Snakes and snail and a neighborhood sale

A bunch of lengthy beauties like the one above reside in our yard this year. They're likely descended from Jafar and Jasmine, two garter snakes we kept in dry aquariums for a couple of winters, back when Victoria fancied becoming a herpetologist.

She's gone on to favor more linguistical pursuits, and the snakes went outdoors to help keep down our slug population. (The bean plants are appreciative.)

My son and I captured snake photos this week while gearing up for our sometimes annual garage sale. Boxes of stuff descended from the attic, even as I got practice ascending in a hospital elevator, visiting two loved ones who spent time under the care of physicians two different days. Those people are both recovering well in their respective homes tonight, and I am mostly recovered from our two-day sale.

I moan a bit here at the keyboard, because I lifted and reached and assisted enough to tighten my back muscles (ooch), while acquiring a traditional sunburn. But I can't complain. I watched some dear friends carry, scoot, and arrange all kinds of do-dads for two days with great skill, and in varying weather patterns.

Thursday evening a cloud burst above our driveway, causing a snail to make a consternated "dash" over concrete.I didn't think this sign boded well for our next morning's sale. It didn't.

But we hardy souls here in Oregon don't let a tiny thing like water dumping upon us from above halt our inspired activities. And so assorted coverings were erected.
Our neighbors got their sale-ing ships ready, as well.
Even relaxation took place between downpours.
This sale, by the way, gave me not only the fun of having fun people help out, but I could chatter about blogging and writing to my heart's content, because two friends, Carol Jo and Robby, are faithful readers here, and one, you'll notice, is Erin of Lylium fame. Having her at the cash box made some kind of magic happen, I think, as the money there multiplied. Most of it went to Erin, though, because her Beanie Babies were really popular. (My mom was testing the lounge chair before purchasing the pair of them; she was not slacking off as it may appear.)

Thanks, all you guys, for fun in the sun and rain.

Kiddos

I attended Gutenberg's graduation, camera at the ready, and then only ended up getting pictures of my kids and me. Guess that's how it goes.

Futzing at last

In what was my daughter’s bedroom and is now my exercise/officey space I’ve spent months writing fast, without inhibition, letting imagination whisk me throughout the universe.

This is good, according to Jack Hart from The Oregonian, who wrote A Writer's Coach: An Editor's Guide to Words That Work. He spoke one evening in February to a group of eager listeners at Border’s. I claimed a cushion in that crowd, scribbling notes, digesting notions both tried and new.

“Fast writers generally do well in writer-land,” explained Mr. Hart. “If you’re anything like me, though, you’ll tend toward being a futzer.”

I relaxed then. He was describing my wont to edit, often far too early in the process. At least I wasn’t alone. I determined after that evening to take Jack’s advice and let my hair down in the early stages of my new writing project.

But the past week or so I’ve straightened my spine and hunkered into the pleasure of all-out futzing. I had a deadline. Not a contract. No agents or editors clamoring for my prose, yet. An opportunity.

Every hour I colored in my head shades of meaning and shapes of storying. Pre-dawn awakenings found me retooling: ah, I could say it that way.

Adrenaline flowed. Housework waned. I sent off my work the day I wanted to. Not yet perfect. But thoroughly futzed.

The winner - really, this time

I won't make her suffer any longer.

This is the season named for her, even though she prefers winter rain.

Yes, I drew Summer's name from my Wonder Years cap. She wins!!

So I hope, Summer, that you haven't bought the book yet. If you have, though, let me know, and I'll send you a different one.

It's quite a kick to get to return the gifting, although I couldn't begin to come up with such treasures as you sent me.

Ya know, I'm still new at this...

Brain cells. I thought today I had a few, that maybe even some had rejuvinated in the quiet spaces around me.

Tim took time off for a hike with our son and some friends. They left this morning. I bought groceries, wrote, read blogs, and then jogged to music old and new.

