Books as a Sanctuary

It is past midnight and I should be in bed. 

I spent seven of the last eight hours at Family Night at my oldest's Boy Scout Camp...or on the road to get to its lovely location: Damascus, Arkansas. And with the four other boys in the back of the van, it felt like we were driving all the way to the Middle Eastern Damascus and possibly ready for some Peace Talks when we got there.

When we got home and carried the (very dirty) little boys up to their beds, I remembered that tomorrow is another Swim Meet. That starts at 7am. And it lasts six hours. And Daddy will be out of town. And I am on the volunteer roster.

Dang.

So, I let my honey crawl into bed and I headed to Walmart. (What did we do without 24hour grocery stores?) I stocked up on Pop-Tarts, Blueberry Muffins and a box of Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches and headed home. I should have gone to bed just then. But I had to check email for the list of swimming events for tomorrow and then I found a new post from a favorite blogger.... you know how it goes.

This time, when I read that post, it opened up a tender area in my heart that I don't talk about very much. 

The post, by Fizzygrrl, is about the power of words and writing. And how it saved her from 8th grade. 

(Caution: Though I love Fizzygrrl and her messages and emotions, she does use a lot of profanity. Not for the tender reader. Caveat Lector.)

Fizzygrrl's honesty touched me and I couldn't go to sleep until I wrote a little something about books and stories and how they saved me. She was saved from the cruelty of the classroom. I was saved from the chaos of my homelife.

Now, my family sometimes reads this blog, and I'm not going to air any dirty laundry. But just the facts of our situation during my middle school years might illustrate just a little.

My Dad decided to change careers when I was in 3rd grade. He was going to become an attorney. So by 4th grade, we'd moved from Iowa to Oklahoma City so he could go to Law School. 

For anyone who's never been to Oklahoma City, the place is huge. Sprawling. There are no geographical boundaries on this place, it just goes on and on, bleeding into Mustang, Moore, Midwest City.  I had already lived in several towns and states before then; the place I'd lived the longest being the well-known truckstop town of Winnemucca, Nevada. 

Yeah, I was going places.

So, we move to this huge city. My dad starts law school. Night school. Because he worked days at the courthouse as a bailiff to support our family of six. 

But its not quite enough, so my mom takes on babysitting in our home. Four little kids at first, then sometimes as many as eight. 

And the biggest house we can afford close to the university is a two bedroom rental. My bedroom was about 10' x 10' square with a set of bunks on each side. The boys' and the girls'.

It was snug, I'll tell you, but we had friends with a family of nine in a three bedroom and they had a set of bunks in the dining room, so we thought we had it good! At least we could take turns in the bedroom changing with the door shut.

But by the time I reached Middle School, the snug little house was beginning to feel cramped. We'd all grown in size and personality.


(This is the actual house. Someone spruced it up, but I bet it's still tiny inside. )

And we'd also grown in appetites. In addition to babysitting Monday through Friday, my mom picked up a paper route in our neighborhood.
She got up at 4:30 every morning, got her papers, came home and woke up a few kids to help.
Sundays everybody helped, because the papers were so monstrous. So we folded papers in our living room for a half hour, then loaded up our over-the-shoulder-paper-bags and the backseat of our Maverick. 

My mom would park it every few blocks and we'd do our side of the street and come back for more papers. It was great in the summer. The worst kind of awful in the winter.

Some days, we'd groan and refuse to get up and my mom would do it on her own.
Hundreds of papers.
Alone.

She is amazing.

Then it would be breakfast and the babysitting kids would be dropped of by their parents and we'd get dressed for school and start our day for real.

School. Homework. Dinner. Family Scriptures. Stories and Bed.

Start all over again.

But that part you just read and skipped over...Stories?

That was the best part of the day. 

My mom would read to us. She was a wonderful reader. She did all the voices and would speed up or pause in all the right places. She also told "head stories". We begged her to write them down someday and publish them. Most are forgotten, now. But she would come up with tales that were exciting and adventuresome and had children just the same ages as us, doing all sorts of wonderful things that we longed to do.

But if Storytime was the best part of the day, then Saturdays and trips to the Library were the best part of the week. We'd usually fill at least one brown grocery bag with the books we'd borrow. And I know my mother must have paid a fortune in fines over the years. 

