I’m Done

So the story goes that J.K.Rowling, when she finished writing her seventh and last Harry Potter novel at the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh, wrote on the base of a bust of Hermes, “JK Rowling finished writing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in this room (552) on 11th Jan 2007.”

I have no statues or heads of statues nearby, nor do I have sufficient clout to assume that anyone would even want me to write on their statue should there be any around, so I am choosing, instead, to write to you, my blogland friends:

I, Gretchen O’Donnell, have finished editing my children’s novel, tentatively titled, “The Children of Eel Pond Island” on this day, March 12, 2013, in BenLees Café, in Worthington, Minnesota, at 2:00 in the afternoon.

I am full of caffeine.

I am heady with joy.

I am scared to death.

I am done.

News – and a short poem by a real poet

Well, it seems that hard work pays off – giving you more opportunities to work hard and keep busy and not get the dishes done. I’ve been asked to write several articles for an upcoming special edition of our local newspaper – and I’ll be paid!

I’ve written for the paper – a daily with a healthy circulation despite the hard times that papers have come across in recent years – several times since moving here, but I’ve never been paid for it. A year ago January, they asked me to begin a blog (which I call The View From my Window) on their “Area Voices” server, which was quite nice. Every post appears on their homepage and, in addition, about once a month they print one of the posts in their actual physical paper.

So now I guess I can call myself a real free-lance writer!

I’m realizing that this means several things: 1) Deadlines; 2) Interviews and not just “out of my own head” stuff; and 3) A pay check. I’ll put up with the first two to get the last one.

In light of this time crunch and additional writing stress, I’m giving you something not entirely original this week and possibly the next couple of weeks as well. I might even have a guest blogger join us!

For today: this poem, by Jane Kenyon. I think this is my favorite poem in all creation.

LET EVENING COME

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
Let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Wa Hoo! They Like Me, They Really Like Me!

I have a confession to make (it’s been awhile since I’ve confessed anything on here, so it’s about time): My e-mail inbox has 4042 messages in it.

Now all of you efficient/non-procrastinating/tidy people can pick yourselves up off the floor (or pat yourselves on the back) and know that I wish I was you.

It is possible that, were my inbox emptied on a regular basis, I’d have noticed the lovely e-mail hidden in all the clutter much sooner. As it was, upon checking my blog on Saturday morning, I noticed something rather extraordinary: I’d had over 50 views already that morning and it was only 9:00.

“What does this mean?” I asked myself. “How can this be?”

I “refreshed” the page again. Just to make sure.

“Yes! It’s true! And I have a bunch of “likes”, too! What’s going on?” I said not a word – barley even acknowledged the thought – as I clicked over to WordPress’ homepage.

“Could it be? Really?”

YES! IT IS!

I shouted to my husband, sitting not two yards away, “I’m FRESHLY PRESSED!”

His blank look did nothing to deter my happiness.

“That means that I‘m featured on WordPress’ homepage! It means they like me! They really like me!” (Yes, I was channeling my inner Sally Field.)

(By the way, I’m on page two now, if you want to joy of seeing my photo and link in person.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH and WELCOME to my new readers. I am so glad to have you along on the journey! I am still working on visiting all of your pages so thanks for being patient!

I also have to say THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you who’ve been along for awhile, too! I love getting to know you all.

Here’s a fun stat: WordPress chooses TEN new blog posts a day to add to their homepage. This is out of 31.7 million new posts a month. Here’s the link to prove that. And here’s another useful link: So You Want to be Freshly Pressed.

But here’s the truth of the matter: This post was not my best-written post, not my funniest or most emotional or most educational, interesting or sentimental. It’s just that it happened to get noticed. They do say that a catchy title is hugely important so I guess I had that going, at least. (Note, however: my previous post had the same title…and it didn’t get chosen! So titles aren’t everything…it’s a group effort!) Interesting photos are good, too. They also say that having links included in the post is good as it emphasizes the fact that blogging isn’t all about you, the blogger, it’s about world-wide connections.

