Milestone and contest

I scribbled it on scratch paper and showed it to my son. “What do you think of that name for a blog?” I asked.

He examined it thoughtfully. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

The title, Stories Happen, had popped into my head. I wanted a connection between attempting to write fiction, as I then was doing, and experiencing life. From my point of view, everyday existence often occurs without warning, as I least expect it, and by chance.

Yet travel inside my thoughts (as maybe you’ve done a wee bit reading my posts) and you’ll note my wonder-gilded trust in an author. One who masterfully plots and characterizes, setting forth a tale sure to ring true and satisfying in the end. No matter the twists and bewildering turns each chapter unfolds.

I guess imagination is required to think stories happen for a purpose. But I’m not alone in my possible delusion.

And for this reason, or maybe just because it popped into my head a year after composing my first Stories Happen blog post, I’d like to give away a book, The Christian Imagination. It inspired and rejuvenated me a while back, when I wondered whether the story of my writing life neared its end.

I toted it everywhere, to my daughter’s horseback lessons and my son’s Shakespeare rehearsals, and it shows on the worn front cover. I read and reread reflections by such writers as C.S. Lewis, Francis Schaeffer, T.S. Elliot, and Annie Dillard.

I’ve loaned the book out before, but now I’d like to package and mail it to one of you who responds, comments, connects a post, or emails, describing a milestone in your life story. I’ll pull the winning name from a hat, though I lack a fetching assistant like Summer’s sweet daughter, who chose my name in a recent giveaway.

Hm, mm, happy anniversary to my blog.

Garden ready!

So here are our energetic veggie plants today:



Thanks for sharing my thrill at their chlorophyllic exuberance.

More bean stalking

Saturday:



Sunday:

Bean stalk

My son just rode away with friends for the weekend.

Other friends will arrive soon for spaghetti, and Tim ought to finish in a while fixing whatever equipment piece bungled itself just before his quitting time.
A summery breeze wafts through the house. My music’s on, and no one’s waiting to check Spaceweather.com or burn CD’s.

I could get used to this.

Oh, yes, the reason for my post: I’m chronicling the emergence of green beans upstairs, where Tim always starts them pre-garden, to save them from the slugs.

Yesterday:



Today:



I’ll post more this weekend for nobody, since most of you will live life, I hope, in the fresh air. Me, I’m going to Carl’s Jr. and a movie tomorrow with my most romantic man. See you!

Can't wait...

..any longer to show off these photos from my very own digital camera. My parents-in-law somehow knew I wanted one (not that I've ever mentioned it). Thanks, Mom and Dad H!

Crazy Westley.

Old Brindy by the morning fire.

A rose beside the house.

Hubby finding change for garage sales.

It's me!

Except, I don't dress up at the computer.

Split my skin

Angela thought up a contest (details here). She’ll send a book to one of her readers who writes about why a favorite book makes them happy.

A great challenge, this. While I don’t necessarily wish to compete for the prize, I think it’s lovely to give away a meaningful arrangement of words in story form. To share a piece of the reason many of us find ourselves tending notebook, processor, and blog.

We’re wordaholics, yes?

So many books have touched me, fiction and non. Some slung me across their shoulders and carried me through awkward, helpless passages of school. Others napped beneath my pillow, awaiting nights when I should have slept but instead read them by light slanting in from the hall (hence my extreme nearsightedness). The Call of the Wild; White Fang; Old Yeller; Charlotte’s Web; Heidi; Kavik, the Wolf Dog. Dear friends all.

Then, young, married, and tiring quickly of magazines like Cosmo, I returned to favorites I’d briefly sampled in high school. An enduring preference became Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Every so often I again read The Hobbit and the trilogy. Even after the movies and the hype, there’s always a new shiny bit to discover, over in a corner of Tom Bombadil’s garden.

Children’s books that flew my flag kept me awake and intrigued while reading to our little ones: Dahl’s Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator (ah, Vermicious Knids!); Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends; the Little House series. Our shelves still stock such creative worlds, awaiting grandchildren.

