Sunday, September 29, 2013

I'd call it: Favorite Quotes

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

Friday, September 27, 2013

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 . . .

Thursday, September 26, 2013

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  . . . .

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

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.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

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.  

Monday, September 23, 2013

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 . . . .

Sunday, September 22, 2013

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.




Saturday, September 21, 2013

A favorite fortune cookie saying:  "Unnecessary possessions are unnecessary burdens."

Friday, September 20, 2013

I'd call it: The future of Farm Tractors

It's almost a tradition, at least in my part of the country, to leave a car or truck or in this case, a tractor, wherever it happens to run out of gas.  For all I know this very cool but oddly situated tractor has been sitting abandoned for fifty years.  I'd like to think that its fate is to slowly sink into the landscape, disintegrate, and leave an impression of itself in limestone that someday, twenty million years from now, some creature will study while arguing with his/her/its classmates over the thing's purpose in the ancient world.

Or maybe all our garbage will morph into some weird kind of fossil fuel.  Like the dinosaurs did . . . only our version will be a lot more plastic-y. 

But now I'm digressing into one of my up and coming stories . . . .

Thursday, September 19, 2013

I'd call it: Chicken class, day deux

Let's say you've got your backyard chicken flock--anywhere from three to six birds--and you want to introduce a newbie.  Keep in mind the phrase 'pecking order' came from chickens and yes, the little beasts will in fact peck their new friend to death rather than share their food with it.  But wait . . . .

Let's say one of your birds is a broody--meaning she basically lives to hatch eggs.  Sneak into the coop one night (chickens are basically brain-dead in the dark and they'll be none the wiser), and put the same number of fake eggs under Miss Broody as you'd like to introduce new chickens into your flock.  Miss Broody won't know the difference.

After 21 days re-enter said chicken coop, again at night, dig the fake eggs out from under Miss Broody and insert the same number of chicks (conveniently purchased earlier in the day from a farm store) and VOILA!!
In the morning Miss Broody will wake to her chicks, delighted that they have finally hatched.  She'll raise them in the flock, teach them the ropes, fight for their social standing and basically pave their way into chicken society.

This is but one small glimpse of chicken hierarchy, and I've gotta say.  Who knew that everything you needed to know about navigating the world is there for the studying in the socially hardwired rules of a chicken yard???

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

I'd call it: Through Young Eyes

We hung out with friends tonight and watched as the kids enjoyed one of the last water-worthy evenings of summer.  It was an awesome evening that gave way to the rise of an almost-harvest moon--the last full moon before the autumn equinox.

As we talked I thought back to one of my favorite memories from when my daughter was about eighteen months old.  It was November and snowing like crazy, but the flakes were unusually large and floated like feathers from the sky.  I wasn't thinking anything but to get her out of the weather as I unstrapped her from her car seat and pulled her into my arms.  But she raised her hands and her eyes and marveled.  The look of wonder on her face was so intense that I stopped, right there in a busy parking lot, to let her experience snow.

From that day I studied how my daughter looked at the world--how it was always so fresh to her, how everything was a happy discovery.  She's a teenager now, and often takes the natural world for granted.  So on nights like tonight I remind her: life will always give you plenty to look forward to if you will look at it through fresh, young eyes. 

Monday, September 16, 2013

I'd call it: Sunrise!

gorgeous!
Check out this morning's stunning sunrise!  And opposite, on the west side of our valley, there was a double rainbow.  The morning sky was so cool I wanted to climb onto the roof and lay there, staring up, for hours.  But alack.  Our roof has a peak . . . .

If you've read Painted Boots you know: I consider the sky a character.  It gives Aspen hope.  It's her friend when she's lonely.  It symbolizes her feelings of joy.  I love any kind of sky ... cloudy or clear, starry or stormy ... and I gave Aspen that love too.  The sky is a companion to all of us.  All we have to do is look up. 

Sunday, September 15, 2013

I'd call it: Graydon Brand

Today we're talking the parents of Painted Boots.  I've had a lot of positive, thoughtful comments on the parents, but especially about Graydon Brand, Aspen's dad.   So here's a bit about him.

Graydon's got baggage.  He has his own problems.  He's grieving for his dead wife.  But even in the face of all his troubles, he never forgets Aspen is his child and that he is the adult.  He doesn't seek to parent by laying down a lot of rules he knows Aspen will break.  He does his best to help her with her choices ... even when he doesn't fully understand them or agree.  Graydon recognizes Aspen's right to define her own life.  He remembers fighting for that right himself, though we never learn his issues.  But his life experiences aren't forgotten to him: he respects Aspen's right to stand by her choices.  It's only when he believes her life is in danger that he intervenes and even then, he strives to be patient.  When Aspen runs away he's angry, he's scared, but he doesn't take her choice personally.  He loves her, no matter what.  He says it best:  "Nothing could tear my heart from you, baby.  I will always, always love you."