I find this to be both encouraging and discouraging. Encouraging because ANYONE can be Freshly Pressed. It doesn’t take a perfect writer or an impeccable blog. Discouraging because hard work on a fabulous post does not necessarily equal “success” – if being Freshly Pressed is a measure of success. I think that the encouraging trumps the discouraging in this scenario.

I know that I have found with my other blog – the one that is through my local newspaper – that they are more apt to print (in their physical paper) timely/seasonal/human interest posts. I know I have seen that play out on the Freshly Pressed list, too, which is another thing to remember if striving after such a thing. For the Love of Vinyl wasn’t any of that, however! They liked it because it was nostalgic.

And, in this day of hurricanes and political stress and terrorism, people like to be reminded of simpler times. So, if you have a turn table, “go, put your records on….” You’ll be glad you did.

PS – my inbox now has 4050 messages. Time to get to work.

The Thing Which Scares Me the Most

Now that I’ve survived the trauma of Boo heading off to kindergarten, my daily focus has changed a wee bit. Now, rather than answering questions and playing Candyland, I can spend my time doing what I have wanted, all my life, to do.

I can write.

I have this amazing thing: TIME.

I can taste it. I can touch it. Like a gift-wrapped, tangible presence: TIME.

And, of course, I face the huge question of how best to spend it.

This means I can choose to drive into town, and, if I do, I can stop frequently along the 20-minute drive to take photographs, I can stop for minutes on end to capture the Blue Herons that fish along the shallow lakes and no one will fuss that they’re hungry, tired, or bored.

This also means that I can sit around in my pajamas all day and no one will ever know. Except perhaps the UPS man, but he usually comes to our house in the late afternoon so I should be safe as I’ll have to get dressed by then to uphold the ruse that I’ve been productive all day.

It means I can brew a pot of coffee and carry it out to the deck where I can read in the sunshine without being interrupted and interrupted and interrupted, forced to read the same sentence three times in as many minutes.

I means I can go grocery shopping without a helper. Or get my haircut without having to buy the bottle of shampoo that accidentally got knocked off the shelf and burst open. Or go to the gynecologist without lining up a sitter because there are some things that a five year old just doesn’t need to know about yet.

It means I can sit at my desk and write, write, write, write, write, write, write. I can edit and revise and think. I can stand on my head, if I like, trying to think of the perfect way to kill off a character, and no one will look at me funny, or demand that I explain myself or ask me sweetly to help her stand on her head, too.

No one will ask me this because no one will be around.

For seven hours a day, it will be quiet.

Completely silent.

I feel old.

I feel a little bit lonely.

I feel finicky, like a cat that can’t make up its mind what it really wants out of life.

I am overwhelmed by the largeness of the silence.

And I am amazed.

Amazed that, after almost 13 years of having children at home, they’re finally all in school.

Amazed that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had 7 hours to myself, at home, uninterrupted, and now suddenly I have years and years of this ahead.

I feel grateful for this.

I feel empty because of this.

I feel afraid due to this.

Yes, afraid. Afraid that, now that I have time, I’ll finish up my manuscript and no one will want to buy it. Afraid that all these years I’ve looked forward to this moment, this chance to perfect this book, I’ll botch it. I’ll just be one of those people who tried to get a book published.

And failed.

Yes, I am afraid. Because this is what I have wanted all my life and what if I can’t do it?

I find things to keep me busy: church stuff, volunteering around town, washing the dishes. Things that keep me too busy to write. Too busy to face the ultimate question of whether or not I can achieve this elusive goal.

These things become excuses.

Perhaps even this blog becomes a time-filler to keep me away from what I need to do…
…but I am frightened of.

They say that fear of failure is one of the top fears of everyone in the world.

They also say that failure to try is failure in itself.

I am not afraid to die, I am not afraid to speak in public – two of the other major fears people face. But yes…I am afraid of failing in this dream.

The thing is, so much of it depends not just on me, but on others.

And maybe they won’t think I’m a genius.

Ha.

But yes, I will try. I will proceed. I will finish.

