Boy Sports

Soccer rocked. The rules are easy to communicate; kick the ball into the net. Don't use your hands. Have a lot of fun. He did all three, though the hands thing - and not tackling the person in control of the ball - proved a challenge. On the last day, Paul got a medal to hang around his neck. It's now above his bed, cradling his team picture.

T-Ball is a mixed bag. There are more steps involved; hit ball, run here, wait, repeat three times, then sit on the bench and wait. Later, we'll all stand on the field and wait for the ball to come. If it does, get it and throw it in the coach's direction. Often, Paul opted to play on the playground adjacent to the ball field, or sit on the pitcher's mound and make tracks in the sand.

Last game he stayed longer than he ever had before - one inning. Poor coach. She's trying really hard, but the little-little guys snub her for the jungle gym. We'll try T-Ball again next year.

Sun Coming to Earth

We got this site from Sharon Hurlbut and Olivia loves it. Here's her latest creation: http://www.mrpicassohead.com/canvas.html?id=6f8b305&skin=original

At the water slide last week, Olivia and I played in the pool. Olivia choreographed aquatic dance moves until I wondered if she'd channelled Ethel Merman. I watched, resting from several trips with Paul up the water slide stairs, my only exercise this week."Here's the volcano, Momma," and then "the hurricane," and "the dolphin," and then she announced "and this one is 'sun coming to earth.'" She swam over to me, popped her little head out, water running off her hair and mouth stretched wide in a grin and hugged me. I didn't get it. I almost missed it. If I hadn't been listening, and I don't always listen, I would have. She said, "You're the earth, Momma, and I'm the sun." And closed her lips in a triumphant smile.

And I knew anew that it's all worth it. Every dime spent, every mile traveled, every particle of body fluid cleaned, every fight refereed.

And the Rockets' Red Glare

Like the rest of the Americans in this red state, I like fireworks. Like most of the rest of America, you can't light them off in my town. So we drive five miles east to the fierce little town of East Helena. The official display is the same as you find anywhere, say, in Montpelier, Vermont where they practice studious and orderly patriotism; it starts at dark, pops and dazzles for about twenty minutes, climaxes and falls silent. But East Helena, now there's a town. Formed around the lead smelter roughly 105 years ago, East Helena was paradise found to the immigrants who got jobs here and brought brothers, sisters, cousins and wives over; Slovenians mostly, their kids have not yet forgotten just how great it is to live in plenty and relative freedom. People still make poticia here. Yellow ribbons of wood, each painted with the name of a kid from East Helena serving in the military, hang from the street lights all along Main Street. Last night we saw American flags everywhere, even tied to radio antennae on cars risking Main Street. And I say risking because, besides the official fireworks, East Helena allows shooting off any legal firework anywhere in the city. They don't necessarily bother themselves about clearance from vegetation or houses or moving vehicles, and for some reason, most everybody living on Main had the wherewithal to buy an extravaganza. Or maybe they formed a buyers coop to get wholesale pricing. Those East Helenans, they are go-getters. One teenager at the park told me her family saved recycling all year long, cashed it in and bought fireworks.

It was, and I use this word in the spirit in which I first heard it misused in the Eighties, AWESOME. We parked behind City Hall and lit our puny, safe, fountains, sparklers, smoke bombs and ground flowers on asphalt away from anything flammable. (Safety first, we've got kids in the minivan, dontchaknow) For blocks around, people lit off massive, multicolored rockets; mammoth fountains; gunpower and dye whirling, hissing, zhizzing, dazzling everywhere. I saw one guy leaning over lighting a rocket fuse by putting his head nearly to the ground and poking his lit cigarette through the rocket's legs, without removing it from his mouth. Before the first official firework torched off, the air was thick and gray. Fire engines raced hither and yon. My eyes strained. It went on an hour and a half. "Look, Paul, Look, Olivia - look, look!" I pointed north, east, south, west, - there, there, and there, trying to see everything and show them everything. By ten, they'd had enough - the same way I felt when touring St. Mark's in Venice - there's so much that after a certain point the brain can admit no more. And the excitement of being allowed to stay up and eat Choco Tacos had worn off.

