from Idaho

This evening the sun came out just enough to light one of my favorite ranches . . . I love the bright red roofs.  I snapped this picture as we drove by.  From a distance the scene was blue and snowy, with a sliver of bright warm sunlight falling across the buildings.

But tonight it's snowing and cold, about twelve degrees.  All our neighbors have bright red lights glowing from their chicken coops (to keep the feisty little beasts warm).  I'm super-grateful to have taken Chicken Class, otherwise I might have fallen slave to caring for the monsters as well.

Instead I'm cuddled up to the fire, tuning out the endless chatter of my twelve-year-old as I concentrate on writing a short post.  Something about the British Aristocracy . . . :-) 

Grand Canyon raven

Hi all,
Had to take a wee break.  I love the holidays, don't get me wrong.  It's that they almost do me in every year.  But now, ahhhh.  I'm back to the same old grind -- though this coming year will be anything but ordinary.  Read on for what's in store.

Soon BEING will be published.  !!!  It's such a fabulous ghost story, and one I can's wait to share.  I could dance on the table I'm so excited . . . . And if you're looking for a little self-help to start the year out right, my first of three short-and-sweet helpers is on it's way.  I figured out a cool spirit-lifting exercise (Lord knows it's saved me more than once) so I can't just keep it all to myself!  Then there's Stealth Panda -- that wacky dust-bunny avenger has some incredible news on his horizon.  I battle his crafty ways daily to keep it under hat until he's truly ready to let it all fly.

So stay tuned gentle readers!  Adventure awaits!
-M

Service-able Stealth

I'm bleary-eyed tonight after spending four hours sewing sock monkeys for my daughter's CTE class.

First there was the issue of fixing 'Mr. Freak', the wretched beast she worked on in class with her 12-year-old male 'partner' who, btw, will not grow up to be the next Christian Dior.

Fortunately for me, the moment I mentioned a French name, Stealth demanded he be included.

After doing what we could to make Mr. Freak presentable, we went own to sew a freak of our own.

Mind you, my daughter hates sewing.  And I'll admit it's not my favorite thing either ... even though my grandmother taught sewing for thirty years in the public schools.  (I was forced to attend her summer classes, where I could never let-on that she was my grandmother as she didn't want to be accused of favoritism.)

It was Stealth's idea to give everyone bow ties, which in the end probably added an edge of class to an otherwise obvious collection of misfits.

On the bright side, my daughter has not one but TWO fabulous sock monkeys (Stealth says it 'minkies') to turn in for her service project tomorrow. 

With luck, the minkies will find understanding children to love them. :-)

I have no idea how Stealth managed to hog this particular spot-light . . . .

ZUT!  The first five-hundred and six words of BEING have been boiled! If you're chomping-at-the-bit for a sneak-peak draft of my favorite story-soon-to-be, then check out Patrick's blog.

And hey!  At least the panda allowed me my reflection which, come to think of it, reminds me of the wacky mirrors I used to dance in front of as a child when my parents took me to the state fair.  Except I wasn't holding a camera then.

!! PAINTED BOOTS is touring tomorrow on MUSINGS FROM AN ADDICTED READER .  Do stop by.

BEING updated

If you've spent years wondering what it's like to have your work edited, check out Patrick Freivald's blog on either Tuesday or Wednesday of this week.  He's boiling the first 500 words of BEING.  Whoo hoo!  (And yes, letting y'all in on this is a bit of a BEING sneak-peak.) 

Patrick, a published author, has top-notched editorial skill.  Having one's work edited is an intense learning experience ... especially when done by someone who knows their stuff.  So if you love to write or want to learn more about writing well, check out Patrick's blog!

Another super-bad Stealth selfie, or as he calls them, Stealfies.  This one, however, hints at the fabulous structure of ponderosa pine, the incredible evergreens that forest Grand Canyon national park.  Ponderosa are huge, orange-barked, and for whatever reason create a barren, almost clean-swept forest floor beneath them.  We drove through miles and miles of forest to get to the Canyon -- I didn't expect that.  The south rim of the canyon is high (7000 feet, though the north rim is higher at 8000).  When looking down into it you can see a little ranch a mile below you, warm and toasty and nestled in leafy deciduous trees on the canyon floor.

This weeks' blog stop should be fabulous.  Check it out:   Writing Novels that Sell

airy foot-traffic

a LONG way down

This is Navajo Bridge, an amazingly high suspension bridge on the Navajo reservation in northern Arizona.  It spans Marble Canyon at a dizzying height of 466 feet--and since I have a serious height-thing, I was totally freaking out when I took this picture.  (I'm on the original bridge (built in 1929) which is open to foot traffic.  The new bridge, which looks just like the old one, was built in 1995).

