by Lynn Gardner
There is a sweet feeling "going home." I haven't lived in Idaho since I got married in 1958 and we left to finish school at Utah State, but Idaho is home. I'm staying at my sister's while I'm in Idaho Falls doing book signings and the heart strings get tugged at every corner we turn.It's constantly "Oh, that's still there!" or "This hasn't changed much." or "Wow! When did that go up?"
Our old "homestead" in Lewisville has changed so drastically it is hardly recognizable. They've taken out the huge trees that ringed our property, torn down the fence (or did it fall down?) remodeled the house so it no longer has a front porch. But the barn is still there and the garage, though both are pitifully small compared to my memories of them when we used to play "Annie I Over" the garage and slide down the barn roof when we had lots of snow in the winter time. I didn't know we were poor when I was growing up, but looking at the house, buildings and the tiny farm, I guess we were. But since everyone else in town was in about the same condition, none of us realized it at the time.
We had an idyllic childhood - the run of our small Mormon community. Each mother looked out for whatever kids were in her yard or home at the time. I'm sure there was a network on our party line where a mother could pick up the phone and call a neighbor and all the other neighbors would also pick up to listen and someone would know where we were, but in the summer we could easily be gone all day playing and not check in at home. We just had to be home by dark, but then after supper we could go back outside and gather on someone's lawn and experience the magic of fireflies and a zillion stars. Or meet under the street lights and continue whatever games or fun we had been having. We frequently slept out on the lawn with friends, never thinking for a minute there could be danger in the darkness.Strangers in town were very few. Everyone knew everyone else. No one even locked their doors. In fact, we didn't have a lock on our door for years!
On Thursday nights we had a movie at the church and everyone in town walked over to the church to watch it, then we all walked home in the dark down the middle of main street, with a few peeling off here or there to go to their homes. If mom or dad or both couldn't go, not a problem. We kids went alone. Every mother was a mother to everyone else's kids. And if you did something wrong, you got it from that mother, then got it worse when you got home.
My sister and brother-in-law drove me up to Jackson, Wyoming where we used to go at least once a month in the summer - sometimes we just rode up on a Sunday afternoon between Sunday School in the morning and Sacrament meeting in the evening. Everything was so green it took my breath away. California is going to burn up this summer as t is so dry already - no blade of green in the countryside except the farm fields. Usually we don't turn brown until July - this year the hot winds dried everything out by mid April. So I drank in the lush green grasses, all the varied shades of green in the trees, the huckleberry, chokecherry and haw bushes in bloom. I loved seeing the asparagus on the ditch and canal banks. I have such sweet memories of driving in the country to pick the wild asparagus every spring.
Jackson is booming. There were still some elk in the refuge where thousands are fed in the winter time, but most have gone back up into the hills for the summer. We saw buffalo along the road side, antelope, deer, and a couple of young moose. No bears this trip.We stopped at the new visitor's center at Jenny's Lake, but it was a cloudy, rainy day and we couldn't see the tops of the mountains. I marveled again that there are no foothills leading up to the majestic Teton Peaks. They just rise straight up out of the ground like some giant hand had grabbed a handful of earth and pulled it up to his chest, then walked along pulling up another handful and another as he took giant strides for miles. I loved the stainless steel lines at the visitor's center that pointed to each of the peaks showing their names and how high they were. I'd forgotten the names of some of them. The park ranger was captivating a group around the topographical map, telling them about the Pica and other animals found there. I wished my grandkids had been with us.
We did the loop, then stopped in Jackson for lunch at a bakery/restuarant. My sister and I ordered a Monte Christo and a chicken quesadilla and split them. Delicious - but the turtle cheese cake was to die for!
