Brazing beautiful bridges

     Here is my column, from this morning's Portsmouth Herald. Jeanne is the youngest person I have ever interviewed for my column which I have been writing for five years. Despite her youth she still qualifies as someone who has been here a good long time and who has been contributing to creating community. Those are the local people that I like to talk to and write about.
     Jeanne Givens: Brazing beautiful bridges SeacoastOnline.com and here is a photo of her with her sculpture that the paper couldn't print.

Monday Morning Emilyzing

      Looks like I'm going to share most of the Emily Dickinson information that I am studying myself these days. Can't seem to help myself. I don't know if she is making the news more lately or if she is just making my radar more lately because of my renewed interest in her work. It would be hard to believe that she was always the subject of so much current discussion. Either way it is a wonderful legacy for a poet. I find it quite remarkable. In the link I share below she is being discussed by her current predecessor in popularity, Billy Collins.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128272101
     I have had a couple of new developments with my own poetry in the last couple of days; I had my first paid poetry reading which was very rewarding to do, even though the crowd was not really a crowd. I also entered into an agreement with artist Frannie Schwabb to exhibit an ekphrastic poem I wrote last year with the painting that inspired it, in an art show to be held in the fall.
     Here is a little something that is helping put my Monday morning into perspective;

For Each Ecstatic Instant


by Emily Dickinson

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Rabid Foxes and Library Love

     Even though I missed my quarterly book club for writer's meeting at my local library last night (a continual stream of problems at home grounded me again) I can't say how much I appreciate my library. A decent library was one of the major reasons why I moved to this town and am willing to pay terribly high property taxes. All libraries are struggling right now, and in many ways their struggle is worse than ever. Here is a hideous example of what they are up against;
Fox News Attacks Chicago Libraries 
     This kind of sentiment is reaching the masses, and that is a scary thing to me. Certainly it is true that libraries will have to change with the times and if you actually visit libraries you can see that they are. Willingly and enthusiastically.
      Take a look and go get a book. Your library needs your support, and is probably air conditioned!

God Bless America

    Three submissions out this week, and I'm calling it quits. So that's one for each day that I'm taking off. If I can. I need a holiday, but I have a hard time not working. So I'm telling myself (and you) ~ Let the games begin. Problem is I think I'm too tired for the games! Ah well, I can always read on the beach which I think would do me a world of good. I am struggling with Tinkers right now, but more about that another time.
     I did want to share this link to an article about food writing among other things. I have an unfinished cook book project, and an unfinished memoir project, and found myself enthralled by the talk of the trend of merging the two. It's an intriguing idea that I've been thinking about all afternoon. I haven't read this book, or any of his others. Does anybody have any opinions?

      http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/19/anthony-bourdain-food-writing

Craftsmanship

     I have been a fan of John Irving for a long time. In fact he is one of the few authors that I have remained a fan of for a long period of time. Most authors, and readers for that matter, change over time, and we move on to other affairs of the mind or heart. While in my 'hood we consider Irving a local, I really don't think that my enduring interest is about that. Or about his robust good looks and engaging intellect though in all honesty these are probably contributing factors. I think it's about his writing. I found this brief interview with him thought provoking. He makes an interesting distinction here about the difference between being an artist and a craftsman. My problem is that I am not sure that I understand the difference. Give it a listen and see if you can help me out...

Maids and Butlers and No Help At All

      Emily made the news again this week with this interesting new look at her work by author Aife Murray. It is especially interesting to contrast this glimpse into her life against the backdrop of the other story that I recently posted about regarding her late life love affair.
http://www1.voanews.com/english/news/american-life/Servants-Enhanced-Work-of-Renowned-American-Poet-96883084.html
    It also makes a lot of sense to me when you compare her life story to my own. I would be a prolific (though not necessarily talented) writer too, if I had a kitchen maid and other house and yard servants to tend to my home and family for me. Almost everything that takes me away from my work are responsibilities that Emily was able to delegate to servants who in turn gave her daily life interesting nuances to write even more about. And then for someone else to write about yet again a century later. Can you tell how frustrated I am?! I have had a pretty hard week, peppered primarily with pet problems, and had no help at all which gets frustrating sometimes.
     I didn't like the images that came up when I googled maid, so I switched to butler, and this guy comes up about 100 times more than Rhett. Don't know who he is, but now I want a butler more than I want a maid. I'm pretty sure it would enhance my writing.

Dwelling in Possibility

    My brother Will sent me this link, and I am so glad he did. I loved reading it, and can't resist sharing it with you. It makes me think of the Mona Lisa. One can not know what a woman is really thinking. I see some interesting underlying ideas to ponder about the ethics of the poet (all of us, not just Emily). And also find it a bit intriguing that Emily's "improbable" tryst started when she was 47 years old, suggesting that perhaps I do not need to adopt any "cobweb attitudes" of my own. . . Emily’s secret love - The Boston Globe

New series

      Not much to report on this week in the way of accomplishments. Life has been a tad hectic lately, downright hairy really. Did get one submission out and completed negotiations for a series I'll be writing for my local paper this summer and the first came out today;
http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20100620-NEWS-6200336

Happy Bloomsday!

