Qu'elle week! (Anne Stuart)

Forgive my lousy French. I have had an absurdly busy week, and I'm going to tell you all about it just so you can be as tired as I am.
First, on Wednesday, I moved my 94 year old mother into her new apartment. (No, not assisted living -- we have strong Scandinavian stock in my family and my mother's still driving and will probably live to 106 like her Aunt Kristine).
So then at 6 am on Thursday morning I hopped in my car, grabbed my BFF Sally and drove to Burlington for the Vermont Quilt Festival. Two hours later I was taking a class with Billie Lauder, making so many mistakes (I was exhausted) that when I said to the retired home ec teacher beside me that it was hard to believe I'd had thirty years of quilting she said, "yes, it is." I guess home ec teachers aren't known for their tact.
Friday I took a class with Carol Anne Gotrian, learning fabric stamping. Since I make absurd wearable art I was particularly interested, and even though my hands cramped up making a tori gate stamp from an eraser and an exacto knife I enjoyed myself completely.
Saturday a class on learning Electric Quilt, with Barbara Vlack. I spent the entire six hours saying "cool," "neat" and "wow." I'm going to have so much fun with it. Saturday night a lecture with Billie Lauder, where I won a stack of fat quarters and a big bag of buttons (I tend to win things) and Sunday a class with Libby Lehman, learning to make scalloped edges for quilts, which I first thought was frivolous but they were so damned cute that I think I'll use it on the two baby quilts I have to make.
We shared a dorm suite with a half a dozen French Canadians (I got to practice my French) and then zipped back home, arriving by 6 pm. Caught up on my email (no email in the dorm), jumped in bed, woke up at 7 this morning and headed off for Rochester, NY. Arrived at Lani Diane Rich's house, picked her and her two darling daughters up, and we headed on toward Jenny Crusie's.

There was a point when I was sure I was living in the twilight zone. I was really tired, and I must have fallen asleep at the wheel for just a fraction of a second (before I arrived at Lani's) and the sounds of those ridges on the side of the Thruway woke me up (so I opened up all the windows, slapped myself a few times, and stopped at the very next rest area).


So I got off the highway, following my GPS, which insisted Lani lived in the graveyard (I kept thinking of that old folk tale about the young man driving the sweet young girl home and coming back and finding her grave). I started thinking that maybe I hadn't woken up and I was dead. I confided this to Lani as we passed a hearse, Pearl Jam started singing "Last Kiss", and I began to have my doubts.

Eventually we decided we needed to find Cracker Barrel, so we plugged it into the GPS, followed directions, and found it had been changed to an Italian restaurant. We got back on the highway and went looking for the next Cracker Barrel (Sweetness and Light's favorite restaurant). This time it was razed. We said "oh, bother" (because there were children in the car) and ate at Bob Evans. Back on the road, listening to Kids music on Sirius, to find our hotel.
Which had sold our room. So they found us another room at a hotel up the road, we plugged it into the GPS, got there, and across the street was a Cracker Barrel (which I cannot say -- I just keep coming up with Crackle Barrel).
So tomorrow morning we go for a swim, jump in Thelma, my electric blue PT Cruiser, and head over to the tiny river town in Southern Ohio that contains the Magic Kingdom, otherwise known as Casa del Crusie.
Where I will curl up in bed and never leave it again. Until we turn around and drive all the way back.
But for a week I'll sit by the river, play with the dogs, watch Sweetness and Light do crafts with Jenny, write my book, and generally have a very good time indeed.

May you all live in interesting times. I know that's supposed to be a Chinese curse but you know, life is always interesting. The alternative isn't pleasant at all .

So tell me what I shouldn't miss on our road trip. And Jenny's got a brand new HDTV -- what would be a great movie to watch?

Sunday Snark: Dorothy Parker

Not long out of the convent school where she was educated, Dorothy Rothschild was working as a drama critic for Vanity Fair when her office-mates, Robert Sherwood and Robert Benchley, drew her into a circle of writers and wits who lunched daily at the Algonquin Hotel.

Plunged into fast company, including James Thurber, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Alexander Woollcott, Edna Ferber, George Kaufman, and Ring Lardner, young Dorothy more than held her own.

Her first marriage (in her early twenties) to Edward Parker ended in divorce. Some years later she wed Alan Campbell, her collaborator on the script for A Star is Born. Despite a rocky relationship, including divorce, remarriage, and separation, they reunited and stayed together until his death.

