Apple Picking, Leaf Peeping, and Turkey Dinner

October blends natural textures, colors, tastes, and smells into a tapestry of sensory delight. This past week we've spent with our kids, Geoff and Carrie. Usually they visit for Thanksgiving, but we all know what a rat-race the whole travel-during-the-holidays can become, so they made a conscious effort to switch gears and come during my week off at Columbus Day (don't know why CSC offers a week off, but hurray). During the week we picked apples, plucked pumpkins, munched maple products, and walked the mountain golf course -- all in view of the glorious golden leaves in the Vermont fall foliage.

Carrie wanted Thanksgiving Dinner. So, before they arrived, I gathered all the ingredients. Surprisingly, turkey was not available in my usual market, but I found a nice 14 pounder at the "other" market in town. I roamed the aisles, scouting the rest of the traditional eats: stuffing and gravy makings, fresh cranberries, and pie basics. Armed with everything, we proceeded to start the fun visit.

The first day, we picked a bushel of apples. Believe me when I tell you that we'll be eating apples, drying apples, and pressure cooking applesauce until Christmas. Anyway... Carrie made a GREAT apple pie with the crumbly topping!! I think it was her first pie. Pictures below.

We psyched ourselves and laughed into calling our festivities "Thanksgiving" -- even to the point of making sure we ate on Thursday, treating the day exactly as we would if it was "the real" Thanksgiving. Lots of jokes about football and parades being cancelled due to the flu, and shoppers ready to invade the stores on Friday. Yeah, we were silly. But it sort of worked. We began to feel like it was Thanksgiving. Carrie even started to consider Christmas carols on her iPod. By Friday we were surprised, on a trip to Burlington, that more shoppers weren't in the stores, however, the restaurants were doing a brisk business. Nice to know somebody's recovering during this economical downturn, recession, whatever. Stimulus, ahoy!

Early this morning we drove to Dartmouth Hospital for our flu shots (a huge line where usually we had none). This was Carrie's first flu shot. We celebrated with hot soup after standing in the cold for that half hour. Brr... it was 30 degrees. Later we will drive to the Albany, NY airport, as Carrie and Geoff return to California. Boo hoo. We had such a marvelous time and we'll miss them with all our hearts. But we'll figure a way to see them soon.

Now I'm wondering what we'll do for the next Thanksgiving. You know... the one coming up in November.

Site seeing, apple picking, turkey and pie:

My youth slips away. I wonder if this is the feeling of every generation? Or is this welling of emotion purely the result of our connection via media? Did the revolutionary generation feel the rip of their hearts with the deaths of Washington, Jefferson, and Adams?

This summer has been devastating for life -- death seems to have taken quite the opposite of a holiday. More like working overtime. And that's not news; it's the way the cycle works. We're under a microscope. First we live the music and the movies and the art and the marches and the dream. Then we live the moments of our own lives. Celebrate. Endure. Breathe. Finally, we mourn, release, and are mourned.

[on edit: I haven't been able to get my head around losing Ted Kennedy. I don't consider him part of "pop" culture. I consider him an amazing, human, humane, compassionate, tireless worker on behalf of all Americans. His loss requires more than a few passing thought. I'm considering a vast array of emotions and reactions. In time, I'll spill here where nobody really pays much attention, thank goodness.]

Somewhere in the many moves and changes, I lost my guitar. But I never lost my inner folk singer -- I still have my Joan Baez Songbook.

Namaste, Mary Travers. Namaste.

Brainstorming. Ideas for a story pop into my head most often when I am not near paper, pen, voice recorder, or even another person. My best ideas zap into my head while I'm in the shower. I suppose right now I should be water-logged -- I seem to be stuck on the way to the middle of the book. What happens next? You don't know? Well, don't ask me either. Talk about the well going dry -- if I take any more showers to prime the mental pump, our well could protest. Here's where the metaphor reaches into reality and yanks the chain, huh?

