Bookish Ends

      Yesterday I attended the annual NH Writer's Project conference which is always an interesting mix of meeting new people and seeing people I rarely run into. Of everything I did over the course of the day I was most struck by the odd difference between the first speaker of the day, key note author Andre Dubus, and the last speaker I heard, Pulitzer prize winner Paul Harding.
      I have heard Dubus speak before and always find him crush worthy. Not a lot of guys can get away with audience scolding (regarding our crack pipes), swear lobbing, and talking about Faulkner and skid marked underwear. He does. I have some attention deficit issues and staying focused in lectures can be a serious challenge for me. I have no real coping mechanism for this deficit of mine, and simply move on to a variety of other more compelling activities like making a grocery list, if a speaker can't keep my attention. Mr. Dubus nailed the hat trick of taming my lame brain; making me think, laugh, and jot down something I wanted to carry away with me forever. As with most crushes, much of it is born of similarity. Like me, Dubus was strongly influenced by the time and place of an edgy middle class New England mill town upbringing, and I get him.
     Please don't think I'm dissing Mr. Harding now in comparison. I'm not. I think he's great, but I couldn't have a crush on him. I would be too tired. From trying to keep up with his brain. Which in stark contrast to having attention deficits, seems to be on hyper-drive at every minute and can go in many directions at one time. Listening to him reminds me of a time in the late seventies when I may (or may not) have ingested something hallucinogenic, which may (or may not) have resulted in the world becoming a metaphysical magic kingdom. The whole world. Even tree bark. He can equate plot with Newtonian physics and mechanical drawing. Harding was strongly influenced by the lofty New England transcendentalists, who, truth be told, I don't always get. But he scored a hat trick with me too. We agree on his basic philosophy, "I have faith in art," and apparently, we are both attracted to tree bark.
     I'll leave you with the Yeats poem Harding based his talk on, as it is one of my favorites, and it certainly is a lovelier image to leave you with than soiled underwear hanging in a tree.

     From Ode on a Grecian Urn 1819

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all 
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Tea for Two: Joyce Geary Volk: 'You've Got Smalt!' | SeacoastOnline.com

Tea for Two: Joyce Geary Volk: 'You've Got Smalt!' | SeacoastOnline.com

Mary Oliver!

      I just found out today that a few of my poems will be published in an anthology next year along side the work of Mary Oliver! A poet whose work I so admire. Her poetry is so prayer-like to me. I am so thrilled with this news. So I will share  one of my favorite Oliver poems with you. I love to share this poem with others, especially at graduation time.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

The story of my Irish ancestors...

     In honor of Saint Patrick's Day

     Excerpt from a novel in progress tentatively titled A Better Life,

      by Tammi J Truax, all rights reserved.

      Maggie hadn’t really wanted to leave her home in County Cork, but her family had needed to send her to America where a better life was assured, and she would be able to send money home to help her large troubled family. It was 1898 and she had only recently turned twenty years of age. Her parents thought she was old enough and sharp enough to venture out on her own and they had worked hard to save the steerage fee and send her off with a carpet bag containing a blanket, two dresses, a few invaluable odds and ends, a cake, and a handful of coin.  Truth was she hadn’t fought the idea of coming with the ferocity she might have if she hadn’t known that if she stayed in County Cork she would have to relent and marry Frankie Sullivan, a boy she’d known all her life and who made her sick. Her older sister had already married a Sullivan, had four Sullivan babies so far, and they were all miserable. Seemed to Maggie you couldn’t be a Sullivan and be happy. Frankie was  drinking and carousing at this very moment she was sure, and if not, was asleep in a stinking heap somewhere.

