Alone

It might sound strange coming from a 45-year-old single woman, but finding myself alone is almost foreign to me. The only time I have lived alone was my sophomore year of college and even then my best friend lived next door with only a thin wall between us. We could hear each other’s phone conversations and practically talk without picking up the phone. The rest of the time I’ve had either roommates or family sharing my space.

My present house, located in the center of town, has always been a stopping place for family and friends. Its revolving door policy means that typically you can find someone coming or going day and night. Sometimes I’ll be sitting up working at 3:00 a.m. only to find my brother, Paul, has stopped by to grab a snack on his way home from night patrol. In the morning, before I even wake, family may have stopped and used the computer or the bathroom, and I will come downstairs to find traces of their presence. It’s sort of a Goldilocks moment – whose been sitting in my chair, etc. etc.?

Even when I travel it’s usually with someone or at least with the intention of meeting someone. For example, I travel back and forth to Cambridge, NY for my writers’ group, but the other members are always there waiting. When I make the hour-long journey between my house and Joan’s, I know there is someone on both ends to see me off and greet me. Even if my house has gone to bed for the night, my pugs wait patiently for their evening romp and snacks.

On my annual trek to the Woodstock Writers’ Festival, it’s true I meet up with other writers, but I know none of them. Although my name is on a checklist of having purchased a festival pass, no one will really pay any mind if I show up or not. There is a freedom in this. I am afloat and without boundaries, unsure how to take best advantage of this. I could go eat pizza or check in at the hotel. I could grab some soup or head to the story slam. There is no one else to consider. There’s just me. It’s a funny feeling. I have to stop and think – what do I want?

Some of my married friends with children look at my life longingly, imagining secret freedoms and independence. It is not a life I’ve known. Seldom has my life been untethered. And, true, it is not really this independence and freedom I crave. Although I always seem to have people around me, I am frequently lonely, craving a family of my own. And, yet, at moments like this, when I find myself truly alone, I can’t help but observe with scientific objectivity that it is an interesting experience. The feeling is alien, but potentially exhilarating as if every action holds the promise of adventure. I wait to see what may happen next.

Writing Prompt: Hopen 4 Peace

Four years ago I stumbled upon information advertising a memoir-focused writing conference in Woodstock, NY. Because I teach memoir, I signed up. I have to admit that I was drawn to the allure of the famous or should I say infamous town, known in name at least for being the home of Woodstock, the 60s music festival. The actual festival took place in Bethel, but it is Woodstock that is forever linked with this cultural milestone.

I fell in love with the town and the festival and have been going back annually ever since. It’s always been a bit of a retreat for me. It was one of the first places that I actually “escaped” to on my own – traveling alone and not really letting anyone know where I was – so that first year, I felt a wee bit of a rebel. I celebrated my freedom and honored the Woodstock mystique by getting a spontaneous tattoo of a peace symbol on my way out of town. I had two other tattoos when I got this one, but both of those had been planned out and held very specific meaning, this one I got on the fly without thinking. And, I was so proud of myself for doing so.

It was at the Woodstock Writers’ Festival that I befriended or was befriended by Maria Wulf and Jon Katz, two people that have become friends and powerful creative influences on this blog and my work. Last year I was sick when the festival rolled around, so I missed the first day. I remember showing up in time for an evening event. It was cold and rainy, but I was excited to be there.

To me one of the joys of the event, in addition to being exposed to a wealth of world-class writers, is wandering the streets taking photographs. Color, light and character fill the streets. I have stumbled upon drumming circles and a  “hippie” parade that made me feel like I had actually traveled back to the sixties. My first year there I visited this eclectic gift shop and bought myself a pink wig. When I am there, I am unfettered and free. The pink wig reflected this somehow.

Shortly after I returned home I attended a class on using the computer to create art. Unfortunately, the class was horrible. Students had so many computer problems just getting started that the teacher never even got a chance to start the class. The good thing was this gave me plenty of time to experiment and I ended up creating my first digital collage, using images I had snapped in Woodstock. It was a self-portrait and looking at it now, I realize I was already doing some of the things that have become my signature such as combining hand drawing with the digital photography. I loved the result both as a work of art and as a self-portrait. I didn’t think much when I was creating this, I just enjoyed myself, but there is something about it that is just me.

The woman in this picture is a free-spirit, she seems to be smiling, happy, energetic, but she is also peering from behind a curtain, lace covers her ace, she is not looking out with her own eyes, but rather those that are bedazzled – you question whether the eyes mask her from you or vice versa. There is a part of me that is out there, open and free, a part that is veiled. Perhaps that is the case with most of us.

