Getting an Education

I'm getting an education I'm fairly sure I don't want. I'm also sure I don't have the time for this. Unfortunately, it's an education I'm going to need, and I'm going to need it fairly quickly.

How many books have I read in my lifetime? I would say that in a normal week I read at least two or three books. There have been many times that I've read a book in a day. That wasn't while writing a book of my own, of course. 

Writing really cuts into my reading time. That was something that never occurred to me before I started this project. Writing now absorbs most of my days and wakes me up at night. My DVR is filling up with unwatched Jeopardy episodes. My husband has started to hide out down in the basement. He comes back up a few times a day to stand watching me, or to offer mail or coffee. He always comes up when his nose tells him I've cooked. I'm determined not to let that job escape me, or the laundry. He might run away from home.

So now I'm finding out that the work doesn't end when I finish telling the story. I need to figure out if I want an agent. If I do, I have to find one willing to have me. (Willing?) Then I need to make sure the agent works hard for me. Don't they need to do that to make money from my book? Maybe I need to start over and get a different agent. I haven't even picked one out yet, and already I know I've got the wrong one.

There are a multitude of web sites to help you deal with the publishing process. Almost nobody's going to want to publish that first novel, they all agree, but there are miracle stories everywhere, so hang in there. Be persistent. Don't let that growing pile of rejection letters get you down. Just grow a thicker skin, and above all, be patient, because once you have the agent and the publisher, it'll only be a couple of years before your book is on the shelf at your local book store.

I knew I didn't want this particular education. I think I'll just shut up and write.

I'm Too Gullible

I was thinking back about John's long years working for the Department of Defense, and I started remembering all the long business trips he had to take. It was particularly hard when he went places I would have loved to go and couldn't, like Spain or Hawaii, and stayed away for two weeks for two months—or more.

I reminded him about the long trips he made to Alaska. He got a little uncomfortable, since he knew where I was headed. I always love to tease him about his four-month long trips to Kodiak Island. I wanted to go on one of those trips. It was a time when we could actually have managed it. He said it would be nice, but there were no women there. Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be the only woman on some outpost way up north, so I was very understanding, even though I was really disappointed.

Now, with John's security clearance, whatever missiles they sent up, or whatever designs they flew, I never heard about them. If it wasn't on the news or in the paper, I often didn't even know exactly where he was. Perhaps some of the other husbands would share information and trust that it would go no further, but John had always figured that he gave his word to keep his mouth shut, and that's what he would do.

When he returned from his final trip to Alaska, he handed over some awards he'd been given, along with the newspapers that told what had been accomplished by the team there. He showed me the beautiful coat they had presented to him. Then he said that the final test launch had turned into a real zoo. 

Zoo? Yeah. It seems that so many military officers wanted to fly into Alaska for the test launch ceremony that they had to close down the schools and use the school busses to carry the officers around.

Hey, honey? Who takes care of the children at night when the schools are closed, SINCE THERE ARE NO WOMEN THERE ON THE ISLAND?

View From the Ridge

Last night we sat on the ridge behind our friend Doug's house, just up the hill on the acre above ours. From there we can see the valley on the other side of the foothills. We watched the fireworks start up shortly after dark.

From our vantage point we could hear quite well, and could see at a distance the fireworks from about ten small cities and towns on the floor of the valley. It was an incredible experience. It is wonderful to feel that on this one day each year we're all celebrating the birth of a nation—our own.

I know it's popular to point out the problems our country has. I can't imagine living anywhere else. We sure come closer than any other country I've ever heard of to the ideals I hold. I'm not going to get political. I just want to point out that as a nation, we're one lucky bunch of people.

I've started something new this year, and I suggested it in church. Whenever you feel like complaining about the high cost of gas, or the increasing costs of food, say a prayer instead. It will do more good, and you'll probably feel better.

Don't Answer This Question

Am I perverse, or am I just tired today?

It's rather typical for me to be up until midnight, and last night I was up until after one in the morning. Staying up late never seems to be a problem. Now that I've been writing this novel, it's easy to stay at the keyboard until all hours. I write, edit what I've written, do some research, type in the corrections from my edits and write some more... Then I get up around five in the morning and start it all over.

I like to take a couple of hours in the afternoon to lie down and listen to music. I usually fall asleep, then get up in time to feed my husband. It works out quite well.

Today I'm waiting for quarter to nine, so we can walk up the ridge and watch the fireworks in the valley below. We can see a beautiful spread from up here. It's really magnificent. I'm looking forward to it. So why am I struggling to stay awake? It isn't even eight o'clock yet, and it's almost a losing battle.

I always told my boys—well, I told them lots of things, and they've probably forgotten most of them. But this is one of those things that I said a lot:

You can burn your candle at both ends, but only for half as long. I think my candle's getting short.

Old Barns

I got my first darkroom in 1969. My camera was a 35mm Canon FT. None of that matters, except that the photos I took were precious to me. I began my photography in Okinawa, and it was like an addiction. I began to notice that there were certain things I couldn't resist photographing. No matter how many shots I had, whenever I saw a barn or an outhouse, I needed that picture. Some of my outhouse photos are probably already on this site. I'll make sure another time. For now, I'd like to concentrate on the barn.