A political activist in the 40's, blacklisted in the 50's, Parker died in a NYC hotel room in 1967. She willed her estate to Martin Luther King, Jr.

These days, she is best known for her short, acerbic epigrams and poems. Here’s a small sampling from her rapier pen.

"The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”

"I require three things in a man. He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid."

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

"I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more."

“Scratch a lover, find a foe.”

“I don’t care what is written about me, as long as it isn’t true.”

If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Brevity is the soul of lingerie.”

“Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”

“One more drink and I’ll be under the host.”

“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

“A little bad taste is like a nice dash of paprika.”

A Busy Weekend (Patricia Potter).

A Busy Weekend (Patricia Potter)



This will be short this week because I spent Friday morning at my critique meeting, Friday afternoon shopping for birthday gifts for four family members in preparation of a family party Friday night, and I’m part of the program Saturday morning at my local RWA meeting.

First a word about my critique group. We meet every Friday morning for breakfast. It’s rare when one of our four can’t show. It’s a must in our lives.

I’m a great fan of critique groups. I’ve been in one for nearly thirty years. The first was mostly composed of unpublished members, including me. The second started when the first dissolved because of job responsibilities and a member who moved. The second lasted nearly twelve years until I moved to Memphis. The fourth has lasted since I arrived some thirteen years ago.

I couldn’t survive without my critique partners. They are so much more than members of a critique group. They are friends, soulmates, sisters. They are there in an emergency, always ready to lend a hand if necessary, always there to listen to are plaints and failures as well as celebrate the victories. They cry with me and laugh with me, and I would be lost without them.

And they help fine tune a book. They keep me from going down a blind alley. They tell me when I’m repeating myself for the twentieth time, and remind me that no hero would do THAT. We brain storm together and often create a story in a few hours. Brainstorming is a joy.

We all have different strengths. One is great on grammar. One on humor. One on emotion. But most of all it’s the day-to-day support we give each other that is so very important. Writing is an incredibly lonely business. You isolate yourself for weeks and months. No one quite understands your quirks except another writer. No one else knows what it’s like to wake in the middle of the night and grab a pencil, or go fifty miles out of your way on a trip because you missed an exit while in another world. No one else understands that writing is actually a job, and a ten-minute interruption can actually destroy a whole day’s writing. And no one else understands the rollercoaster emotions: a sale. a bad review, a bad print run, a good review, a place on a list, a bad cover. Each provokes huge emotions. It’s a wonder any of us retain some sanity.

Then again, maybe some of us don’t.

The meeting ends. Off I go to buy presents for my brother, sister-in-law and two nieces, all of whom have birthdays. Always a problem, but I found what I wanted in late afternoon, just in time to leave for the party.

Now there’s the issue of tomorrow. I’m supposed to talk about point of view. Well, everyone has a different point of view about point of view. POV is probably best explained as the view from which the reader experiences the story. Through which eyes do you want the reader to see the scene, the story, the book.

But writers disagree on how to use point of view. Many are purists. You should have only one point of view throughout book. Others suggest changing point of view only by moving to a new scene. Still other really good story tellers – Nora Roberts, for example – may move seamlesssly from one point of view to another within a scene, even within a paragraph. Or you can have omniscient point of view. That’s God on high looking down and telling the story in a rather objective view, rather than seeing the story unwind from the eyes of a character and feeling what he/she is feeling. You see the latter mostly in literary fiction. But it’s difficult to explain and I’m in for a long night in preparation.

So I have a question for those writers out there. Do you feel strongly about point of view? If so, which do you favor or disfavor?

And readers, do you ever notice point of view? Or care? Do you like first person? Or multiple points of view?.

Woe is I (LynnK)

Really, I don't have the time and inclination for this Shingles nightmare. But here it still is, not getting any better, and some days being positively horrendous. I even looked into a medication designed for neural pain resulting from Shingles, but when I saw the potential side effects--notably "weight gain"--I figured I could live with what I have.

No one need be concerned, let me add. My problems are not at all life-threatening. No one else is affected in a meaningful way. And as we all know from experience, the suffering of someone we love is infinitely worse that whatever troubles are visited upon ourselves.