I thought a long time about parenting before I chose to become one.  Parenting is, after all, the toughest job a person can embrace--and the one job you can't walk away from, ever.  So in a way, there was more thought behind Graydon's character than any other in Painted Boots.  As I crafted him I reflected over my own aspirations as a parent.  While writing the story, I gave him all the parenting qualities I strive so hard to have in myself.      

Friday, September 13, 2013

I'd call it: Walk a Mile

someone else's boots
Growing up, my grandmother would often scold my sometimes quick and always uninformed judgements about other people by saying: 'Don't judge someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes'. 

When I write I immerse myself in my characters, hoping to 'portray the world through their eyes'.  There are times when I agonize over the right words, the right feelings, the right phrasing.  I'm expressing how someone else reacts in a situation where I know I'd act differently, and I want to do my best.

In PAINTED BOOTS I decided that because I was viewing the world through Aspen's eyes, she would be the one to experience the difficult stuff.  I chose this perspective for her because there is a huge difference between experiencing something as it happens to you and seeing that same something happen to someone else.  Seeing her world this way helped me understand where she was strong and why she was forgiving.  What I came to love most about her was her ability to move on and live, even when things seemed too heart-wrenching and difficult to move on from.  She surprised me--more than once.  That's when I knew I'd succeeded in making her real.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

I'd call it: Hen Pecked

what chickens dream of
Painted Boots is set in rural Wyoming and all through writing it I've felt inspired to embrace my rural roots.  So tonight my daughter and I attended a class on raising chickens.  I think chickens are cool birds and I love the natural color of chicken eggs -- they range from sand to sage to blue.  Unless the chickens get into the grapes.  Then they're purple.

We have an old playhouse I want to turn into a chicken-coop and I'll admit.  I thought I had it all worked out.  But now I might have to wait until I'm basically home for the rest of my life.  Because chickens, as it turns out, are a lot of work.

For the first eight weeks of their existence they need a temperature-controlled environment that starts at about 100 degrees and decreases by about 10 degrees per week.  The nesting beneath their feet should be changed every day.  They need to be kept indoors.  They are at risk of 'poopy butt' if you don't feed them millet and even if you do.  You must wash said poopy butt, as it can become quite miserable for said baby chick.

Then, once they grow older and are past the poopy butt stage, the little rascals need supervised time out in the yard to exercise and get acquainted.  But if one of them gets hurt and starts to bleed it is at risk of being pecked to death by its friends because chickens go crazy when they see the color red.  This does not explain why chickens with natural red markings are not pecked to death, but you can forget letting the little beasts wander through your garden eating bugs because if you have strawberries or tomatoes, well, you won't have strawberries or tomatoes for long.  Chickens, BTW, are carnivores.  If said chickens see a rat or mouse or snake they kill it and eat it.

These birds seem to have kept a lot of their ancestral dinosaur-ish traits.

Then there are the production issues.  Twelve chickens can lay about 90 eggs a week, so for an average household you want maybe three or four chickens, max.  And get this: as long as you don't wash the eggs and keep them cool they'll be good to eat for up to TWO YEARS.  That would be a brave meal, non?  Chickens crave protein-- bugs, small rodents and ewww.  They are cannibals.  Chickens will eat chicken meat.

But for the moment let's say you want to remain at the top of the food chain and eat your pet after it stops laying eggs (they only lay for about 2 years).  The meat will seem a bit tough, as the grocery store chicken we're all used to was butchered at around six weeks.  Those chickens were improperly fed and marginally cared for to 'plump' them up through water gain but that's another issue all together.

So we might not be getting chickens come spring but hey!  I feel inspired to learn how to be an herbivore.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

I'd call it: Channeling George Orwell

If you've visited my FB or goodreads lately you know I'm knee-deep into reading 1984.  I haven't read it before, though last year I plowed through 1Q84 (which is nothing like 1984, btw).

Today I've spent most of my time completely at the will of food poisoning.  Grossness aside, it gave me a few hours of reading time I don't normally enjoy during the day and I devoted those hours to lying in bed, reading 1984.

I'll say right here and now that I'll never be an Orwell -- his writing is brilliant, at times.  But I think when it comes to my soon-to-be-released book BEING, I've been channeling that man.  Because oh my heck!  Some of the quirky things I came up with for BEING are right there, in their infancy, in 1984.   It's weird and cool, all wrapped up into one.


Tuesday, September 10, 2013

There is something about the ancient wisdom of the Tao Te Ching that I find captivating.  There's so much to savor and blend into one's own life.  Here's one of my favorite sayings:

Whoever is stiff and inflexible
is a disciple of death.
Whoever is soft and yielding
is a disciple of life.

Monday, September 9, 2013

I'd call it: 1984

My 1959 copy of 1984
So this is my copy of 1984.  A friend at work was throwing it away and I said, "Hey, I'll read that," and here we are.

It took me a while to get into this story.  The writing is a bit old-fashioned, which I guess I should have expected from a book written in 1950.  And there are a lot of post-WWII prejudices in the text, though I doubt Mr. Orwell knew he was so openly embracing them. 

