Quirky Ghouls

I don’t know about you, but run-of-the-mill skeletons and every day witches don’t do much for me. They have become so banal they've lost their mojo. Not scary.

As you prepare for Halloween, ask yourself- do I want to be just another blood-dripping-from-an-arrow-in-the-head walking dead? I don’t.

Time was when this holiday was an emotional exorcism, making the English speaking world shiver. Waking up from the nightmare the next day, November first All Saints Day, one felt their psyche cleansed of the ghouls. I'm not making fun, nor claiming scholarship. This is not about origins or deep meaning, but about what the celebration of ghastly ghosts has become.

Maybe that’s the point. Ghouls are no longer ghastly, and everyday life is filled with ultimately more terrifying things. Always was.

A few not-so-fun “fun-facts” to usher us through this week:

*Victorian guidebooks advised the women to put pins in their mouths to avoid being kissed in the dark when trains went through tunnels. SCARY.

** A pumping human heart can squirt blood a distance of thirty feet. Just imagine what mess a hole in the heart would make. Yuck.

***99% of all the species that have ever lived are now extinct. Memento Mori. That really does it for me.

Candy’s always good.

Happy Halloween!

Making Memories

My step mother wrote that she’s about to go on vacation with her grandchildren, to a lovely resort by the Mediterranean Sea. She asked about my childhood experiences in that very resort, where I spend a week every summer until I was twelve or so.

The name of the resort, Nachsholim, was then called Tantura. That was the name of the Arab village nearby, which has been leveled since then. When I was little (before 1967) there were many more abandoned Arab villages, standing empty since 1948, and in ruins. They stood as testament to who was once there. At some point most of the ruins disappeared as well, and they are no more.

The Kibbutz itself, which ran the vacation resort, is nearby. The accommodations were much more modest than they are now. Guests paid very little to stay in the original Kibbutz wood huts, and eat three meals a day in the original old communal dining room. I remember frogs in the shower, lots of them. There was no hot water, and the frogs frolicked in maniacal dances on the unfinished cement floors.

In the earlier years, until I was seven, my father was still with us. I remember that we had to take the old train from Jerusalem, and get off in what looked like the middle of nowhere. Then an old kibbutznik would come with a horse and carriage. Not the chivalrous kind you see in New York’s Central Park, but an old creaking hard carriage with an even older horse. I remember sitting in front and watching the horse defecate as we rode. They do it while walking, unlike a cat or a dog, who have the sense to stop when they have to go.

I also remember the nightly entertainment. I really looked forward to “Movie Night.” The “theater” was a white sheet hung from the trees. We sat under the stars and watched a projector screening onto it. If we were lucky, the projector didn't burn the film too many times and we got to see the whole movie to the end. Once, when the ending was too damaged, the kibbutznik who sat at the projector got up and told us the rest of the story.

Other nights there was communal folk dancing, or a magician, or a live singer. I remember one soprano who sang classical repertoire and was accompanied by a pianist. My father’s comment later was that if the singer could have been one tenth as good as the pianist, we might have been able to call it a real concert.

I also remember the really bad sunburn I always got the first day. No one heard of sunscreens then, and instead they coated us with tanning oils. Needless to say, with my complexion, real tanning was not going to happen.

We went there every summer that I can remember, until they changed to fancier accommodations and my mother didn't like the new prices or the new arrangements. I actually didn't, either. We did it the new-and-improved way only once. I was probably twelve then. I missed the “pioneer” feeling of the old huts. Like the village, Tantura was no more.

It seems impoverished as I think of it now, but I loved it all. My mother was more relaxed, and it was a happy time.

©Shelagh Duffett

I thanked my stepmother for reminding me of those days, and wished her a delightful time by the sea. Her grandkids, my niece and nephew, will build their own lovely memories of the place, and their days with her.

Gifts Come in Many Wrappers

When I was ten years old the doctors thought I may have childhood leukemia, still quickly lethal back then. I was hospitalized for ten days and so many tests, that I wiped the needles out of my memory.