Hasn't done any good at all. I'm stumped. For awhile wonderful moments were flowing from my fingers like hot fudge over coffee ice cream. And then -- SNAG! So what did I do? Begin to see all the problems that needed fixing. And that was a good thing -- I supported some earlier moments and worked on deeper characterization (and realize I have much more to do on that score). Still didn't help -- the battle cry is ... WHAT THE FRACK IS NEXT?

I'm about to discover. I've decided to soldier on. And I'll tell you why. Why? Because I have started a new writing forum. My former writing group disbanded. And after a week of feeling adrift, I sat down and googled "forum" set up/hosting. I found what appears to be a very simple and yet nice organized forum template and a decent host. At $5.95 per month, it certainly isn't going to break the bank.

I'd compare a writing group to Weight Watchers. Sure, you can do WW by yourself. The points are easy to figure and follow. No sweat, right? But it's a lot easier and more committed to enter into the contract with a group for support. Something about publically affirming that you are gong to do something -- that makes the endeavor real and sets in motion even the smallest connection of commitment. I need that push. I admit it. I need public witness to my work -- which will spur my work in the direction of finishing! I would love to finish Cheesy Christmas Story. Yes, indeed, I would.

So, without hopping in the shower tomorrow morning, I'm sitting down at my desk and writing a minimum of 5 pages. Yes. I will write and do a bit of editing and then... post on the new writing group forum. What I know for sure -- if I've made a blunder, my group with help me work out the kinks. Nice to have support that doesn't wait for the right moment or a weekly meeting or a chance encounter to kick into high gear.

New group's name: We Write Stuff.

Hang onto your hats! I think this group is going to make a mark on publishing! Or ... be sent to the showers...

Eight more school days.
Can't believe it?
Believe it.

My usual frenzy has been set into motion. I'm a mess. I'm behind with everything, yet may appear cool and collected. Except for this dastardly fiend of a cold -- my ubiquitous airplane cold. Darm. At least I do not have stacks of unread freshmen essays. Yippee. I only have one test to read by Tuesday. My planning must be working? Can't say. The usual suspects still haunt me.

I am not going to rant about students who do not listen or read the syllabus. No. This seems to be the norm. When I said (and wrote) "I do not take work via email," did they think I was kidding? I was not. When I said (and wrote) "I do not take late work," did they think that was a joke? Nope. I don't take late work. What is a deadline? Obviously, I have a very firm view of personal responsibility. I don't think we're doing any favors by lowering or moving the goalposts we've set.

Recently several people (well, Joanne and Geoff) have attempted to move me past an obsession with "approval" -- be it my mother's or anyone's. I understand. I need to approve of myself. I don't need to concern myself with whether my students "like" me or not. On the surface, I don't care. But maybe I do? I don't move the deadlines or become lenient -- nope. I don't take late work. But do I cringe inside because I don't? Do I realize this is not rocket science or the fate of the world? Somewhere deep inside I actually do KNOW that an essay for Touchstones of Western Literature is NOT going to "matter" in a hundred years -- or in twenty -- or in one. Ha. So...why not let it all go? An interesting proposition. But...no. I'll just have to ramble on as I have for years -- off to the end of the semester. And back in the fall!

At the moment, I would love to feel 100% again. No cold. No snot. No cough. Get back my appetite.

And watch the rest of Battlestar Galactica - Season 2.

Well, it's St. Patrick's Day, and while I'm not Irish, that's no excuse!
I was married to an Irish Catholic from Boston.
My son has half that man's genes.
I suppose that makes me Irish by injection?

In addition, it is my sister's birthday. Here's to you, Miz Mary Patricia! She didn't have a chance, did she? The only name they could pin on her would be Mary Pat. And when we said, "But mom," in our whiny pre-teen voices, "Mary is such a plain name and there's so many Marys," my mother countered with, "We'll call her Patricia or Patty or Pat." Yeah, right. That never happened. She was and is Mary. We shouldn't have thought it would be any different. My dear maternal grandmother's name was Mary. My mother was 40 when she brought my sister into the world -- my sister, the last of six siblings, with me as the oldest. I was 14 years old when she was born -- well on my way to teenage angst, and I didn't need a newborn baby in the house to take the spotlight, idaresay. But funny thing about that -- we all loved her (and love her still) so very much. She was (and is) a JOY! So, Happy Birthday, Mary! Happy Birthday #43. EEEEK! (my only saving grace is that Mom's 83 now)

In my search for St. Patrick's Day Graphics, I came across this:
DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE...


