While strolling, Stealth had such a height-fit that all he'd pose for was this pathetic back-to-the-girders thing:

In his defense I should mention that my daughter wouldn't allow a better shot.  She didn't want to risk him dropping, at about one-hundred feet per second, into the Colorado River.  But it does make me curious . . . would he have disintegrated on impact, or would he almost be in sunny Mexico by now?

Either way, I'll never know.  A jump at this point in his career would have seriously hindered his ability to achieve world domination.  (Had Xavier, the not-yet-born French Bulldog, been with us on this trip I would not have even allowed him/her/it on the bridge. . . .)

stealth's first selfie

oh my

If you've ever owned an arrogant stuffed panda, you already know that more often than not, their egos won't allow that they get far enough away from the camera to take a good selfie.  But check out the Grand Canyon in the background.  It almost makes it worth having said stuffie in the way . . . .  And since you've stuck it out this far, below is an unencumbered shot of the Canyon the day we visited it.  FABULOUS!

tradition

2013 house: resplendent with minions

I have a friend who every year, for the past ten years, has hosted a gingerbread house decorating party.  It's a cool tradition.  She makes thirty houses by hand, buys about two hundred dollars worth of candy, spends three days making all kinds of yummy food and invites friends and family over to decorate.

After dinner the kids decorate their houses.  (They eat about as much candy as they use to decorate.  Maybe more.)  When the kids are sent downstairs to watch a movie, the adults cram around the tables to decorate houses of their own.  A bit of friendly competition then ensues . . . .


Yes, for those of you wondering, Stealth Panda was quite peeved to not be invited.  But I'll save a minion or two for him to eat.  In the holiday spirit, of course.

ice claw

ice claw

It's a balmy 10 degrees outside this morning, up 30 from what it's been all week.  (About minus 23.)

Brr-ouch.

Hard to believe that one week ago, TODAY, we were wandering Tuscon Arizona in shorts.

The good thing about super-cold weather is the writing time -- my husband builds a fire, I drink tea all day and hibernate.  My husband and daughter just left to battle the elements, but I'm staying home with our well-packed wood box, cozy in my jammies.

Whoo-hoo!

I'm working on my little self-help book (which I'm so very tempted to name SELFIE, though I'm sure I'll go with something more dignified.  Maybe, 'Fix your Selfie').  I wrote this book when I was going through a particularly bleak time of life.  It was my way out--the tactics I stumbled across during said bleakness actually work.  The book is a short and sweet 24-page pep-talk that I read whenever my thoughts start heading south, turning me, in moments, happy again.  I've found what I discovered so effective and life-changing that I decided to share my little secret with the world.

My book will be out by January, but more about that in a few weeks.  My daughter just chucked Stealth Panda at me, which must mean he's feeling left out of my blogging loop.  I realize Stealth believes its his world and we all live in it but he should be grateful I ignored him this morning, not annoyed.  Had he gotten his lazy panda-butt out of bed earlier, I would have photographed him clinging to the dagger-ish icicle currently dripping from our front porch.  No doubt he would have stuck to it like a tongue to a cold pole.  That kind of negative publicity would have set-back his quest for world domination by weeks.  Maybe months.

Which is nothing like the set-back he'll experience once Xavier, the French Bulldog, joins our family.

Stealth grows, well, annoying

pesty Stealth

I'll admit, here and now, that Stealth Panda's quest for world domination has gone to his head.  He's incorrigible on road trips.  He cannot bear to be ignored.  He will not be denied.  Here I've caught him competing for attention against my daughter's DS and headset (she's listening to One Direction).

Guess who won.

I realize he's got to perfect his tactics somewhere.  He's charming, sure, but he's still raw and untried.  The world might not allow him to dominate in his current state so he's ramping it up, as it were.  He's got a lot going in his favor: he's cute, cuddly, devours dust-bunnies and costs nothing to keep.  Not to mention his seriously fine attribute of easing tears and teenaged-frustration and the occasional bout of estrogen.  But he also knows, deep in that stuffie heart of his, that his days are numbered; he's just a stand-in for Xavier, the French Bulldog, and French Bulldogs are, well, alive.

If you're visiting on Thursday, December 5, check out today's blog stop: It's Raining Books

Stealth Returns

on the road with Stealth

As you may recall, Stealth Panda would not be denied his place on our road trip to Arizona.  Worse, because he craves world domination like he craves dust bunnies (they are his snack-du-jour, after all), he insisted on riding 'shotgun'.  As it were.  Not that I will EVER let Xavier, the French bulldog for which I'm constantly saving, ride in this position.