     I am a bit surprised that my little literary hamlet doesn't celebrate Bloomsday. I think we should, and just might take it upon myself to do something about that for next year. For today it will have to suffice to blog about Bloomsday.
     Bloomsday is a special celebration of just one day, June 16th. Specifically June, 16, 1904, the day James Joyce wrote about in his novel Ulysses. The celebration started in Dublin but has gone global, and most cities celebrate it with readings and meetings and lots of good Guinness. It really is a remarkable work well worth celebrating year after year, because it takes years to discover all of the little jewels Joyce has hidden for us in it's pages. It works best as a group effort I think. It takes a village to read Ulysses.
     Here is the Wiki synopsis;
     Ulysses chronicles the passage of Leopold Bloom through Dublin during an ordinary day, 16 June 1904 (the day of Joyce's first date with his future wife, Nora Barnacle). The title alludes to Odysseus (Latinised into Ulysses), the hero of Homer's Odyssey, and establishes a series of parallels between characters and events in Homer's poem and Joyce's novel (e.g., the correspondences between Leopold Bloom and Odysseus, Molly Bloom and Penelope, and Stephen Dedalus and Telemachus). Joyce fans worldwide now celebrate 16 June as Bloomsday.
      Ulysses contains approximately 265,000 words from a lexicon of 30,030 words (including proper names, plurals and various verb tenses), divided into eighteen episodes. Since publication, the book attracted controversy and scrutiny, ranging from early obscenity trials to protracted textual "Joyce Wars." Ulysses' stream-of-consciousness technique, careful structuring, and experimental prose—full of puns, parodies, and allusions, as well as its rich characterisations and broad humour, made the book a highly regarded novel in the Modernist pantheon. In 1999, the Modern Library ranked Ulysses first on its list of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century

     Here are a couple of recent links I'd like to share -
About Bloomsday; http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/11/books/11bloom.html
About the latest (phone app) controversy; http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2010/0615/1224272520637.html
The entire text;  http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4300

Bleating

     Just got my report card for the graduate class in Narrating Illness that I recently completed. Feeling very disappointed and sheepish. Got a B+. Since it came with no explanation I'm going to go with the idea that I didn't get an A because of imperfect attendance. It can't be because my writing was imperfect, right?!?
     Having a very rough week here working on my house and preparing for kid graduations so have gotten very little writing related work done. Further sheepishness.

Main Entry: sheep·ish

Pronunciation: \ˈshē-pish\
Function: adjective
Date: 13th century
1 : resembling a sheep in meekness, stupidity, or timidity
2 : affected by or showing embarrassment caused by consciousness of a fault
— sheep·ish·ly adverb
— sheep·ish·ness noun


Animal metaphors, based on animal behavior, are common in many languages. Here are some from English:

That was kind of 'catty' of you.
The problem has been dogging us all week.
Don't be cowed by his bullying.
The stock market has ended its bullish streak, and is now going into bear mode.
(And note the various metaphors and extended metaphors in this headline:) 'Investors, mauled by bear market, come clawing after their brokers.'
Stop horsing around; we've got work to do.
I really don't have patience for any monkey business.
Stop badgering me; you've been bugging me all day about that.
After that faux pas, he acted really kind of sheepish.
He didn't want to tell me, but I ferreted it out.
He's been beavering away all week on his little project.
She's so mousy, I hardly realized she was in the room.
He ratted on her and now her goose is cooked.

Lovely, loving, loved

This one is a bit of a departure for my column; Trish Truax: Lovely, loving, loved SeacoastOnline.com

...Touched With Fire

     I like studying old speeches. Great oration yet another of the dying arts. I too find most of the speeches of yesteryear quite long winded, and think it must be a reflection of our short little attention spans, because we were raised on simple sound bites and predigested news clips. I study them for the writing that went into them. Behind every great speech was a great writer. If we are lucky they are or were one and the same. The following is one of the most famous, and oft quoted, Memorial Day speeches ever given, and and it was given here in my home state. Can you make it to the end ... ?

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

 

"In Our Youth Our Hearts Were Touched With Fire"

[An address delivered for Memorial Day, May 30, 1884, at Keene, NH, before John Sedgwick Post No. 4, Grand Army of the Republic.]


Not long ago I heard a young man ask why people still kept up Memorial Day, and it set me thinking of the answer. Not the answer that you and I should give to each other-not the expression of those feelings that, so long as you live, will make this day sacred to memories of love and grief and heroic youth--but an answer which should command the assent of those who do not share our memories, and in which we of the North and our brethren of the South could join in perfect accord.