... a Disney movie that came out in 1959 -- hyped on "Disneyland" (the tv show) by none other than Walt himself. I remember vividly even though was eight years old. WHAT WERE THEY THINKING... taking me to the theatre to watch that movie??? It scared the living s**t out of me! That damned banshee! I couldn't pass a dark room, worried about my closet, and basically freaked out for weeks. And death? Geez, that banshee took me over to sheer terror about death, and I don't think I've ever come out of its grips. Here we were, minding our own business, singin' and dancin' with the little Leprechauns (and wondering, "how'd they do that?" about the small people actors in the same frame with the regular people actors), when BAM! The banshee! Sooooo... here she is.... (always a woman, huh? geez)







































Happy St. Patrick's Day all you Baby Boomers!
I know you're out there -- still freaked out about the banshee...not to mention... The Wagon of Death (that's another frightening graphic, headless coachmenand all... and I couldn't bring it here... shiver, shiver, shiver!)

Faith and begorrah!

Oops!

I lied. Well, I didn't lie. But I woke up to SNOW. Lots and lots of SNOW. Big, fluffy flakes of snow.
Darm!

I guess that whole melting thing will just have to wait.

Thank goodness I'm heading for California on March 26th. I need sunlight and warmth!

Of course, I should not complain. It was a balmy 34 degrees most of the day, even with all the snow.

We're Melting, Melting, Melting!
Oh, What a World!

Spring hasn't exactly sprung, but I do have hope. Heard birds. Saw chipmunks. And the snow has melted on the edges of the two acres. Slowly, slowly. Deep breath. Cross your fingers. Hold on!

I'm not an expert (duh) but I'd say Vermont is having a good maple sugar year. From what I've read, the syrup people need very cold nights and warming up days. The sap will run. They'll tap and boil. The valley will smell delicious -- seriously, like maple syrup. I'm not kidding. The first time I walked outside and breathed that burnt brown sugar smell with the hint of maple, I thought I was making it up. But I wasn't. A sugaring venture was going full steam ahead, right at the bottom of our hill. Since then, we've moved, but we are in the vicinity and I can still smell the liquid gold. BTW... YIKES... do you know what they're getting for maple syrup these days? I thought about tapping our sugar maples. Operative word: thought. Nah, I have plenty of other projects to finish.

Right now, I'm trying to stay on top of three serious goals: 1) lose weight; 2) finish the quilt for Geoff and Carrie; and 3) finish my novel/novella. All three goals connect to Geoff and Carrie getting married in June. What could be better than to look nice and feel energetic for pictures and general fun? What could be better than to present them with a handmade quilt? (although they do know about it because... it's been languishing at the bottom of my pile o'projects for about five years. (digging toe into ground and biting index finger in shame) (oh well). And finally, what could be better than being able to tell my darling son that his mother finally finished a book. Finished a book. Which would mean... I can do it! He's always saying so. He says he never wants to tell his children that I was a great writer, but never finished a book. When you put it that way... OY YOI YOI.

Daylight savings time started today and so many people are pissed off about it. I'm not. What the heck? Yes, it takes a few days or a week to get used to the idea, but then it's like summer is already here. I remember the feeling -- when daylight savings time started every year, we were excited to our toes! We could play outside longer and longer every evening. In fact, that scene in Field of Dreams, at the end, where they "have a catch." That's my backyard all summer long -- the "pop" of the baseball into the glove -- from my dad to my brother and back again. The smell of leather and neet's foot oil. Ah... well, that movie never fails to make me cry. Too many memories these days? Yes, probably.

Back to the studio. I need to clear a space for the quilt, rev up the tread mill, and brainstorm more of my book. I can do all that right here and at the same time -- I love my life! Here's what I'm expecting come Vermont spring:

(my very own homegrown daffodil)