Which does not stop me from being cranky, crabby, and unfit for non-cat company. Not that I can leave the comfortable chair and the supply of painkillers for very long. Even my once-a-week trip "off-island" for supplies and errands is cut short after a couple of hours. Happily, the need to compress my business corresponds with the rise in gas prices.

And I have good things to look forward to. So all is well, except that for the present, I have nothing interesting to say. ("What's new about that?" comes the chorus from my friends!) Apologies to you all for being a boring grump.

Before I return to my self-indulgent cocoon of misery, I must add that friends, nearby and long-distant, have been wonderfully kind. And for some reason, I'm having no difficulty enjoying high-intensity water aerobics three times a week. The water is warm, and I can work out with startling energy and only the occasional stab of pain. Next week, I may try the more lackadaisical morning class as well. I'm worried about growing roots in this chair if I don't get out and move around.

Meantime, let me share a video that never fails to make me smile. It's the follow-up to a video that delighted me three years ago, all about a sweet, goofy, energetic guy dancing in far away places I've visited or long to visit. The FAQ answers are fun as well. Visit this site and enjoy!

www.wherethehellismatt.com

A Sad Story (sorry) (Maggie)

I was reading this via email, but I'm told the original story can be seen here: http://www.slate.com/id/2192178/

The gist of the tale is a love story with the saddest ending since Romeo and Juliet. Only this one is real.
She was in her eighties and he was in his nineties. They both suffered from dementia and lived in the same nursing home. And none of that is unusual. What is unusual is that these two fell in love.

She used to wear the same yellow dress, day in, day out. But once she began this new relationship, she dressed up, did her hair, wore jewelry, smiled and was happy all the time. And her doctors said her health and mental clarity both improved immensely. Similar benefits were seen in him.

But when his son walked in on the couple having sex one day, the anal little prick threw a hissy fit, and demanded someone put a stop to it. When no amount of effort managed to keep the lovers apart, he moved his father to a new place, crushing both their spirits, breaking both their hearts, and robbing them of their last chance at happiness in this lifetime.

Why any human being would want to do so something so hurtful and so cruel and so evil to anyone, much less to his own father, is beyond me. If I believed in hell, I would wish him there. And if he believes in hell, then that's where he's going. (You create your own reality, after all.) The one upside is that the woman's Alzheimer's has caused her to forget. And yet it's clear that she's broken, devastated, just unsure why.

Since reading this story (it made me cry) I've been talking to everyone I see about it, and a lot of nurses have told me that this type of thing happens all the time. People find love in the waning parts of their life, and their relatives tear it apart. It's far more the exception than the rule, but it happens often enough that every nurse I talk to can tell me a brand new story with the same heart-wrenching theme.

Now, if one is living on one's own, alert and sharp and has a significant will to hold over their offsprings' heads, this wouldn't be a problem. But you have to think about what happens if you're ever not.

We all know it's vital, at every point in our lives, to have our wills up to date, to have health care proxies signed and on file, living wills spelled out so even an imbecile would know our wishes regarding life support and extreme measures and DNR orders. We know to be sure everyone and their brother gets a copy. But now we have a new terminology to learn. A Sexual Power of Attorney. If it ever gets to where you think anyone is going to have more power over your sex life than you do, then you need to be the one to decide who it is. And you need to choose someone you trust, and someone who knows what you would want. And then you need to put it in writing and get it on file somewhere. You'd hate to end up meeting the love of your life at the age of 90, and having someone else decide it wasn't a good idea to let you be with him! You might have to beat them to death with your walker!

Now the bright side of the story, because there is one, after all. Isn't it wonderful that the two people I mentioned above, managed to find each other? Isn't it wonderful that he didn't need any help from Viagra to get his engines running? Isn't it beautiful to think that love knows no such thing as age? Isn't it just a hoot that the sex the prudish son walked in on was oral? That's the best part of all, to me. I hope the image burned itself into his brain and that he dreams about it at night! Ha! (If he ever got a BJ of his own, maybe he wouldn't have been so jealous!)

Oh, yeah. I'm evil. It's a good thing I'm not a nurse or an aid. I'd be operating the Underground Booty-Call Railroad, and running interference to keep the offspring from catching on. Shoot, I'd provide music and candles. But then, I'm a romantic at heart.

But seriously, the truly best part of the story for me, is the reminder that love has no limitations. It's never too early and it's never too late. And moreover, the knowing that you still feel like a twitterpated teen when you fall head over heels, no matter what your true age might be. Love is the most powerful force in the universe, and aside from the sad ending, this love story was a good one.