We headed back home and had to stop (full though we were from lunch) to get a square ice cream cone in Swan Valley - a tradition that goes back at least 60 years and maybe more. The dry farms are green with a new wheat crop and we passed mile after mile of rolling hills where deep snow had been only a couple of months ago. I don't miss the snow, but I do miss the green. Our little corner of the Mojave Desert in California is NOT green (except our backyard where you'd never know you were in a desert.) We stopped at the cemetary in Lewisville and took the wilted flowers from ghe graves of my mom and dad, my brother who was killed when he was 12, and our little son who lived only 14 months. I have grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins - and generations belong to my family in that little green spot next to sage brush covered hills. Going back to Idaho is always sweet - and sad - but even after living in our home in California for 25 years, Idaho is still HOME.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Happy Birthday, Mom
Today is my mom’s birthday. She was born June 4, 1923, and passed away October of 2005. She was a pip. She loved adventure, road trips, and going down the water slides at the water park, with her grandchildren, when she was well into her seventies. She loved to read books and write letters. And though she’d get angry and worried when one of her kids or grandkids made goofy choices, she never gave up on any of us.
All these memories of her are bumping around in my brain and heart today, and they fill my soul with gratitude. I suppose I’m especially grateful because Mom was always supportive of my oddness. Oh yes, I was a bit odd growing up, as my two older sisters will attest. At five or six I began organizing “shows” with the neighborhood kids, which we then presented to the mom’s, dad’s, and older siblings. And if none of the kids wanted to participate, I’d put on a solo extravaganza. I liked to speak in weird made-up languages and talk in dialects. I’d sequester myself away in the back shed and write stories until Mom came out to drag me to dinner. She’d pat me on the back and tell me she couldn’t wait to hear what I’d written.
Fifty years later, it’s this memory that makes me weepy. Mom always encouraged my little stories, and would listen attentively as I read them to her. She’d clap at the story’s ending and tell me it was the best thing she’d ever heard.
It was this voice in the back of my head that made me consider, as an adult, to offer my poems and stories to the intimidating world of publishing. It’s worked out well. My first novel was typed into the computer by my mom. My second novel was still in manuscript form when I read it to her. It was two weeks prior to her passing away from cancer. She clapped at the story’s end, and told me it was the best thing she’d ever heard. I marvel at the power of a mother’s love and encouragement.
So, today I want to thank her. If they have access to computers in those heavenly realms, I’m sure she reads my novels and blogs, and cheers me on. Thanks Mom and Happy Birthday!
All these memories of her are bumping around in my brain and heart today, and they fill my soul with gratitude. I suppose I’m especially grateful because Mom was always supportive of my oddness. Oh yes, I was a bit odd growing up, as my two older sisters will attest. At five or six I began organizing “shows” with the neighborhood kids, which we then presented to the mom’s, dad’s, and older siblings. And if none of the kids wanted to participate, I’d put on a solo extravaganza. I liked to speak in weird made-up languages and talk in dialects. I’d sequester myself away in the back shed and write stories until Mom came out to drag me to dinner. She’d pat me on the back and tell me she couldn’t wait to hear what I’d written.
Fifty years later, it’s this memory that makes me weepy. Mom always encouraged my little stories, and would listen attentively as I read them to her. She’d clap at the story’s ending and tell me it was the best thing she’d ever heard.
It was this voice in the back of my head that made me consider, as an adult, to offer my poems and stories to the intimidating world of publishing. It’s worked out well. My first novel was typed into the computer by my mom. My second novel was still in manuscript form when I read it to her. It was two weeks prior to her passing away from cancer. She clapped at the story’s end, and told me it was the best thing she’d ever heard. I marvel at the power of a mother’s love and encouragement.
So, today I want to thank her. If they have access to computers in those heavenly realms, I’m sure she reads my novels and blogs, and cheers me on. Thanks Mom and Happy Birthday!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Zion's Youth
by Anna Jones Buttimore
Last week I spent a whole day at the London Temple. I had to take a friend to Gatwick airport, and since it’s just five minutes from the Temple, I thought it was too good an opportunity to waste. So I took the day off work, and, having baptisms to do, arrived in the Temple baptistry at 8 am. with a few family names, each of which has attached a long and lovely story which will have to wait for another blog opportunity.
