plume of a tail
2 soulful black eyes
1 huge infectious grin
1 curly blond coat
1 pure heart
_________________________________________________
What are you left with?
Nothing at all
But love.
Rest in peace, Murphy, beloved friend. (4/29/05 - 2/6/16) I don't know how you knew that this morning would be the only time all week when none of us would be at work, the vet's office would be open, and Amy would be home. But you knew. As always, you made everything as easy for us as you could, right up to the very end. Thank you, sweet boy, for being a role model for all of us.
Monday, January 18, 2016
HELLO AGAIN
I'm back after almost a month of absence from this blog. I think it's been my longest stretch yet. And I don't really know why I've stayed away so long, except that I've felt I don't have much to say. I've been doing my regular doings. I've spent a very large chunk of this almost-month finishing my nine billionth round of revisions to my book, and I guess that's where I've been pouring all my creative energies. I finished those up on Saturday and sent the revised manuscript to the agent who told me on December 15th (my birthday!) that I was "almost there." Nothing to do now but wait, and get to work on something else to keep me from checking my inbox 100 times a day.
I decided to post today because it's Martin Luther King Day. I don't know more about the man than most other Americans do, and don't have anything brilliant or original to say about him. So what I've decided to do is quote a work by Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet of the oppressed. And since my friend Nila Bose (http://nilabose.blogspot.com) is both a gifted poet, and the one who first brought Neruda to my attention, I'm dedicating this selection to her.
Neruda called this poem SONG FOR THE MOTHERS OF SLAIN MILITIAMEN (in Spanish, of course). I think it pertains equally well as a memorial to MLK, as long as I change the title to
SONG FOR THOSE HONORING SLAIN PROPHETS
They have not died! They are in the midst
of the gunpowder,
standing, like burning wicks.
Their pure shadows have gathered
in the copper-colored meadowland
like a curtain of armored wind,
like a barricade the color of fury,
like the invisible heart of heaven itself.
Mothers! They are standing in the wheat,
tall as the depth of noon,
dominating the great plains!
They are a black-voiced bell stroke
That across the bodies murdered by steel
is ringing out victory.
Sisters like the fallen
dust, shattered
hearts,
have faith in your dead.
They are not only roots
beneath the bloodstained stones,
not only do their poor demolished bones
definitively till the soil,
but their mouths still bite dry powder
and attack like iron oceans, and still
their upraised fists deny death.
Because from so many bodies an invisible life
rises up. Mothers, banners, sons!
A single body as alive as life:
a face of broken eyes keeps vigil in the darkness
with a sword filled with earthly hopes!
Put aside
your mantles of mourning, join all
your tears until you make them metal:
for there we strike by day and by night,
there we kick by day and by night,
there we spit by day and by night
until the doors of hatred fall!
I do not forget your misfortunes, I know
your sons,
and if I am proud of their deaths,
I am also proud of their lives.
Their laughter
flashed in the silent workshops,
their steps in the subway
sounded at my side each day, and next
to the oranges from the Levant, to the nets from the South, next
to the ink from the printing presses, over the cement of the architecture
I have seen their hearts flame with fire and energy.
And just as in your hearts, mothers,
there is in my heart so much mourning and so much death
that it is like a forest
drenched by the blood that killed their smiles,
and into it enter the rabid mists of vigilance
with the rending loneliness of the days.
But
more than curses for the thirsty hyenas, the bestial death rattle,
that howls from Africa its filthy privileges,
more than anger, more than scorn, more than weeping,
mothers pierced by anguish and death,
look at the heart of the noble day that is born,
and know that your dead ones smile from the earth
raising their fists above the wheat.
(translation by Richard Schaaf)
Sunday, December 20, 2015
IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR!!
So, friends, last Thanksgiving I posted here about my guilt over not having instilled much of a sense of family tradition in either of my kids, and my delight that we've begun a new Thanksgiving one of our own: during dessert, everyone at the table takes turns reading aloud from that literary classic, Walter the Farting Dog. Of course, we honored our tradition this year too, as expected. But what I did not expect was for Walter to be referenced on my birthday, which was last week. Obviously, I grossly underestimated my husband. He must have known of my lingering doubts about my ability to transmit beloved traditions to the next generation. Because I am now the extremely proud owner of
MY VERY OWN WALTER!! Okay, he's only about six inches long, which is why he fits so comfortably on the windowsill above my kitchen sink, but guess what he does!! Come on, guess! Wow, you're good. Yes, he FARTS! In fact, he alternates between two different fart sounds, one slightly wetter than the other, but both deeply impressive.
You know how some people add a new ornament to their Christmas tree every year? Well. Not only will Walter himself be enfolded into our annual tradition, but there's something else almost as good. My husband has told me that the Walter book we own is, in fact, one of a SERIES!! I can hardly wait until it's Thanksgiving again. And neither can Walter.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
RANDOMLY
As for my giveaway contest: the only commenter who expressed a real love for Katherine Paterson, or at least for one of her books, was Yvonne Ventresca. So Yvonne, if you read this, shoot me an email and the book is yours!!!
On a completely different subject: sometimes I just think about weird shit, you know? Like this weekend, for instance. For no discernible reason, I've been musing about the ways in which most common Anglo-Saxon names tell us about what life was like in medieval England.
Start with building a house, for instance.
To construct the frame, you would need a Carpenter, also known as a Sawyer. You'd need a Mason for the brick foundation, and a Joyner to make the door and window frames. Then a Glazer would install the windows, a Painter would do the whitewash, and a Thatcher would add your thatched roof. Or, if you were too fancy-pants for thatch, then you'd need a Slater, right?