     Though she hadn’t truly wanted to come to America, she now couldn’t wait to set her feet upon solid ground again. The journey across the sea on this lurching steam ship was the most unpleasant experience of her life which had never been soft and easy. She couldn’t wait to wash the stench of the ship off of her with a hot bath. And while she knew she wouldn’t find her Mum’s cooking in America she was so hungry she felt hollow and was certain her belly would be filled when she made her way ashore. The boat was making an agonizingly slow entrance into the harbor and the wind whipped Maggie’s curls about her head so that her hair pins were rendered useless and she clasped her shawl at her throat while the wind tried to take it back to Ireland. Then she saw it. A huge stone woman reaching up into the sky with a blazing torch and holding fast to the holy book. It was indeed a welcome sight, and Maggie had no doubts that she was welcome and she would find a better life. She could also see the tall buildings of America in the distance and a big long bridge that seemed to be hanging in the sky. The children were jumping up and down, and some of the women cried. More amazing then the Lady of Liberty to Maggie, was the palace. She saw an enormous and beautiful castle on an island and everyone said that was where they were going. That was Ellis Island. It did indeed look like a paradise.

     After dropping off the upper class passengers in one place the captain motored the ship to another port where the steerage passengers were finally allowed to board a barge that took them all to the front entrance of the big brick building. At last they could disembark and climb on American soil. It was time to get in line, first just to get up the main stone stairway where hundreds and hundreds of other people also fell in. It was noisy and exciting and quite frightening. Maggie saw people wearing the strangest clothes, hats and hairstyles. She saw women carrying parcels on their heads and some with baskets on their backs. She saw people trying to walk who were too weak and sick to make it to the end of their journey. She saw family members being separated from each other and terrified children clinging to their loved ones. The uniforms worn by the inspectors were especially intimidating to many of the foreigners. It was clear in short time that not everyone was being welcomed and there were so many people; men, women, and children from all over the world, trying to get through. First, Maggie had to answer 29 questions. That task was easy for her, she always had an answer and didn’t mind telling it. She didn’t even mind when she was asked a trick question like “How would you wash a staircase?“ That one made her smile.

     Next came a medical examination, and she could see quite a few people were failing this inspection as they were whisked off in other directions after a chalk X was drawn on their backs. There was much illness on the ship, but Maggie was strong and healthy. She hadn’t seen many doctors in her life, but this inspection reminded her of how her father had examined a horse he was considering purchasing. When it was her turn a doctor looked her in the eyes, nose and mouth, turned her around, told her to cough, and slammed a stamp across her documents with a yell to move on.   

     The next line was the slowest one and Maggie didn’t understand what it was about. When it was her turn she was given a chair to sit down in while an official examined her documents. “You are unmarried?” “Yes,” Maggie replied. “Who will support you here?” he asked. “I will support myself,” Maggie answered nervously. “You have no male relatives here? No one is here to receive you?” he quizzed. “I have friends on the boat, and there are many other people from my village living in America,’ she offered. “I am a very hard worker, and have a letter of introduction from my church,” she added. He shut her passport book and slid it back at her across the little table. “Without a means of support you cannot stay, and will have to return with the ship. Entry denied. Next!”

     A guard drew an X on Maggie’s back and pointed her in a direction different from her fellow passengers who looked at her with sad and serious silence. She was led by a matron with several very sick and forlorn people to an area of the great hall designated for those denied entry. She sat on a hard wooden bench and listened to languages being spoken that were the strangest sounds she had ever heard. Someone might have noticed her fatigue for eventually she was given fresh water and soda crackers. This first act of kindness made her cry a little. As the day wore on she was asked to tell her story a few times to guards and officials, and she always hoped for a reprieve. Each time she was told she would be put back on a ship bound for Europe in the morning because she could not become a public charge.

     At supper time one of the guards took them to a cafeteria where they were served a soothing and delicious meal of fish and white bread, with all the milk they wanted to drink. Everyone filled their bellies. Maggie noticed but did not care about the absence of potatoes. Later she was taken to a special sleeping dormitory, and was allowed to use a lavish bathroom with sinks, pull flush toilets, and running water. Everything they had ever heard about America was clearly true, and Maggie was heartbroken about being denied entry, and failing her family. Everyone in the detention pen was heartbroken and the guards kept a close watch on them, looking out not so much for escapees but for suicides.