After a few more activities and before a well-deserved nap, I decided it was high time to choose the winner of my splendiferous contest. No doubt, I thought, all of the four participants have been on the edges of their seats, awaiting this outcome. Never mind that one of them gave birth this weekend - I'm sure as labor intensified and the grand moment drew near, the mother spent each second preoccupied with wondering how soon she'd learn the winner of my used anthology.

So I grabbed my newish camera, garnered assistance from Dear Sweet Westley, and captured in photos the stages of this anticipated event. Excited about the outcome, but too weary to blog just yet, I put everything away and luxuriated in exquisite daytime slumber. Just now I awoke and checked the pictures.

Upturned Wonder Years cap.

Distinterested cat.

I closed my eyes, swirled the scraps of paper, and chose...


Sorry. I really did choose a name. Guess I shoulda turned off the flash on my camera. Now I don't know if anyone will believe me. But it wouldn't be fair to drag this silly thing on any longer, would it?

I'll post again soon, when I decide what to do.

Near a pond

Sun stroked.



Creaturely comforted.

My Dad

When I mentioned here that he came from the “other side of the tracks,” I didn’t mean it as a slight. There are railroad tracks in this town, and Dad grew up when most people lived on the opposite side of them. The roads passing Dad’s neighborhood stretched toward picturesque farm fields and, farther on, the coastal mountain range.

But Dad’s family was poor, and therefore I suppose slighting was intended by a few who lived in fancier houses south and east of them. I’m sure some of Dad’s siblings and neighbors felt the weight of socio-economic differences more intensely than others.

I’ve always gotten the sense Dad looked forward in hope of better things while making the best of whatever came along growing up. He tells of listening for the train’s whistle as a kid – the tracks ran a block or two from his home – and the electric feeling he got. Out the front door and running, flat out, giving it all, he knew he could beat the engine.

He’d see it. Tons of steel barreling toward the spot he aimed for. On he ran. Closer it came. Lungs bursting, he zipped to the other side before it reached him.

I say, “Dad, what were you thinking?!”

Without his sense of adventure and readiness to catch the wind, though, he wouldn’t be my father.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, from your little girl.

Dizzy retrospection

I do wish the world would stop spinning.

Some force inside my head swirls the waters in a fashion reminiscent of those rides at the fair I have only ever regretted trying. Ugh.

My troubles started Monday, when my digestive system decided I’d not treated it well over the weekend. No one else here had problems, so I can only conclude, as I’ve done in the past, that being minus a gall bladder, appendix, and a snippet of intestine does make a difference sometimes. Not that I’m complaining in terms of those medical procedures which at three different times no doubt saved my life.

Yesterday my tummy felt as though it had been turned off – not bad, just not at all hungry. For me, a truly strange occurrence. So I ate very little and slept a lot. Today a few hunger pangs returned, and I tried to force the food a bit, wishing for energy. Eating seemed to work, except now I’m a dizzy dame. Weird. My ears are fine, and isn’t it supposed to be fluid in the ear that when sloshed causes dizziness? Oh, well.

While hoping for returned equilibrium tomorrow, I’m thinking back on things. I’ve reread my past year’s journal – it always provides fresh perspective. And maybe my odd physical state contributes, but I sense myself having adjusted to a degree to what I’m doing. Like a person in the “real” world going to work every day, finally gaining confidence within the sphere of a new job.

Throughout my writing venture there’ve been several phases. I journaled and flung words onto paper regarding various subjects for many years. Then I tried to build a writing space and set aside regular literary moments. My schedule’s success waxed and waned when the kids were young.

I only made progress toward publication after learning how to send query letters to editors. This provided an outlet for my ideas, which sometimes drew interest and led to published articles. My method for finishing assignments utilized adrenaline, as I sprinted toward a deadline, letting household and motherly duties slide for short spans, often exasperating the rest of my family. But I’m glad they let me dive off the deep end once in a while. It was exciting.