But for me, the library was my sanctuary.

I can still remember what the Bell Isle Branch looked like and its been over 20 years since I've set foot in the place. It was huge and circular with floor to ceiling windows that alternated with bookshelves. It was spacious. My family's house could fit in the open area in front of the circulation desk. 

And the stories I read...Adventures. Mysteries. Sweet Teen Romances (I loved Ned Nickerson, Nancy Drew's boyfriend). These were all escapes from the rest of the reality I faced each day.

Do any of you remember the suitcase full of books, hauled around by the heroine in "Moonrise Kingdom"?

That was me in middle school.

It wasn't the coal mines of West Virginia. I didn't live in a drug-riddled slum. But it was harsh and it was emotionally demanding. And I couldn't face it.

So I escaped.

With a book.

I still do.

I'm packing a book to the Swim Meet tomorrow, right next to the Blueberry Muffins.

Long live stories. Long live the storytellers.

These are the things that get us through. 

Was there a special book that got you through a difficult time? 

Here's a post about books I read last fall while in the hospital with a sick child.

Poetry Floaties Keep Me From Drowning

After the bombings in Boston a few days ago and the explosion in West, Texas at a nearby fertilizer plant last night, I feel as if we've been hit by a terrible double-tap of tragedy.

  

Miles away, folks are facing their worst nightmares and I'm here, safe and sound in my home, my biggest immediate concern being sure the kids take raincoats with them to school.

If I let myself watch and listen and think about either event too long, I will be a puddle of tears before mid-morning.

Words help. 

For me, words can help shape reality into something I can handle, a shape I can "see" in my minds eye. Then somehow, I can process the indescribable and wrap my prayers around something more concrete than the gut feelings of fear and dismay.

When I heard of the amazing marathoners who, though entirely spent, continued onward to help others and donate blood, I couldn't help but think of these lines from Rudyard Kipling's "If".

'If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs ...

'If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

'If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - what is more - you'll be a Man, my son!'

To be able to face the terrors in life, grit your teeth and keep on going, that is strength. We cannot do it alone. We need more than a British stiff-upper-lip. We need friends around us and moments of grieving and moments to stare into nothing. We need something to occupy our hands, so it feels like we can DO something; put our hand to the plow, fist to the punching bag, face to the wind. 

We want to FIGHT against all that darkness and evil in the world.

At least I do.

When I hear of those who've misused power or abused others, or committed acts of terror, I recall the poem, "The Man With the Hoe" by  Edwin Markham. It was written after Markham saw Millet's world-famous painting of a brutalized worker.

via Getty.edu

In the poem, Markham scolds, in ringing tones, those whose actions bring pain, numbness and all other brands of brokenness to fellow human beings.

I won't share the entire poem here, much as I love it, just the lines that I feel apply to whoever might be the dark soul behind the awful acts of terror.

"...Is this the handiwork you give to God,

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?

How will you ever straighten up this shape;

Touch it again with immortality;

Give back the upward looking and the light;

Rebuild in it the music and the dream;

Make right the immemorial infamies.

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?"

What of us left behind, hurting, aching for the wounded and the lost? Not sure what to do, how to help, what to even pray for. Feeling angry and hurt and violated and wanting to turn from those dark feelings, to beat our swords into something beneficial. What can we do?

We can honor those who have fallen. 

We can turn our back on human frailties and celebrate our God-given Humanity.

Kindness. 

Just a little bit of kindness.

After the dreadful shootings in Newtown, Conn., NBC correspondent Ann Curry encouraged others to do 26 acts of kindness for those 26 victims. Now, in honor of the 26th mile of the Boston Marathon, we are again encouraged to do 26 acts of random kindness. 

If we like, we may share on Twitter under the hashtag #26Acts2.

This call to action, good, righteous action, recalls the classic poem written during World War One by  Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, "In Flander's Fields".

"We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders field.

"...To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields."

The torch is given. Pass it on. Pass it forward.

Break a sweat. Break a Twenty. Break for a pedestrian, a biker, the jerk who cut you off.

And then, just smile and wave and know that maybe they didn't see you. Maybe they were wiping a tear. Maybe their friend, their aunt or cousin is in Boston or Texas or some other Flanders field of woe. 