Because to not to would be to have failed for certain for sure.

(Yes, I meant that sentence to be badly written. It’s reflective of my state of mind.)

Who knew that sending Boo off to kindergarten would provoke such a reaction in her mama?!

I did not cry when they drove away to school, everyone waving, Boo giggling with joy.

The tears came later. Now I’m left with a book-sized lump in my throat that is causing me cardiac distress.

I’ll let you know if it ever goes away.

The Peculiars – A book review

Several weeks ago I received in the mail an uncorrected proof of a soon-to-be-released book , The Peculiars, written by a friend of mine, Maureen Doyle McQuerry. How fun it was to hold her book in my hands! I heard her read the first chapter or so of the book aloud when I met her two years ago, and I had waited all this time to learn what happens. I was not disappointed!

And so I present to you here my official first-ever book review! I was honored when Maureen asked me to write the review. I was also afraid! I wanted to do a good job, to do justice to the book, to be honest and readable and relevant. I read the book twice, taking notes the second time, and then I sat down at my favorite coffee shop and set to work. It wasn’t as terrifying as I thought it would be! However, it was hard in that there is so much that could be said, so much I had to leave out…not becuase there was a strict rule of word count (that I was aware of) but because I, as a reader, know that short is best when it comes to reviews. When I’m reading a review I am not going to plow though paragraph after paragraph…short and sweet, please!

But, that being said, I didn’t want to tell the plot or give away secrets…it’s a fine balance.

So I wrote about Lena, the heroine, who, I discovered, I could truly relate to. I’ve been in her too-trusting shoes, though, to be sure, her shoes would never have fit me…

The Peculiars is available now on Amazon and Barnes and Noble web sites, as well as in discerning book stores! It is written for a YA (Young Adult) audience, though as you’ll see in my review I’d recommend it for almost any age. It is published by Amulet books, an imprint of Abrams.  It is currently available in  both hardback and Kindle versions ($10.95 and $9.99, respectively).

P.S. – I have always loved the word, “peculiar” – I like words that you have to work at to pronounce correctly! 

The Peculiars, by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

Lena Mattacascar has lived her whole life being scrutinized by her mother and grandmother, watched constantly for signs of wild thoughts, goblinish behaviors, and anything that might prove her heritage which for so many years has been kept hidden or explained away.

Lena’s father, a suspected goblin, who abandoned his family when Lena was small, has come back into her life via a letter he left for her 18th birthday. Lena is determined to discover just exactly who her father is and, ultimately, who she herself is.

So she sets out alone on a quest into a world of steam trains, dirigibles, and gas-powered lights, a world where science trumps superstition and criminals and “peculiars” are sent to Scree, a wild land where they are forced to work in the mines for a government that considers them soulless and expendable.

Yet this is the place Lena knows she must go to find her father. Along the way she meets friends and foes, people who love her and people who suspect her overly-long fingers and feet as signs of her peculiarity, her valuelessness.

Lena, while unwavering in her purpose, is far less sure of her own self. For the first time in her life she is out on her own, an obedient girl going against her mother’s wishes, full of fears and desires and self-doubt. Through deceit, discovery, flying machines, and adventure, Lena discovers not only who she is, but also that what we think we see may not be what is truly there; that who we think we are may be completely wrong…or completely right.

Well-researched and carefully written, McQuerry has written a relatable book that I can recommend equally to my 10 year old daughter and my 75 year old mother, as well as to anyone who is intrigued by fanciful machines, adventure, and even budding romance. I look forward to the sequel that is surely on its way.

`

A Fantastic Idea

I had so much fun the other day in the fog!

I get fantastic ideas sometimes. And, from time to time, I act on them.

Like the time I decided our family should drive six hours north over Labor Day weekend and go to Family Camp at Covenant Park Bible Camp where my husband and I met and sleep out in a tent. Trouble was, the neighbors at the resort across the road had the fantastic idea that they’d play Johnny Cash at full volume at three in the morning. Their great idea outblasted my great idea by a long shot and now I cannot hear “Ring of Fire” without feeling cross and tired.