As I posted last, I’ve savored some of Jane Kirkpatrick’s books. Her artistic blends of nuance in historical fiction bring me joy. Another writer who lifted me by her skill to view a world gone yet still alive is the amazing Harper Lee.

Most recently, if I have to choose the words in tales that shimmer, engulfing my senses and keeping me up late while aching as final chapters near, I pick those from Wendell Berry. I bought Hannah Coulter after friends urged me to read anything of his. I chuckled and wept. So I went back to Amazon and ordered That Distant Land, a collection from several novels. A treasure.

When pointing out truth through his characters, Mr. Berry uses a persistent yet affable hand to bloom an idea in my mind. His images linger, welcome as a porch swing in warm August breezes.

Musing over books has suited my mood this evening. You might guess, Angela, I used your contest as an excuse. I’m sure other, more prolific readers than I will sift through many volumes for their gold. Thanks, though, for inspiring my backward glance at a storied past.

Meet Jane

My feet throbbed from walking through shops all morning, but it didn’t matter. Tim and I entered a western-themed book store in Sisters (every place in Sisters caters to the old west – it’s a high desert tourist town east of Santiam Pass). I stood examining titles, flipping pages, and drinking in some good prose. Tim’s restless legs carried him on to the coin shop next door.

I’d been thinking about Mom’s birthday coming soon. What hadn’t she read that would do the trick?

Then I spotted an intriguing title: A Sweetness to the Soul. The author lived in Oregon. Jane Kirkpatrick. I read a few paragraphs into the historical tale.

Mmm. This lady can write.

It turned out she’s a Christian who can write.

That was several years ago. Mom enjoyed the book and loaned it to me. Then we found Jane’s next story, Love to Water My Soul.

I was a regular plasma donator those days. Immersed in this true adventure of a white girl raised by Native Americans, I waited my turn twice a week to let liquid flow from my arm into a machine (so I’d receive $45 – for reading – not bad). I marveled at Kirkpatrick’s skill in creating genuine characters, flawed and likeable. I learned Jane had worked as a counselor at the Columbia River area Warm Springs Reservation.

One Sunday Mom called. “Jane Kirkpatrick’s speaking this afternoon in Florence. Let’s go!”

We arrived late at the coastal town’s library. Jane neared the end of her talk to a roomful of people. She quietly urged them to follow their deepest dreams. She took questions like a teacher, a friend, a pro.

At a book signing later in a small shop along the wharf, I hesitated to ask Jane to autograph my second-hand copy of her novel.

Mom spoke right up. “Jane, we love your books. Deanna’s a writer, too!”

“That’s wonderful,” Jane said, opening Love to Water and writing a whole message on the title page.

So. Yep. I’m a fan.

Her books have multiplied. She’s won awards. Jane and Mom now know each other.

Last month Jane started a blog, Harvests of Starvation Lane. She lives with her husband and dog in a John Day River canyon at the end of a road called Starvation Lane. Really.

If you haven’t discovered Jane’s writing and you think inspiring, historical novels featuring women out west are cool, well. What are you waiting for?

Ten things about Mom

It’s appropriate this weekend to let you glimpse a woman who entered the world during the Great Depression, grew up during WWII, got married while Eisenhower was President, and raised three kids when TV was new and the culture danced to hippies and the Beatles.

Here’s an interesting things list for my mom:

1. While pregnant with her, my grandma experienced severe morning sickness and likely would have miscarried Mom. Except that the doctor instructed Grandma to drink wine every evening to settle her stomach. Grandma used to tell this story with an ironic little smile: she’d previously been a strict teetotaler and prohibitionist.

2. In high school Mom swam, debated, and played first chair flute. She broke up with her sweetheart the day after graduation, because he demanded they get married right away. Mom knew she had more to do before settling down.

3. She became the first University of Oregon student to major in Christian Journalism. She earned that degree at the same time she earned one in education from Northwest Christian College.