As usual, the baptistry was booked up by a group of youth, but I was invited to “tag along” in order to get my family names done. And so I found myself sitting in the waiting area with about 30 very good looking young people – all American. There’s a lot of waiting around to be done in baptisms and confirmations, but these youth were truly amazing. They regularly reminded each other to be quiet and reverent, and they sang. They each picked a favourite hymn and sang incredibly beautifully, with all the parts and harmonies. I commented to the young woman sitting next to me that if they had told me they were the youth section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir I would have believed them. It turned out they were Theatre Studies Student from BYU staying in London for six weeks.
Occasionally as we sang one would comment that her grandfather had written the words to a particular hymn, or his great-great uncle had composed the melody. I came to realise that these truly were “Zion’s Youth”, and to understand why the Prophets and Apostles so often express admiration for the youth of the Church today. They were a great example to me and I wish I could have spent longer with them, or been somewhere I could have talked to them more freely. It was an honour to spend time with them, and I am especially grateful for the friendliness they showed me, in singing both my favourite hymn, “I Stand All Amazed”, and “God Save the Queen”.
Later that afternoon the youth of my own Ward went to the Temple – including my eldest daughter. I had returned home by then, but asked Gwen afterwards how the trip had gone. “Fine.” She said, “But there were only seven of us, and none of the Young Men went.” I asked what they did in the waiting area while others of the group were being baptised. “Me and Paige chatted about Britain’s Got Talent” she told me.
Those of Zion’s youth who don’t actually live in Zion have a lot to learn from those who do. Not least the harmonies to the hymns.
Last week I spent a whole day at the London Temple. I had to take a friend to Gatwick airport, and since it’s just five minutes from the Temple, I thought it was too good an opportunity to waste. So I took the day off work, and, having baptisms to do, arrived in the Temple baptistry at 8 am. with a few family names, each of which has attached a long and lovely story which will have to wait for another blog opportunity.
As usual, the baptistry was booked up by a group of youth, but I was invited to “tag along” in order to get my family names done. And so I found myself sitting in the waiting area with about 30 very good looking young people – all American. There’s a lot of waiting around to be done in baptisms and confirmations, but these youth were truly amazing. They regularly reminded each other to be quiet and reverent, and they sang. They each picked a favourite hymn and sang incredibly beautifully, with all the parts and harmonies. I commented to the young woman sitting next to me that if they had told me they were the youth section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir I would have believed them. It turned out they were Theatre Studies Student from BYU staying in London for six weeks.
Occasionally as we sang one would comment that her grandfather had written the words to a particular hymn, or his great-great uncle had composed the melody. I came to realise that these truly were “Zion’s Youth”, and to understand why the Prophets and Apostles so often express admiration for the youth of the Church today. They were a great example to me and I wish I could have spent longer with them, or been somewhere I could have talked to them more freely. It was an honour to spend time with them, and I am especially grateful for the friendliness they showed me, in singing both my favourite hymn, “I Stand All Amazed”, and “God Save the Queen”.
Later that afternoon the youth of my own Ward went to the Temple – including my eldest daughter. I had returned home by then, but asked Gwen afterwards how the trip had gone. “Fine.” She said, “But there were only seven of us, and none of the Young Men went.” I asked what they did in the waiting area while others of the group were being baptised. “Me and Paige chatted about Britain’s Got Talent” she told me.
Those of Zion’s youth who don’t actually live in Zion have a lot to learn from those who do. Not least the harmonies to the hymns.
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Parable of the Briar Patch
I suspect there are times in all of our lives when we feel the need to shift gears. This may happen when we realize that we’ve stumbled into a rut of epic proportions and it’s time to dig out and try a different path. Since I’ve always enjoyed imagery, I’ll share a bit of this now to illustrate my point.