The cranberry peace symbol in the upper right corner, by the way, is my actual tattoo. If you look below it the girl in the mirror where’s a different face. Her reflection is more open. It is not veiled. I like the words for which the piece is named, Hopen 4 Peace. These were snapped from a sign on a Woodstock storefront. They speak of something both universal and personal. It is what we all seek.

I leave for the Woodstock Writers’ Festival tomorrow and will return on Monday. I will be bringing my computer and ipad with me and will try to blog as I can, but the days are pretty packed with activity, so bear with me. I’ll post as I can.

Writing Prompt: Where Do You Go to Escape?

News

When my brother Paul left for boot camp he asked for letters. He warned against drawings, photos or gifts – anything that might make him stand out. He’d heard horror stories about guys who received cookies from their families and were forced to eat all of them at once while the rest of the men did push-ups. I’m not sure if his worries are justified, but we were warned no extras, just news – news of home, news of family. “I’m not sure how much we’ll know about what’s going on in the rest of the world,” he said.

Again, I don’t know if they’ll share with my brother and the other men at boot camp news of the Boston Marathon and the tragedy that occurred there or if they do how it will be presented. I know it won’t be the same as if he heard it here at home.

Boston holds a special place in the heart of our family. My parents, who attended Eastern Nazarene College in Quincy for a time, were engaged on Washington Street. Paul, too spent some time at ENC and to my brother John and I, Boston was the Emerald City – our destination spot. When we crossed the bridge over the Charles and saw the city looming, we knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore or more accurately our rural town of Bethel, Vt.

We went to Boston for concerts and Star Trek conventions, to hear the likes of Prince, U2 and Sting. We went to visit the boy I loved and to tour Newbury Comics and Tower Records for vinyl and to search for specific songs we had heard on TV shows or on the radio as we entered the city. This was in the days before I-tunes and the Internet so finding a song you sought was like embarking on a scavenger hunt. You poured through bins of records in seedy used record stores tucked in basements or back alleys, searching based on a remembered lyric or a phrase that sounded like so and so, and when you scored the coveted item, when you took it home, put it on your record player, heard the first notes and realized you’d hit pay dirt, oh, the feeling was sweet. Then again, everything was. We were young.

Boston was exciting, but safe. For teens that had never ventured far beyond their one-street town, it held promise and possibility and the assurance that you could head out in the world and find your way. I learned to ride the T and where to get on and off for all our favorite haunts. I sometimes still hear the static-y announcement “Ahrlington” cried in its distinct Boston drawl in my dreams.

We would hit Boston in the morning and stay until late at night, speeding home, windows down in my brother’s mustang. We blasted cassettes of our favorite songs, creating our own soundtrack.  We were cool, we were young, we were part of a world larger than ourselves. We might live in Bethel, but Boston held our hearts and it stands frozen in my memory, a time capsule of all that’s right.

These are things my brother Paul understands although he was still too young when we were making these journeys to come along, but he has his own tales of the city to tell. The last time we were there together with his wife Leah, he took us on a tour of some of his college hangouts, ending in a field in the darkness. Leah and I joked as he parked the car that he was taking us out to the woods to kill us, but somehow as we walked the narrow path together we felt safe. The bright lights in the distance looked out over us, keeping a watchful eye. We called home to let my Mom, who was watching their kids, know we would be late, and we stopped for pizza at a greasy Italian sub shop. Paul and I volleyed tidbits of conversation back and forth as we battled to share with Leah all our memories of the city.

If Paul were here he’d likely have called me on his cell to ask if I’d heard the news. He is always the first to inform me of world events. He probably would have made some jibe, as we are likely to throw at each other, turning it into something political. But, it would be half-hearted in light of such tragedy. I don’t know if someone has shared with my brother this horrible event, likely he’ll hear about it before I tell him. There are no real silver linings in tragedies like this, but we cling to those things that bring us hope such as the good in those who tried to help. We offer our memories of marathons and cities that once seemed safe. We pray for a better world. And, in our confusion we turn to each other because it is not news we revel in at times like this, but in our shared humanity. We reach for those we love, seeking safe harbor and nod to everyone else, drawing them too, a little bit closer. The news is, at times like this, we realize everyone's our brother.

My Brother's Home

The rain falls lightly to the ground as we pull into the mud-lined driveway of my brother’s home. The raw, comforting smell of wood smoke burns my nostrils. The brook gurgles with mirth: spring is here she announces even as the nip in the air tries to deny this inevitable fact. Green grass already pokes up through the brown earth; this and the red shed to my left, the brightest splashes of color against this earth-toned world. Mom and I walk the rain-slicked stones to the porch and knock on the door.