My politics may be different than the people who hung the signs, but we stand together supporting our troops. Though we'd do things very differently from one another given a day to run the country, we love our country. We're grateful, we children of immigrants, one or four generations removed. And fireworks is a grand way to show it.

Money and Poetry

Money, Montana and Poetry. Could there be a trio that in which each more completely repels the others? Poetry and Money - Montana and Money - Montana and Poetry - are each of these mutually exclusive? Montana's Poet Laureate Sandra Alcosser, near the end of her tenure and having worked her butt off in a non-compensated position, testified at the legislature in favor of a bill which would have provided a small measure of expense reimbursement for travel for her successor. Not only did the out-going Poet Laureate not get paid for her time in this honorary position, she had to take donations, stay in people's houses, and catch rides to get to the far-flung Montana communities who asked her to come. The bill would have authorized $4,000 for defray travel costs - not an amount approaching full reimbursement. And the legislature said "No." Here's a sample quote from an ultra-conservative legislator: “It doesn’t do anything for the state of Montana.”

Poetry doesn't do anything for the state of Montana? Here's one part of one person's story:

When I was 11 or 12 and tortured by the politics of Middle School, I didn't think I was worth much. The Arts Council sponsored a poet to come in and do a workshop with the pizza faced hormonal inmates. I scribbled something on paper in response to a prompt. She came around and talked to each of us in turn, suggesting ideas to some, trying like hell to get others (future legislators?) to even take the act of writing seriously. When she got to my desk, she changed my life. I don't remember much of what she said. All I remember is that she said my work had worth -- value, and the promise of more. She fed an inner light that's flickered but not to date gone out.

The value inherent in bringing self-expression through poetry to people wherever and however they are, whether geeks in the middle school or retirees on the High-Line, people living in the colonies or the reservations or ranches and in the good and bad parts of every town, can't be understated. We need it. We need the people who illuminate every place they are allowed (or enabled) to go.

Thank you, anonymous poet. Thank you, Sandra Alcosser, and thank you to the next Poet Laureate, whoever you turn out to be, for enriching Montana with this vital gift.

Holiday Letter

Dear Family and Friends,

We hope you all are well and thanks everyone who sent photos and Christmas letters.

It’s been another interesting year. Headlining our news: Larry’s chapbook Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death came out from Foothills Publishing in October. Book signings and readings keep him busy. Highlights include reading at the Riverside Art Museum in Southern California in July and as part of Montana Poet Laureate Sandra Alcosser’s poetry reading at the State Capitol rotunda on January 4. He continues his schedule of writing a poem a week and sometimes writes me love poems. (Swoon.) We went to his 20th high school reunion in Superior this summer.

Olivia picked up violin lessons and will play at a recital on January 21. We’re not sure violin holds her heart, but she enjoys the lessons. After the recital, we’ll see if her interest piques or flags. She takes dance lessons as well and performed in four shows this holiday season. Her reading is pretty good and her math skills are quite advanced for a kid her age. Our "little angel" shows great interest in and aptitude for the sciences.

Paul loves people, climbing and wrestling – not necessarily in that order – just like his dad. Being two-going-on-three, he will inflict injury one minute and then show real compassion for the injured the next. He enjoys anything having to do with locomotion, from his train set to riding his new trike. He speaks very well and has a great vocabulary. The picture is from the church Christmas pageant. (What is Paul? A shepherd. And yes, we darkened the doors of a religious institution. . . a good one.)

I graduated with an MFA from Vermont College this July. I’m so grateful for the experience, my instructors, the friends I made and everything I’ve learned. A very brief report on publications; I’ve had a story in edifice WRECKED and have another forthcoming in MO: Writings from the River. My novel Home Star is complete and looking for a home. I taught several writing classes again this year, wrote life story books for two wise and wonderful senior women, freelanced for the local paper, worked on a new novel Coyote Stories (an excerpt of which earned high praise from Wally Lamb at our one-on-one meeting at the VC Residency in July) and started a reading series to give local writers a welcoming audience for their work and strengthen our community.