Picture, if you will, a lengthy, meandering path, fraught with peril. Scenic beauty propels you forward, until you trip and land in a briar patch. The briars pierce your clothing and skin in an uncomfortable fashion, inspiring you to hold still. The more you move around, attempting to free yourself, the more intense the pain. The temptation is to never move, but to stay in place, avoiding untold misery. But if you remain in this position, you are stymied. There is no moving forward, no growth, merely stagnation. Only you can decide if removing yourself from this briar patch is worth the effort. Only you can choose to continue on.
There are a variety of briar patches that pop up in life’s pathway. Grief, disappointment, physical, emotional, and spiritual challenges test our very mettle. I’m finding in my own life, it is crucial to remove each briar, no matter how pain-filled, and to continue on, embracing the tests and joy that lie ahead. The adage: “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” is indeed wise advice. I believe that we’ll be very disappointed with our earth-life experience if we avoid those paths less taken.
Someday we’ll all have to account for the lives we’ve led while in mortal mode. Will we be as the unprofitable servant who hid his talent to keep it safe? Or as the wise steward, who multiplied his talents as best he could? The loving Master, who bestowed these wonderful gifts, hoped they would be utilized to better the world and to help those around us. Each one of us must choose what it is we will do with this legacy.
As writers, we have a unique opportunity to share our gift of words. How we choose to do so is up to each individual writer. I fear there are times when we allow criticism to hinder us. Instead of using these moments as a chance to learn and hone our skills, we permit those barbed briars to pierce our skin and wound our hearts. Again, only we can decide to pull ourselves out of that patch and move on, refusing to be stifled. If words burn within, share them as you wish, embracing the chance to create, instill, and rejoice.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
How Do You Know if You're a Writer? by Michele Ashman Bell
Writers are strange and bizarre people. I've been doing some research to figure out the qualities writer's possess and decided to share my checklist with you. Feel free to add or even debate any of the qualities listed. That's what writers do . . . question and re-write.
1. Imagination. Truth is stranger than fiction, but an author knows how to take a nugget of truth or inspiration, and spend months turning it into a story. Ideas are the seeds, but imagination is what makes them grow.
2. Observation. People ask me where I get my ideas from. I tell them . . . everywhere! A writer is continually watching people and gleaning ideas from things they see, hear and read. I also tell people to be careful what they tell me, it might end up in one of my books!
3. Discipline. Don't think that writers are always so full of inspiration that they can hardly wait to write. Sometimes it's pure heck and frustration to sit and write. The key though is to do it regularly, whether you feel inspired or not. Sticking to a writing schedule is crucial for a writer.
4. Perseverance. He who gives up, loses. It's not about talent, it's not about luck, it's about hard work and never giving up. Plain and simple.
5. A love of words. Finding the right way to say what's in your heart is truly magic. Nothing brings more joy to a writer than to read something you've written and think, "I don't even remember writing that," or be surprised that it's actually pretty good! (Wish that happened more often.) Writing till you say it just the right way, to express the action or emotion is pure bliss!
6. Passion. It's important that you feel passionate about your project, whatever it may be. Your goal is to share what's in your heart because when you do, the reader feels it in his heart. This is probably the most magical part of writing.
7. Humility. Writers are always trying to learn and grow and improve their craft. We also spend a great deal of time doing rewrites and revisions. Believe me, this will keep you humble.
8. Having a finger on the pulse of what's going on in the world. The luxury of writing for the sake of writing doesn't really exist, for the most part. Writers have to be aware of market trends, hot sellers, shifts in readers interest, etc . . . Write what's in your heart, but make sure there's a market for it.
9. Thick skin. You will never, ever please everyone. Some people will love your work. Some will hate it. Don't take it personal.
10. You can't not write. Whether I ever got published or not, I would always write. It's how my brain works. It's what I do.
Feel free to share your thoughts and feelings. I can take it.
1. Imagination. Truth is stranger than fiction, but an author knows how to take a nugget of truth or inspiration, and spend months turning it into a story. Ideas are the seeds, but imagination is what makes them grow.