Or the time I thought I’d make lentil soup with the leftover ham bone after Easter, only I’d put a brown sugar and mustard glaze on the ham and the soup tasted like a melted lollypop. There have been three meals I’ve made in 18 years that ended up in the garbage. That was one of them.

And then there was my idea to write a book. Okay, it’s still a fantastic idea, it’s just that it’s like this neverending process, this eternal journey of editing, editing, editing. I know I’ve fussed about this before, but it’s been awhile so I thought you might like an update!

Yes, I’m still working on getting it published. Yes, an agent has looked at the beginning. No, she did not jump up and down and tell me I’m just what she’s been looking for. HOWEVER – and this is fantastic – she is willing to look at it again if I make a few changes. Four, in fact. All of which are HUGE.

I won’t bore you with what those changes are. Suffice it to say that they require a great deal of re-writing. A great deal of chopping out bits which I worked hard on, which I liked, which I was proud of. Which, as any writer will tell you, feels like the death of an imaginary, 460-page-long child.

I once wrote a poem in college entitled, “Killing My Babies” which was about this exact editing and chopping process. Have I mentioned this poem before? Perhaps so. All I know is that it feels like a little murder every time I send those babies to the land of deletion. I loved those lines! I loved that image!

“YOU’RE OUT OF HERE!”

And so, I sit down at my computer and don my hard hat. My hard-hearted-hat. My umpire’s uniform. My butcher’s apron. And I go to town.

In case you’re wondering, I am not changing my entire book (and life) merely on the whim of one agent. For sure two of the things she mentioned as needing work were things that had been nibbling at the back of my brain as possible issues. I know they need to be fixed. I hadn’t thought of the other two issues she mentioned, but I can totally see her point.

Almost looks like a hyacynth!

And so, I work. I told her I’d get back to her next fall. Is that a realistic goal? I think so. Yes, it feels like a long time away, but I have three flesh and blood kids who also need my attention. Who also need a little pruning, molding, and loving.

And that, my friends, is an even more fantastic idea than writing a book.

The Ruler of her Universe

Lucy and I are tip-toeing through the house with our couch-pillow shields and a burned-out lightsaber. Or, as my fearless leader calls it, “lightsaver”.
Her curly hair is completely unruly today, though she has tried to tame it with ten “hair pretties” of assorted color and dubious success. The effect is quite stunning.
“We’re going through the peanut butter river,” Princess Lucy tells me. “If we get hungry, we can [she mimes slurping] lick it.”
“How much better can this get?” I wonder, licking the air with great exuberance. “Tasty!” I say.
“This is the one-th time I’ve had it,” she says, glancing back at me to see if she said that right.
I can’t help but laugh, though I try to cover it up by admiration. “The ‘one-th’ time?” I ask, confirming what I heard.
“Yep.” She gives me a hard look. “Is that right?”
“Well, no, but I like it.”
“It’s ‘first’, isn’t it?”
“Yes, though that’s not near as fun to say.”
Undaunted, she plows ahead. “We have to get the bad guys, Mama. Oops – ” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, “I mean, ‘Josie’. And I’m not Lucy, I’m Princess Rosa.”
“Okay, I’ll try to remember.”
“You’re not very good at remembering that, mostly.”
“I know. Yet somehow, you survive.”
“Shhh,” she says, and I wonder if she’s trying to change the subject or playing the game. “They’re behind the play house.” She puts her finger to her lips. “We must whisper.”
“Are you certain that they’re there?” I ask worriedly.
“Yes. I saw them before they ducked behind.” She mimes “ducking” and nods her head seriously. “They’re there, trust me.” She puts a finger to her lips. “Shhh. They are good of hearing.”
“Okay,” I say, biting my tongue to keep a straight face. “But what do I do since I have no weapon?”
She looks around, considering. “You can use this microphone,” she forgets the whispering rule as she grabs the suggested item from beneath the piano bench and hands it over.
“Do I sing them to death?” I inquire with a straight face.
She looks at me pityingly. “No, Mom. You pretend.”
“Ah,” I nod my head sagaciously and grip the microphone, ready to take on the baddies.
“I hear them!” she cries. “Follow me!”
Together we creep around the play house, weapons at the ready, and fall upon the unsuspecting – but for some reason, terribly offensive – pod of whales.
“With my microphone I jab at thee!” I cry.
“Mom. You don’t have to say that,” she turns to look at me. “We got them already.” She is almost – but not quite – rolling her eyes at me.
“Oh, we did?” I am surprised because it was so easy; so quick. Almost as if the baddies gave up without a fight.
“Yes, they’re nice now.”
I look at the lavender dolphin masquerading as a whale, and the gray creature that I think might also be a dolphin and I smile. “Oh, well, that’s great! I like friendly whales.”
“Me, too. Let’s have a tea party for them. They can be our guests.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
We gather up the dolphins formerly known as vicious whales and walk up the stairs to the coffee table, where a tea party is always ready and waiting and the guests are always kind and multi-colored.
Care to join us one day? You’d be welcome. Just don’t be surprised if you’re asked to play the role of a servant, because the queenly roles are all taken. By Lucy. Every single one of them.