Those are the highlights. The lowlights only serve as hooks for gratitude to grab onto the good. Thanks to everyone for all your love and support this year. We engage ourselves in the usual – pursuit of happiness, making enough to live on and be of service to others. There ain't no big deals going on and we like it that way.

Happy New Year

Olivia, Paul, Anne and Larry

Visited by the God of Heck

The cartoon Dilbert sometimes has an unwelcome visitor, Phil, God of Heck. He doesn't cause enough crap to rise to the level of making life Hell, just Heck. That rat is spending a lot of time at our house lately. The weekend started off great. All the little kids had a blast at our Halloween party on Saturday. Larry did most of the work, bless him. I thought we should cancel, given that we are still half-way through the living room redecoration project and I had to be in bed for at least part of it. But no, he soldiered on and pulled off two solid hours of kid bliss.

Sunday night Olivia said, "my throat hurts." No big deal, I dosed her with supplements, put her to bed. Then tucking her in, she said "my neck hurts. Bad." It woke her up in the night and I knew were in trouble. Next day I took her to the naturopath hoping to avoid antibiotics, which I think is good practice whenever possible. Not this time. It was strep, as I suspected, so off we went got her a bottle of the sticky pink stuff. We spent the rest of the day at home and Paul was bouncing off the walls. That kid needs to run outside every day or he finds other ways to exercise. He decided to help clean and squirted liquid dish soap all. over. the. kitchen. floor. It was fun mopping without bending or straining. My reaction would not be found in the "appropriate" heading in any parenting manual. (note to self: forget college fund. Save for kids' therapy. Give as high school graduation gift.) The good news? O was only contagious until noon on Halloween day so she could participate in the sacred ritual of demanding candy from strangers.

Tuesday we took me to the doctor (no surgery! yay!). At my doctor's office, I noticed swollen red dots around her mouth. An hour later, she had tiny red dots all over her chest. I got her into her regular MD a half hour after that (thank you, Dr. Eodice.) Ms. O likely has a penicillin allergy. The rash might have been from the strep, BUT if she really is allergic, and she gets penicillin again, the next time could cause anaphylaxis. After filling her new script for Zithromax, I had less than an hour to get both kids costumed, fed, and over to a friend's house to meet to go trick-or-treating. When we got there, we found out in a strange and startling way that plans had changed.

Today was better, I was able to get some work done (amongst all this "stuff" I got a last-minute, impending deadline work project) and the PT says I have more strength in my foot and ankle. Not only am I not getting worse, I'm getting better. And I got 1776 words done on the first day of Nanowrimo. (I'm working on the sequel to Homestar. So far, Michael and Jentry are on the cusp of graduating college and launching into the adult world. They've got plenty of trouble ahead of them . . .) I may not dribble another word out this month - anything can happen and it often does. But at least I have that small beginning. Also in the good news department, I met my deadlines and Paul didn't catch strep which has to qualify as a miracle.

As I finish this post I see there's a lot to be grateful for. It seems the negative stuff I pay so much attention to helps me appreciate the many blessings. The day is balanced by the night and both are necessary. Life is just life. And really, I've got it good. So come on in, Phil. But if you're going to stay a while, grab a mop and help me get this floor cleaned up.

Juked

Check out Selling It to Mrs. Foster by the talented Theresa Boyar in
J U K E D. This is one which will stay with you.

Lemming time. I'm going to do NaNoWriMo. Why not? I'm lying around most of the time for the next several weeks no matter which way I go, so why not make the best of it? Surely I can dribble 50K worth of drivel in a month. It's time to write the sequel to Homestar anyway. (I'm stuck on Coyote Stories - it's 122 pages and I have no idea what happens next.)

And finally, our second "Emerging Writers" poetry and fiction reading happens this Saturday at the library. It starts at 3 pm with five accomplished poets and writers reading their work, followed by an hour or so of hanging out and exchanging ideas, book recommendations, etc..

Mary Had a Little Lamb

My girl can now saw out a complete song on her violin.

Drove Paul up a tree. . .

Six Words

Check this out at Wired magazine.

Yuck

Looks like I really blew it. The disc material has extruded down and that's what causing the numbness and weakness. Good news, I can stand long enough to have class on Sunday and get some household chores done. Bad news, I'll be having surgery in Great Falls next week.