So far as this last is concerned, to be sure, there is no trouble. The soldiers who were doing their best to kill one another felt less of personal hostility, I am very certain, than some who were not imperilled by their mutual endeavors. I have heard more than one of those who had been gallant and distinguished officers on the Confederate side say that they had had no such feeling. I know that I and those whom I knew best had not. We believed that it was most desirable that the North should win; we believed in the principle that the Union is indissoluable; we, or many of us at least, also believed that the conflict was inevitable, and that slavery had lasted long enough. But we equally believed that those who stood against us held just as sacred conviction that were the opposite of ours, and we respected them as every men with a heart must respect those who give all for their belief. The experience of battle soon taught its lesson even to those who came into the field more bitterly disposed. You could not stand up day after day in those indecisive contests where overwhelming victory was impossible because neither side would run as they ought when beaten, without getting at least something of the same brotherhood for the enemy that the north pole of a magnet has for the south--each working in an opposite sense to the other, but each unable to get along without the other. As it was then , it is now. The soldiers of the war need no explanations; they can join in commemorating a soldier's death with feelings not different in kind, whether he fell toward them or by their side.


But Memorial Day may and ought to have a meaning also for those who do not share our memories. When men have instinctively agreed to celebrate an anniversary, it will be found that there is some thought of feeling behind it which is too large to be dependent upon associations alone. The Fourth of July, for instance, has still its serious aspect, although we no longer should think of rejoicing like children that we have escaped from an outgrown control, although we have achieved not only our national but our moral independence and know it far too profoundly to make a talk about it, and although an Englishman can join in the celebration without a scruple. For, stripped of the temporary associations which gives rise to it, it is now the moment when by common consent we pause to become conscious of our national life and to rejoice in it, to recall what our country has done for each of us, and to ask ourselves what we can do for the country in return.


So to the indifferent inquirer who asks why Memorial Day is still kept up we may answer, it celebrates and solemnly reaffirms from year to year a national act of enthusiasm and faith. It embodies in the most impressive form our belief that to act with enthusiasm and faith is the condition of acting greatly. To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching. More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out. All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can. The rest belongs to fate. One may fall-at the beginning of the charge or at the top of the earthworks; but in no other way can he reach the rewards of victory.


When it was felt so deeply as it was on both sides that a man ought to take part in the war unless some conscientious scruple or strong practical reason made it impossible, was that feeling simply the requirement of a local majority that their neighbors should agree with them? I think not: I think the feeling was right-in the South as in the North. I think that, as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time at peril of being judged not to have lived.


If this be so, the use of this day is obvious. It is true that I cannot argue a man into a desire. If he says to me, Why should I seek to know the secrets of philosophy? Why seek to decipher the hidden laws of creation that are graven upon the tablets of the rocks, or to unravel the history of civilization that is woven in the tissue of our jurisprudence, or to do any great work, either of speculation or of practical affairs? I cannot answer him; or at least my answer is as little worth making for any effect it will have upon his wishes if he asked why I should eat this, or drink that. You must begin by wanting to. But although desire cannot be imparted by argument, it can be by contagion. Feeling begets feeling, and great feeling begets great feeling. We can hardly share the emotions that make this day to us the most sacred day of the year, and embody them in ceremonial pomp, without in some degree imparting them to those who come after us. I believe from the bottom of my heart that our memorial halls and statues and tablets, the tattered flags of our regiments gathered in the Statehouses, are worth more to our young men by way of chastening and inspiration than the monuments of another hundred years of peaceful life could be.


But even if I am wrong, even if those who come after us are to forget all that we hold dear, and the future is to teach and kindle its children in ways as yet unrevealed, it is enough for us that this day is dear and sacred.


Accidents may call up the events of the war. You see a battery of guns go by at a trot, and for a moment you are back at White Oak Swamp, or Antietam, or on the Jerusalem Road. You hear a few shots fired in the distance, and for an instant your heart stops as you say to yourself, The skirmishers are at it, and listen for the long roll of fire from the main line. You meet an old comrade after many years of absence; he recalls the moment that you were nearly surrounded by the enemy, and again there comes up to you that swift and cunning thinking on which once hung life and freedom--Shall I stand the best chance if I try the pistol or the sabre on that man who means to stop me? Will he get his carbine free before I reach him, or can I kill him first?These and the thousand other events we have known are called up, I say, by accident, and, apart from accident, they lie forgotten.


But as surely as this day comes round we are in the presence of the dead. For one hour, twice a year at least--at the regimental dinner, where the ghosts sit at table more numerous than the living, and on this day when we decorate their graves--the dead come back and live with us.


I see them now, more than I can number, as once I saw them on this earth. They are the same bright figures, or their counterparts, that come also before your eyes; and when I speak of those who were my brothers, the same words describe yours.