And it's one on which I hope to base a story. Only--you know, I'll fix that ending. Big time.

Here's hoping we all have love in our lives, now and always!
Maggie

The Table (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Does anyone remember the Mary Tyler Moore show and Ted Baxter, who, every chance he got, said, "It all started in a little radio station in..." I hear him as I say...

It all started with the fact that my stepdaughter graduated from college. If she hadn't graduated, we wouldn't have thought to have a graduation party for her. And if we hadn't had the party, we wouldn't have thought about having a barbecue and bonfire (we have a fire pit) in our backyard. And if we hadn't had the barbecue and bonfire, we wouldn't have thought about needing a table outside at which people who didn't want sit around the fire, could sit.

So you see, it all started with graduation.

If you look closely there, you can see the table. It has four chairs. (The other part of the depiction - that's my brother in law. He's a Michigan fan. Go Blue all the way. I am, too. But in celebration of his niece, he agreed to open his mind, to honor Ohio State. He kissed the O that I, the other Michigan fan, chose and purchased.)

Back to the table...

That black wrought iron table was the center piece in a very unique and favored room in our home. It's a french bistro room with a wall of windows that looks to the backyard and the woods beyond. We put our laptops there. (The house has wireless Internet.) We can eat on that table. Play cards there. There's a wet bar. It's stocked. There's even a large TV with cable, though we aren't real good about turning it on. The bistro room is a lovely, wonderful, peaceful and fun place in our home.

For the party, we moved the black wrought iron table, that goes with the whole bistro feel, all the french cafe decorations, the black and white checked floor, outside on the semi enclosed patio. And it was great there. The next morning, we sat out there having our coffee (and diet coke, I HATE coffee!) and enjoying the birds and the trees and the breeze. And we knew, that black wrought iron table was perfect out there. We couldn't move it back inside. We'd miss so much.

And then we walked inside. Our laptops were stashed away. Our cards were in a drawer. The TV was silent, as usual. And there was no place for us to be.

Conundrum.

'We'll get a new table for this room', my wise partner in life told me, validating once again what an intelligent choice I made in marrying him. Only we'll really make it fit. We'll get a pub table. And then those two bar stools we have...we can use them!

And so we set out. Three evenings we spent traipsing from place to place, furniture stores, department stores, a pool and patio store, a recreation billiards table store - no one had the perfect bistro table. Unless we wanted to spend a year's worth of gas money and who can do that these days?

On Sunday, we decided to take the hour's drive to a neighboring city and a discount furniture row - several stores on one street. After having told a sales lady to put a sold sign on the table we'd finally found, we decided to take a stroll around the store. And proceeded to talk ourselves out of the table. It was the right height. (We'd been educated by then. We weren't after a pub table. They were 36 inches in height. We needed a bar table. They're 42 inches in height. We didn't have pub stools. We had BAR stools.) The table was fine. It was a price we could afford. (Translated means cheap!) And it had a glass top. I love the look of glass top tables. I don't like to own glass top tables. They make me nervous. Every time I set my glass down and hear that sound, I'm afraid I'm going to break something. But I'm a big girl now. I can adjust. (My motto from the past year.)

Tim wasn't excited about the table either. And he, being the man I was intelligent enough to marry, said, 'hey, let's build one.'

Uh huh. In my dreams I could build a beautiful table. Unfortunately I wasn't sleeping. Fortunately, neither was he. Filled with excitement and plans, my engineer husband and I were off to Lowes. We stood in the aisles staring at wood for about two hours. We talked. No, I didn't want round, I wanted square (I know, so not fung shui). No feet. A square base that had a door that opened and revealed shelves inside. (Because he offered and said it would be easy.) I didn't want two foot square, that would be too small. And upon seeing the four foot square pieces of wood, I knew that would be too big for the room. But there was this nice young man there who took the four foot square piece off for a moment and when he returned, it was a perfect three foot square. And then we moved on to the tile section. Black and white, 6 inch squares would perfectly cover the 36 inch top. And the there were beautifully decorated bull nose finishing pieces.

We bought stuff. Lots of different wood pieces, mostly. And paid far less than we'd have paid for the CHEAP table. It was four o'clock and we still had to drive home.