Give them a break, a little kindness, and go about your day with gratitude that there is good in the world. For, if enough of us act, speak and share, the light will overcome the darkness.

Every Single Time.

Real Life Inspiration: The Man From Snowy River - Banjo's Poem

All of us have iconic images from our childhood or teen years that just take us back like a time machine to a certain era or place or feeling. Something, whether book, movie, scent, activity that goes right for the gut of our emotion.

Today, I'm starting a series exploring some of those things in my life. 

When I was a child, my parents went out a couple times a month for a date. But movies were always expensive (at least on our budget) so they went about four times a year as a couple. After one of these dates,  my sister and I would bug my mom about the movie. 

"What was the movie about? Did you like it? Was it exciting?" 

My mom was sooooo cool! She'd sit on her bed and we'd sprawl across the King-size quilt, close our eyes and imagine the scenes as she told us the story. I watched some of the films later, and they weren't nearly as awesome as mom made them. I mean they were good, but not as good as what Mom had described. 

Or maybe Hollywood just couldn't compete with my imagination? 

Eventually, my family got a VCR and we'd trot down to the video store (remember those dinosaurs???) on Friday night and pick out a movie. 

One of the few films that completely lived up to (and surpassed) my mental version of my mother's storytelling was the Australian movie, "The Man from Snowy River". 

via Petticoatsandpistols.com

Did you all see that movie?

Did you fall in love with Jim Craig? 

My sister and I sure did. 

I imagined myself as Harrison's daughter Jessica soooo many times.

I wanted to be fiery and smart and beautiful just like her!

The budding romance.

Forbidden love.

Forbidden love as the hero and heroine ride horses.

Match made in heaven.

That's what I remembered as a preteen.

Then I watched it as an adult.

The music!

The plot.

The horses.

The Aussie accents.

The wry humor.

The long-lasting feud between Harrison and his twin. 

(Kirt Douglas is awesome!)

But one thing was still as powerful as when my mother told it, as when I first watched it on our grainy 18" TV:

Jim Craig's breathtaking leap over the ridge and down the near-vertical mountain slope.

via endtimepilgrim.org

I thought nothing could top that.

Then I found the original poem.

This is the essence of the movie, the story:

The stripling from Snowy River proving himself, pitting himself against the other men and against nature itself as he chases down the Brumbies. 

(The love story, as much as I swoon over it, is secondary.)

 I envy Banjo Paterson his words. 

He uses jargon and common words to deftly  illustrate characters, describe a horse outside and in, paint a vista and offer you the opportunity to ride with the stockmen on the ultimate chase. 

Go ahead. Watch, listen, and envy. I know I did.

http://youtu.be/fs_-DKUimeo

via go.sky.com

Special thanks to my sister (fellow Man-from-Snowy-River-groupie) who found this on You-Tube and shared.

Leftovers, Lunches & Learning Lessons in the Kitchen

medievalhistories.com

I felt so lucky today. I had some leftovers. Not just any leftovers.

Homemade Beef Stew. 

With emphasis on the Homemade part. 

It was sooo tasty! Big chunks of creamy potato. Sweet carrots. Lots of onion and garlic to make it flavorful. And a can each of corn and green beans. Okay, green beans aren't my fave in beef stew, but it gets the kids to eat them more than they do, and I am trying to be a good mom and give the little shavers a well rounded diet. The stew even had barley. I never remember to buy the stuff, but I had found a bag of it amongst my beans and oats in the back of the cupboards the other day. So extra hearty and flavorful, especially when I compared it to the bowl of orangey mac n' cheese in my preschooler's bowl. 

(He didn't want to share and neither did I, so we were both happy.)

As I was enjoying my bowl of soup, I was grateful I didn't have to make it from scratch today. Way too busy. But when I had made it two days ago, the process had started at lunchtime, so the beef would be tender and flavorful by dinnertime. Earlier in the week, I'd made Chicken Noodle Soup. From scratch as well. Again, I started it hours ahead of time.

Now, I'm not  all 'Whole Foods'. Nor do I eat homemade, organic, wheatgerm pasta with sauce made from tomatoes grown in my garden, from seeds I planted nine months ago.

Er...no.

I just happened to have a mom who stayed home and taught me a lot of her homemaking skills. And I lived close to her when I was newly married so I could go over and really pay attention, now that I needed to know that stuff.