I see a fair-haired lad, a lieutenant, and a captain on whom life had begun somewhat to tell, but still young, sitting by the long mess-table in camp before the regiment left the State, and wondering how many of those who gathered in our tent could hope to see the end of what was then beginning. For neither of them was that destiny reserved. I remember, as I awoke from my first long stupor in the hospital after the battle of Ball's Bluff, I heard the doctor say, "He was a beautiful boy", [Web note: Lt. William L. Putnam, 20th Mass.] and I knew that one of those two speakers was no more. The other, after passing through all the previous battles, went into Fredericksburg with strange premonition of the end, and there met his fate.[Web Note: Cpt. Charles F. Cabot, 20th Mass.]


I see another youthful lieutenant as I saw him in the Seven Days, when I looked down the line at Glendale. The officers were at the head of their companies. The advance was beginning. We caught each other's eye and saluted. When next I looked, he was gone. [Web note: Lt. James. J. Lowell, 20th Mass.]


I see the brother of the last-the flame of genius and daring on his face--as he rode before us into the wood of Antietam, out of which came only dead and deadly wounded men. So, a little later, he rode to his death at the head of his cavalry in the Valley.


In the portraits of some of those who fell in the civil wars of England, Vandyke has fixed on canvas the type who stand before my memory. Young and gracious faces, somewhat remote and proud, but with a melancholy and sweet kindness. There is upon their faces the shadow of approaching fate, and the glory of generous acceptance of it. I may say of them , as I once heard it said of two Frenchmen, relics of the ancien regime, "They were very gentle. They cared nothing for their lives." High breeding, romantic chivalry--we who have seen these men can never believe that the power of money or the enervation of pleasure has put an end to them. We know that life may still be lifted into poetry and lit with spiritual charm.


But the men, not less, perhaps even more, characteristic of New England, were the Puritans of our day. For the Puritan still lives in New England, thank God! and will live there so long as New England lives and keeps her old renown. New England is not dead yet. She still is mother of a race of conquerors--stern men, little given to the expression of their feelings, sometimes careless of their graces, but fertile, tenacious, and knowing only duty. Each of you, as I do, thinks of a hundred such that he has known.[Web note: Unfortunately for New England, no such "conquerors" have played for the Red Sox since 1918]. I see one--grandson of a hard rider of the Revolution and bearer of his historic name--who was with us at Fair Oaks, and afterwards for five days and nights in front of the enemy the only sleep that he would take was what he could snatch sitting erect in his uniform and resting his back against a hut. He fell at Gettysburg. [Web note: Col. Paul Revere, Jr., 20th Mass.].


His brother , a surgeon, [Web note: Edward H.R. Revere] who rode, as our surgeons so often did, wherever the troops would go, I saw kneeling in ministration to a wounded man just in rear of our line at Antietam, his horse's bridle round his arm--the next moment his ministrations were ended. His senior associate survived all the wounds and perils of the war, but , not yet through with duty as he understood it, fell in helping the helpless poor who were dying of cholera in a Western city.


I see another quiet figure, of virtuous life and quiet ways, not much heard of until our left was turned at Petersburg. He was in command of the regiment as he saw our comrades driven in. He threw back our left wing, and the advancing tide of defeat was shattered against his iron wall. He saved an army corps from disaster, and then a round shot ended all for him. [Web note: Major Henry Patten, 20th Mass.]


There is one who on this day is always present on my mind. [Web note: Henry Abbott, 20th Mass.] He entered the army at nineteen, a second lieutenant. In the Wilderness, already at the head of his regiment, he fell, using the moment that was left him of life to give all of his little fortune to his soldiers.I saw him in camp, on the march, in action. I crossed debatable land with him when we were rejoining the Army together. I observed him in every kind of duty, and never in all the time I knew him did I see him fail to choose that alternative of conduct which was most disagreeable to himself. He was indeed a Puritan in all his virtues, without the Puritan austerity; for, when duty was at an end, he who had been the master and leader became the chosen companion in every pleasure that a man might honestly enjoy. His few surviving companions will never forget the awful spectacle of his advance alone with his company in the streets of Fredericksburg.[Web note: The legendary suicidal charge of the 20th Mass. Regiment occurred on Dec. 11, 1862.] In less than sixty seconds he would become the focus of a hidden and annihilating fire from a semicircle of houses. His first platoon had vanished under it in an instant, ten men falling dead by his side. He had quietly turned back to where the other half of his company was waiting, had given the order, "Second Platoon, forward!" and was again moving on, in obedience to superior command, to certain and useless death, when the order he was obeying was countermanded. The end was distant only a few seconds; but if you had seen him with his indifferent carriage, and sword swinging from his finger like a cane, you would never have suspected that he was doing more than conducting a company drill on the camp parade ground. He was little more than a boy, but the grizzled corps commanders knew and admired him; and for us, who not only admired, but loved, his death seemed to end a portion of our life also.