2. Observation. People ask me where I get my ideas from. I tell them . . . everywhere! A writer is continually watching people and gleaning ideas from things they see, hear and read. I also tell people to be careful what they tell me, it might end up in one of my books!
3. Discipline. Don't think that writers are always so full of inspiration that they can hardly wait to write. Sometimes it's pure heck and frustration to sit and write. The key though is to do it regularly, whether you feel inspired or not. Sticking to a writing schedule is crucial for a writer.
4. Perseverance. He who gives up, loses. It's not about talent, it's not about luck, it's about hard work and never giving up. Plain and simple.
5. A love of words. Finding the right way to say what's in your heart is truly magic. Nothing brings more joy to a writer than to read something you've written and think, "I don't even remember writing that," or be surprised that it's actually pretty good! (Wish that happened more often.) Writing till you say it just the right way, to express the action or emotion is pure bliss!
6. Passion. It's important that you feel passionate about your project, whatever it may be. Your goal is to share what's in your heart because when you do, the reader feels it in his heart. This is probably the most magical part of writing.
7. Humility. Writers are always trying to learn and grow and improve their craft. We also spend a great deal of time doing rewrites and revisions. Believe me, this will keep you humble.
8. Having a finger on the pulse of what's going on in the world. The luxury of writing for the sake of writing doesn't really exist, for the most part. Writers have to be aware of market trends, hot sellers, shifts in readers interest, etc . . . Write what's in your heart, but make sure there's a market for it.
9. Thick skin. You will never, ever please everyone. Some people will love your work. Some will hate it. Don't take it personal.
10. You can't not write. Whether I ever got published or not, I would always write. It's how my brain works. It's what I do.
Feel free to share your thoughts and feelings. I can take it.
TO GO OR NOT TO GO
It's graduation season, yet a few days ago I received an invitation to a class reunion. It wasn’t from the school where I received my high school diploma, but in a way I’ve always felt more a part of that class than the one where I spent my senior year. It brought back a lot of memories.
I arrived at Dietrich High School right after Thanksgiving during my Freshman year. The rest of that year and both my Sophomore and Junior years were spent at one of the littlest high schools in Idaho. They were good years filled with good memories and good friends, some I’ve stayed in touch with through the years.
All twelve grades, there was no kindergarten, attended the same school with the east side of the top floor devoted to high school. We also used a room in the basement. That’s where science and math classes were taught by a top scientist who had decided he needed a change of pace so he took take a couple years sabbatical from his government nuclear physics job and taught in our little school. We didn’t have home economics, band, shop, or any language classes, but we had all of the basics including a strong sports program. The Government, Geography, and Social Sciences teacher was also the coach---for both the boys’ and girls’ teams.
One English teacher was most memorable for arriving at school every Monday morning with an intense hangover. Our Freshman class, which was his first class of the day, made a habit of giving the poor man a peanut shower as he stumbled through the door. He dodged our barrage of peanuts and candy until he reached his desk where he collapsed with his head on his desk until the dismissal bell rang. Every Friday he gave us a test, always the same test. His contract wasn’t renewed and the following year we had an excellent English teacher who instilled in me a great love for literature and drama.
Dietrich High School offered business classes. I took typing, bookkeeping, and shorthand. One teacher taught them all. Our teacher was only a few years older than her students and tried too hard to be one of us. She insulted her female students on a regular basis and had alternating crushes on various boys in her classes. She was moody and temperamental and one day after we’d put up with her black mood for about a week, she left the classroom for some reason, and all but one of us students crawled out our second floor window to hide behind an ell-shaped corner of the roof on the one story lunchroom below. The remaining student locked the window and crawled up an airshaft. Our teacher and the principal spent the remainder of that class period scouring the building for us. They had shocked looks on their faces, but never said a word, when the bell rang and we all trooped out of the classroom as though nothing was amiss. (The student in the airshaft, of course, opened the window and let us all back in when no one was looking).