I don't make ALL my meals from scratch,either. Heaven help me, I've got 5 boys! I do not have enough time for that! But some afternoons/evenings, it works out to do that. 

Especially since cooking from scratch is so much cheaper than the more fully prepared varieties. And since my dear husband is a school teacher, you can guess why "cheap" is an often used word in our household.

But cooking from scratch has a great side benefit if one is a writer of fiction of any variety earlier than the last forty years. Because every character, though only between the pages of a book, they gotta eat. And if they live before McDonald's existed and don't have enough money for servants or eating out every night, they gotta be able to find their way around the kitchen, even if it's just to make scrambled eggs or make toast (and I'm not taking about in a toaster either!!!).

So far, my stories are set in pre-kitchen appliance times. And food then was never fast or convenient. A medieval guy's version of fast food was a hunk of cheese and a heel of bread. Easy to carry in one's pouch, purse. Easy to grab and go. (Though of course the bread had to be made before hand.)

Or, if the season was right, some berries or nuts off the bushes. Highly convenient when that happens. 

Really not convenient if it's late autumn to early spring. Nothing's available. 

And no corner grocery store.

Or $5 Little Ceasar.

Oh my goodness, we are so blessed! 

As I've been writing these stories and sticking in a few details here or there about feasts, everyday meals, and snacks, I've  pondered how much our eating habits have changed over a hundred years. There is so much preparation that we skip now days. 

Washing and chopping vegetables. 

Browning and slow cooking tough cuts of meat. 

Heck, we don't even have to butcher the animals! 

 For that matter, I don't have to keep my husband and boys chopping wood all year, so I can have a fire in my fireplace/stove to cook my dinner. I don't have to bend over that hot fire.
I don't have to be careful of keeping my skirts from the embers. I don't have to worry about catching fire while cooking my stew. 

(I've read that a hundred and fifty years ago, more women died from cooking related injuries than any other cause of death, except childbirth.)

When writing a historical novel, or historically based fantasy novel (which is me!), one must not only think of the differences in clothes, transportation and housing. But food (and how one gets it or prepares it), is a very important part of a character's life. And if that character is not modern or isn't a child anymore, then a good deal of consideration should go into what efforts they must make to obtain their 'daily bread'.

At my last SCBWI conference, I was in an intensive with Carolyn Yoder, editor for Calkins Creek Books,and a senior editor at Highlights magazine, who spoke about common mistakes she stumbles across in manuscripts. One thing she mentioned three different times in those three hours, was:
"Make sure your characters eat!"
(And make sure it is historically correct.)

Now, if you are looking for help in the kitchen or in your text-only kitchen, I recommend the following resources: 

Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book or Baking Book
(Lots of side notes, pictures and explanations)

Good Housekeeping Cook Book
(My mother-in-law gave me her old one and I learned much from that tattered copy)

Jamiecooksitup.net
(Lots of great photos from start to finish. Not historical per say, but very good step by step directions for yummy food.)
There are lots of food blogs out there, I just find Jamie's a very easy to follow, simple ingredients, but still good kind of blog.

Or, really the best resource....
Go to your church or synagogue or other organization that has regular 'pot-luck' type gatherings and ask around for the lady who brings the best dishes.
Casserole, soup, rolls, pies, homemade candy, etc.
Find this lady (it possibly could be a fellow), and ask to become her student. Offer to go in halfsies on the ingredients and make/eat dinner together.
 Or invite over some friends. Or a family in need.
 Or a group of starving artists that you've been dying to have an evening with.
Or maybe take candy lessons from one person, bread making lessons from another, and learn to make homemade noodles from yet another.
This will cost little and give so much back to you by way of personal enrichment and expanding of your world, both personally and in culinary matters.
If this person happens to be older and lives alone, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Start asking questions. Find out where she (or he) learned her skills. At her mothers side? In a cafe? During WWII using ration coupons? Lots of amazing conversations will soon follow. And plenty of inspiration, I am sure.

So, expand your horizon in culinary matters, and see how much your life can be enriched.

I shall let you ruminate, masticate and digest these thoughts with only two more words from culinary connoisseur, Julia Child:

recipeboy.com

Bon Appetit!