     One of the guards, Henry Hogancamp, was taken aback by the beauty of the brave young lady he’d met. Her dark curly hair, bright green eyes and haunting brogue stayed with him all the way to his neighborhood tavern in a New Jersey town that evening. After a couple of pints he shared her story with the boys. “So sad, really, fellas. Such a sweet and decent lass who has come so far just to help her family. Seems a shame to send the pretty ones back,” he said with a laugh. All the boys nodded and sipped in agreement. Then one at the end of the bar, a shy and young regular named William Gordon, said “I’ll marry her.”

      Everyone looked at him. William, a brick layer by trade, who came here most nights for refreshment and companionship, rarely drew attention to himself. “What?’ said Henry.

     “I’ll marry the girl.” he declared with a defiant placement of his mug on the bar. “If what you say is true, I will marry the girl and give her a home. She can find work here.”

     After a few moments of silence and staring everyone began cheering and laughing and patting William on the back. He and Henry agreed to return to Ellis Island first thing in the morning together. Henry laughed some more and yelled to Jimmy to pour another round. “We’re going to have a wedding tomorrow!” he hollered. They spent the next couple of hours toasting and boasting, blessing and advising the groom, and singing songs from their own homelands.

      While in the dormitory Maggie had a fretful night’s sleep in the cleanest, softest bed she had ever slept in, after praying to God not to see fit to take these bountiful gifts from her. In the desperation of the darkness she made a promise to him, and she was sure that he could hear her in this place that proved prayers were answered.

AWP Highlights

     I'm too tired to say much about my first day ever attending AWP, but just have to share the highlights. I went to a few workshops before cutting out early due to the gnarly Boston weather. (Don't commute to AWP, it's designed to be an immersion program.) The best one I attended was on launching your book in new and creative ways, and I got all sorts of inspired ideas about celebrating the release of my e-book soon. Stay tuned because you are invited to the party!
     The best part of attending professional conferences is always meeting new people and knowing that your lives will remain connected. Today I had lunch with the editor of an anthology that I'll be published in next year, The Widows' Handbook (forthcoming 2014 from Kent State University Press)  invited by Jacqueline Lapidus, Co-editor. I got to meet her for the first time, and she was so kind as to even offer to put me up in her home on this stormy night. I also had the pleasure of meeting several of the other poets who will be featured (there are 87 of us in all). One had come all the way from Sausalito.
     Most exciting to me was that I learned that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg has written the forward for the book. How cool is that?!

Another Nice Thing

     One more nice thing to share; I was nominated to be the next Poet Laureate of my fair little city. I know it is cliche to say that it is an honor, and I am sure that I won't be selected, but that really is how I feel. Today I submitted the required application package which included five poems and a project proposal, without having any idea who I am competing against and I'll happily support whoever is chosen. Most of all I am just very grateful that we have this program here. This town taught me what it means to be a poet. It is a beautiful thing.
     For more info see www.pplp.org

My valentine's Day column : Jane and Bruce MacIntyre

Jane and Bruce MacIntyre: | SeacoastOnline.com

The Next Big Thing

This is The Next Big Thing, an ever-expanding game of "blog tag" in which writers answer the same (or variations on the same) ten interview questions about their recent writing projects. 

I was tagged by Kathleen Clancy, whose blog is Cartographers of Randomness. In her Next Big Thing post, Kathleen answered questions about her work progress, a series of sonnets, called Robbing the Dollhouse. Her answers to the ten questions can be found at http://kathleenclancypoetry.blogspot.com/ .

Below, I answer interview questions about my book-in-progress, and after that you'll find a link to the blog of the wonderful writer who accepted my invitation to be "it" next week.

the ten questions

1. What is the working title of your book (or story)?
It’s called Holy Buckets.

2. 
Where did the idea come from for the book?


It is a merging of several ideas that I had been mulling over for quite awhile. I wanted to tell the story of what it is like to teach in a public school, I wanted to tell the story of the neglected young war veteran, and I wanted to write about gun violence. They all merged together in this novella.
3. What genre does your book fall under?


Contemporary literary fiction.
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I really don't know. Maybe Saoirse Ronan and Ryan Gosling....

 
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

     This is a cautionary tale of what can go wrong when a society fails to care for its most vulnerable citizens.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? (if this applies - otherwise, make up another question to answer!)
 