There is one grave and commanding presence that you all would recognize, for his life has become a part of our common history. [Web note: William Bartlett, 20th Mass.]. Who does not remember the leader of the assault of the mine at Petersburg? The solitary horseman in front of Port Hudson, whom a foeman worthy of him bade his soldiers spare, from love and admiration of such gallant bearing? Who does not still hear the echo of those eloquent lips after the war, teaching reconciliation and peace? I may not do more than allude to his death, fit ending of his life. All that the world has a right to know has been told by a beloved friend in a book wherein friendship has found no need to exaggerate facts that speak for themselves. I knew him ,and I may even say I knew him well; yet, until that book appeared, I had not known the governing motive of his soul. I had admired him as a hero. When I read, I learned to revere him as a saint. His strength was not in honor alone, but in religion; and those who do not share his creed must see that it was on the wings of religious faith that he mounted above even valiant deeds into an empyrean of ideal life.


I have spoken of some of the men who were near to me among others very near and dear, not because their lives have become historic, but because their lives are the type of what every soldier has known and seen in his own company. In the great democracy of self-devotion private and general stand side by side. Unmarshalled save by their own deeds, the army of the dead sweep before us, "wearing their wounds like stars." It is not because the men I have mentioned were my friends that I have spoken of them, but, I repeat, because they are types. I speak of those whom I have seen. But you all have known such; you, too, remember!

It is not of the dead alone that we think on this day. There are those still living whose sex forbade them to offer their lives, but who gave instead their happiness. Which of us has not been lifted above himself by the sight of one of those lovely, lonely women, around whom the wand of sorrow has traced its excluding circle--set apart, even when surrounded by loving friends who would fain bring back joy to their lives? I think of one whom the poor of a great city know as their benefactress and friend. I think of one who has lived not less greatly in the midst of her children, to whom she has taught such lessons as may not be heard elsewhere from mortal lips. The story of these and her sisters we must pass in reverent silence. All that may be said has been said by one of their own sex---
But when the days of golden dreams had perished,


And even despair was powerless to destroy,


Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,


Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.


Then did I check the tears of useless passion,


weaned my young soul from yearning after thine


Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten


Down to that tomb already more than mine.
Comrades, some of the associations of this day are not only triumphant, but joyful. Not all of those with whom we once stood shoulder to shoulder--not all of those whom we once loved and revered--are gone. On this day we still meet our companions in the freezing winter bivouacs and in those dreadful summer marches where every faculty of the soul seemed to depart one after another, leaving only a dumb animal power to set the teeth and to persist-- a blind belief that somewhere and at last there was bread and water. On this day, at least, we still meet and rejoice in the closest tie which is possible between men-- a tie which suffering has made indissoluble for better, for worse.


When we meet thus, when we do honor to the dead in terms that must sometimes embrace the living, we do not deceive ourselves. We attribute no special merit to a man for having served when all were serving. We know that, if the armies of our war did anything worth remembering, the credit belongs not mainly to the individuals who did it, but to average human nature. We also know very well that we cannot live in associations with the past alone, and we admit that, if we would be worthy of the past, we must find new fields for action or thought, and make for ourselves new careers.
But, nevertheless, the generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience. Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. While we are permitted to scorn nothing but indifference, and do not pretend to undervalue the worldly rewards of ambition, we have seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor, and it is for us to bear the report to those who come after us. But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart.


Such hearts--ah me, how many!--were stilled twenty years ago; and to us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death. Year after year lovers wandering under the apple trees and through the clover and deep grass are surprised with sudden tears as they see black veiled figures stealing through the morning to a soldier's grave. Year after year the comrades of the dead follow, with public honor, procession and commemorative flags and funeral march--honor and grief from us who stand almost alone, and have seen the best and noblest of our generation pass away.
But grief is not the end of all. I seem to hear the funeral march become a paean. I see beyond the forest the moving banners of a hidden column. Our dead brothers still live for us, and bid us think of life, not death--of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and joy of the spring. As I listen , the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.
Source: The Essential Holmes: Selections From the Letters, Speeches, Judicial Opinions, and Other Writings of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., Edited and With an Introduction by Richard A Posner (University of Chicago Press, 1992) pp. 80-87.

Pitchfork instead of pen

      I have been seriously distracted from writing this week. Teenagers seem to sap more time and energy than younger children. I think that is because worry is exhausting. I have also been hard at work in the yard. Spent most of today for example in the garden. And I found this lovely quote to share;
     "If you have a garden and a library you have everything you need." ~ Cicero
     I found it at this site, http://bookshelves.tumblr.com/, which is rather odd, but I found it quite enjoyable. Maybe you will too.
     Okay, all excuses for being a slacker aside, I did get out five submissions this week, and am rather pleased about that, though they were all poems. It's more than usual. I got my column submitted on time. Yesterday I also worked out some more details with the publisher for the chapbook that looks like it really will be going to press soon, and I am very excited about that! I have been working on it for sooo long. Unfortunately, I am not quite done, and still have a little more research and writing to do. I got some research done this week, but not as much as I should have, and I have to do better next week. I also got my will rewritten this week. Can I get any credit for that?