Somewhere near last year’s beginning I began a transition into more steady writing, for the sake of eventual publication, yes, but mainly for myself. I’m in that reimagining, reinventing phase people speak of. But like many transitions, this one’s knocked me off my feet more than once, twirled me dizzy sometimes in my emotions.

I remember nearly three decades ago my first months working at a Krispy Kreme in Charleston, South Carolina. Details of serving coffee, boxing up doughnuts in baker’s dozen increments and filling orders for schools at the conveyor belt made me dizzy sometimes. I wondered if I’d ever catch on and keep up. At last things came together in my head. I could banter with good ol’ boys at the coffee counter, box a few iced crullers with sodas to go, and find time to linger long enough in back for a fresh raised doughnut before rushing out front to replenish napkins.

Today I feel I’m catching on to the structure of writing that may suit me best. My morning writing shift is solid, Monday through Friday, averaging two hours. Sometimes I’ll do an overtime Saturday (though time-and-a-half pay is lacking so far).

I’ve completed a few projects, including a new course proposal that I sent to Lane Community College and had accepted for fall term. In my class, called Market Those Musings, I’ll instruct beginners to work their ideas into saleable forms as I did, hoping this will springboard their writing lives, as well.

My current project-in-process excites me, and yet it’s really just part of my job, as are rejections and writer group gatherings and once in a blue moon checks in the mail. I’m working on a book, a spiritual memoir. Finally it’s reached a stage where I share chapters of it at different critique sessions. The value of input from other creative souls can’t be easily measured. And unlike the novel I started last year, this preborn book is holding its own under criticism.

I’d love to share the collaborative process here on the blog, but concerns about publication issues restrain me. If I know you in three-dimensional space, though, beware. I may ask you to read and give feedback sometime this summer.

Now I guess I’ll sip some Sprite and list off to bed. Thanks for any steadying thoughts you can send this direction. Sorry if you experience sudden doughnut cravings.

Soon a winner

The contest I mentioned here will soon culminate in a drawing for the winner (probably this weekend). You may comment on this post or on the post listed above, or blog about a milestone in your life (let me know if you did), or email me at deannahershiser@gmail.com. I've enjoyed reading the reflections already worded by some of you dear folk.

So remember, if you'd like the chance for a marvelous book with a well-worn cover (the inside pages, though, are in great shape), think back on events, times, or people who've changed your life and let your imagination shape them for the page.

Aye, there be treasure here

It seemed like a simple sharing of fun after Summer posted for the 100th time on her blog, to comment about something I’d like in a box of treasures.

I sure didn’t expect to win.

Even less did I anticipate the care and effort Summer would expend, with the help of her husband and daughter.

This week a UPS truck stopped out front. I’ve been pet-sitting Laddy, a 15-year-old Pomeranian with a crooked spine and endearing wee face. He shared the couch with me as I grabbed a moment for reading. The doorbell rang.

Laddy and I opened the box. He was excited. Really.

We found a smaller box, with a cool, foreign stamp on the lid. It said the treasures inside were from Edmonds Beach.

Next appeared a notepad. No, a painting pad. Oh, my, I'll need to work on unearthing some artistic flair. Or I'll just have fun experimenting. And how did she know I love butterflies?

Framed art! Treasure, indeed.

Next, music. Summer's art enhanced. It's been a while since I had new tunes.

And then, so amazing, a book. Poetry. Summer reading made complete by Summer's thoughtfulness.

Thanks so much!

A fractured village

June is like December, I’ve noticed. Leading up to Christmas we go to concerts, milk the budget for gift money, and spend fun times with relatives and friends.

This past week or so I’ve sat in on a rehearsal for the Meistersinger’s choral group from OSU (all-male; great voices; nice looking!), attended the Eugene Gleemen’s concert (another group of men, though somewhat older even than myself), and been privileged to hear the South Eugene High School choir concert (wowza, exceptional singers/musicians).

We have given gifts to graduating seniors (money, what else?) and enjoyed a party for my cousin Lidiana at her home, where long lost aunts and uncles appeared to dispense hugs and advice.