Sophie, my brother’s boxer erupts in a string of raucous roars, leaping up and down against the door. I wonder if she is looking for my brother, away at boot camp. His wife, long and lean in a black-and-white apron, thick, red hair piled high on her head, answers the door.

“Hiii,” she drawls, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m just making dinner, y’all.” She may be a Vermont housewife now, but her Texas roots are showing. My eight-year-old niece and eleven-year-old nephew, Catherine and Adam, tackle me, such a wave of long entangled limps that I can barely make out who is who. “We’re writing letters to Daddy,” my niece declares.

The rich odor of chicken and roasting potatoes fills the air. “I’m making purple potatoes,” my sister-in-law proudly announces. She and I had taken a trip to Hawaii together a couple of years ago and eaten lavender-tinged taro root, so their mention is a nod to me.

“I’ll have to take pictures,” I say.

I glance at the dish-clad counter and notice a stack of letters. My brother has been gone for less than a week, but his wife and kids have been writing daily, stockpiling the letters until he calls with his address.

“We just stopped by to say, hi,” Mom and I announce. “Can I write a letter to Daddy, too?” I ask.

My niece grabs a piece of unlined paper and a pencil, serving me pink lemonade in a fancy glass as I sit down to write. “Everyone misses you,” I write. “I don’t know why! LOL.” Actually I miss him too.  “Maybe I should enlist and see what people think of me,” I note. “This is like faking your death and attending your own funeral just to see what people really think of you. So far so good.”

We finish the letter and as Leah starts dishing out the food to the kids, I snap a photo of the purple potatoes and get ready to leave. The kids’ artwork hangs on the kitchen walls. A colorful self-portrait by Catherine, a wildly colored pastel forest by Adam, and Catherine’s latest an “army guy” in camouflage. Homages to their Daddy are everywhere.

We discuss plans to get together next week, say our goodbyes and walk out the door. “Love you,” we say simultaneously.

Mom and I hop in the Honda and as we get ready to leave the driveway I look off to the hillside and spy two deer grazing in the field. I get out of the car and stroll down the hill toward the open field, trying to get as close to the deer as I can. As I near the crimson shed, they stop their grazing, look up and freeze. Realizing that I am not disappearing, they eventually take off, leaping across obstacles invisible to my naked eye, their white tails flirtatiously waving as they go.

We live in a painting, I think, a portrait of rural Vermont. Damp woodpiles, thick mud, and gray rain surround us. Across the road, my grandparent’s former farm, now my uncles’, looks worn. The farmers who lease it have stockpiled tires around the precariously tilted silo. Photographers have made postcards of the nearby bridge, the farm in its shadows, but today the naked face of the landscape shines through.

My family has lived on this land for 200 years. One of us has wandered from home. I sit in his drive-way, listening to the song of the brook, basking in the smell of burning wood, watching the white-tail deer dance by, hoping they are a sign of good fortune. I wait with his mother, wife and children, expectant like his dog, for the days to fly by and he to return safely home. We are tied to each other like the soil to this land. We are bound by blood and love. We never wander far.

Palette of Possibility

One of the best things about starting this blog has been the opportunity it has afforded me to play. Perhaps I should clarify. It’s allowing me to work at what I love, but in doing so, this work seems a lot more like play than it ever has before.

I’m one of those people who always have to be doing something and I always feel the need to be moving forward, working toward reaching the next goal. Sometimes because things haven’t turned out exactly as I hoped in my life, I feel like I’m racing against a clock with no time to waste. This has often meant forgoing things that I plain find fun like trying out some new art technique. Suddenly I have a forum for these projects and thus, my work has become play.

When I was in high school I was torn between becoming an art major and a writing major. I applied to Rhode Island School of Design and was accepted, but ended up choosing Middlebury College instead. I started as an art major there, but suddenly art stopped being fun. It was all about being critiqued. Throughout the years I have drawn, mostly pastel and pen-and-ink, for Christmas presents and specific projects, but now I find myself creating art to accompany the stories on this blog, trying new techniques and looking forward to what I can experiment with next.

Today, I added color to my picture of Joan and the pug puppy. I used watercolor pencils and a little bit of pen and ink and pastel. I like the result. I learned that they make tinted water-soluble graphite so I’m going to see if I can find some for future projects.

It feels like a palette of possibility has been laid out before me and I am happy to take up the brush of creativity and paint.