Here I've captured Stealth in fine form, hogging the windshield as he lusts after Target (or as he pronounces it, Targheaa.)  That Stealth has a bad French accent excuses him from this pronunciation faux-pas, however, it doesn't really explain many of the buyers I've worked with from said Target during my time in the art industry (they too pronounce it Targheaa.)  Like we don't all know it's called Target.  Just look at the logo . . . .

I digress here only because Stealth spend a good hour plopped on the dash, paws fixed to the glass, while panting unintelligible words that all had something to do with shopping.  (He is totally into black Friday.  I am not.  In fact, I should be cyber-shopping right now, but I just can't bring myself to do it.)  Anyway, since he insisted on obscuring my view of the world as we sped along I-15 (this pic happens to have been taken in Orem, Utah -- or as the locals call it, 'Happy Valley') the least I can do is get even and carry on about his quest for domination and world renown, and.  Wait.

Stealth, you brilliant stuffie.  Targheaa would be the perfect place to start.  I wonder if any of my buyer friends are still in the biz?

Stow-away

Stealth, incognito.

When Stealth learned we were heading out tomorrow morning for the Grand Canyon he only had one thought: stow-away.  Fueling this crafty choice was his desire for world domination; after all, one cannot dominate if one never gets out from beneath a twelve-year-old's bed.  Never mind that the dust bunnies under there are extraordinary.

So Stealth is coming along, and just like every other trip we take, you'll experience a blogging black-out while we're away.  Two reasons for that, actually.  First, my husband will not tolerate me hovering over a computer when there are sights to see and conversation to be had and second, Stealth Panda has indicated he cannot possibly travel without an entourage to document his every move and schedule his appearances.

As we cannot possibly afford an entourage, he'll have to settle for moi.

While I'm out and about, check out this week's blog tour stops (hosting on Thanksgiving Day, no less!):  Andi's Young Adult Books and Welcome to my World of Dreams.

Thanks!  See you Sunday night . . . . unless Stealth achieves his life-long goal to dominate the world.

stealth panda

Stealth Panda in his Element

Having returned to my weekly routine of work, writing, cooking, and the occasional diversion of laundry or a good book, I've resume my search for a worthy substitute for Xavier, the French Bulldog who will one day enjoy world domination, but whom for the moment isn't born, and therefore cannot dominate anything.

Today my quest led me to my daughter's room, where I often find Stealth Panda under the bed and foraging for dust bunnies.  Stealth and I go way back, eleven years this month.  He is the notorious stuffy favorite; the friend whose faux French accent calms the turbulent waters of my daughter's childhood angst: the tears, the distress, the all-around disgruntlement.  No matter what her mood, Stealth Panda and his crafty ways can fix it.

Is she mad at me?  Stealth has a rude joke for that.

Is she distressed over a friend?  Stealth's lack of hygiene makes her smile.

Has her dad turned an unfeeling shoulder to her tender estrogen?  Again?  Stealth will pester her until she laughs.

Like quantum physics, Stealth Panda has never failed me.  So beginning tonight, I'll launch him into the uncharted waters of world domination.  Everything will go just fine, I'm sure.  Unless he meets up with that radioactive stuffy from Imagine Dragons . . . .

perhaps the world IS mad

plastic animals could achieve world domination, but choose not to

I'm not a Saturday-night blogger.  I couldn't tell you exactly why, except to say that world domination isn't appealing on the weekends.  It's not laid-back enough.  I'd rather veg.  So last night I rented an oldie-but-goodie, Mad Mad Mad World, thinking my daughter would get a kick out of people like Ethyl Merman and Spencer Tracy and that one guy, Jimmy Durante.  Not to mention Buddy Hackett and a lot of other old-time favorites.

Nope.

Turns out, slap-stick humor isn't for today's rising generation--unless it involves body-function jokes, the martial arts, and/or a lot of super-hero action (think the Hulk abusing Loke in the Avengers).  If I misspelled Loke I apologize, but it's still the weekend and apparently I'm too lazy to look it up.

To amuse herself, my daughter whipped out her DS and began battling Pokemon.  She eventually drifted into her bedroom, claiming an extreme and extenuated need to skype with a friend.  My husband stretched out on the couch and began to snore.