While I would love representation I have chosen to publish it myself as an ebook and will be doing so very soon.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?


This one came fast, about one year to write the first draft, and another to rework it.
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?


I don't think there are any that come close, which is one of the primary reasons that I chose to write it. I know Jodi Picoult has written a novel about a school shooting but I haven't read it yet, so am not sure how comparable it would be.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?


No person in particular. Working with children was a big impetus, and my personal concerns about the unmet mental health needs of our war veterans, and the glut of guns in our culture.
10. What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

This is everybody's story. It could happen anywhere in America, to anyone, and involves issues that we all need to think about. I hope it is a conversation starter. I especially hope that teachers and veterans and those that love them will feel that the story advocates for them..

who's "it" next week?

Next week, please check out The Next Big Thing post from:

Terry Farish who will be posting at http://elephantrag.blogspot.com/ about her current work.

Poems!

     In the last week or so I have had five poems accepted for publication, and received only one reject letter. That is a really nice change of pace!
      Four poems will appear in an anthology coming out later in the year, so more about that when I know more. The poem linked below was published today.

http://theyogadiaries.net/2013/02/11/the-ascension-of-my-messy-mind/

Crossing one Off!

      I have been accepted!

     "We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to A Room of Her Own’s 2013 Retreat, slated for August 2013, at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, NM.  Your presence alongside other compelling women writers will make this an unsurpassed week of inspiration and opportunity.  We look forward to a truly collaborative experience."

     I could not be more excited. This is thrilling to me in so many different ways. You will be hearing much more about this in the coming months, of course.

Photo by lucinda.net

Call for Artists

     I vow that on this date next year my children's book about Reverend King will be in some stage of publication. I have been working on it for years and it is ready to go. For the last few years I had been trying to woo a particular local black artist to be the illustrator, but that seems unlikely to happen. I am now looking for another local (preferably Portsmouth, NH) artist of color who might like to work on a children's picture book. The illustrations would include likenesses of Reverend and Mrs. King, but would need to be simple and colorful. Anyone interested please contact me for further details.

Seeking the next Po'town Poet

The Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program is seeking Portsmouth’s 9^th Poet Laureate. Portsmouth’s Poet Laureate “builds community through poetry” by creating a project and being the public face of poetry in the community. Past Poet Laureates have placed poetry and public art throughout the city, created CDs and anthologies, and engaged audiences through poetic, theatrical, and musical performances. 

Community members are invited to submit names for the next Poet Laureate. Names may be submitted through a letter or e-mail and should include the full name of the nominee and current contact information. Self-nominations are acceptable.

Candidates must live in one of 12 eligible towns (or work at least half-time in Portsmouth) and be well-suited to the role of Portsmouth Poet Laureate. Eligible towns are Portsmouth, Dover, Durham, Greenland, New Castle, Newfields, Newington, Newmarket, North Hampton, Rye, and Stratham, NH, and Kittery, ME.

Every nominee will be contacted to confirm whether he or she wishes to be considered. Those choosing to go forward will be sent an application packet to complete. The Poet Laureate Selection Committee will review all nominee application packets in March 2013 and will select the next Portsmouth Poet Laureate, who will be announced at a Portsmouth City Council meeting in early April 2013. The Poet Laureate serves for two years. 

Please submit nominations from now through February 15 to PPLP at PO Box 1196, Portsmouth, NH 03802 or info@pplp.org. For more information about the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program or past laureates and their projects, visit http://www.pplp.org

50k!!

     I will pass fifty thousand words today. A rather monumental milestone for me.
     But I wonder, will I ever stop revising? I've been at this for a year.

'Children need to know this story'

Tea for Two: Marian Gerrish Craig: 'Children need to know this story' | SeacoastOnline.com

Newtown Nightmare

      I had a Newtown Nightmare the night before last. I'm not sure if it is the first dream on the subject as I don't usually remember my dreams (a result of sleep disturbance I have had for the last several years). This one woke me up. I couldn't get back to sleep then despite it being only 4 AM. The dream stuck with me since, and I decided to write about it. Maybe then it will leave me alone. A school shooting occurs in the novel I am currently trying to sell, so it affects my writing in several ways. Still I concede, as with most dreams, this is just weird.