Had a cortisone shot in the back yesterday, a strange experience. My doctor invited a local chiropractor to observe so she could increase her knowledge base. It hurt and I hollered some (but I only cussed once). After I got my pants back on, I asked the chiro if she learned anything. "Oh, I could watch this all day," she chirped.

I wished I'd said "Next time, let's trade places."

Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death

Larry's chapbook Health Insurance and Other Matters of Death is coming out from Foothills Publishing in a couple of weeks! We are so excited. These poems sound a darker knell than his usual love poems to me and our kids, but are some of my favorites -- especially "Kelsie." (If you're considering hooking up with a poet, I highly recommend it. Of course, on the flip side, there's Jean Stafford's experience with Robert Lowell to balance out my recommendation.) Here's what Literary Mama's Rachel Iverson had to say about Larry's book. More later . . .

Callous-backed

I'm a callous-backed woman - for all the wrong reasons. Somehow I seem to have herniated a disc in my lower back so I'm flat on it. You'd think I'd sieze the opportunity to write. No, I'm perfecting my sudoku technique. I have every expectation I will completely recover from this. The doctor gave me a TENS unit (Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation) which helps with the pain, I got acupuncture and am continuing physical therapy. It seems this is quite common among people of a certain age -- the PT says it's a lifetime of bad postural habits catching up to me. Already I'm seeing some progress. In the meantime, my husband is racking up points for Heaven. He's taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, working . . . he's really showing up in a kind and loving way.

The worst news is all this downtime, not being able to run around with the kids, plus I have to cancel my class on Sunday because I can't sit at all and can't stand for more than a few minutes at a time.

Measure those fingers

It seems sports ability is correlated with finger length in girls.

A Sign

Oh, the hope. Some days I think Pandora should have been speared. Others, I'm grateful for the faintest of reasons to hope.

Last night, visiting my in-laws, I wake in the middle of the night, again, wondering why I torture myself trying to write and what's going to become of me and why did I give up my good job and these years of my life and all my money and . . . other expressions of angst reserved for the privileged with who have access to health care, nutritious foods, safe communities, etc.

It gets grim at 3 am.

I slide out of bed, careful not to wake my son who co-sleeps with me on overnight visits, put on my glasses. I trek to the bathroom and back, focused on my internal sturm und drung, but for some reason, there was a split-second break in the head chatter and I looked up at the stars casting steel light on the dining table through the half-circle window. Perfectly framed in the window is the Big Dipper. Right above the Big Dipper is Polaris. The Home Star. If you follow the Home Star, you can navigate your way anywhere.

Michael, in my novel Homestar, uses this knowledge to build hope first for him mother, that she will find her way home, and then for himself, that he will find his "true north."

I'm taking it as a sign. I feel somewhat embarassed, a superstitious oaf. But it happened, and being a writer, I'll take any kind of bone the universe throws me.

Homestar is being looked at right now. Wish me luck. Or wish upon a star.

Fragments

My Son

grabs a forked stick
holds it high overhead
charges
like a geomancer
or a knight.

sitting spider with me
on a rope swing
dangling from a high pine
whispers
"The wind says shhhhhh, Mommy."

Blockin' Up The Scenery/Breakin' My Mind

The Fair was a blast. Plenty to do. And plenty to look at. Being in an unfamiliar environment forces me to look around and see things I ordinarily wouldn't. So I had some fun in Great Falls reading signs. These three represent the range of opinions and activities available at the Fair -- from goofy to spooky.

Two I didn't get pictures of because we passed them too quickly:

Picture this in your mind. A squat cinderblock building with a gorgeous maroon awning. Two large storefront type windows flanking the front entrance in the middle of the building. Left window says in gold writing reminiscent of filigree: Piazza del Torgilia (I think I'm mangling the spelling of the last name, but you get the idea.) Right window says in a blocky sans serif, stressed font: Incontinent Supply's. Forgetting the mangled spelling and use of the possessive, consider the irony of the juxtaposition of the elevated place name and the resignation implied by the manner in which the actual use of the place is announced. Then, I have to love Incontinent Supplies. Will they soil your other supplies if allowed to mingle? Do they need training? Do they literally supply incontinents, like an escort service, only with incontinents. But I can't imagine there's much call for this service, unless there's a movement among incontinents to embrace rather than fight the problem -- and seek out others for self-acceptance and companionship. (I don't mean to make light of incontinence. It can be a degrading condition and I empathize with those who suffer from it. I'm just making fun of the sign.)