Oh, to be four and the ruler of the universe once again.

The Gooble-Gooble Monster

Moonrise.

Today’s post has two parts to it. Part one: the happy part. Part two: the defiant part. I would have posted the happy part alone, but it was kinda short. And as for the defiant part, well, it seemed like it needed a little leavening.

So…PART ONE: the beginning of the dream.

When I was small, I wrote a book. It was called, “The Gooble-Gooble Monster” and it was about a scary-looking monster who was actually kind. (Original, I know.) He came across a little girl and she was frightened by his scary face, but then she got to know him and realized he was actually friendly. The end.

I told my sister the story and she helped me make it into a book. She wrote it out for me and I drew the pictures. It was the size of an 8.5 x 11 inch piece of paper, cut into four. We taped it together. All seven pages. Then we showed it to Mom and she, of course, admired it with all appropriate motherly love.

For a long time it hung around on my dresser. I would look at it occasionally, admiringly, appraisingly. Then, one day, it was gone. I looked in my garbage. Had it fallen in? I looked under my dresser. Under my bed. Nada. I looked for it for months.

For about 25 years I wondered what had happened to it.

Signs of the season.

Then, one day, Mom sent me some stuff. Stuff she’d kept for years in a file marked, appropriately, “Gretchen”. And there it was. The Gooble-Gooble Monster in all its glory. I cried, I was so amazed.

Was it the work of art I had remembered? Yes, it was. It was imperfect perfection, just what a child’s homemade book should be, and it proved something to me: this dream I have, of writing, isn’t new to me. It’s older than my ability to write.

Sunrise.

PART TWO: fulfilling the dream.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written about…writing! It’s amazing to me what a L-O-N-G process this all is. Writing/editing/publishing is an exercise in patience, and this is only just the beginning. Things are moving along…and at a good pace…just don’t be saving your pennies quite yet or expect to pre-order my book on Amazon in the near future! One step at a time…and some of the steps are rather lengthy. BUT…progress is being made and I’m hoping to approach my first-choice agent quite soon. Hopefully I’ll have some fun stuff to report in the next month or two!

Fall has its advantages.

People ask me, from time to time, if I’ve found a publisher yet. Someone the other day, when I said something about my book, did the ultimate dreaded thing: he said, “Oh, you wrote a book? What’s it called?” And I said, “I’m not certain of the final title yet.” And he said, “Oh. So it’s not published,” and then turned away with a look on his face that said, “Yeah, whatever. You can’t call yourself a writer. You’re not one. You’re just a wanna-be. You’re just like so many other people out there in the world who ‘wrote a book’…and it’s never going to see the light of day because no one thinks it’s good enough to publish. Go back to your dusting, little housewife.”