By ten o'clock Sunday night, we had a table. Unfinished, of course, but there was a top that had been beautifully framed underneath with two inch square long pieces of wood that have a special name that I can't remember. There was a perfect 16 inch square under there, too, in which the 16 inch square base sat perfectly. The base, too, had been framed and then made. I was not the artist, the creator, but I assisted and learned alot and loved every minute of the unveiling. All that was left to finish our creation was the door, shelves, and finishings of trim, paint and tile. On Monday night, the door and shelves appeared. Mitered. Beautiful. Solid wood. The door opens and closes. I could sit on the shelves, they are so solid.

Tonight, we're hoping to get to paint and tile.

We have a custom made, perfect for our perfect room, centerpiece that is fully functional, beautiful and us. And all it took was belief, a willingness to take the time to do it right, a level, a table saw, a miter saw, a miter tool, a screw driver, a hammer gun, two hinges, a door pull, screws, nails and wood. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Nothing out of reach or unattainable.

All it took was the ability to open our minds to the possibilities when it appeared that all life was going to offer us was a chance to settle.

I'd thought my mind was open. I was trying to be open-minded about the glass table top and simple base with no storage. And then my honey opened the doors that I had shut without even knowing I'd locked myself in.

And it occurs to me that that's what we all do for each other, isn't it? We remind each other of possibilities when we're too close to the door to see for ourselves that it's shut. And then we have the chance to open it. That's what we're all about. What America is about. That's the true meaning of freedom. The realization that there are always choices. And that we are allowed to choose. There will be consequences. There will be results. But in America, we are free to choose.

Are there times when you've refused to settle for less? I'd love to hear about them...

Can You Get Heat Stroke From This? (Suzanne Forster)

Mother Nature decided to give southern California a wake-up call on Saturday, June 21st, the day after the first official day of summer. The temperature was ninety degrees at nine in the morning, and I feared it was MN’s way of saying this was going to be one very long hot summer. Oy.

The cat and I about expired that day. It just kept getting hotter and hotter. I don’t know what the high was, but the temperature hit three digits, and I kept thinking about Mandy wearing a parka in a heat wave. However, she seemed to be doing better than I was. Crazy cat has an unbelievable tolerance for heat. No matter what the weather, she likes to nap on her cat tree in front of the window, which is one of the house’s hot spots on a sunny summer day. And every time I coaxed her out of there, she went right back up. She’s truly a creature of habit, and that’s where she likes to snooze. Her nose was cool and wet, and she’d been eating and drinking fine, so I just kept an eye on her. Plus, I lowered the shade and pointed a fan at her.

So, what did I do to beat the heat? Take a refreshing dip in the condo swimming pool? Go for an ice cream? Drink gallons of iced tea while fanning myself?

Nope, I brainstormed a new erotic story idea. A sizzler of a story on a scorcher of a day. Or vice versa.

Crazy, huh? Mandy and I are a pretty good pair.

Even stranger, my story idea was inspired by a young adult book I bought my twelve-year old granddaughter for Christmas year before last. I probably shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. While Christmas shopping that year, I spent hours searching through the young adult books and finally found one that intrigued me immediately. It was about a young girl, uprooted from everything she knew and sent to live with a family of five boys. I didn’t realize when I picked out the book that it was going to be such a hit with my granddaughter, but it’s become family folklore. Arial opened the gift book, read the back blurb and the first couple of pages, and scooted downstairs to her room to read the rest of it, WITHOUT opening any more of her presents.

She loved that storyline, although far from erotic, it wasn’t even a romance. But I reasoned that there must be some key elements that would have appeal to a wider audience, possibly even universal appeal, and I wondered what would happen to an adult woman entering a small society of men? It actually sounded a bit like some historical novels I’ve read. But I wondered if it could work with the kind of story I was thinking of…

Would that be erotic? Or just crowded? I tried to imagine the bathroom accommodations. I didn’t want to think about the kitchen. Any chance that she would have to cook for these guys would totally ruin the mood. Also, was the heroine there of her own free will or was this a captive story? Whoa, she was a captive of five guys? That could get very crowded, lol!

This exercise went on for a couple sweltering hours, with me sorting through scenarios, but I ended up with more questions than answers. And finally it hit me: Can you get heat stroke from this? What am I doing plotting an erotic novel in a condominium that’s turning into a kiln?