4. She married a man from the “other side of the tracks” who studied at NCC for the ministry. She and my dad came from very different families, but they set out to make their own life together.

5. We kids always teased Mom on Christmas morning, saying, “The oldest has to open her present last!” Mom married a younger man, but she’s maintained good humor about it.

6. In Illinois she developed a special education program for a small-town elementary school. As a preschooler I met her students and learned I had nothing to fear from disabled people.

7. She also taught me by example that people of differing skin tones are equally beautiful. Mom has always shown genuine concern for whoever comes along. She’s interested in getting to know those around her.

8. As a remedial reading specialist, Mom taught middle school classes in Tacoma, Washington. These were urban preteens, often from troubled backgrounds. She gave kids who’d fallen through educational cracks the gift of stories and imagination.

9. In 1992, Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She and Dad set to work doing all they could to beat it. Mom’s curiosity led her to grill her doctors with questions, to receive information and opinions, and then to explain detailed medical issues to concerned family members. I’m so glad she’s a survivor.

10. When each of her grown children faced upheaval through rebellion or difficulty, Mom remained loyal. I remember taking her phone call at age 23, after I’d done some awful stuff, when I thought I’d given up my childhood faith. My shame and defiance jumbled together. Mom said, “Deanna, no matter what you’ve done, you can always come home.” Not long after that, I did.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Just gotta love 'em

I meet with three writing groups, each made up of different people. Yep. Different.

The weekly afternoon group gathers in a church classroom. At least half of the writers are at least my mom’s age.

Even the younger ones react uncomfortably to stories lacking a moral message. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave that ending so ambiguous…” Important to them is finding ways to give the world God’s principles, with simplicity, tact, and good grammar. No ambiguity.

I appreciate and respect these writers. They encourage me, even when my prose comes across to them as weird.

They remind me to edit hads and thats and –ings. I gain much from their stories, like the one about a family Christmas when snow blew between cracks into a Southern shanty, and how a wife loves her husband’s quirky habits, and what a mother felt, clinging to her son newly home from Vietnam.

The every-three-weeks group trades locations between Eugene and Salem. Writers in demand by publishers and agents join in critique with comparative greenhorns like me.

Most in the membership hold political views a shade different from mine. They wouldn’t mind seeing our President burned in effigy, if not at the stake.

I get a kick from some of the satiric barbs in their conversation, and I come to see reasons for opposing viewpoints in their heartfelt written efforts.

They cheer our member who’s had 35 rejections since January. “Welcome to the real world,” they say. Applauding my recent bit of success, they don’t mince words in reminders to “show, don’t tell.” And they don’t let me ramble too long when I aim to make some point about fiction of which I know squat.

The once a month or so group gets hosted by friends from my church in our different homes. We’ve gathered and sampled one guy’s home brewed beer. We’ve sat on a back porch at sunset in blossom-perfumed breezes, listening to rough excerpts from a journal. We’ve said, “You should develop that.”

One night we listened to chapters from a book the author never wishes to sell, and they made us all ache to visit the coastal small-town world so eloquently described.

This writing group can frustrate my sensibilities. Often we end up giggling and making snarky comments. Rarely are we down to business.

But like holidays with family I’ll never give this one up. Because when the people do at last settle into comfortable poses around someone’s living room, they listen. They respond. Deep affirmation abounds. In their souls, whether or not very often on paper, they’re compassionate thinkers and dreamers, writers as much as the rest.

Grownup tag

Many, many spring evenings ago, I ran outside with my brothers.

Neighborhood kids always gathered for tag. Tummies full from supper, we pounded the yard in tennis shoes, chased or chasing at top speed.

My cheeks flushed as wind whistled past. Pinkish red clouds adorned the western sky. Grass freshly mown smelled like freedom – school would soon end for the summer.

I chased Chrisser and Kirby from next door. Tim Woodhead, who lived on the other side of our house, caught me. I let my youngest brother get away.

Sometimes we switched from regular “Tag; you’re It,” to freeze tag, where you stood, immobile, til somebody who wasn’t It touched you.