Sketch: Joan and Puppy

Trying out a new medium tonight -- watercolor graphite. Last April my friend Kathleen and I visited an art store in Montpelier, VT and I saw the graphite on the shelf. It looked like something neat to try. It's a little hard to get the shading right, but it's a lot of fun. This isn't quite finished yet, but almost. This is a sketch of my friend Joan, Waffle's breeder and one of the puppies she sold last year. I just heard that one of those puppies may be a daddy. Trump, who was renamed Goofy, went to live with a veterinarian and his wife. They will let us know soon if the mating took.

As far as the art is concerned I'm trying to decide whether to leave the piece as is or to mix pen and ink in with it. I'm not sure how the ink would work over the graphite so I'll have to do some experimenting. I'll share the finished product when I'm done or maybe I'll just leave it as is.

My Dogs are Dancing

As I wrote the other day I've been learning how to animate my collages, so I decided to continue by animating my Dogs Dancing at the Carousel collage. I know its not perfect. You can see that especially around the mat that the center two dogs are dancing on, but then again I never had any intention of animating it when I created the initial collage, so I'm proud of the result. I know I could also work on coordinating the start and ending times with the music, but as I said this was a learning experience and I achieved what I set out to do: My Dogs Dance! Check out the video on YouTube.

Writing

My day job for the last 20 years has been as a freelance writer and teacher. This past week a local reporter with whom I used to work, interviewed me about an article on memoir writing. After the formalities were out of the way we had some time to play catch up and one of the first questions out of the reporter’s mouth was to ask me if I still worked for the same publication where we had met.

“No,” I replied.

“Thank God,” she said. “I can still picture you at the table with your face in your hands saying with a sigh, ‘I’ll take that, I’ll take that’ to all the stories none of us wanted.”

I had to laugh because she’s right, I did. In order to make a living and build my credentials I willingly took every story that came my way, which sometimes meant writing about toilets and sometimes about real estate. It used to be when you googled my name the first thing that would come up was “Take the Plunge,” indeed, a story about toilets.

To be honest, in order to make a living some of this willingness to write anything comes in handy, but I am learning you can also write about what you love. I work for some wonderful publications today, Upper Valley Life and Rutland Magazine, to name a couple, where I get to do some interesting work. I also am finding new avenues to write about topics that spark my interest such as this blog.

This past fall I interviewed Craig Mosher of Craig Mosher Excavating for Rutland Magazine. Hurricane Irene had destroyed Mosher’s property, where he also kept two popular tourist attractions –a pair of Scottish Highland cattle. I covered his renovation efforts. That article recently appeared in Rutland Magazine and I wanted to share it with you, here. The cover photo of Craig with his donkey Pedro and the end photo of Craig with Rob are both mine. The animals play a prominent role in the story, but because the article was primarily about the restoration of the land, one thing that I did not get to emphasize was Craig’s warm relationship with these creatures. I think the pictures capture that a bit. When he walked me out to introduce me to Big and Rob I almost felt like I was watching a boy romp with his fluffy puppy. Both the animals and the man seemed to bask in the affection of the other. It was fun to watch.

I have to admit that my approach of taking just about any story assignment that comes my way sometimes yields a dud, but more often than not even the worst sounding subject usually reveals hidden facets. Whether it’s learning about a new topic or gathering insight into human nature, each assignment seems to offer an eventual silver lining. Figuring out how to construct an article based on a reluctant interviewee or on foreign subject is similar to approaching a puzzle and discovering where each piece should go. Sometimes it is challenging, sometimes even frustrating, but there is always a feeling of satisfaction when you view the end result.

And, just like solving a puzzle keeps your senses sharp, tackling a range of subjects enhances your skills. So, I have no regrets when assignments are being doled out to be that writer with her hand held out. Each assignment is like being given tickets to a new adventure – some are more fun than others, but if you’re willing to press on and explore the hidden side streets and unexpected byways, you’ll usually find something worth writing about.

Soaring

Poor Alfie. She’s a beautiful cobby pug, plump and pert, perfect for the show ring. She is not, however, aerodynamic. Waffles is another story. That pug can fly.

It seems to be a characteristic of my friend Joan’s pugs. When I first visited Joan’s house, crowded with pugs and gates to keep them separated, I remember the repeated whoosh and thump as Egg would jump gate after gate like an Olympic hurdler. I’ve always thought her pugs would make excellent agility dogs and I’m thinking of taking up the sport with Waffles. That girl needs something to do.