I've never known why those old barns so captured my imagination. I vaguely remember visiting a great aunt and uncle in Wisconsin on a farm when I was very little. She made doughnuts for us. He had cheeks that looked like apples. I remember they had a barn, but don't remember what it looked like, other than big. It certainly wasn't falling down, as far as I remember. After years of capturing old barns on film, I heard a song. Can a song explain something that your heart has known for years?

I'd like to introduce you to a group called The Ringling 5. It's a band from up in Montana, and they haven't put out an album yet that I don't have. My old Pastor (thank you, Master Stan) introduced me to their music, and I'll be forever grateful.

The Ringling 5 is composed of about seven math challenged but extremely talented musicians. Most of their music is very funny, but I want to just copy down the lyrics of one that's not. It's called Grandpa's Barn. Their website is http://www.ringling5.com. The guitar picking on this album is sort of the style I use myself when I play, so it makes me feel really comfortable when I listen to it. The words rock my soul.


Grandpa's Barn
by The Ringling 5

As Grandpa sat beside the barn,
Ninety years of living lined his face.
He said, "Lord, the sights I've seen, and
Lord, the dreams I've dreamed!
They're all wrapped up in this old place."

I built this barn in 1901,
The first year that I moved onto this place,
With trees from down the draw,
I worked that hammer and saw,
'Til the sweat poured off my face.

His life is reflected in the boards of this old barn.
They're weathered and they're splintered,
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams he ever had.

"The first time that I kissed your Grandma
The harvest moon was shining through the door.
Her eyes sparkled and they shined.
I've seen 'em a million times.
God, if I could see them just once more!"

Grandkids played up in the hayloft.
The neighbors came and danced across the floor.
The horses in the stall,
The harness on the wall,
A batch of kittens sunning 'round the door.

His life is reflected in the boards of this old barn.
They're weathered and they're splintered,
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams he ever had.

Time can tear a building to the ground.
Roads can take a young man far away.
It seems like when you're gone
It hasn't been that long
But Grandpa passed away in '68.

When you're traveling down a rutted road,
And some old barn shows up in your mirror,
Take a moment—look around,
Even though it's falling down.
Someone's dreams were kept in there.

Their life is reflected in the boards of that old barn
They're knotted and they're splintered
But they haven't lost their charm.
It stands in quiet solitude through good times and bad.
It holds all the dreams they ever had.
It'll hold all the dreams you'll ever have.

My Mom and the Girl Scouts

Mom called me last night and said she woke up in the middle of the night laughing. She had remembered being in the Girl Scouts back in Upper Michigan. Back then girls joined the Girl Scouts. Mom said it was the only game in town. There were about a dozen bunks in the bunk house at Bass Lake, about five miles from their town, Gwinn, and enough girls in their Troop the fill the bunks. The camp belonged to the CCI Mining Camp, and their Scout Troop was given a week there every summer. My Grandpa was the head engineer for the mines, so that might have had something to do with the troop being given free time at the camp. Who knows?

Anyway, Mom said they would put their ruck sacks on their backs and march the whole five miles together. What woke her up laughing was remembering the marching chant that she hadn't thought of in years. Knowing that I like to collect the kind of silly songs and poems that she and Dad always loved to share with us, she had to ask if I remembered the marching chant. I didn't. Here it is for posterity and a few good shakes of the head. Let's all just agree that nobody is writing stuff like this anymore:

Left, Left,
I had a good job and I left
I left my wife and forty-nine kids
On the verge of starvation without any gingerbread
Left, Left

Mom said that those twelve girls would repeat that over and over for the entire five miles. You suppose their leaders had more than one reason to be thrilled when the shores of Bass Lake finally came into view?

The Great Potato Harvest

Little kids, at least in the nineteen fifties, weren't often given the opportunity to earn money. A few might have gotten an allowance, but there were many strings attached, and the chance to earn some extra cash was rare.

While living in Idaho, it won't shock anyone to know that the local farmers regularly hired women and children during harvest season to pick potatoes. The big combine would go through the field and the potatoes would be left more or less on top of the dirt. Then the women and children would be given empty burlap bags and they'd head down the rows. You had to bend at the waist and reach into the dirt, pick up those big Idaho russets and shove them into the sack. Then you had to drag that sack on down the row until it was full. At that point you had to heft the sack up and drag it back to the collection point. There it would be weighed and tallied up by your name. The picker would be given a new sack, and back into the field you would go. As the day progressed, those burlap bags got increasingly heavier. I remember it too well.

We probably got five cents a bag. The sun was hot. You don't think about having a sore back or being exhausted when you're a little kid, until it happens. It was the summer between third and fourth grade for me. My brother Kenny was a year behind that, Ellen two years ahead of me, and Pat old enough to work on the combine. At one point during the day, Kenny let Mom know how the three of us kids she had taken to the field all felt, and it was no longer gratitude for the chance to earn some money.

Dragging a new empty burlap bag behind him up the potato row, he trudged up to our mother.

"Mama, can little kids have heart attacks?"

"No, honey, they can't."

As he returned to his spot in line, we all clearly heard his response. "Where there's a will, there's a way."