So I finished watching Mad Mad Mad World all on my own.  The movie is almost three hours long, BTW, and contains an intermission cue (music and all).  I stuck it out, because I already know.  Once I've finished saving for Xavier, the French Bulldog, my own world will be made insane as I potty train, rescue various shoes and furniture legs from teething drool, and walk said Xavier in minus thirty degree blizzards.  But the rewards of owning a fine and furry friend are vast.  I mean, I'm pretty sure a super-cute bulldog, when properly photographed, can dominate the world.  Unless he/she/it disgraces his/her/itself by pooping in the neighbor's yard.

Ah.  Now my daughter's laughing . . . .

world domination prospects

ay carumba

Check out this bad-boy from South America.  It's in the tomato-family and yes.  Those are thorns growing up from the veins in the leaves.  I suppose any time one finds oneself indigenous to a tropical climate, one goes on the offense.

No doubt such well-defended greenery has its predators.  Ants, maybe.  The occasional slug.  But herbivores likely leave it alone.  (I know.  You're thinking "But hey!  Ants are herbivores!" )  Just set that thought aside my friends.  Tropical ants have voracious appetites.

When I first encountered this little shop of horrors I thought that maybe, maybe it could double as my instagram pet.  You know ... photoshop a thorny leaf into outerspace or deep sea diving or something like that.  Then I asked myself the hard questions--things like: will Bob (the above plant's name) rally the masses and achieve world domination?  Is Bob (again, the above plant) capable of garnering the mandatory 'ohhs' and 'ahhs' and 'isn't he cutes' that accompany even the ugliest of pets when dressed as trick-or-treat pumpkins?  And at last, the bottom line:  Will Bob beat out my friend's dog and top 5000 followers on instagram? 

Decidedly not.

So to comfort myself, I've added three dollars to my "ADOPT XAVIER" fund.  Hang in there my French Bulldog baby!  (Even though by my current saving standards, you aren't born yet.)  Mama's comin' ....

my blogging turns the page

self explanatory, I think

Hi y'all,
There was a time, say, about seven minutes ago, that you could find me on Facebook.  And I almost didn't stop there.  I mean I have a little file of charming, 140-character tweets on my desktop, just ready to go.

Then today, something happened.  I ran into an old friend who has an instagram account for her dog.  He's got 4800 followers and his aim is high: world domination.

I applaud the dog (whose name I've withheld to protect his privacy even though he obviously craves the opposite).  Envious, even.  I mean, 4800 followers is a serious canine achievement.

I have given this thought, and I'll reveal here and now that my new goal is to one day own a dog (I have it all picked out; a French Bulldog named Xavier) who rivals other dogs for world domination, not to mention serious cuteness.  It's a cool and worthy goal, and I'm all for it.  I'll keep you posted on my progress, as French Bulldogs cost a lot and I will need to save up.

In the meantime, you can find me here, blogging about my thoughts on this, that and the universe.  And I suspect I'll always be on Goodreads 'cause it's seriously interesting to self-publish and then get actual feedback from people I don't know.  Well except the one family member I allow to post her rating because I like that she likes my work.

the books in my hall . . . .

We're remodeling our basement, which means a lot of stuff is stacked all over our living room.  But lucky you!  You get to see my artwork right along with my favorite bookcases.

My November 21 blog stop is Books in the Hall.  Stop by to check out my author interview!  All commenters are automatically entered into the drawing for a $25 Amazon gift certificate (held on February 10th, 2014) and one commenter on tomorrow's stop will win a hand-made Painted Boots bookmark. 

yum!

Today I woke to snow, and decided to make one of our favorite treats for breakfast: broiled grapefruit.  It's simple, and so yummy.  Just prepare the grapefruit as usual, top with brown sugar and broil on low for about five minutes.  The grapefruit comes out bubbly and warm.  Perfect for cold mornings!

Tomorrow I'll introduce you to Books in the Hall, this week's stop on my blog tour.  It should be good!

our neighbor's kittens

I LOVE the black one ... and it's weird how all the orange kittens have goopy eyes!  Their 'dad' is kind of a nuisance though.  We often catch him creeping around our house, and last spring he devoured a family of quail that had taken up living in a big, bushy plant behind our garage. 

interview posted!

READING IN TWILIGHT

twilight in Idaho

Idaho skies go on for miles, and twilight here lasts almost forever.  The cities are small -- wide bumps in the road compared with places like LA or New York.  Sprawling between them are miles and miles of farm and ranch land, dotted with cows, tractors, horses, giant irrigation pipes and wind farms.