Since I’ve been laid up with my cold, she’s been demonstrating her dissatisfaction and boredom by getting into everything. She does it in precise, dedicated fashion turning over trashcan after trashcan until each has been explored. My lip balm and my glasses are favorite chew toys. She has learned to climb on bags and shelves, creating her own personal stairwells to whatever her desired goals. In order to work and conduct phone interviews without the continuous thwack of another object she has claimed dropping to the ground, I have placed my own baby gate at the bottom of the stairs, letting she and Alfie have the run of the downstairs while I work in my second-floor office.

Ever my “Pugdini” Waffles always eventually seems to find a way upstairs. Initially, she would worm her more slender pug body through a crack where the gate didn’t quite reach the wall. Alfie, terrified of the gate ever since it almost fell on her as a puppy, would stare at her with a mix of horror and amazement, bewildered that anyone would try such a feat. When I learned to bridge the gap and block this path for Waffles, she learned to press her body against the gain until it was leaning like a ramp and she could climb it. Again, Alfie stared, awed.

I figured that’s what Waffles had continued to do to make her way to me, until tonight. Tonight she soared over the top like a streamlined jet plane, while my poor little Goodyear blimp sat at the bottom sulking. I stood at the top of the steps wondering what to do with my two little girls. Alfie may be my beauty queen but some exercise classes may be in order. And, Waffles, time to channel my juvenile delinquent’s tendencies into something more appropriate!

To be honest, I’m excited about the prospect of starting something new. One of the best things about a life with dogs is the new directions in which they take us. They make us grab their leashes and follow their lead out into the world. Since I got my first pug, I have been to show rings throughout the country, braved hurricanes and viruses to prance around a ring for a few minutes. I have met lonely people who light up at the mention of their dogs and friendly people as giddy and crazy as me to show them off. Sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in the daily grind, locked up in your own world of work and commitments. My dogs never let me stay there long. One of them always seeks me out, finds me, and drags me out the door. Following their lead, I’ve learned to soar.

Writing Prompt: The Magic of Dogs

Hollis sat in his stiff-backed Victorian chair barely making eye contact. He sounded weary discussing his bed and breakfast business as if he actually hoped the article I was writing would discourage guests to his establishment as opposed to promoting them. He sounded ready to retire and yet, here I was interviewing him for a magazine.

Interviews such as this are difficult. Inside, I feel like a failing magician rummaging through a bag of tricks, frantically searching for something that will get the job done – a rabbit to pull out of my hat and start the interviewee talking so I’ll have something to write about. Sometimes I am lucky and I find the key. Sometimes we stumble along, what should be a short, breezy conversation turning into an agonizing bout of stops and starts punctuated with awkward silences. This was one of those times. And, since my livelihood depends on getting the job done, I found myself developing an increasing dislike for the slender, soft-faced Hollis, who so obviously was dissatisfied with his own lot. I stared at his dull blue eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses and inwardly pleaded for him to say something helpful. “And, why did you choose to redecorate the Rose room?” I ask him. “It needed painting,” he mumbles. No gems there.

“What led you to Vermont?”

“Can’t really say.”

A part of me wanted to jump up and strangle poor Hollis, but we both struggled on, me reluctant to end the conversation without more information, he, not seeming to care either way.

Finally, when I realized I had rung him for all he was worth, I got ready to excuse myself. And, this is why I love dogs. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Hollis mentioned his Jack Russell Terrier, Baby. It was a passing remark, not meant to elicit any response, but I rose to the occasion. “You have a Jack Russell? I have pugs,” I said.

And, thus, I released a font of information I did not think possible from Hollis. Suddenly, he turned his face to me and his dull blue eyes began to sparkle. He took me through a journey of Baby’s 13 years on the planet – her litters and potty training, breed standard and show history. He showed me photos and discussed where each of her puppies had ended up. I listened and chatted, forgetting the clock and thoroughly enjoying this man unfold from his shell.

What is it about dogs that do this? Why could Hollis not master a single, happy word about his work, but could ramble on, smiling and sharing about a wee bit of a dog? Why did I find myself suddenly warming up to this man?

I could picture him late at night when the guests were asleep curling up in this very same chair, glasses on the end table, Baby in his lap. His jaw would slack and the tight lines disappear as he and his dog would drift off to sleep.

Looking at Hollis during our interview I would have said he was a tired and lonely man, but in the half hour I listened to him recount Baby’s life, I learned of breeders and handlers and people who bought Baby’s puppies that all were woven into the web of his life. What do our Baby’s do that transform us so? They turn unhappy men into delighted children again. They so often are the rabbits we pull from our hats to work magic on our lives.

Writing Prompt: What Lights Up Your Life?