As I did six months ago, I anticipate a solstice, though back then it would herald celebrating Christ’s birth, a new year, and dark months to navigate. Today I’m expecting golden, warm days, hours to ponder theological and literary writings, and freedom from schoolwork (at least, the supervision of said work). I will also assist my son in planning for the next (his final, yikes!) year of high school education.

Amid this looking forward, striding into next phases season, I pause for my annual reflection on raising (training? rearing?) children the way I decided to attempt it.

From the rear of a full gymnasium Thursday night I watched homeschool students graduate. Cameras raised above heads as the program progressed for 14 young people, some in caps and gowns of varying hue, others attired to suit their own styles.

Their mannerisms were pure teenager. Creativity shown in their slideshow presentations and speeches. In turn they accepted certificates of completion and crossed the stage to embrace glowing parents. It was a night less conventional than graduation at a public high, but it wasn’t so different. I caught no defensiveness or us-against-them sentiments among the crowd.

Which made me wonder anew why there’s been a fuss lately over homeschooling in this area. Two years ago the state education board sent letters to districts warning they’d lose funding unless they stopped allowing alternative education facilities access to services. (I’m ignorant of exact details involved in the district rule changes, but they basically made local school board members very afraid.)

One Eugene school district had worked for a decade with an innovative group of homeschool parents who’d started Homesource, a technology resource center for parents and students. The district superintendent recognized his community could only benefit from having a good relationship with tax-paying, voting homeschool families. He and the parents hammered out details so that the district would receive money per each homeschool kid in the Homesource classes, and Homesource could receive some funds.

The idea succeeded. My children, like most of their friends, took classes part-time that were usually taught by somebody’s parent. These supplemented what we did at home. They allowed Victoria to get four years of Latin, plus horseback riding and karate. My son took Japanese and pre-Physics. Newspaper articles applauded the venture.

Last summer, though, other school districts and the state board nearly shut Homesource down. Hearing a few of my local board members debate the value of alt ed programs gave me an eerie feeling, to say the least.

Their reason for concern about homeschoolers is not failures of the parents’ efforts to educate their children. It centers on the alternative methods we use being “unfair.” Public school kids have to be in crowded classrooms. Their parents may not have time to work with the schools. Because of this, no money should go to homeschool families.

I guess I could see a problem if my children were only able to attend poorly-funded public schools under detrimental conditions, and someone else rode into the district demanding money for their kids to stay home and be pampered by a tutor or something. I don’t know if that’s the picture these district people have constructed.

But I well remember the worried looks, gasps, and pleadings from some people the year I started homeschooling Victoria. The general sentiment then was that we parents would ruin our charges, because we weren’t following established educational methods. A sort of hand washing occurred in many cases, with people employed by teacher unions and the bureaucracy tisking over the actions of those poor, deluded parents who thought they’d get their kids to college on their own.

It wasn’t the exclusive opinion by any means. My teacher mom and school district employed mother-in-law both supported my launch into homeschooling with their grandkids. Though they didn’t understand quite what motivated me, they never withheld their love and support.

But it’s painful to see my community on some level withholding support of children. The main problem is homeschool families are doing things differently. Sure, a bureaucrat here and there gets others worked up in fear over us taking “their” money. But the system can and has functioned fine for districts given at least some money for a child when they’d otherwise get none from families who separated completely from the district.

I’d like to sprint from the conflictive educational scene as soon as my son graduates, nary a backward glance at the state and local powers that be. I can’t, though, because I’ve helped start something. I’ll have grandkids someday (most likely), and their parents may want to homeschool them. And where will things stand then? I’ve got to keep up with the times and stay involved. Just as I appreciated folks being there for me as I strove to do the best I knew for my kids, I need to be around and savvy to support the next generation.

So that’s all to say I’ll probably rant again next year!

One cool thing about my job is its results happen in stages. So what if a bad day transpires just after news arrives of acceptance in a literary publication?