Successful Aging

     Just heard that Art Linkletter died today. He had a good long run. We should all be so lucky. But his death does give anyone in my generation pause for reflection. He was a part of my childhood. A fixture of it. He made my parents smile. A lot. Now he is another measure of what once was. 

      I decided to post this previously published article I wrote about him a few years ago. Everyone is familiar with his television work but he was also a prolific author.

Art Linkletter on Successful Aging

by Tammi J Truax
Wow! is pretty much all I could think after hearing Art Linkletter speak when he came to town recently to entertain a large crowd of smiling people, as he has been doing for the last sixty years.

Called the poster child for aging the 95 year old gentleman of radio and television history was brought to Portsmouth by The Boulders at Riverwoods, and packed the grand ballroom at The Sheraton Hotel twice in one day.

Still working very hard, and doing very well, it seems more than fair that he should give us all some tips on successful aging, which he did throughout his off-the-cuff talk. Because he doesn’t prepare a speech he does ramble a bit, jumping from such varied topics as his own childhood to cell division to the current state of Medicare, but it keeps his talk spontaneous and very humorous.

Just some of Mr. Linkletter’s accomplishments are having two of the longest running TV shows in history (House Party and People are Funny), publishing 28 books (three of which are autobiographies), running several businesses and foundations, traveling 100,000 miles a year to lecture and do charity work, receiving 28 honorary doctorates, and a successful marriage of 73 years which has produced 18 great-grandchildren so far.

At first three autobiographies seemed excessive to me, but after hearing him speak I can see how it would take three volumes to get the job done. Mr. Linkletter has had a fascinating life. Abandoned by his birth parents he was adopted by an older Baptist preacher and his wife, in a part of Saskatchewan called Moose Jaw. Maturing just in time for the crash and the great depression he became a bonafide railroad hobo for a couple of years before settling in California to go to college to become a high school English teacher. While still in school serendipity got him into entertainment radio at KGB, where he started the “man on the street” interview concept. Broadcasting soon lead to television, a brand new medium that Mr. Linkletter helped to shape. He admits that it was in talking to kids that he discovered the gold mine in his career, and estimates that he has interviewed 27,000 children over the years.

He speaks with sadness and serious conviction about how his life changed forever in 1970 when his 20 year old daughter took her own life, probably unintentionally, while under the influence of LSD. Soon after her death he began several decades of work in drug abuse prevention, and is now concerned and educating others about seniors misusing drugs.

Most recently he has taken on serious senior advocacy including promoting Alzheimer’s research. He is founding member and chairman of the board of The Center on Aging at UCLA. Two of his books are specifically aimed at seniors, and based on my experience hearing Mr. Linkletter speak, are certainly worth checking out. They are titled; Old Age is not for Sissies, and the just released, How to Make the Rest of Your Life the Best of Your Life. He should know.
A Few of Art’s Tips for Successful Aging

Try new things.

Laugh a lot.

Adapt to change.

Plan for your future.

Volunteer for a charity.

Make new friends.

Have faith in something.

Do your very best.



“You have an intellectual and spiritual obligation to ask ‘Am I happy, if not, why not?’”

~ Art Linkletter

For more information about Art Linkletter’s work on aging visit www.aging.ucla.edu.

Scarier than Stephen King

     Last night I finished reading Still Alice, a novel by Lisa Genova. It was something I read for the graduate class I just finished called Narrating Illness, which was a writing course taught by a medical doctor at Harvard Extension School. In the course we read and discussed a variety of illness narratives written by well established authors, and each of us work-shopped two of our own over the semester. While Still Alice was not on the required reading list, I chose to read it because of it's subject matter, early onset Alzheimer's disease, and the fact that it was set in Cambridge, sometimes in Harvard Yard.
     At first, I was not particularly impressed. It takes a little while for the story's teeth to sink in. But I am left with a big bite mark, an overwhelming feeling of awe for this book. It is a remarkable achievement for a writer. Truly remarkable. That someone could describe, both accurately and eloquently, the unstoppable and terrifying descent into dementia that is Alzheimer's, who has not of course, experienced it, is an example of the consummate skill that every writer aspires to. Lisa Genova nails it. And the progression from beginning of illness to end is brilliantly played out, with a fascinating sub-plot about suicide that was a heart-wrenching stroke of genius. The book is quite obviously a product of intense research but most of the time doesn't come off heavy handed with information, it is well balanced.
     Here is a randomly chosen paragraph from the middle of the book, a conversation between Alice, who had been a Harvard professor, and her doctor;

"Okay Alice, can you spell the word water backwards for me?" he asked.
She would have found this question trivial and even insulting six months ago, but today, it was a serious question to be tackled with serious effort. She felt only marginally worried and humiliated by this, not nearly as worried and humiliated as she would've felt six months ago. More and more, she was experiencing a growing distance from her self-awareness. Her sense of Alice- what she knew and understood, what she liked and disliked, how she felt and perceived- was also like a soap bubble, ever higher in the sky and more difficult to identify, with nothing but the thinnest lipid membrane protecting it from popping into thin air."