PAINTED BOOTS is set in Wyoming, the home state of my father's people, but I wove flashes of Idaho's world into the story's landscape.  Aspen lets go of her past and finds what she needs to face her uncertain future while traveling through Idaho--a choice I felt to be appropriate.  Idaho's beauty and peaceful countryside speak the language of my soul.

Visit READING IN TWILIGHT on November 14 to check out my author interview and comment!  One fabulously lucky visitor will receive a free Painted Boots bookmark (handmade by moi!), and all are entered into my Amazon $25 gift-certificate give-away (awarded on Feb.7, 2014).  See you there!

the mystical power of moonlight

ravens and a yellowstone moon

I am obsessed with the moon.  I love it when it's a thin, crisp sliver cupping a ghost-gray orb.  I love it when it's transparent, as though the evening sky were punching through.  I especially love moonrise when the sky is still light, as it is in this shot.  Then there's moon set after dawn, when the atmosphere balloons our satellite the four times its usual size.

Fabulous!

This week Painted Boots tours with Reading in Twilight.  I love the title page for her blog -- maybe because I'm a sucker for anything connected with the sky.

BEING inspired

sunset

Sunset, and our home star makes way for the countless, fabulously distant home stars of other worlds. The atmosphere grows translucent and everything beyond it feels so attainable it's as if I could reach into the blue and grab hold. But I wouldn't find anything new; not really. So much of what we are is stardust, carried here by solar wind and in the icy stones of comet tails. It's easy to forget, when caught up in the routine of a mundane work day, that we are inseparably part of things much bigger and more infinite than ourselves. But whenever I need inspiration, I simply dwell on where I came from ... and where I might go from here.

Sunsets, stars and all things universe, inspired my upcoming story, Being.  It releases in February but in truth, I can't wait.  I've labored on this story for years -- at times setting it aside -- at times so lost in it I can't bear to eat dinner or go to bed.  It's such a great story!

a Yellowstone raven

Hi y'all,
I'm in over-drive this week, juggling three Halloween parties, my upcoming blog tour with Goddess Fish, my day job and readying my story Being for my beta-readers before it goes to my editor.  I must not have felt the pressure this morning because I took a long walk, got a fabulous hair cut then spent the day planting ninety-two tulips and six bushes in the front yard before raking all the leaves from the grass. 

I love to be busy in autumn ... but I'm not alone.  All of nature is prepping for winter.  A cool thing about autumn are the ravens.  I see more of them this time of year than any other.  Their fleeting shadows drift over me as I garden.  They settle on the flowerbed stones, hoping for a hand-out (popcorn to chicken bones, they aren't picky).  I know many artists and writers have branded ravens as emblems of death, doom and evil, but I like them.  They are beautiful birds -- shiny blue-black from beak to feet.  They are insanely curious, greedy as all get out and surprisingly huge.  Some stand almost two feet tall.

I'll admit, I do have to be careful not to think of Alfred Hitchcock while I'm outside this time of year ....

quoting:

the tree thing continues .....

"It's never too late -- in fiction or in life -- to revise."  Nancy Thayer

Yellowstone!

Yellowstone in the Mist

The day we visited Yellowstone the weather was sunny, but cold.  The hot pots turned into swirling vats of steam.  Here my family -- and the family traveling with us -- pose on the far side of two parallel walk ways.  (Except the mamas.  We're taking pictures.)

This image fits perfectly tonight's quote:  "How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone."  -- Coco Chanel

elk are freaky

this thing is massive, even though it doesn't look it

If you've never heard an elk call, check it out.  So Amazingly Freaky.  The elk pictured above is the first animal we encountered upon entering the park.  It didn't bugle, sadly, but thanks to the wonders of Youtube I was able to find one that happily did.  The first time I heard an elk I thought it had throat cancer or something.  The sound they make still surprises me, every time.  You would think such a large animal would have a much deeper voice ....

both sides of the same coin

You're likely most familiar with this shot of the Tetons.  It's the eastern face, the one you pass driving south out of Yellowstone toward Jackson, Wyoming.

But the second pic is the view I see most often: from the west.  All that white under the signature peak looks like clouds ... but it's snow, frosting a great, rounded mound of earth butting up against the mountains.

If you ever visit Targhee ski resort in summer, take the tram to the top.  You'll have a stunning view of the landscape as it builds toward the western side of Grand Teton.  But if you poke among the rocks you'll find endless fossils of small shells and sea plant life.  Quoi!  Ocean remnants are everywhere!

During this trip our daughter had a friend, who is fluent in French, in the car.  As we drove past the Tetons she laughed and laughed.  I asked: what?  She said:  "Grand Teton means 'big tits'.  And Gros Ventre means 'big belly'."  Yes, the areas around Yellowstone were named by lonely, hungry French trappers....