Yes, perhaps I’m reading into his response. But truly, that’s what his look and his real words said…just in the expanded form! I was saddened by his response, and I wanted to say, “Hey! I haven’t even gotten to the point of ASKING a publisher yet! Give me a break here! I only just finished editing!” But he turned away, talking to someone else, and I didn’t get to explain. I didn’t get to defend. Somehow, later on, to return to the conversation seemed desperate and unnecessary. And really, I don’t care what that person thinks of me, anyway! I know what I’ve done, and I’m good with that.

One of Katie's favorite creaturess.

What have I done? I’ve written a manuscript for a book that I hope will be published. I’ve taken 3.5 years of my life and WRITTEN A BOOK! I’ve taken my heart, my imagination, my brains, my memory, my dreams, and written a book. I AM a writer! I’m not a wanna-be. I WRITE. That makes me a writer. I’m even thinking about getting business cards! Whoo hoo!

GRETCHEN O’DONNELL. WRITER.

It’s just that the process is taking forever.

So, for those of you who have been wondering…for those of you who woke up today, knowing that it’s a Tuesday, and excitedly anticipating reading about my most recent epiphanies…now you know what’s going on. I’m waiting. I’m learning patience, because this is only the beginning. There’s a heck of a lot of waiting yet to come.

So my epiphany for the week is this: while I wait, I move ahead. Perhaps a sequel? Perhaps something totally new? Perhaps I smile to myself at the nay-sayers. The eye-rollers. The deniers.

I am a writer because I write.

So there.

I even have a taped-together decade-old book, written by me, to prove it.

Perhaps, like the Gooble-Gooble monster, this process will turn out to be a friendly one.

Canning My Own Tomatoes

This is how I can tomatoes: with words. In past years I have canned them with jars. Lovely, shining, wide-mouth Mason jars, topped with golden rings and flowery caps. I have waited in nervous expectation for them to seal, for them to justify my time and energy and sweat. And, almost always, I have been rewarded with a “ping” of success. Ah, sweet music to a canner’s ears.

But not anymore. Well, maybe someday again, but not for now. Nor, I’m sure, for a long time to come. Canning is a HUGE job. No, it’s not difficult, per say, but it’s messy, hot, and sticky…times a thousand. Every surface of my kitchen would need wiping down after I canned tomatoes. And I needed a shower. Badly. Yes, it’s rewarding. Yes, I loved having MY tomatoes on the shelf all winter long, lending the taste of summer to my spaghetti sauce. I LOVED that. But not enough to do it anymore.

Who knew such beauty could come from a lowly whiskey barrel?

For one thing, I’d have to have a garden. Or at least a whole lot more tomatoes than I have now in my four whiskey-barrels. And to have a garden I’d need a fence. And to have a fence I’d need time and energy and commitment to this lifestyle called gardening in order to justify the expense of the fence and the fertilizer (perhaps Rita could give me some cow-poop for free?). But most of all, the sheer loss of writing time while out weeding, watering and harvesting keeps my fingernails clean and my thumb less than green. Yes, I have a lot of excuses.

But seriously, writing – and figuring out this writing life – is captivating/controlling/fulfilling me right now. I cannot do everything…and so gardening is out. If only we had more TIME. Time to clean, play, parent, garden, write, sleep, eat, work, drive, can, read, volunteer, befriend a lonely orphan…the list goes on. Canning is definitely out.

How is it that some people seem to have time to do all of that and then some? I am not one of those people. There are too many books calling to be read. Too many sentences begging to be edited. Too many blogs to check out. This is my life right now, and I’m okay with that.

Don’t get me wrong: I liked canning. Other than the mess. I liked feeling a communion with my mother, my Scottish grandmother. I liked feeling like I was contributing. Liked feeling like a homemaker, a provider. Like I was Ma Ingalls. After all, Walnut Grove is only a couple of hours from here; maybe there’s something in the air in these parts, some tomato-laden scent that calls a person with the voice of those pioneer women, enticing them jar-wards. Just call me Caroline.