With a school as small as ours, we had to travel long distances to find schools almost as small as ours for our teams to compete against. There was a grand total of 34 students in the entire high school, eight students were in my class, so we easily all fit in one school bus and we regularly attended all away games together. One winter evening we were playing our last basketball games to determine who would get to play in the state finals. Both our boys and girls teams were one win from the finals. Our opposing team that night was about an hour or two away and at a much higher altitude. Half way there we ran into a major snowstorm and the bus moved at a snail’s pace. Coach paced the aisle and fumed. When we got within a few miles of the school, he could see we were running out of time and might have to forfeit. He ordered all of the girls to the back of the bus and the boys to the front, strung a blanket between us and told the girls, who were to play first, to dress, but leave our shoes off. Our bus slid into the parking lot with seconds to spare. Wearing basketball shorts and holding our shoes high, we waded through the snow and charged onto the basketball court just as the starting whistle blew. Coach called a time out and we got our shoes on and done up. We won that night.
In the process of gaining an education we became close in a way I suspect students at larger schools never experience. We needed each other. We couldn’t hold a school dance or field a team without each other. There was a closeness between classes as well as within a class. With a studentbody that small, we didn’t worry too much about “upper” or “lower” classmen. There was a place for each of us. The next year I graduated from a high school that boasted 1500 students and it just wasn’t the same. Though I didn’t graduate in a year ending in nine, in fact I didn’t graduate from Dietrich High School at all, still I’ve been invited because Dietrich class reunions are a little different from most class reunions. They’re scheduled by decades instead of specific years, but this one is even more different. Anyone who ever attended Dietrich High School is invited because it’s the little town’s one hundredth birthday.
I attended a reunion once for my real graduating class and swore I’d never go to another reunion, but I think I’ll make an exception for this one. I wonder if any of my old classmates will remember me.
I arrived at Dietrich High School right after Thanksgiving during my Freshman year. The rest of that year and both my Sophomore and Junior years were spent at one of the littlest high schools in Idaho. They were good years filled with good memories and good friends, some I’ve stayed in touch with through the years.
All twelve grades, there was no kindergarten, attended the same school with the east side of the top floor devoted to high school. We also used a room in the basement. That’s where science and math classes were taught by a top scientist who had decided he needed a change of pace so he took take a couple years sabbatical from his government nuclear physics job and taught in our little school. We didn’t have home economics, band, shop, or any language classes, but we had all of the basics including a strong sports program. The Government, Geography, and Social Sciences teacher was also the coach---for both the boys’ and girls’ teams.
One English teacher was most memorable for arriving at school every Monday morning with an intense hangover. Our Freshman class, which was his first class of the day, made a habit of giving the poor man a peanut shower as he stumbled through the door. He dodged our barrage of peanuts and candy until he reached his desk where he collapsed with his head on his desk until the dismissal bell rang. Every Friday he gave us a test, always the same test. His contract wasn’t renewed and the following year we had an excellent English teacher who instilled in me a great love for literature and drama.
Dietrich High School offered business classes. I took typing, bookkeeping, and shorthand. One teacher taught them all. Our teacher was only a few years older than her students and tried too hard to be one of us. She insulted her female students on a regular basis and had alternating crushes on various boys in her classes. She was moody and temperamental and one day after we’d put up with her black mood for about a week, she left the classroom for some reason, and all but one of us students crawled out our second floor window to hide behind an ell-shaped corner of the roof on the one story lunchroom below. The remaining student locked the window and crawled up an airshaft. Our teacher and the principal spent the remainder of that class period scouring the building for us. They had shocked looks on their faces, but never said a word, when the bell rang and we all trooped out of the classroom as though nothing was amiss. (The student in the airshaft, of course, opened the window and let us all back in when no one was looking).