     I read lots of books, and most fall into the dark abyss that is my own memory black hole. Unless there was something there that made the book unforgettable to me. I will remember this book.
     Just discovered that the author has a blog where she speaks directly to writers about a variety of subjects, so you might want to check that out; http://www.stillalice.blogspot.com/.

Worn-out wrap-up

     Met with a publisher this week! And an illustrator! Very exciting. Not as exciting as it might sound, but still very exciting to me. It is the culmination of a something I've been working on for a couple of years. I've started the last rush of research for the final bit of writing I need to do to complete this baby, and have been working on that ever since. Will probably stay in much of the weekend to continue. Will make more of a major announcement on this project when all details are finalized which I hope will be quite soon.
     Also started the week off by attending a writer's conference. I studied with a New Hampshire newspaper columnist named John Clayton. He happens to write for the newspaper that I was raised reading. When I left home for college I stopped reading that particular paper primarily for political reasons, and so didn't know his work. I'm a fan now and will continue reading him on line. Here is his link;
http://www.unionleader.com/clayton/columns.aspx/John%20Clayton?channel=1c995e31-2510-4986-94ad-a70698fbcb4d
I think he taught me a few things about being a columnist that will improve my work. Only time will tell about that of course. I can say that I wrote my next column this week just a few days after the workshop, and it was a serious variation from my usual model. There is a fair amount of risk taking with it that I'm not sure I would have taken before. I am really looking forward to hearing how it is received by readers which of course is the real test.
     My graduate class ended a few days ago, but I have not received my grade report yet. Will, of course, keep you posted. Reading, writing, weeding, meeting, and battling sneaky teenagers like a Jedi all week has worn me out far more than usual. I wish I could write myself some more energy, and maybe a maid ... and a yard boy ...

It's weird, but cute...

and a little helpful.
http://theoatmeal.com/comics/misspelling

Well,...

     Just got home from the local beauty school. Because I'm broke, because I'm a free lance writer, I needed to go to the Friday noon blowout for two bucks special. I was sitting in the twirly chair for awhile before I noticed someone was staring at me. I've been having trouble sleeping for, well, three years, so sometimes it appears that I am awake when really I'm not. So there I was, pretending to be awake in the twirly chair while getting my hair untwirled, when the staring face right in front of me came into focus. It was a little scary as I took it in. Kind of Avatary, with reptilian eyes and ears, on her perfect ivory skin topped with a layered mane of brunette hair. We stared each other down awhile, then I looked around and  noticed that I was pretty much the only client in the place. Well, the only human client that is. There were these plastic heads all over the place, business was in fact booming for plastic heads. I had never noticed this before. The room was filled with young women, well girls really, not much older than my own daughter who will soon come sidling home from the eighth grade. They were all similarly coiffed including the one named Amber working on my real head. They all had colored hair cut relatively short and at asymmetrical lengths. The colors were not the attempts toward inconspicuous "naturalness" that is my own strategy, quite the contrary. They all had some sort of stripes in their hair, jaggedless zebraness. Except for one who had black hair tinted blue that looked just like the handsome male superheroes in the comic books of my childhood used to have. Funny it didn't seem comical on them. I watched them working with their heads, which each had. I think that the end of Friday afternoon must be work on your plastic head time at the  beauty school. The one staring at me, perhaps because her human was attending to me instead of her, wore a label on her neck indicating that she is known as YXT53648. It worked well with the Avatar thing she had going on, but made me wonder if the girls named their heads. I would think it would be irresistible to name your head. If I had a head I would name it. I watched them work with a growing fascination. One was shampooing her head, sort of straddling it in a way that you could only if your client doesn't have a body so I wondered about the efficacy of that lesson. The girl with blue-black hair was giving her head a mohawk and another was giving hers a do of fat spikes that I'm sure has a name I'm unaware of. I figured they were gearing up for prom season which is just about upon us. I don't think the wedding season is going to be demanding euro-hardcore-punk hair styles. A supervisor came to inspect another girls completed work on her plastic head. They discussed the results very softly and briefly, and the girl took her head away. I turned my attention back to YXT53648 who was still staring me down. Though I usually appreciate life, I've been kind of depressed lately. (I tend to be quite optimistic. Many wise and pessimistic people have told me so. Ask Shayne Kevin.) Today though, my tired toward depressed self started thinking about how much better the plastic head woman had it than me. She was so pretty with her lizard like features. Her eyebrows were perfect, as was her skin. Without any pores she didn't have to deal with all of the magazines and cosmetic aisles, and well, mirrors, telling her that her pores are too visible. She could age without aging, a cool trick. She had permanently colored eyelids, cheeks and lips, and her lips were tiny little pert things that probably didn't have to yell at errant teenagers, or well, eat or breathe both of which I do fairly often. It goes without saying that her hair was lovingly tended, while mine is stuck with the occasional two dollar beauty school special. Even the stick body seemed enviable. The same estrogen attacks that have been robbing me of sleep for three years have also made me long and fight for a stick body. I would like a stick body more than I would like to forgo pores. She even had an interesting foot pedal at the bottom of her stick body to change her height at will. How damn handy would that be?! Just before I got up out of the chair to take my old flawed self home in time to meet the errant teenagers I looked around at all the pretty plastic heads, and reminded myself that the one thing I have never been able to tolerate is an empty headed chick.