I do remember other things about that event in my life. Such as the snow that blanketed Jerusalem and paralyzed the city mid-way through my hospital stay.
The roads were impassable for all but emergency vehicles, and my mother could not visit me for three days. I thought about my friends who were likely throwing snowballs and making snow men.
During my childhood that was one of only two times it snowed, a huge event of almost mythical proportions. 

 I was the “left-out-of-the-fun person” par excellence. I carried that sense forward, and it appears in my stories.

 I also remember the Hassidic boy whose large and loving family was ever present. We were roommates in a large room, more like a ward, with six others. When he saw me with colored pencils and paper one Saturday, he explained to me why I should not draw or write on the Sabbath. I complied as to not upset him.
But what I got from him was a profound gift that lasts me to this day.

“When you draw or write you create something new, “  he said. “ When you create, you become like G-d, or G-d’s assistant on this earth. G-d rested on Sabbath, and asks us to do the same.”

He used the Jewish HASHEM (“the name”) instead of G-d. I still omit a letter as to not use The Name in vain.
 

 To this day I feel this bit of mystical stream when I bake, draw, or write. G-d’s assistant on this earth.

 ---

My suspected a-typical leukemia turned out to be a very severe case of Mononucleosis with every complication ever mentioned in medical books. After I returned home, I still couldn't go to school for two more months. I had a deep and ever-present fatigue for a time, even after my return.

 In addition to these gifts, I also took with me a glimpse into the world of the children’s ward, and a new window to empathy for those who are in it.

I remind myself in times of sadness that all is a gift if I can open to receive it, like a ten-year-old child.
I also give myself permission to ask G-d to be less generous with gifts of pain and sorrow. I’m human.

All Good Things…

There’s a saying that all good things must come to an end. Bummer.

Here’s the good News: All bad things do too.

If you are going through challenging times, remind yourself as often as you need to-

This shall pass.

It won’t always be this way.

You've been here before, and the sun came back to shine again. Brightly.

Most people remember Rhett Butler’s line from Gone with the Wind as the last line of the movie- that cuttingly negative, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a….”

Actually, it’s not. Rather, it’s Scarlet who has the last word. “Tomorrow is another day.”

Much better. More positive, and so true, to boot.

©Folk art above by Victoria De Almeida (Reading girl with cat) and Medana Gabbard (Sunrise over town)

We’ll Never Have Unanimity-

And that is Why We Keep Writing

One of my least favorite speech clichés is, “When all is said and done.”

When, perchance, is that?

Busy folks know all is never done, even after it’s done. Writers know all is never said.

Biologist can’t agree on definitions for the word LIFE.

Psychologists can’t agree on what the word PERSONALITY means.

Anthropologists can’t agree on the meaning of the word CULTURE.

*Or the meaning of the word MEANING.*

And so we keep on talking, and telling, and writing. No matter what you think of Darwin’s theory, evolution of understanding is a never ending journey.

In with the New

---But Not Out with the Old

Yesterday was the official first day of fall, and the Jewish New Year begins at sundown tomorrow.

I’m in the midst of the first draft of a new novel for pre-teens, (a.k.a. MG) and the writing is taking all the pontification out of me. That is to say, I’m in a non-pontifical mode. Readers don’t want to get hit on the head with what they should or shouldn't.

This has spilled over to thinking about Rosh Hashanah, (literally, “Head of the Year”) and the many sermons that accompany it. You’re not going to get one here. Instead, a memory of the Jewish New Year meal from thirteen years ago will have to serve in its stead.

My mother was a permanent guest at our home every Friday and holiday. That year, 2001, the holiday fell on a Monday, less than a week after September 11^th. Friends of my father and stepmother were visiting the bay area from Israel, having just managed to leave New York City after flights had resumed. I didn’t know them well, and when they called, I asked them to come for Rosh Hashanah dinner. I figured that, like all of us, they were traumatized and could use some taste of home.