Another I didn't get a picture of: Universal Semen Sales. Now, this makes sense. It's in Great Falls, the tip of Montana's Golden Triangle which produces grain and beef. But what really brings on the questions in my mind is the vat immediately adjacent to the back door of the place, with a spigot at the bottom. Do they sell it by the quart?

Yes, I've been called a binge thinker. Recently.

Countdown to Montana State Fair Time

My grandfather the rancher watched Hee-Haw every Sunday. Remember that show? Plumb full o' rednecks a' pickin' and a' grinnin' and the corn flowed freely. Hee-Haw provided infinite material to lampoon, but I secretly loved it. Those people were having fun. They laughed at themselves and I laughed with them.

The Montana State Fair reminds me of my grandfather, of the simpler time in which he built his ranch, of the gentle, corny humor of that generation of people. Established 75 years ago by people like my grandparents to provide a break from the crushing tedium of ranch and farm work, it's still a place people come to cut loose, eat too much, hook up, and/or showcase one's skills all in one place. Larry works the fair every year, and he joins us when he can. The kids and I go all over the grounds and we love everything about it.

We spend three days going through the thing, starting with 4-H barns and exhibits. Kids from little tiny towns across the Hi-line and north-central Montana compete other kids from similarly tiny places like Geraldine, Kremlin and Box Elder, for prizes. Best cow, Best pig, Best pie. Ranches show livestock, too -- not just the kids. Next are the myriad other exhibits, such as the winners of the Lego Club's competition; the Wool-Grower's spinning and craft exhibit; the Vegetable Races. (Olivia and Paul both won a race last year. Psst: Pick the rutabaga.)

Then the acts always thrill the kids. Besides the reptile zoo and the many musical acts, we've seen motorcycle riders defy death, a woman twirl 20-some hula hoops at one time, and jugglers. It never fails that some guy juggles fire, which really blows Olivia's hair back. To cool off, repair to the air-conditioned Mobile Library and read a book or come to the KBLL Radio RV, say Hi to Larry and Cory (and maybe us). Oh, and get yer free stuff -- water bottles for sure, but they have some restaurant and concert ticket giveaways, too.
On the last day, we buy the daytime wristband and ride the rides. All. Day. Long.

It's a little bit Hee-Haw, a shout from the past, a place where I can be a kid again and have a run-'til-ya-drop good time. Not only that, but my kids are learning where food really comes from and who's responsible. The weather's a little too hot for it to be perfect, but I'll take it.

Pam Houston in the Flathead!

Writers of the Flathead's annual conference is coming up October 13-15 in Whitefish, MT -- and Pam Houston is going to be there!!! Here's the low-down. Pam will teach a memoir workshop before the conference. (Disclaimer: I'm not a member of Writers of the Flathead because it's up the road a ways. Also, I don't know Pam personally. I just think she's really, really cool and I would love to meet her.) More about Pam here.

Hand, Foot and Mouth

Early Saturday morning, right after we got home from VT, Paul woke up with a painful rash on his feet. I thought he'd walked through some burdock without his shoes or something, put calamine on it and went back to bed. By mid-afternoon, the sores had blistered up, so we took him to Urgent Care. Diagnosis? Hand, foot, and mouth disease. All it takes is one little kid climbing on the slide with his socks off at the McCorporate Food Playland to pass it on. Poor little guy has almost no sores on his hands or in his mouth, but enough that he only wants to eat bananas and drink soy milk all day long. Worse, he can't play with other kids until Saturday. So we're taking long walks around the neighborhood (walking doesn't seem to bother him) and picking raspberries from the neighbor's bushes (with permission). Larry made birdhouses with the kids while I worked yesterday so that was pretty cool, too. Paul loves power tools. He calls them "hammers".