With a school as small as ours, we had to travel long distances to find schools almost as small as ours for our teams to compete against. There was a grand total of 34 students in the entire high school, eight students were in my class, so we easily all fit in one school bus and we regularly attended all away games together. One winter evening we were playing our last basketball games to determine who would get to play in the state finals. Both our boys and girls teams were one win from the finals. Our opposing team that night was about an hour or two away and at a much higher altitude. Half way there we ran into a major snowstorm and the bus moved at a snail’s pace. Coach paced the aisle and fumed. When we got within a few miles of the school, he could see we were running out of time and might have to forfeit. He ordered all of the girls to the back of the bus and the boys to the front, strung a blanket between us and told the girls, who were to play first, to dress, but leave our shoes off. Our bus slid into the parking lot with seconds to spare. Wearing basketball shorts and holding our shoes high, we waded through the snow and charged onto the basketball court just as the starting whistle blew. Coach called a time out and we got our shoes on and done up. We won that night.
In the process of gaining an education we became close in a way I suspect students at larger schools never experience. We needed each other. We couldn’t hold a school dance or field a team without each other. There was a closeness between classes as well as within a class. With a studentbody that small, we didn’t worry too much about “upper” or “lower” classmen. There was a place for each of us. The next year I graduated from a high school that boasted 1500 students and it just wasn’t the same. Though I didn’t graduate in a year ending in nine, in fact I didn’t graduate from Dietrich High School at all, still I’ve been invited because Dietrich class reunions are a little different from most class reunions. They’re scheduled by decades instead of specific years, but this one is even more different. Anyone who ever attended Dietrich High School is invited because it’s the little town’s one hundredth birthday.
I attended a reunion once for my real graduating class and swore I’d never go to another reunion, but I think I’ll make an exception for this one. I wonder if any of my old classmates will remember me.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
You running out of ideas?
Lily Furedi's SubwayI had a quick visit with a cousin I don't see very often, and we were catching up on life and such. He asked me how the writing was going, and I said it's kind of slow right now. He misunderstood, and asked if I was having a hard time coming up with ideas.
Well, the idea well is never really dry. In fact, knock on wood, I have enough ideas to last me for, like, seven lifetimes. I'll never get them all written. Ideas are never my problem. Slow sales- that can be a problem.
My only consolation is that sales have been relatively slow across the board. I'm thanking my lucky stars that it's not just me. The only book industry still booming, from what I understand, is the national romance novel sector. I can understand, because I am a die-hard romance fan myself, and I'm always a sucker for the guaranteed happy ending.
Life is cyclical, or so I've been told, and I have high hopes that things will pick up again. I was thinking about these things when I opened my newly-delivered Smithsonian Magazine this afternoon. This current issue is so full of good stuff! I was especially enamored of an article on Depression-era paintings. This is the link to the article, and if you visit it, which I'm sure you will after this, click to see all the pictures they highlight. As the author, Jerry Adler, explains- there's such a sense of optimism in these beautiful paintings. Like people knew the hard times would pass and life would again be pleasant.
I worry about abusing copyright law, and hope that I haven't, but I had to include two of my favorites here. The one above is the "seedy subway crowd," which totally makes me laugh because hello, they look better put-together than most of us today in our Sunday best.
This one is called Tenement Flats, by Millard Sheets. It speaks to me because of its sense of community among women; it makes me think of my friends I love and spend time with up and down my neighborhood streets, and I appreciate the strength I draw from them.
I sometimes think it would be an awful lot of fun to live in such quarters as this, and to be such a part of each others' daily lives in close proximity. (Then we'd probably be all mad at each other for hanging our laundry in someone else's spot or the kids making too much noise, running around inside...but for a while, hey. Total fun).
At any rate, these images give me a reminder that my ancestors on both sides seem to shout from the dust: work is always the answer. Reminds me of my favorite line from Disney's "The Great Mouse Detective." "There's always a chance, Doctor. As long as one can think." I figure if I can keep thinking, I can keep producing.
And truly, there are moments in my day when I am so thankful just to be here for the journey. What a privilege. :-)
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