My mother was a Kugel fan. If you haven’t heard of kugel, let’s just say that it is a casserole of cooked-anything-at-all mixed with beaten eggs and seasonings. I had promised her a round kugel for Rosh Hashanah. Round, like all New Year dishes that symbolize the closing of circles.

I didn't make kugel often, so I set out to make the best. I had a mother to honor, Israeli guests to comfort, and an urgent need to respond to the disaster that had struck our nation with the perennial Jewish celebration motto: They tried to kill us, we survived, LET’S EAT!

My mother dreamed of potato-kugel. So I grated and seasoned and mixed and mashed, pouring the mixture into a greased round dish and into a 375 degree oven. 
Then it occurred to me- the last time I made carrot-kugel, DH mentioned not once, but twice, how much he liked it. So I grated and mixed and added the cinnamon and brown sugar and to another round dish it went, also into the same oven.

DD came in and asked what I was making.

 “Kugel, for the New Year,” I said.

“Yum. I love noodle-kugel,” she said. Oops. I wasn’t thinking of her favorite. So I boiled egg noodles and mixed in the eggs, apple sauce and the raisins, and into the oven in yet another round baking dish went kugel number three.

It crossed my mind that having something green for the New Year was sort of mandatory. Think harvest, re-growth, life. Zucchini-kugel would have to serve that role. More grating, beating, mixing, pouring. The oven was almost at full capacity.

DS came in. With the resolute expression six-year-olds are so good at, he informed me that he doesn’t eat any of these kugels. In desperation I made the only kind I knew he would: chocolate-kugel. Not very traditional, but it was round and it was going to be irresistible. Think dark-chocolate not too sweet soufflé, only this one stabilized with matzo meal so it doesn’t collapse.

 By then I was ready to collapse. 

Our guests arrived right after my mother. Introductions were made, and they complimented our table. I lit the holiday candles, and DD blessed the round challah. DS said the blessing over the fruit of the vine, (ours-wine, his and DD’s grape juice) and we said SHE-HEH-CHEH-YANU, the prayer of gratefulness for having arrived to this day. It had never meant more.

I opened the oven door and brought out the first. 
“Wow, kugel!” our guests exclaimed.

I went back and brought the second. 
“How nice, a kugel!” the wife said.

I was feeling positively giddy when I brought the third. 
“Ah, kugel,” I heard. It sounded a bit like a sigh.

Not done, I came in with the fourth. 
“Another kugel?” said the husband.

I felt positively sheepish bringing in kugel number five. But it was chocolate; the only one DS would eat.

I suspect our guests from Israel thought they really had landed in Oz.

That Rosh Hashanah is now a memory, part of family lore. My mother passed away, and our guests are long gone. My kids have left the nest. It will be one kugel this year, and I will choose. One kugel will have to stand for all the others.

Let’s eat.

No Nonsense Sagacity

Breathe in,

Breathe out.

Breathe in,

Breathe out.

Forget to do this

And attaining Enlightenment

Will be the least of your problems.

At DD’s orientation last month, the Dean of Juilliard told the incoming freshmen: “Don’t forget to breathe.” In that context he meant they should get out of their practice rooms, experience the great city, go for walks in Central Park, and remember to draw essential nourishment when the vessel runs dry.

Deep in first draft to a new MG, I must do the same.

For me this means taking the weekends off. Yup, just like a regular job. It also means that I don’t allow myself to write for more than a certain number of hours on writing-days. This is not a sprint, but a long distance journey to the finish. Strategic pacing is paramount.

 And of course, there’s the breathing thing. That, and a good cup of coffee.

 ---

© All above cat-art^ by Shelagh Duffett

From The Mouth of Babes…

…And Everyone else's

In one of those moods today, thinking about unexpected insights I've gotten over the years from just about everyone I've known, when I realized there’s a theme, and it’s called missing DD.