But as it turns out the condition of the book--even its 1950s cover--enhances my reading experience.  Winston, the MC, lives in a run-down world.  The beat-up condition of my copy make Winston and his dystopian future a bit more real.  I like that, even though it's weird.

Another thing I like is that Winston, like my MC Aspen in Painted Boots, is drawn to all things vintage.  It's his way of yearning for a past he can't have.  As I read 1984, I find that odd similarity kind of cool.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

I'd call it: Experience

I like quotes.  Growing up, I always had one to 'live by'.  I still find quotes inspiring.  I still collect them.  Here's one of my favorites:

"Tell me and I will listen.  Show me and I will see.  Let me experience, and I will learn."

When I write I don't want to simply tell a story, or even show it.  I want to share an experience.  I'll never be a Hemminway or Fitzgerald, but I try my best to find words that convey the lives of my characters in a way that feels . . . lived.

While writing Painted Boots this was sometimes easy--like when Kyle and Aspen meet for the first time.  We all know that twitter-pated butterfly feeling of new love, right?  But it was sometimes almost too much for me--like when Aspen is attacked in the hall at school.  I didn't like revisiting the memory that inspired that scene.

Throughout Painted Boots I put myself into each experience then wrote it as best I could from the inside, looking out through Aspen's eyes.  It was challenging, rewarding and sometimes scary . . . and so very worth it.

Friday, September 6, 2013

sunrise
For me, the sky is synonymous with hope.  It's why I post a lot of sky shots.  It's why Painted Boots ends with a fabulous view of the sky.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

I'd call it: Boots!

New Boots!
I'll let onto a little secret about new cowboy boots ... they're super uncomfortable to break in.  You have to buy them tight across the width of your foot because they stretch out.  It's getting to the stretched-out part that's a pain.

But I love cowboy boots.  I love the way they make you walk -- it's more of a saunter, like you couldn't walk fast if your life depended on it.

In Painted Boots, Aspen's boots are her favorite 'find' ... and represent her connection to Kyle and her commitment to her new-found life.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Wyoming winter
Winter in Wyoming is synonymous with wind.  Though I love the wind-swept look of snow I have to admit I hate the biting cold!  It isn't as nasty as cold in a humid climate, but it can get right bitter.  One morning last year we woke to temperatures about -30 f.  The snow had frozen into ice crystals.  It hung from weeds and branches and glittered so brightly in the sun it hurt the eyes.  It was incredibly beautiful.

Winter plays its part in Painted Boots, at times a lovely novelty because Aspen hasn't had much interaction with snow, and at times enhancing her feeling of being trapped. 

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

I'd call it: Stormy Weather!

Storm on the Range
As we drove through this the rain came down so hard it was impossible to see.  I felt sorry for the Harley guys riding in the lane next to us.

I've spent a lot of time out wandering Wyoming the last few months, cataloging pictures I thought reflected the world of Painted Boots.  This is one such view -- the cloud-filled sky and open range.  My husband warns me I won't have quite the open access to the scenery of my next story, Being.  It's set on the Atlantic coast of France ...

The Painted Boots blog tour continues tomorrow!  Tour stops: 

Mom With A Kindle
RoloPoloBookBlog
True Story Book Blog
Bookshelf Confessions
The Autumn Review

Monday, September 2, 2013


There was a large, controlled burn near our part of the world yesterday, and as the sun set I snapped this photo, capturing the smoky tint in the sky.  I love rural evenings -- the way the sunlight colors the fields and fills the clouds -- and this one was so very beautiful.  After the sunset we stayed up late to watch the stars.  Billions of them came into view, many shining through a wide swath of the Milky Way.  Fabulous!

In Painted Boots, Aspen notices the sky.  A lot.  It's one of the first things she mentions to Kyle.  Her need to stare at the stars interrupts their first date.  Until she moves to Wyoming all she's really known is Portland--and if you don't know, Portland Oregon is a place where it rains a lot and where at night, light pollution washes out the stars.  As I crafted Painted Boots, Wyoming's endless sky became symbolic of Aspen's growth from the closed, contained feelings of grief to the freedom of learning to move on.




Sunday, September 1, 2013

I'd call it: Sacred Things

the sacred tree
We have a sacred tree--a pinon pine and aspen growing intertwined from a common place.  The former owner of our home used to pile unusual rocks around the base (such as fossils and geodes and petrified wood).  We've continued the tradition.  Today, while hiking up to the tree with a gift-stone in hand, I had an Evanescence song playing in my head.  I began reflecting on string theory, which in a nutshell is: everything in the universe is made of unbelievably small, sweetly vibrating 'strings'.

I've always thought of music as the language of our souls--it deepens the emotional level of any experience-even hiking.  It's a scientific idea that, for me anyway, might explain why music is primal to us all.

Music's ability to speak to the sacred places within us is one of the healing concepts used in Painted Boots.  Music is Kyle's escape from his reality.  Aspen hums the theme song from Close Encounters as a way of connecting to her mother.


Painted Boots is on tour!  September 2 stops:  Rusty's Reading and Between the Lines