There's time for discussion and healing, celebration and cuddling, and basically the downs within a relationship to meld into ups once again, before the actual in-print version arrives in the mail.

(It came today!)

Valley woman flings broccoli

Late next morning I followed my son, husband, nephew, assorted few other persons, and a tour guide through the main quad at a university north of our home, which should not be named aloud due to its competitive relationship to our hometown U of O.

My nephew Nick is a senior at afore-unmentioned university and would love it if my son decided to attend there a little more than a year from now. We discovered the beauty of the tree-bordered campus and heard about interesting offerings, such as geo-science degrees my son might consider. But final decisions are a long way off from his perspective. A passing student’s glowing sales pitch regarding the school brought few words and a pale stare. He needed food.

So we found the lunch area. Small, fast restaurants served the guys hamburgers and shakes, while I sought out the Panda Express. Behind the counter a lady spoke quick, Asian-accented phrases. I had to ask her to repeat them several times. People in line behind me looked annoyed.

I caught on to my need to order either a two or three-piece entrée, with one side dish. “Mixed veggies,” I tried to intone quickly, “with chicken broccoli and, let’s see…” The woman blinked hurry-up in Morse code. “Teryaki chicken, please.”

At our table, watching my nephew inhale several Carl’s Jr. spicy meat sandwiches, I tackled my mounds of chicken and bushels of broccoli. Huge florets defied attempts to be divided by a plastic fork. I bit in.

“So Nick,” I said, swallowing, “you want to hike Mary’s Peak with us?”

Our son counted on this next adventure, not far from our present Corvallis location, and Nick agreed it would be fun for the afternoon.

“Great,” I said, flinging my fork and a huge limb of broccoli into the air. Gravity pulled it back to connect with my shirt and the chair beside me before it rolled a foot or two along the lunchroom floor.

Though tempted to act as though nothing had happened, I bent and retrieved the large, green item and made a show of wrapping it in Tim’s napkin. For some reason, he always grabs extras and they end up near me.

The view from Mary’s Peak hid somewhat in the haze, and we’re not sure what story explains the dragon’s eye*, but our time above the valley was a good one.

*Nick gazes with some concern into the "eye."

Home from the sea

Adventures recent included a hike over and around sand dunes near Florence (not Italy).

The day’s inland heat drew a cloud band that nursed the shoreline. We saw sun off and on. More off. But we found the “hidden” trail my son had heard about, and it led to a quiet space (as in no four-wheelers buzz-whirring and chucking sand). Spiky grass blanketed dunes.

My mom and dad supported our efforts by chugging up the pathway’s first hill to pose near proliferating scotch broom.


Parents returned to their fifth-wheel for a nap while Tim and I trailed our boy.


Lagging behind, we spied a sparrow's hole.


Next destination: the beach. A higher dune climbed, a denser cloud enshrouding, we discovered a driftwood architect's handiwork. But we passed on setting up residence.


Nearing home late in the day, our van’s windows down as Willamette Valley fields rolled by, we all inhaled deeply. Done snapping photos, I allowed grasses mundane as baked bread to ease my tensions like a warm massage. The ocean’s fine, my family and I agreed, but we’re content in the valley, relaxed and undramatic. At least until the chance arrives to hike a mountain.

So it goes sometimes

Interesting and intense, these past few days.

While I can’t explain reasons for much of the intensity, it has stemmed from pain felt by someone I love.

I would order the universe differently:

cap mountains to block lava’s flow,
bind stars to prevent super novas,
plug the wind to repel hurricanes.

But my designed reality would resemble a sanitized institution. Dull. Confined. Safe.

It seems the only consistent strategy to follow, here amid reality shot through with pulsing uncertainties, is keep going. Days lay ahead at week’s beginning like a dusty footpath switchbacking uphill. Fearfully, thankfully, step followed step, and now the days are below and behind me, and the view looks better for my loved one.