Once your house was built, you would have to hire a Porter or a Carter to bring over all your belongings from your old home. Then, if you had some extra cash left over, you might hire a Gardner to tend your flower and vegetable beds. You wouldn't be able to afford a Cook or a Butler, but you would probably know the people who did those jobs up at the manor house. A Farrier would shoe your horses, and a Shepherd would watch your flock. You would need transportation for various reasons, which would require the services of a Wag(o)ner and/or a Cartwright. There are lots of different kinds of Smiths and lots of different Wrights, each with their own specialty crafts.
And you would have to eat. Your town would have Hunters to go out in the woods to kill animals for their meat, Fowlers to do the same with birds, and Fishers for fish. The livelihood of the Hunters and Fowlers, of course, would depend on the products of the local Fletcher (arrowmaker) and Bowman. The meat would be delivered to the Butcher, who would cut it up and sell it to you. Meanwhile, Farmers and Grangers (synonymous) would be out in their fields harvesting grain
which would be brought to the Miller, ground into flour, and sold to the Baker to make your daily bread.
But you would need the services of many of your other neighbors too. The Collier would bring you coal to heat your house. The Tanner (also known as a Currier) would prepare leather and sell it to the Shoemaker who would make your shoes. The Weaver would make fabric and sell it to the Mercer, who would have the Dyer dye it, and would then cut it into lengths and sell it to you to either make your own clothes or have the Taylor do it. The Barber would cut your hair or pull your decayed tooth. You would go to the Chandler for your candles, the Cutler for your knives, the Cooper for your storage barrels, and the Carver for your walking sticks, and the Tinker would stop at your house periodically to fix the things that got broken.
What an interdependent community. Everyone's wellbeing depends on everyone else getting their job done, and your doing the same. And on the rare occasions when there was a festival and you could all cut loose, you would gather in the square to listen to the music of the Harper and the Piper and the voices of the Singers, and everyone would dance.
On a completely different subject: sometimes I just think about weird shit, you know? Like this weekend, for instance. For no discernible reason, I've been musing about the ways in which most common Anglo-Saxon names tell us about what life was like in medieval England.
Start with building a house, for instance.
To construct the frame, you would need a Carpenter, also known as a Sawyer. You'd need a Mason for the brick foundation, and a Joyner to make the door and window frames. Then a Glazer would install the windows, a Painter would do the whitewash, and a Thatcher would add your thatched roof. Or, if you were too fancy-pants for thatch, then you'd need a Slater, right?
Once your house was built, you would have to hire a Porter or a Carter to bring over all your belongings from your old home. Then, if you had some extra cash left over, you might hire a Gardner to tend your flower and vegetable beds. You wouldn't be able to afford a Cook or a Butler, but you would probably know the people who did those jobs up at the manor house. A Farrier would shoe your horses, and a Shepherd would watch your flock. You would need transportation for various reasons, which would require the services of a Wag(o)ner and/or a Cartwright. There are lots of different kinds of Smiths and lots of different Wrights, each with their own specialty crafts.
And you would have to eat. Your town would have Hunters to go out in the woods to kill animals for their meat, Fowlers to do the same with birds, and Fishers for fish. The livelihood of the Hunters and Fowlers, of course, would depend on the products of the local Fletcher (arrowmaker) and Bowman. The meat would be delivered to the Butcher, who would cut it up and sell it to you. Meanwhile, Farmers and Grangers (synonymous) would be out in their fields harvesting grain
which would be brought to the Miller, ground into flour, and sold to the Baker to make your daily bread.
But you would need the services of many of your other neighbors too. The Collier would bring you coal to heat your house. The Tanner (also known as a Currier) would prepare leather and sell it to the Shoemaker who would make your shoes. The Weaver would make fabric and sell it to the Mercer, who would have the Dyer dye it, and would then cut it into lengths and sell it to you to either make your own clothes or have the Taylor do it. The Barber would cut your hair or pull your decayed tooth. You would go to the Chandler for your candles, the Cutler for your knives, the Cooper for your storage barrels, and the Carver for your walking sticks, and the Tinker would stop at your house periodically to fix the things that got broken.
What an interdependent community. Everyone's wellbeing depends on everyone else getting their job done, and your doing the same. And on the rare occasions when there was a festival and you could all cut loose, you would gather in the square to listen to the music of the Harper and the Piper and the voices of the Singers, and everyone would dance.
Okay, so what kind of weird stuff do you think about in your spare time?
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
SERIOUSLY???
It's one thing to have only three people enter your book giveaway contest, but it's an entirely different and much suckier thing to have the person you declared the winner NOT EVEN SHOW UP TO CLAIM THE PRIZE. I have two words for you people: Katherine. Paterson. How could anyone not want to read her memoir, let alone acquire it for free? The woman is a god.
This is ridiculous. I'm reopening the contest for as long as I feel like reopening it. Your job is to post a comment. Don't make me come after you. I repeat: Katherine. Paterson. The one. The only. Leave a comment or I will tear this book by my most beloved author into teensy little pieces and then throw the pieces onto a bonfire. It will feel to me as if I were burning KP herself, but don't think I won't do it if you force me into it. I DON'T PLAY.
This is ridiculous. I'm reopening the contest for as long as I feel like reopening it. Your job is to post a comment. Don't make me come after you. I repeat: Katherine. Paterson. The one. The only. Leave a comment or I will tear this book by my most beloved author into teensy little pieces and then throw the pieces onto a bonfire. It will feel to me as if I were burning KP herself, but don't think I won't do it if you force me into it. I DON'T PLAY.
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