Vermont Update

Unbelievably, I stand on the cusp of graduation from Vermont College's MFA in Writing program. Two more days, then I'm kicked out of the nest, shooting down the tube, pick your metaphor, out of here. Let me put in a plug for VC here. I've not had a workshop here, not once, where I didn't learn something. Neither was I kicked in the head here, as I have heard over and over from so many wounded MFAs in other programs. The faculty here stand out for their commitment to their students and for their personal achievements. That's the commercial, on to the substance.

Best things about this residency:

1. The twin themes of persistence and compassion. (There isn't an official theme. Those are the two things I heard over and over this residency that resonated with me.) Our advisors, the faculty, are very much committed to making sure we have a nurturing experience that prepares us to go out and thrive as writers and be a part of our own communities.

2. Wally Lamb. His latest project is Couldn't Keep It To Ourselves, an anthology of stories written by women incarcerated in Conneticut, under his tutelage. One of the contributors won a PEN award. Wally spent five days here visiting with the students, meeting one on one on a first-come, first-served basis with a few of us, and I was one of those, having been in the right place at the right time. Wally had plenty of practical advice and experience to share on the subject of bringing creative writing into institutions. He spent a good amount of time talking with me about archetypes, persistence, and my current novel as well. His other books are She's Come Undone and I Know This Much is True. Here's what I loved most about him; talking informally to a group about how the prison project was almost dashed and how the women were frightened and demoralized by prison officials and the Conneticut Attorney General, he cried. It was his wedding anniversary the night he read, and he thanked his wife, Chris Lamb, and he cried. When reading a moving piece from his novel-in-progress, he cried. (I felt much better about having blubbered when telling him the end of my first novel, Home Star. It gets me every time.)

Here's some notes from the informal talk he gave: "Write stories for yourself and then let the audience who needs you, find you." "Teaching informs writing and writing informs teaching. Do them together." He said teaching put him on the receiving end of new voices. He said the question 'if God is merciful, why is there suffering?' is "a question I've been trying to work out since age 15. I try to work it out in my novels."

3. Nancy Lagomarsino. She wrote a non-fiction account of her father's passing from Alzheimer's Light From An Eclipse. She said "suffering must be present if we would enjoy the landscape." She talked at length with a group of us about her decision about what to include and not include in the memoir, and how she came to give her mother the decision about whether the book would be published or not. I thought that was amazingly generous and a refreshing change from the stance I hear so often from memoirists that 'it's my truth, so I get to say what I want, regardless.' I appreciated her comments about balancing narrative, action and reflection, as well.

4. Andre Dubus III. He wrote House of Sand and Fog and The Blueseman. Andre is a larger-than-life, high-energy kind of guy who was genuinely interested in us, where we came from and what we were working on. His main message was "Go deeper" meaning not only to inform the fiction and make it readable and believable, but to search for truth. He shared how he keeps a file for ideas and how the plot of House came to be plucked from the headlines, as it were. He read from an essay he wrote based on interviewing a young Iraq war veteran and the damage she's sustained.

On a personal note, I missed my kids terribly last night at the fireworks. (New England towns stagger their fireworks, so Montpelier had theirs last night.) Sweet Pea and Big Boy would have loved it. Instead, I had the company of other women writers and we talked about teaching, outreach to people who don't ordinarily have access to writing programs, and of course, our children. I am so fortunate. There are so many voices out there who don't have the freedom to write, who we need to hear. As we celebrate Independence, let's work to bring it to everyone -- and I'm not just talking about the political prisoners in far-off countries. I'm talking also about the women who labor dawn to dusk to keep their kids heads above water, who have important stories but for whom writing is just another pretty fantasy.

Tonight I go pick up Larry. The kids are home with Gramma Jeannie, Bless her. We had a trial run in April when Larry and I went to Billings for our first overnight alone in six years. That went beautifully. This is four days. I hope the kids behave and I hope they make it through okay, emotionally. We won't know, will we, until they're 21 years old on the therapist's couch clutching a teddy bear, re-enacting the conversations with me on the phone "Mommy come home airplane right now."