     The dream opened in the reception area of a college. I felt as if I was one of the many students present in the room. A young Ryan Secrest kind of guy was working behind the counter and we were all looking to him to provide us with information. The mood in the room was happy and unafraid. Ryan-guy acquired a newspaper out of nowhere and began to cry much like Tammi Faye Baker used to. Little girl geysers and a mouth moving wordlessly. Still in a happy mood, and apparently feeling quite comfortable there even with the tears, I jumped up on the counter (sliding and sitting not standing) and spun the paper around so I could read the headline, which said something like, "The Shooter is in the Building". Once I read it to myself everyone knew what it said and meant, and all began to scramble. I tried to leave the building but armed guards wouldn't let me go.
     I began to occupy a series of hiding places, mostly little Harry Potter closet kind of spaces, and usually I was alone, though at one point the setting began to look a lot like the RiRa, (a local old bank turned Irish pub) and I was insisting that "we should get in the vault". In one of my hiding places I spent considerable time texting my last wishes to my father (who does not text).
     Eventually, I was watching out the window at a rather generic cobble-stoned quad, when the shooter took out three soldiers who all were pointing impotent guns at him. I watched them fall like three bowling pins. The shooter, in blazing white sneakers, stepped forward his gun still pointed at others, and I think by only the element of surprise, a little girl, about eight years of age, stepped out of a small crowd, fired a hand gun, and took the shooter down.

     What do you make of them apples?

Bucket List Business

      When the year closes in I experience an oppressive feeling of accountability that sometimes propels me to get something done. For me as I age, many of my goals have become bucket list entries. I am well aware how short life can be and know that I should buckle down about my bucket list. So far I have been much better about adding things to the list instead of crossing them off. I have gotten a few done, but not as many as I'd like.
      This morning I finished a very full-hearted attempt to cross one off. I have long desired to secure "A Room of her Own", a spot in the very competitive writing retreat for women held each August at Georgia O'Keeffe's ranch in northern New Mexico. Chances are, of course, that I won't get in, but my application has been submitted, and sits somewhere under the vast starry skies that blanket Ghost Ranch. It may become part of the bone pile there, and that will be okay too. It is done.
     http://www.aroomofherownfoundation.org/retreat_2013.php

Summer Days by Georgia O'Keeffe, 1936.

After the Crash

     Last week at my local Indie bookstore (RiverRun Books) I went to see and hear Carolyn Roy-Bornstein, MD give a reading from her memoir Crash, A Mother, a Son, and the Journey from Grief to Gratitude. (Skirt! 2012) Her soft-spoken talk intrigued me enough to part with $23. I really wanted to read her story about dealing with TBI. Maybe there would be something in there that would help me now that I am dealing with TBI. I have finished the book. It is quite a bit better than the banal title implies. Dr. Bornstien writes well, probably from a lifetime of journaling, and shares the story of her son's accident and its aftermath honestly and at times, eloquently. Though the book is written by a medical doctor, it is a mother's story more than anything else. Here is a sample that appealed to me;
     "Maybe he needs to feel the cruelty of the situation full on, not softened by a mother's touch. Maybe he has to feel it like a cutter has to feel a knife against her skin. Because pain makes things real. Whatever the reason, his memory is what it is. I have finally come to realize that it has nothing to do with me. It is his reality and part of his healing and his journey back. And I have to honor it."
     I especially like her conclusion, though maybe it is inevitable, the only conclusion we can come to when tragedy touches us...
     You can learn more at Carolyn's blog; http://carolynroybornstein.com/memoir/. 

On imperviousness and fighting chances

On imperviousness and fighting chances | SeacoastOnline.com

http://www.giveforward.com/forwarren

Belated Thanksgiving Post

Sarah Had A Little Wish

By Tammi J Truax

     Actually, that isn’t all too accurate. History shows that Sarah had a big wish, that she worked very hard to make it come true, and it did.