Dirty Girl...

     Got more writing and research done in the last week than usual, far more. Deadlines will do that. I guess deadines are our friends. Not the fun kind of friend that you like to hang out with, but the one that helps you do what you must even when it is no fun at all. Very excited about the progress I've made on my book, and workshopped it for awhile last night with some writer friends. Will be putting the whole book synopsis up to peer review for my final paper this week in my graduate class, and have put a lot of time and effort into preparing for that. I think I'm ready.
      Also put a lot of time and energy into throwing the Post Card Party last Friday nite which went amazingly well. We had approximately 300 people show up to see about 200 poems and post card size works of art on display, three of the poems were mine. It was a lot of fun but so exhausting I slept for nine hours that night, which is rare for me. You can find out more about the post card project by visiting http://www.pplp.org/.
     Right now I'm finishing up on my last critique paper for class, and then have to put my work away to figure out how the heck I'm going to get hot water back in my house. What is it with plumbers not calling back? They always act like they are the cutest boy in class. And treat you like you are the unbathed girl with your nose in a book, and a sink full of dirty dishes. Oh, yeah, that is me... but it's good for my writing, my character hasn't bathed in months ... nah.

Tea for Two: Thelma Barlow: Just made do with what I had | SeacoastOnline.com

     Here is my column out today in case you spilled your cheerios on your morning paper.
Tea for Two: Thelma Barlow: Just made do with what I had SeacoastOnline.com . Am still seeking recipes of long standing from this general area (Seacoast New Hampshire/ southern Maine) for a book project. Please let me know if you have one you think should be included. What dishes do you consider traditional eats for the area? What do you serve to out of town guests? Maybe most telling, what do you most miss the taste of when you are away?
     I am also looking into Scribd and am considering publishing some writing there. My techno-savvy, but overly-cynical son, insists that it is a bad idea. I think it might be necessary as it is one of the places where publishers go trolling. Would like to know if anyone has had any experiences with it, or similar sites, positive or negative.

RESPECT~Find Out What It Means To Me

     Attended Writer's Night Out last night, a social gathering of people in my region, trying to make their way as writers. While sitting with a small group of women of varying ages the topic of discussion turned to respect. Sadly, only one of the four women felt that the most significant people in her life really respects what she is doing for a living. Often the work was only considered worthwhile if it earned money. Some of the significant others come right out and make their lack of respect clear, and others show it in a more covert, but not much less hurtful, ways. Each of us felt that we have experienced a lack of interest in our work, and a lack of support in getting our work done, that we couldn't imagine would ever be the way we would treat a partner who had goals along any type of similar vein. We talked about how it felt that most other types of female artists we know; painters, photographers, actresses, etc., seem to get more support than us. And one writer pointed out that many of the most accomplished writers she could think of had a partner in their lives who totally believed in them and encouraged them to become all they can be. I've been thinking a lot about that. Thinking about Donald Hall and his loving support of Jane Kenyon as just one example. There are few things in life as painful, I think, as having that which is most central to who you are being dismissed as insignificant, or worse yet, as a waste of time and energy, by the person who is most central to you. Sometimes it is even a deal breaker requiring that a new ending be written.

Endings

      National Poetry Month ends today, and I'd like to close it by sharing this poem. The poet, Deborah Digges, took her own life last year during poetry month. I am not usually attracted to dark poetry, but this one speaks to me. Tell me what it says to you.
          http://www.randomhouse.com/kdpg/poetry/poemaday/2010/poemaday_30_digges.html

Tired Writer, Bad Writer

     It has been an exhausting week, and yes I know it is only Thursday. My kids are home from school this week, a relatively unhealthy drama is being auditioned for me (I'm not an actress), and Jazzmouth: The Seacoast Poetry and Jazz Festival was inspiring but tiring as always. It was great fun to watch former US Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky doing the white guy boogie to our local jazz band. I have written quite a few new poems over the last week, certainly more than usual. One I actually like a lot. Submitted my column due out next week. Finished three short papers for my writing workshop last night. Got a few other submissions lined up but not out yet. But still have a lot of writing to do so ~ am going to get back to work now.
     But first I thought this looked very interesting and would like to see the whole thing. If anyone knows how I can please let me know.


Bad Writing - Official Trailer from Morris Hill Pictures on Vimeo.