Moonset

The morning we left for Yellowstone dawned a chipper 23 degrees.  The moon was setting just as the sun rose, and it made for an incredible shot through the aspen trees growing near our front porch. 

Why is it the moon always looks so much bigger in person than through a camera's lens????

Anytime of day where the moon is visible is my favorite time of day.  I always find myself wishing we had two moons, or more.  It would be so cool to see a whole string of them draped across the sky ... though I'm sure it would wreak havoc on the tides.

Yellowstone IS OPEN! AT LAST!!

Note my new, graphically pure blog page!


We're heading up to Yellowstone tomorrow.  Autumn is incredible there, and it's promising to be a picture-perfect weekend.  So come Sunday, you'll be seeing a lot of awesome, hopefully way pre-caldera pics!

Cheerio until then!

Being

"Life
is not
measured
by the number
of breaths we
take

but
by the
moments
that take our breath
away. "

This is how I feel, exactly, about my new book, Being.  It takes my breath away.  Maybe it's crazy to say that out loud, but that's okay.  Being began twelve years ago with one, solitary image of megaliths on a moonlit night in France.  Since then it has blossomed into so much more.

It is a is a ghost story.  A love story.  A story of good intentions gone horribly wrong.   And most wonderfully, the story of why the universe wastes nothing.

potentially being

creepy sidewalk art

The other day, my daughter and her friend drew ghost-faces on our driveway with sidewalk chalk.  Then it rained and rained and rained.  This image didn't wash completely away ... in fact, the rain improved it.  I love it's creepy quality so much I might just use it as the cover for BEING.

I'd call it: A Thing for Trees

a favorite tree

I love trees.  I love the idea that they reach into the sky as far as they reach into the ground.  They define grace and balance.  Trees are metaphors for just about everything good in life.

There's a line in my soon-to-be-released book, Being, that goes like this:


The word sounds like wind in bare, near-dead trees. 

Being is a ghost story, btw.  It's fabulous, but I know.  I'm biased. :-)

This tree, which sits at the top of a knoll and has a trunk as broad as a semi-truck trailer, inspires me every time I see it.  In its presence I'm tempted to raise my arms and twirl -- like Sarah in A Little Princess does when she feels her magic come back to her.

I'd call it: Twilight

Twilight in Idaho

Tonight I've been working on my interview for my upcoming blog-tour stop with Reading in Twilight.  She has a very cool-looking blog, and I like her review style.  Look to see Painted Boots there on November 14th!

I'd call it: SNOW MINIONS

snow minions

We have one of those cool laser flashlights with an assortment of spiro-graph attachments, so tonight I'm posting a picture of the wretched snow minions my daughter and I made out of the wretched snow we received over the weekend.  As you may have noticed, I am NOT ready for winter.  Ugh!

Still, I'll admit that the minions are quite spritely in funky green light.

I'd call it: Chicken Finale

What struck me most was the feet.  I couldn't believe how big they were in comparison to the chicken . . . or how ugly.  If you don't believe birds descend from dinosaurs, just look at their feet.  Hideous.  Disgusting.  Claw-like.  Scaly.

Imagine these wretched feet three stories high, stomping through the tropics as they forage for food, striking fear into the hearts of herbivores everywhere.

Chicken feet are the stuff of nightmares.

Then there's the way the ghastly things look at you.  Their eyes are beady.  Fixed.  Hard.  And always orange.  If you're wearing something shiny, you're screwed.  The little beasts will peck at you like there's no tomorrow, trying to steal your buttons or dangling earrings or in my case, camera.

Their eyes are a proverbial blank slate--yet sinister.  These birds care only for dominance.  This one was the queen bee bird of the flock and as a result, it had tail feathers.  The other two birds present had a rudely exposed and highly unattractive chicken butt.

Miss Dominance, who is affectionately called Buttons, never shied from the chance to let us know she's boss.  I can still feel where she pecked me. . . .

Ah, the comb.  Or in this case, the lack thereof.  If there's one thing giving these birds personality it's the weird thing atop their head.  No two breeds share the same design.  In roosters, combs are status symbols--a sign of male supremacy.  (It's always something, right?)  But in these female birds the comb seemed like just one more thing to peck at.

 Will I ever own a chicken?  NO NO NO.  I'm breathing-impaired just from being shut in a room with them for two hours.  And giving up an sixty minutes every day to clean a coop is not exactly my style.