     The Sarah that I refer to is Sarah Josepha Hale, born in 1789 on East Mountain at Newport, New Hampshire. Her father, Gordon Buell, had been a revolutionary war captain. Her childhood there was typical for girls of the period, without a formal education. Her brother, Horatio, was atypical. Formally educated at Dartmouth, he in turn educated his sister at home, and she was a most willing pupil.

      Sarah is probably most well-known for writing the popular children’s rhyme, Mary Had a Little a Lamb, but it is probably the least of her accomplishments.

      At the age of 24 she married lawyer David Hale, and continued her home studies. Nine years later her husband died, and Sarah found herself without an income, four young children, and a fifth on the way.

     It wasn’t long before she saw her ability to write as a potential means of support, and with the assistance of her husband’s Freemason lodge, she published her first book; a collection of original poems titled The Genius of Oblivion. It was followed by her first novel, published in the US under the title Northwood: Life North and South. It made her well-known; as one of the first American women novelists and one of the first of either gender to write about slavery. A job offer as editor of the new Ladies’ Magazine resulted. Sarah accepted it and moved her young family to Boston.

     She did well in there and from the years 1837 to 1877 she was the editor of the very popular Godey’s Lady’s Book, sometimes called the Victorian bible of the parlor. It is still famous for its hand painted fashion plates.

     From her editorial positions the woman from a small New Hampshire town yielded considerable influence on the nation. Both in matters small and trivial, such as how to set the table, to matters large, that women often did not voice any opinion about.

     Ironically, Sarah denounced the growing women’s right movement, even as she did a great deal to advance it. Much of her lifetime’s work was clearly intended to promote higher education, professional career opportunities including in teaching and medicine, and social reform of all kinds for women, while heralding the importance and dignity of motherhood and homemaking.

     Overall though, her great loyalty was to her country. She worked tirelessly to ensure the completion of the Bunker Hill monument, for the preservation of Mount Vernon Plantation, and to give us something we should all be thankful for.

     Over a period of at least seventeen years, Sarah implored no less than five presidents to make Thanksgiving a national holiday. Previously it had been celebrated primarily in New England and at different times in different states. Sarah felt strongly that a national and official holiday would help to heal and unify the country after the civil war. Finally President Lincoln agreed and proclaimed it so in 1863. Clearly they were right, it still seems to be the one day of the year when we all come together as a nation, put our differences aside, and count our abundant blessings.

Here is the transcript of one of Sarah’s letters to the president:

Abraham Lincoln Papers at the Library of Congress. Transcribed and Annotated by the Lincoln Studies Center, Knox College. Galesburg, Illinois.
Courtesy Library of Congress.

Philadelphia, Sept. 28th 1863.

Sir.--

Permit me, as Editress of the "Lady's Book", to request a few minutes of your precious time, while laying before you a subject of deep interest to myself and -- as I trust -- even to the President of our Republic, of some importance. This subject is to have the day of our annual Thanksgiving made a National and fixed Union Festival.

You may have observed that, for some years past, there has been an increasing interest felt in our land to have the Thanksgiving held on the same day, in all the States; it now needs National recognition and authoritive fixation, only, to become permanently, an American custom and institution.

Enclosed are three papers (being printed these are easily read) which will make the idea and its progress clear and show also the popularity of the plan.

For the last fifteen years I have set forth this idea in the "Lady's Book", and placed the papers before the Governors of all the States and Territories -- also I have sent these to our Ministers abroad, and our Missionaries to the heathen -- and commanders in the Navy. From the recipients I have received, uniformly the most kind approval. Two of these letters, one from Governor (now General) Banks and one from Governor Morgan are enclosed; both gentlemen as you will see, have nobly aided to bring about the desired Thanksgiving Union.

But I find there are obstacles not possible to be overcome without legislative aid -- that each State should, by statute, make it obligatory on the Governor to appoint the last Thursday of November, annually, as Thanksgiving Day; -- or, as this way would require years to be realized, it has ocurred to me that a proclamation from the President of the United States would be the best, surest and most fitting method of National appointment.