I also woke up in a generous mood, or, as it is often referred to- a mood to share. I’d bet you have plenty such insights gleaned not from the famous wise-folks, but from your family, friends, neighbors, and a passer-by.

“A woman is like a teabag. You never know her strength until she’s in hot water.”

A neighbor, after hearing about my experience giving birth to the above DD

“Luck comes when you are prepared to receive it.”

DD’s music teacher

And finally-

“The saddest thing about a person dying in the middle of talking is that you never hear what they were going to say.”

DD, in one of her out-of-the blue utterings, when she was three years old

Can you tell I miss her? DD who's now all of seventeen, and probably having the time of her life at Juilliard, is never far from my heart. I was blessed to have DS before her, and fortunate to have him go to school not too far away. But the wise folks know that each of those we love is unique and irreplaceable.

Be Happy

Years ago, at a particularly difficult moment in her life, my wise stepmother told me she chose not to fall into depression, and chose to be happy. “It is a choice,” she repeated. It took me years and some hard choices of my own to understand what she meant. Did I mention already she was wise?

I think about the happiness I know, and have come to realize that it has to do with being at the moment and counting one’s blessings. Cliché? Well, maybe it is, and for a reason.

An empty-nester has a lot of time to think about things. Time occupied by meeting the needs of others is suddenly vacated, leaving patches of spaces that, before they’ll be filled by new demands, just hover there.

I choose to think about happiness as moments of grace. Not the big ones, the expected joyous milestones, but little gifts that remind us we love and are loved in return.

Like-

Meeting a friend I have only known virtually, who took the trouble to drive many hours just so we can spend an afternoon-

Having a relative offer to drive down to help DD’s transition to college. Every bit helps-

And this, right now, this very moment-

When Do Writers Celebrate?

Getting a manuscript finished does not mean you will get an agent to represent it.

Getting an agent does not mean you will get a sale.

Getting a sale to a publisher does not mean the book will make it all the way to publication.

Making it to publication does not mean it will have decent sale numbers. Or awards. Or good reviews. Or anything.

So when do we get to celebrate?

I’d say- celebrate every one of these milestone. LIFE IS TOO SHORT.

No, this is not an announcement. I celebrate every milestone, and have had almost every one of the above mentioned set-backs. I’m just doing my usual thing here- giving my four-cents worth.

Chin up, brave dreamers. Every bit counts.

Warning: RANT

Or: How I Became a RUDE Person

I’m no different from ninety eight percent of Americans. Inundated with sales calls, advertisement on sites, the airwaves, and practically everywhere I look, I count on my home being my sanctuary. I willingly climb the many steps that form an obstacle-course to our door, because they have kept most door-to-door solicitors away. Who wants to walk up two flights of stairs of a now-in-construction path when some homes have front doors at street level?

A few years back, the lauded Do-Not-Call Registry stopped stopping anyone. I still had the front door, though. But for some reason the unofficial moat is no longer working. The floodgates have broken, and the solicitors have been floating in at an alarming rate all summer long.

On our neighborhood Email group, alerts have been coming of rude solicitors who hurl insults, yell, and walk away name-calling. The number of unique descriptions has increased from once a week to a few a day, every day. Since it’s not a crime to knock on a stranger’s door or even walk away yelling at them, the police have no interest in such. The neighbors are left to  videotaping and sharing, and rubbing our ears in the hope we haven’t heard what we thought we did, then rubbing our hands in frustration. We glance at our NO SOLICITORS signs, and wonder why they didn't look as pathetic to us when we hung them up.

 

The word solicitous, which is related to solicitor, is defined as being concerned, caring, considerate, attentive, mindful, and thoughtful. Oh, really?

I used to be nice at the door. I used to listen and consider. I used to think about what the huffing ‘n puffing person had to say. After all, they came all the way up from the street. Only my very best friends would deem to attempt this feat, and only because they valued my company.

The other day DD told me my abrupt way of speaking to a solicitor who came back after I asked her, nicely, not to, was rude. “They are people,” she said.

I realized I had become rude.