Still, it was fascinating to learn about them .. and to come face-to-face with three of them for a while.  Are they stupid?  Maybe.  But birds have been around a lot longer than humans.  No doubt their kind will be around for a long time after.

I'd call it: Super Frustrated

I found another Caldera Calling Card today -- a crack in the wall beneath our bedroom window.  Ugh!

More frustrating is the fact that BLOGGER seems to be seized by a brain cramp.  So I apologize for the never-changing side-bar info that up until yesterday, was changing without hassle. 

I'd call it: Clouds, A Sneak Peek, and Deeply Loved Babies

today's sky

I spent ten years writing my next novel, BEING.  It's due out in February--though I almost chose not to publish it at all.  Five years ago I sent it off to an editor in Brooklyn and the copy--a beautifully printed-out hard copy of the manuscript--was lost in the mail.  For months afterward I imagined the worst: someone stole it, my ideas were compromised, my beloved characters were betrayed.  I put the story aside.

But BEING was inspired by one of the most striking landscapes I've ever seen -- the monoliths of Carnac in the light of a full moon.  The image kept coming to me: in dreams, while cooking, in the garden.  It seemed the story resented that I'd put it in time-out in the back of my top dresser drawer.  So I reworked the plot, adding depth and twists and surprises.  And it was worth it.

BEING is an adventurous ghost story, the tale of just how wrong things can get when love lasts forever.  It's funny and sad and surprising and I think it's fabulous . . . but I know we all think this of our babies.

Stay tuned for previews!

I'd call it: Favorite Quotes

Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart give yourself to it.--Buddha

I'd call it: Mr. Caldera leaves his calling card

In this chapter the Author Freaks Out, Various Cracks Appear and Profanity strengthens a Mother-Daughter Relationship

This morning when I wandered into the kitchen to make tea, I happened to look up.  I was rudely greeted by a fresh crack in the ceiling, straight as a yardstick and running between two of our canister lights. 

I had just set the shower to fabulously warm when I noticed, beneath the window sill, a question-mark shape curling from the edge of the molding toward the bathroom cupboard.  Oh.  My.  Heck, as they would never say in France.  Another crack.

My thoughts went straight to Yellowstone's earthquake swarms.  I imagined their shaky little fingers shimmering under the Tetons and beyond to rattle the bones of my house.  I pictured the caldera floor rising (which it does every year, BTW), only this time rising by feet instead of mere inches on it way to going ballistic.

I felt a jolt of panic, just then.

I was fetching my computer from the bedroom and couldn't keep myself from looking up.  There, ON MY CEILING, was a fresh crack running the width of the room.  Then I saw another, splitting outward from the door molding.  My computer, the very one I'm typing on at this moment, slipped from my tender grasp to clatter all over the floor.  Bits of it fell off.  My screen went dark.  I swore a stream.

My husband restored my computer to its current glory and the cracks, well.  I found three more.  I've since dug out the joint compound and dry-wall tape and fresh paint and my acceptance.  We live on a living planet, right?  It's going to surprise us at times.  So I apologized to my daughter for using the language of drunken sailors in her young and impressionable presence and promised: I'll do my best to take nature in stride . . .

I'd call it: The myth-busting Chicken class

White eggs are so perfectly white, sitting there in their little cardboard cartons.  They have to be bleached, right?

Wrong.

Egg color has everything to do with the breed of chicken, and white happens to be the color of fast-poppin' Leghorns--they lay about one egg every 22 hours.  In a commercial 'hen house' this is all these birds do, for about two years, which is the length of time most chickens will lay eggs.  And after their layin' years are gone, my friends, the outlook is not rosy for said Leghorns.

Americanas lay blue, pink or sage green eggs, and you can tell which color you will get from the color of the bird's legs.  Morans lay dark brown eggs.  If you want a nice, mellow broody bird that lays beautiful light brown eggs, go for a Buff Orpington.  Want a show bird?  Try a black Sumantra; though the eggs will be white.  Stay away from Blue Andulusians as they are nervous train wrecks.  The Silver Phoenix can't tolerate cold weather.  And once you've selected your birds don't let on that their eggs taste good.  They will just eat them themselves.  But be sure to wash your eggs with soap before you eat them -- all chicken eggs are coated with salmonella.  As long as you don't wash them, the eggs are edible for up to two years.  I'll mention here that all commercially produced eggs are sanitized before they go to market.

Brown eggs seem more natural, right?  We've all seen them in the grocery, often sold as 'organic'.  But let us recall, gentle readers, that the breed of bird determines the color of the egg.  To be profitable, any egg farmer has to house thousands of birds--which means mass production in feeding and care.  So are brown eggs 'better' than white?  No.  Just more expensive.  And I'll admit, better looking  . . . .