I postponed brainstorming and got myself some iced tea and a fan. As intriguing as the idea of a male harem was, it was literally too hot to dwell on the possibilities, and I wanted to think through other premises. However, I did take the scenario to my plot group yesterday (Monday), and it ignited imaginations like you wouldn’t believe. The girls outdid themselves and I came home with a filled notebook and a buzzing brain.

Also, yesterday was passably cool, I’m happy to say, and we guzzled quarts of iced tea as we contemplated what kind of a situation my heroine might find herself in. Wow, quite an education. I’m the only one of the group who’s ever published an erotic novel, but we were talking about things I’d never heard of! You never know what you’re going to discover when you’re delving into a new story idea. Plus, I now have blackmail material on every one of my writing buddies.

Maybe the most important thing I learned is to save the steamy brainstorming for days when the on shores are blowing. Or to put in A.C.!

But enough of my sizzling Saturday. What’s the weather like where you are? Are you into the triple digits yet? And if so, what are you doing to beat the heat? I could use some suggestions, especially if I’m ever going to get this story idea done.

Wishing you cool days and hot reading, or … vice versa,

Suz

I love Alan Rickman (Anne Stuart)

So I love Alan Rickman. This should come as no surprise -- any writer with taste would adore him. The snark, the wit, the elegance just make him absolutely delicious. I've used him as a hero in countless books and novellas (the impossibly hard to find novella in Avon's TO LOVE AND CHERISH would be the most obvious). I always use Richard Thompson as my sound track to any book that features Alan Rickman, and the combination of the two can inspire me for years.

I thought I knew everything about him, but Jenny Crusie and I were talking about upcoming movies, and she told me they were doing a remake of Robin Hood with Robin as the villain and the sheriff as the hero, with Russell Crowe (be still my heart) playing the sheriff. Which sounds yummy, but there's no way he can ever best Rickman's brilliance as the totally mad sheriff.
Jenny had sent me the link to this video back when I was depressed, but I was too depressed to watch it. Silly moi. If I'd only gone to Youtube my depression would have vanished in a welter of lust. I'm putting it here because it will make your day, your week, your month. I think it's really time for me to write another Rickman hero. Sigh.

Song of the week -- Obviously, it's "In Demand" by Texas (a Scottish group), with "High and Dry" by Radiohead coming in second. And if you have to clean house (heaven forbid) turn on "Mercy" by Duffy. It'll get you rocking.

Trivia question of the week: which movie did NOT have Clive Owen in it?

A. The Bourne Identity
B. The Pink Panther (Steve Martin version)
C. Gosford Park
D. Blow Dry

Have a fabulous week, my dears. I'm off to the Vermont Quilt festival to have fun and recharge my creative juices. It's time when I should be writing (and I will be writing every day) but I figure it's a mental health necessity. Every now and then I need to refill the well.

What do you guys do to recharge your batteries? Walks? Movies? Orgies?

Summer Solstice 2008

Photo credit: Anthony Ayiomamitis

Using a telescopic lens, the photographer captured the rising Solstice moon over the Temple of Poseidon Temple at Cape Sounion in Greece. The first (or only) full moon in June, the month when honey is best harvested, is known as the Honeymoon.

Some ancient peoples, believing the sexual union of God and Goddess occurred at Beltaine in early May, delayed their own weddings until June. In tradition, the concept of June marriages and "honeymoon" became linked.

But isn't the solstice all about the sun? After all, the word "solstice" is derived from the Latin for sun stands still (sol sistit). Astronomically, that means it lies midway (at 90 degrees) between the ecliptic points (day and night are equal in length) of the equinoxes.

Never mind the science. For practical and spiritual reasons, humans have observed and noted and calculated and celebrated solstices and equinoxes for thousands of years. It helped them track the planting and growing and harvesting seasons. Mythologies grew up around the motions of earth, moon, planets, and stars.

The Celts, in particular the Druids, celebrated Alban Heruin (Light of the Shore), aka Summer Solstice, which falls midway between the Alban Eiler (Light of the Earth) spring equinox and Alban Elfed (Light of the Water) fall equinox. This image shows the sun hovering just above Stonehenge in England.


