The Agony and The Ecstasy

Look what I found on YouTube while researching END OF THE ROPE, my 1962 novel and the first of the Sixties Trilogy!

Here is the VERY (well, maybe not THE VERY, but it's VERY, VERY CLOSE)... the film I saw in elementary school about Bert the Turtle and ducking and covering and how to protect oneself against the dreaded Communist Nuclear Attack.

Oh, HOW this brought back memories... not only of those duck-and-cover air-raid drills (which I just finished writing about in chapter two of the new novel), but look at the way we dressed, look at how classrooms looked, how teachers dressed, how society structured itself... and notice that, in this nine-minute film, there is not one black face. Not one Indian or Latino or Asian face.

I'm writing (as a fictional story) my days at Camp Springs Elementary School in Camp Springs, Maryland. I'm writing about Andrews Air Force Base, where my father was stationed for seven years and was, for his last years there, Chief of Safety for the 89th MATS -- SAM FOX -- the squadron that flew (and still flies) the President of the United States. I'm writing about "the Communist threat." I'm writing about 1962, the space race, the Cold War, the Cuban missile crisis. I'm writing out of my life. (The patch below calls Sam-Fox the 99th -- anybody know why?)

From a research standpoint, there is so much I'm still culling through. And, from a fictional standpoint, creating these characters and their stories out of whole cloth, there is still so much I don't know.

I was nine in 1962. Franny, my heroine, is twelve. But her brother, Drew, is nine. Franny is a middle child. Drew is the youngest and only boy; he can do no wrong in the eyes of his parents. And why is that? WHY? I have struggled with this for so long from a story point-of-view... it's okay for Drew to be the golden child, but I want, as the writer of the story who is creating 1962 (and, in addition, if I do my job well, a universal story) for the reader, to know WHY Drew is the golden child.

He had rheumatic fever last year. That's what happened to Drew... and that's what happened to his family. Ohmygolly. OHMYGOLLY. This changes so much. I have been working on this novel, off and on, and now relentlessly, for over ten years. I had no idea about rheumatic fever... don't really understand what it is. But my friend MikeM., who was born a year after I was... he understands.

Long ago, maybe almost twenty-five years now, MikeM. told me about his struggle with rheumatic fever when he was 12. His heart was forever damaged... and seven years ago, MikeM. had a stroke, partly as a result of the rheumatic fever... so he has been much on my mind, and now I see that my undermind has been chewing on this story...

... and suddenly, sitting here at the page, day after agonizing day, trying to figure out the relationship between Franny and her brother Drew, it comes to me, out of the ether, that Drew has survived rheumatic fever, and his family is so concerned for him, so worried about his health, his future... and I think, "why didn't I see this ten... five... two years, two MONTHS ago?"

Well... because it wasn't time yet. I could cite you chapter and verse that may or may not be right or true about how these things happen. I could say that my friend MikeM. came to our big family celebration in May and I hadn't seen him for some time and that, after that, I started thinking more and more about his life and our connection, and somehow his account of the harrowing rheumatic fever days of the early '60s crept into my consciousness as I wrote forward on this novel... and maybe that would be true.

And maybe not.

I don't know. But I do know that I wrote about these conversations, and those memories, in my notebooks -- twice. I wrote about it when MikeM. first told me this story, probably in 1980 (I have not looked up the particular notebook although I have it; I have a stack of old notebooks, as high as my waist, in my closet), and again in May this year, when I wrote for myself a wrap-up of the party. So somewhere, this fact was working on my subconscious, which is where Story is born.

We write out of our lives, whether we realize it or not. And we have to trust that what we need will be there when we need it, even if we cannot know what it is.

I think that Drew having had rheumatic fever fits so well into the fact that he projects such bravado now (he is convinced, for one thing, that he will be an astronaut), and it fits so well into my whole "we may be annihilated tomorrow" theme of this novel... I can hardly express this to you in a cogent manner, so I won't try any longer, except to say that I have felt so bereft about this revision in these past several weeks of slogging, even in the face of steadfast support from editors and agents and writer friends and a couple of select readers.