Gimme’ your tired, yearning to breath free. I no longer know which of us are the poor. I should probably go away to recharge on some island for a while. Only I suspect the road to it will be littered with billboards eager to make sales/converts/conquests of the huddled masses. 

Packing, Shipping, Moving…

So here I am, an assistant packer to DS who’s moving to his second apartment. In a few days, when this is done, I’ll be assistant shipper to DD who is moving a lot farther, and then an assistant mover-in (a glamorous term for a tag-along) as she checks-in to her residence only three thousand miles away.

And then…

Back here, to what is euphemistically referred to as the empty nest. Empty? Not my cluttered abode. But without what has been the hearth and soul of it, the nippers.

My late mother, who was an avid bird-watcher, told me chicks leave the nest once and then return, before leaving for good. My family got to observe many nests of different birds and their hatchlings, who found our home and yard a desirable place to build theirs. My mother’s observations proved right.

And so it is with humans- they leave but return before they leave permanently. But it is never the same. A new stage is set, and the parents must move on to the third act.

But I can’t quite grasp it, because I’m too busy. That’s a good thing. Otherwise my grip may lose its grasp, and I’d become a puddle of muddle.

Advice, support, and good recipes welcome!

August Days

August, the summer's last messenger of misery, is a hollow actor.

Henry Rollins

If you can explain this quotation to me, please do. I’m still thinking about it.

Some love summer, because less is expected of us in summer. The pace slows, and for those who take real vacations in other locations, August is a most likely time.

We dress lightly and do most anything half heartedly. Even where the heat is oppressive, the image of cool lemonade on a wrap-around porch is more August than any other. The burdens and undertakings are still a month away, around the corner, as soon as September peeks.

So put your feet up and allow it to sink in. There’ll be plenty of time for misery later.

Back from the Boondocks

Well, I’m back and not worse for wear. In fact, I felt rested from no-cooking-dishwashing-driving and all things computer. “Felt,” because as soon as I opened my Inbox a deluge poured in. Two weeks of neglect made my computer furious. I could hear it hissing, “Who do you think you are not checking-in for ions?”

When it was done rumbling and grumbling, 486 messages were waiting to be examined. That’s four-hundred and eighty six, yes Ma’am.

Two days later, and I am almost caught up. Many messages were discard-able, true. But discarding three-hundred plus messages takes time. Then there are the others.

This got me thinking that I spend entirely too much time with Email. I’m not running a corporation; I’m barely running my life as a manager of my family. I value staying connected. I've gotten a lot from E-connectivity and can’t remember how it was before, in cavemen’s days. But maybe I don’t need it as much as the folks I see on their portable devices in all places at all times.

I now value even more the needed disconnection. Reminder on my E-calendar: do it again sometime.

Still Away...

While DD plays,

I try to stay cool.

In more ways than one.
Back next week, calm and collected.

Off of Blog-land...

...But just for a wee bit.

I'm an official chaperon for DD for yet another international piano competition.

I take a break from E-communication, while my computer stays home with DH.
Back in two weeks...

Hot ‘Nuff for You?

Well, it is July.

But I was also thinking about the other kind of hot.

What makes one person’s blog popular? What makes one book zoom straight into the interstate highway while another gets stalled at a gas station on a side road in a desert town long abandoned?

Wait a minute- maybe this image is better for a screenplay.

It’s tempting, reading such, to suggest that the quality of the writing is the reason. Bad writing, (see the preceding example) and the book can not ever make it to the hotties list. Same with personal popularity. A mean-spirited person’s snarky blog will never garner a large following.

Ahmm. I have shining examples to disprove that. But this is not the point of my post, so I won’t name names. Bet you know what I’m referring to, though.

So back to today’s pondering- what makes writing "hot?"

If you have any ideas, tell me. It may be July, but the temperature at my place feels decidedly chilly. Come to think of it, maybe I could use some chili. C’mon over and we’ll share.