Yeah, dream on, Self. I never was more than a one-hit wonder in the canning world. I never canned anything other than tomatoes – oh, and a few kinds of jam, come to think of it. I did write a poem about canned beans once. It was the only poem I wrote that my college poetry professor ever liked. I got into his class because he thought I was related to someone…only I wasn’t. There aren’t a lot of poets out there with the last name of “Wendt” and it turns out that Ingrid Wendt was a known Eugene-area poet of the time. All these English profs and secretaries in the department kept asking me if she was my mother – it was very confusing at first – but turned out to be to my benefit, so thanks, Ingrid, if you ever read this!

Anyway, I’ll see if I can find that poem just for giggles. I know I still have it somewhere in the depths of my box of college memorabilia. I wrote it during Music Appreciation class one afternoon – shhh – don’t tell my kids I wasn’t paying attention to the teacher.

So, yes, sadly, (but to the joy of anti-botulism fans everywhere) the only beans I ever canned were in my poem. And the only tomatoes these days are in words, too. The jam is long gone, the jars mostly broken. But the words remain. Perhaps that’s the best kind of canning, after all.

At least for me.

The Most Surreal Moment of my Life

I adore beaches. This is Eastsound Bay...

My sister has brought me to see the new library. I am in the town where I grew up, Eastsound, Orcas Island, Washington. The old library, where I knew every nook and cranny, where I came for story time, for puppet shows, for the Library Fair, is closed; has become a real estate office, or insurance, or some other such place where the stories they weave are more fiction than fact but no one ever admits it.

We walk into the new building and it smells of paint and printing, and, inexplicably in this modern time, paste. (Perhaps that’s all just in my mind.) It holds the old books, housed on new, honey-colored shelves, but not the old feelings. Nor do I find the marble statue of David, complete with fig leaves. I never looked at that thing without blushing.

I wonder, is new always better than old? Is large always better than small? Well, in the case of books, more is better than less, this I must admit. But it feels, somehow, wrong. As if I don’t belong here. As if I am a tourist. I remember, suddenly, the bumper sticker, popular in this tourist town when I was a child, “I’m not a tourist, I live here.” I was never quite sure why a person would want to advertise this. Now I understand better. To live here is to belong. Sadly, I no longer do.

Quintessential Orcas Island beach scene: sea weed and starfish and jagged rocks!

I wander around, admiring the lay-out, the picture windows, the local author’s section. “Will I ever be shelved there?” I wonder, I long. I see the children’s section and am drawn to the books I love best. I see the bean-bag chairs, the colorful painted walls, the smiling stuffed Madelines, Pooh Bears, and chubby ducks, packaged together with their corresponding books, hanging on convenient racks.

I run my hand along a shelf, randomly grab a volume – with a title I do not recognize – and heft it in my hand. Clearly, this book was carted over from the former building. No brilliant illustration graces its linen cover, no plastic dust jacket is folded and taped with precise and crinkly splendor, to protect it from greasy fingers, little brothers. I open the book, compelled.

There, in affirmation of its age, is a cream-colored pocket, complete with card, proving its pre-computer derivation. I pull out the card, intrigued by this reminder of what libraries used to be: written proof of a person’s interests. It has not been checked out very often; only half a dozen names grace its lines. The most recent date is some 10 years previous, the oldest more like 20. I glance at the names, some penciled in childish printing, some in a mother’s neater cursive. Suddenly, my heart skips a beat as my eyes take in the second name on the list, just one certain scribbled name: Gretchen Wendt.

Here, I, on the road to independence, was allowed to sign my name, was allowed to leave my mark, the proof of my existence. Frozen in a moment of time that I have long since forgotten, this card holds a story. Now I have found it, here, where I have never before been…and yet, somehow, I have.

Perhaps I’m not a tourist after all.

I'm the smallest one...probably not too long before writing my name on a certain library card...

(Those of you who know me may be wondering…no…I’m not on Orcas right now! I’ve tried several times in the past to write about this incident – which took place probably 15 years ago – but have never been satisfied with what I wrote. Today, writing it in the present tense, it finally came. I guess it took an epiphany…)