I have written to my friend, Hon. Wm. H. Seward, and requested him to confer with President Lincoln on this subject As the President of the United States has the power of appointments for the District of Columbia and the Territories; also for the Army and Navy and all American citizens abroad who claim protection from the U. S. Flag -- could he not, with right as well as duty, issue his proclamation for a Day of National Thanksgiving for all the above classes of persons? And would it not be fitting and patriotic for him to appeal to the Governors of all the States, inviting and commending these to unite in issuing proclamations for the last Thursday in November as the Day of Thanksgiving for the people of each State? Thus the great Union Festival of America would be established.

Now the purpose of this letter is to entreat President Lincoln to put forth his Proclamation, appointing the last Thursday in November (which falls this year on the 26th) as the National Thanksgiving for all those classes of people who are under the National Government particularly, and commending this Union Thanksgiving to each State Executive: thus, by the noble example and action of the President of the United States, the permanency and unity of our Great American Festival of Thanksgiving would be forever secured.

An immediate proclamation would be necessary, so as to reach all the States in season for State appointments, also to anticipate the early appointments by Governors.

Excuse the liberty I have taken

With profound respect

Yrs truly

Sarah Josepha Hale,

Editress of the "Ladys Book"

      My research of Victorian thanksgiving menus such as Sarah would have espoused showed that our traditional foods really are traditional with just a few exceptions. I share the following recipe that was popular then which I think should be re-introduced, especially here in an oystering community. Happy Thanksgiving.

OYSTER FRICASSEE from the Boston Cooking-School Cook Book of 1896

1 pint oysters.
Milk or cream.
2 tablespoons butter.
2 tablespoons flour.
1/4 teaspoon salt.
Few grains cayenne.
1 teaspoon finely chopped parsley.
1 egg.

Clean oysters, heat oyster liquor to boiling point and strain through double thickness of cheese cloth; add oysters to liquor and cook until plump. 

Remove oysters with skimmer and add enough cream to liquor to make a cupful.

Melt butter, add flour, and pour on gradually hot liquid; add salt, cayenne, parsley, oysters, and egg slightly beaten.

(Tammi’s note: A dash or two of white wine may be added while cooking. Can be served this way as a first course soup, or can be baked with buttered cracker crumbs to be served as a side dish, but be sure not to overcook delicate oysters.)

Tammi Truax likes to write on the subjects of home, hearth, and history. She can be reached at T4tu@comcast.net.
 

Spirit Message from the Shakers

Can you solve this?

Spirit Message from the Shakers : Harriet Staff : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation

On Murdering Dolls

     Came across this artifact while doing research today for the book I am working on. I was thrilled to find it because previous research had indicated that the Shakers did not allow little girl believers to have any dolls. I had already written a section in my novel where they did, and I was afraid I would have to kill my darling dolls. This morning when I opened my document to commit the murder I couldn't do it, instead I found a way to justify keeping them in that I thought was historically plausible, and then later today found this proof that my instincts were at least partly correct. This dolly is owned by the Museums of Old York in Maine, the state where the Shaker sister who made it lived. It is a bit later than the period that I am writing about, but not very far off. I wish I could know more about her. What do you think of her?

What has been happening and not happening...

      Haven't been able to work in awhile. Took another one of those two-by-fours to the head that sometimes come my way, and my ability to concentrate has been cold cocked. I'll get it back, I always do. In fact, I may have to write my way out of this place. But right now I can't.
      I have wanted to blog about my writing retreat on Monhegan Island, just a few weeks ago that seem now so far behind me, as if all that good was left there when the ferry brought me back to the mainland. My productivity forgotten on the cliffs high atop the raging Atlantic. Up there, on top of those ragged cliffs, I often thought about the person who was then well, now lying in a bionic bed in the ICU at MGH in Boston. About how much he would love it there, and how he would see both the beauty and the danger there and would embrace both, probably too enthusiastically.
     I'll write about Monhegan soon, and get back to the novel that was coming along so well there, and I'll write about my friend too, someday.
      For now, one good thing I can report is that I am registered to attend the next AWP conference, as it is coming to Boston in 2013 and I can commute. It will be my first time, and I am very excited.

     I took this photo while I was hiking on Monhegan and asked my friend, Warren, if he would make me one. He said he would.