Really Good Chili:

Ingredients:
 3 pounds lean ground beef
 2 large chopped onions
6 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tablespoon dried ground cumin or to taste
2 tablespoons fresh chili peppers ,chopped
Coarse salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste
3 to 4 cups fresh tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 cup beef broth
1 cup red wine
 2 tablespoons molasses
2 cans kidney beans, rinsed and drained

Chopped green onions

Preparation:
In a large soup pot over medium-high heat, sauté ground beef, onion, and garlic until the meat becomes gray in color. Add cumin, chili peppers, salt, pepper, tomatoes, beef broth & wine. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, approximately 3 to 4 hours, stirring often.
Add molasses to taste to cut down the acidity of the tomatoes. Add beans and continue to simmer another 30 minutes.
For maximum flavor, cool chili and refrigerate overnight so flavors will mellow as chili is best made 1 day ahead to allow the flavors time to marry.

Re-heat and garnish with green onion.

Counting Our Chickens

An old man and a young man were travelling on a train, when the young man asked the old man, “Pardon me, sir, but do you have the time?”

The old man didn't answer, so the young man rephrased, “Sorry to bother you, but do you know what time it is?” The old man kept silent.

Seeing a watch peeking from under the old man’s cuff, the young man couldn't help himself. “Sir, may I ask why you won’t answer me?”

“Young man,” said the old man, “This is the next to the last stop on this route. Shortly after that comes the last stop. I don’t know you, but if I answer you now we’ll strike a conversation, and at the last stop I will have to invite you to my house which is right next to the station because it is dinner time and my wife has dinner ready. You’re good looking, and my beautiful daughter who’s home from college will be there. You’ll both fall in love and the next thing we know you’ll get married. So you tell me- do I need a son-in-law when what I could really use is a new watch that actually keeps the right time?”

I thought of this old Jewish joke because it occurred to me how in life we often admonish ourselves not to count our chickens before they’re hatched. Not to think of a submission becoming an offer and an offer becoming a contract. You’ve just sent the query, for goodness sake.

But when we write we do the opposite- we must think ahead, well ahead. Even if parts of our story are a surprise to us as well, deep down we know the story. At least for me, a story’s outline is the first step, and the chickens are counted before they get hatched.

© Erica Aoyama 2003

Don’t dream about this; do dream about that. Here’s it’s crippling; there it’s a must.

Just bits of existential ponder on a Tuesday morning.

Public Me, Public You

When the great Nora Ephron died, the shock was that she died from a long illness she completely hid from the public. 
This was the Nora Ephron whose reputation was as a revealer of personal warts. The Nora who wrote so poignantly about the betrayal and disillusion of her marriage in Heartburn; the struggles with her aging appearance in I feel bad about my neck, and gave the same impression of intimate candor in her essays published by the New Yorker. 
This wonderful storyteller, who could be thought of as the original blogger, was the same Nora Ephron who was diagnosed with a terminal illness six years before she passed away, and shared none of it. Not with the public, anyway.

For me this makes perfect sense; she shared of herself, but not all of herself. This is what I do in my life and in my writing. This is what I do on this blog.

Here are my Public Me rules:

*Do not lie, fib, or invent glories. Praise should come from someone else.

*Share your failings if you think someone may find it helpful. Writing is about getting out of the isolation booth.

*Do not push all your warts on others.

* Never ever, no matter how tempting, share your children’s warts. Or your identified friends’. Or anyone who isn't begging you to do it.

*If you choose to write a rah-rah-aren't-things-grand-in-my-corner sort of blog, that’s all right. But no one wants to read those for long. Just the sunny-side makes a blogger a dull girl.

Public me is thoughtful.  Always navigating what to say, where, why, when, and to whom. No different than the “W”s of story telling.

I haven’t been diagnosed (touch wood and Tfoo-Tfoo) with anything interesting, and unlike Ms. Ephron I might have shared such. The private/public filter is a personal one. But wherever it’s drawn, I’m aware of it.