But, finally, I am learning and re-learning that it is only BIC -- Butt In Chair -- that saves me... isn't that amazing?

All the people you love and trust can tell you you're doing a good job, but you know when the story sings.. you know it, don't you? You know. Okay, I know... I can only speak for myself. But I know when I'm cookin' with gas, and this only happens when I am willing to keep my B in the C and SIT HERE with the story at hand, and be willing to jump down those dark rabbit holes and climb back up again, and try one thing and then another and then, suddenly, though a process I cannot begin to understand (let alone articulate, as you can see), say, "OHMYGOLLY! Drew had scarlett fever last year!"

And that explains everything.

Maybe you had to be there.


I've also got these l'il creatures mentioned in END OF THE ROPE. Franny has quite a collection of them, and she also calls her brother one of these... anybody know what they are?

Film at Eleven.

Weekend Catch-Up #2

Beach or mountains? Or both? For me, it's the mountains, the mountains, the mountains. Can't live without the mountains. When I left Frederick, Maryland, where I had lived for 25 years, I left the Catoctin Mountain foothills and the western Maryland mountains. Now, transplanted 650 miles away in Atlanta, I live less than an hour away from that same mountain range, which is all part of the Blue Ridge; now I live close to the southernmost tip of the Appalachian Trail, and not too far from my beloved mountains. We often get in the car on Sunday afternoons and drive north. Here's how that trip looked last weekend... I call this a recipe for slowing down. I did not even bring my notebook with me on this trip.

Jim has a gig every Sunday morning (a "steady," we call that). While he's gigging, I rummage through the kitchen -- we will be gone two days, so let's use up what's here -- and find cauliflower, potatoes, cheese. I remember a recipe I made many years ago, from the Moosewood Cookbook, find recipe, make a cauliflower/potato/cheese soup and a salad from some apples, spinach, cherry tomatoes, nuts, whatever is available and looks sincere. Eat.



Admire volunteer sunflowers growing by the mailbox. Jim is six feet, six inches tall -- haven't measured the sunflowers.










Stuff a few overnight items in a canvas bag and head out to the Family Folk-Art Reunion at Around Back at Rocky's Place in Dawsonville, Georgia, about an hour's drive from Atlanta.








Meet Roy Hinshew, who is carving this angel.









With these.










Goodbye, Roy.

Be careful with those power tools.











Take a meandering drive north into the foothills to Dahlonega -- the site of the first gold rush in the U.S. Our destination is The Crimson Moon, our favorite long-distance dinner spot.

The food is great, but these guys are really why we come. Great musicians who jam together on Sunday afternoons at Crimson Moon. Toe tapping ensues. We let the music -- the melodies, harmonies, rhythms, and exuberance -- let it melt away the long work week.


Drive another hour north, winding up and down and around the Blue Ridge Mountains, stopping for a hello to the lake at Vogel State Park, which is smack in the middle of the mountains (scroll down to the last photo, here, for a picture of the lake, our favorite spot to swim), then we wend our way to Marble, North Carolina, where friends await our arrival...



...where the grapes are almost ripe, and where we pick blueberries as the sun rises the next morning and fold them into our breakfast pancakes.

Where we find water -- Jim's only requirement on a trip to the mountains.





This trip, it's the Nantahala River. The waterfall is thundering into a deep pool, and we don't get too close to it, because the pressure is too high. But we can admire it from a distance. What a roar!





Kate's in.
Jim's game.
I am... sensible.
"It's FINE, don't worry about me, I'll take some pictures."

Translation: "This water is FREEZING!"





Jim: YES IT IS! (That's not exactly what he said. It was more like HOLY BATMAN!, only that wasn't it, either.)











One more look around. Breathtaking beauty: The mountains, the river, the friends, the husband, still trying to take the plunge.









The picture of perseverance.


This is what I want to do with my novel. Persevere, even when the water is freezing. I don't want to stand, ankle deep in the freezing river, and take pictures. I don't want to be.... sensible.