I'd call it: Comic Relief

A favorite cartoon

I've been dragging this cartoon around with me since high school.  I don't know where I found it, and I can't quite make out the first name of the artist who drew it, but I LOVE it.  I'll lose it for a few years and then find it in a stack of something and laugh and laugh.  Maybe you've noticed this, but smiling--let alone laughing--always makes the TENSION melt away.

I'd call it: Remembering

Pumpkin Fest painting from last year

I'm sure every community in the country has some sort of autumn gathering.  Ours is Pumpkin Fest.  Kids dress up, paint pumpkins, eat goodies.  There's country music and a lot of home-baked bread and pie and gooey treats.  People set up craft booths and sell things.  We go every year, rain or shine.  Or at least we will, for as long as our daughter wants to go.

If you've got kids you know the time comes when they cross an imagined line in the sand and can't go back.  They don't believe in fairy tales anymore, or Santa.  The world isn't made of magic, like it was when they were three.  They would rather hang out than go to organized activities.  They prefer their friends to you. 

There will be times when I'll be lonely for my 'baby girl'.  She's getting older and I already feel that way, at times.  So across my daughter's childhood I've taken pictures, like this one, of school projects and little crafts and costumes.  Of parties and wonder and birthday cakes and Christmas morning.  It's my way of preserving the hundreds of moments I can't keep for real--not to mention the hundreds of projects and crafts.  It's the perfect way to remember.  

I'd call it: Simmer-down, Mr. Caldera

The Tetons, gateway to Yellowstone's caldera

Perhaps you've heard that September was a mile-stone month for Yellowstone.  Not in visitors or grizzly bear photo ops.  For earthquake swarms.

My home is on the western slope of the Tetons (you're looking at the eastern view, here).  The Tetons border the Yellowstone caldera.  (A SUPER volcano.)  In September the caldera hosted three 'earthquake swarms' totaling one hundred and thirty quakes in about six days.  Not all of them could be felt but still!!!  As you can imagine, our nights around the dinner table have been filled with what-if scenarios.

"What if the caldera blows?" my daughter asks.
"I'm for blowing with it," I say.
"Me too," my husband agrees.  "Who wants to fight it out for resources in a ten-thousand-year-long nuclear winter?"
"What?!" (my daughter says this, every time.)
We all agree to stop talking about things we can't control and instead discuss what happened in math class.

If you've ever visited Craters of the Moon you've seen the fabulous map they have that charts the North American plate's movement over the caldera.  Every million years or so the thing blows a huge hole in whatever chunk of real estate sits above it, and the effect is a trail of 'footprints' across the western portion of our continent--one footstep for every time the caldera has lost it.

Don't fret!  The last time the caldera went ballistic was six-hundred and forty thousand years ago.  So we've got about four hundred thousand years of smooth sailing ahead of us.  Who knows what we'll evolve into in that time?  Though when the caldera DOES blow all those dystopian stories we love to read will feel like fairy tales by comparison . . . .

My favorite graveyard, if a person can have such a thing

I've spent a lot of time in graveyards.  It started young.  My grandmother was obsessed with visiting her little brother's grave -- he died when he was an infant -- and when I was a child my family visited his grave every year.  We visited other graves too: my grandmother's husband and her two sons--her boys also died as children.

When I graduated college I thought I'd left death behind me.  At least for a while.  Then, about ten years ago, my nieces died in a car accident.  They were six and eight years old.  Their dad couldn't handle it and killed himself.  A few years after that their brother killed himself, too.  My favorite aunt died suddenly while hiking.  A friend's sixteen-year-old daughter died of heat-stroke.  Our neighbor's son hung himself.  My grandmother, who was ninety-seven, died in her sleep.

Death is a part of life.  I get that.  But so much of it all at once made me feel the inescapability of it in a way I hadn't felt before.  This was the time I started writing; little paranormal stories about meeting up with ghosts and resolving unresolvable things and finding meaning in the things we can't control.  Then I deviated--I wrote Painted Boots.  It's all about what I found death to be: a thing that strips us to our core, that changes us and that we survive.  Until our time comes, anyway.

The characters of Painted Boots display all the things I saw in grieving friends and relatives and some of the things I experienced myself over the five years of my life that contained so much death.  Sadness.  Meanness.  Martyrdom.  Taking on responsibility for things that aren't our fault or can't control.  Rebounding.  Growth.  Finding happiness again.  Learning how to go on and most importantly, letting go.