In my favorite version, you escaped being frozen by dropping to the ground and calling out a cartoon character’s name.

“Scooby Doo!”

“Jonny Quest!”

“Underdog!”

“Mighty Mouse!”

I’ve learned that different sorts of tag games abound in this blogging dimension. Though we’d likely prefer a chase-and-drop game on someone’s lawn, the logistics might prove difficult.

So thanks, Sandy, for freeze-tagging me in order to learn ten interesting things. Persistence has dug these from my memory’s back yard:

1. I let go of an airplane strut and fell backward, as instructed, one afternoon when I was 25. After my parachute opened, a former Army paratrooper talked me down via the radio strapped to my chest. It was an awesome feeling, hanging in the sky. I told my mom about the adventure afterward (and I hope my children will wait to inform me of such escapades until safely through them!).

2. I often ate dinner and watched movies on a nuclear submarine, with Tim in Charleston, S.C., after we first were married. As a reactor operator, he had 24-hour duty every three days.

3. I won two tickets to a Moody Blues concert in Portland in 1986, for writing an essay about my significant other (that would be Tim).

4. In kindergarten and first grade, I convinced my neighborhood pals in Moore, Oklahoma, of the existence of alien creatures who disguised themselves as rocks. You had to check carefully to tell the difference between the aliens and ordinary stones; of course I could always recognize the dangerous beings lurking in the driveway! Their leader lived on the moon, a gigantic boulder-guy you could just see if you squinted right – look out, everyone, there he is!

5. I wrote full-length novels in grade school to pass the time. A few of my teachers read or had me read them to the class.

6. Although I’ve had my gal bladder, appendix, and other assorted organs removed, I can still consume several ounces of chocolate chips per day.

7. I’m extremely spider-phobic. My family has fun with me, utilizing black, plastic arachnids placed strategically around the house. But they do rescue me from real ones.

8. I raised a baby garter snake named Jafar, for whom I found I had strong maternal feelings. He grew up in a dry aquarium on our dining room counter, until his release out by our woodpile.

9. As a child I pretended I was a dog, in many adventuresome stories, acted out on all fours on our living room carpet. (Thanks, Mom, for the tolerance.)

10. Tim gave me a ride on his tricycle when he was six and I was two. Our parents had participated in each other’s weddings and have long been good friends. In recent years our folks all moved to our city. They’re out doing the town together on senior discounts.

Yay, I’m free! Now to chase down and tag ten more bloggers. I aim to name some not yet touched. Hope you have fun, too.

Sufferingsummer, Elixir, LeiselB, Desiree (since I see you often come out to play with Leisel), Bella Art Girl, Cineboy, Indieninja, Geni, Annette, Patti – you’re tagged, now. I’m going inside to find my jacket.

Have you seen this?

Chances are you have, if you spend an inordinate amount of time on the web, like, well, a lot of folks.

I'm proud to say this popular photo is one of Erin's, whose blog I often mention. Teal, the Princess Leia of this dimension, is also someone I know and consider smart/cool/deserving of money.

Um. That last phrase requires explanation; for that I'll quote Erin:

Well, here’s the thing about Teal. She is really super smart… an MIT graduate and one of the finest nerds I have ever met. She has also, as it happens, just gotten a step closer to her dream of attending the University of Cambridge in England in the fall.

Here’s the catch. Although she just found out that Cambridge accepted her, they will not be providing her with any scholarship money—bringing her expenses for her first year to a whopping $41,000.

One of our friends joked, when he was visiting this evening, that if we had a dollar for every person who viewed our Star Wars picture, Teal’s expenses would be more than paid for.

And that idea sounded almost crazy enough to work.

A sidebar button at Lylium now exists so anyone wanting to help send Princess Leia to Cambridge can do so! It's easy and it might even do the trick.

(If Teal does not receive her needed funds from the donations that are pouring in at this date, she has promised to donate the money to World Vision. And I know she's as good as her word.)