I want to plunge in. It takes guts. Someone said it takes courage just to get up in the morning. Maybe it does. As I sit at my desk and work on this novel, I think it takes a certain kind of craziness -- is that what perseverance is? -- to make up people and stories out of whole cloth, thin air, bits and pieces of moments we have lived, the memories we have of those moments, and the meaning we assign them.

It's like looking at these mailboxes along the side of a rural road and asking, "Who lives here? What are their stories?"

That's the work I'm doing this afternoon.

Weekend Catch-Up #1

Recipe for a late-June week-into-weekend:




One yellow duckie watering can.






One watering helper wearing stylish New Orleans bling. My staff is nothing if not multi-talented. (Last night she called the fireworks "bubbles!" -- I sense a writer in the making...)







One daddy home from work. Sorry, Debbie -- quittin' time!











Delicious lunches -- lunch is our big meal of the day.






Sometimes Jim cooks. His expertise is frozen peas. Also frozen corn. Corn on the cob. Broccoli -- lots of broccoli. And couscous. Boiled eggs. Peanut butter.
And he makes a mean salad.












Goodbye to Jim who works every weekend. Here he is, off to play a wedding. He guarantees a long and happy marriage to brides who hire him to play for their weddings. June was full of weddings, and Jim was learning Enya tunes for processionals and U2 for recessionals, also "The Best is Yet to Come" for one recessional. Listening to practice around here this month has been very interesting.


A late-afternoon nap near the lake at Hard Labor Creek State Park. We love state parks. This year marks the 75th anniversary of the New Deal, which created so much of our state park system. We drive to our local state park, put $3 in the honor-system parking kiosk, and take off for an afternoon of sitting, sipping, and swimming... with an occasional nap thrown in for good measure.

The garden in mid-summer. The chicken is a birthday/Mother's Day gift from my kids.



More to eat.





We're bringing home whatever we find fresh at the local farmer's markets.
That's an organic eggplant on the right, simmered in water, not oil, with a bit of parmesan cheese sprinkled on top.


Still finding asparagus (Jim made this salad!)... have you read this article in The Washington Post titled "The 11 Best Foods You Aren't Eating"? We're eating 7 of them. I'm pretty confident we're not going to start eating sardines, but we can incorporate the others.




Vegetarian chili, organic red seedless grapes. Summer food! It rocks. Not pictured: tomato sandwiches with cheddar cheese and too much mayonnaise (Vicky S., I need an intervention!) and baked pears with a bit of melted chocolate on top. Mmmmmm good.

Finally, a week/weekend is best when there are friends to share some of these meals with. We've named the new carport room "Irene." I don't know why.

Weekend Catch-up #2 tomorrow: the North Georgia mountains and into North Carolina. And, a writing report.

Meanwhile, I've worked on a picture book this Saturday morning, and now turn my attentions to the novel. I'm hoping for a long stretch of writing this afternoon. I'm introducing nine-year-old Drew in chapter three. Each character needs a unique entrance, just as he/she does in the movies or on the stage (or, in life, come to think of it). Even my air-raid drill, introduced in a scene I finished yesterday in chapter two, is a character who needs an entrance.

This chapter three was the original chapter one for longer than I want to tell you. I hadn't been willing to let it go for the longest time. I hadn't wanted to write school scenes, for one thing. Think about it: in all my Aurora County novels (all my novels so far), there is not one school scene. I've kept the action centered on home and community, purposefully, even when spanning several months: LITTLE BIRD starts at Easter and ends at Thanksgiving.

But I need school scenes for END OF THE ROPE (the working title of the 1962 novel). For one thing, air-raid drills are an integral part of the story. I can't just tell you about them: I need to show you. So off I go to school with Franny.

One more note: Wheeeee! Thanks for all these Sixties memories that are pouring into my inbox! I'm going to share some of them, with permission, over the next several months, as I work forward on the 1962 novel. Please feel free to use the comments section, too -- I didn't mean it, what I said about comments long ago. I think I've figured out how to comment on the comments. So I've opened them up again. Comment away.