Painting from "Avebury Seasons" by Ric Kemp

There were rites in Avebury as well, where Celts gathered at the stone "highway" and circle to observe the midsummer festival and the miracle of light at its apex. From this point on, remember, the days grow shorter. And so, the Oak King is ceremonially crowned for reaching the apex of his glory, at which point he morphs into his other, darker nature, the Holly King, who rules over the waning year. The apex of the Holly King's rule is honored at the winter solstice.

For now, for some of us, heat and floods and high gas prices are casting a shadow over these long days and short nights. So let us enter into this cycle of life and nature with a Wiccan Blessing for Summer.

Tapestry by Melany Berry


As the sun spirals its longest dance,
Cleanse us
As nature shows bounty and fertility
Bless us
Let all things live with loving intent
And to fulfill their truest destiny

A Canine Play Date (Patricia Potter)

I chalked up a “first ever” yesterday.

I hosted a dog play date at my house.

I told you all about Memphis, the beautiful Australian Shepherd that continually escaped from home. Apparently she didn’t think it was HER home. My neighbor rescued her twice and we spent one evening trying to find the owner. She returned the next day, and the owner asked if my neighbor wanted to keep her. Otherwise, she was going to the vet.

He couldn’t take her for various reasons, the main being he travels five days out of seven. And I was just about to say . . . heaven help me . . . that I would take her. I really, really liked her. She is an extraordinarily enthusiastic dog who loves everyone and greets life with great optimism.

The day I’d kinda made that decision – reluctantly because three are really enough, especially when one is elderly and ailing – I took the latter for a walk and bumped into another neighbor. I always walk by this particular neighbor's house because the man in the family is a world class gardener as well as a scientist, and his front yard is a marvel of a miniature woodland with carefully tended moss, a wonderful mixture of colorful flowers and plants I’ve never seen before.

Apparently, Memphis had been visiting them, too. They’d received the same offer from the owner and they accepted it. Yes, Memphis has a new home and it’s not mine. But it's a really good one.

She joins three parrots, another dog – a Golden Retriever – and a cat. (I really love these people.)

But she remembers me and the brief time she spent with my Wild Indians, and her new owner said she would stop on every walk and look toward my house and try to pull her over to my door. She picked her family, and I think I was second choice but heck, I’ll take what I can get.

So yesterday they called and suggested a doggy play date at my house (I have a fenced back yard; they rely on walks). Well, I’ve never had a doggy play date before. I mean what do you do on a dog play date? Do you offer snacks? Drinks? I felt socially inept in dog play date etiquette.

I suggested Friday, and spent Thursday cleaning my house and deciding what to wear. Shorts? Slacks? Bathing suit for the pool. I finally decided on jeans and blouse. I made coffee. I made ice tea. I poured almonds in candy dishes. I put out dog snacks.

Then it was time. The door bell rang. My new found friends had not only Memphis but also Abby, the Golden. They said they hoped I didn’t mind an additional guest, and I said, of course not. The more the merrier. They also brought toys and treats, (Something to remember in the rare possibility of being invited to a dog play party).

Well, five dogs meeting for the first time in one room is chaos. Dominance has to be determined. Sniffing furniture and carpet as well as the other dogs’ hind end is mandatory. Manic chasing ensued until I could get them all outside. Then we – my neighbor, her college-age daughter and five dogs – went outside. More sniffing. More exploring, more chasing each other (the dogs, not the humans).
A few new holes in the yard. A fight over a toy. More rear-end exploration.

We tried to tempt Memphis and Abby – the Golden – into my pool but with no luck. My dogs want no part of it, either. All regard it as a pit to be feared, although my Aussies will go to the edge when I swim.

We spent a very pleasant two hours talking animals and ambitions and life. My shirt was muddied by a grateful dog's paw. My carpet turned brown with mud. A few toys sank in the pool.

But all in all, a good time was had by all, especially the fur attendees.

I think I’m now qualified to write a book, “The Etiquette of Dog Play Dates.” No doubt it will be a best seller.

###

Also worth noting this week: my 98-year-old mother just had the first permanent and first manicure in her life. She is delighted with both.

No More Ms. Nice Gal (LynnK)

By now, I should be used to it. The dissing of romance novels, I mean.

It has been going on since a woman first penned a love story. That’s the key, really. If a woman wrote it, how good can it be? Women’s interests are so narrow and frilly and silly and, well, uninteresting.

Men have written love stories, too, of course. But one or the other of the lovers usually dies, or gets killed, or the relationship collapses, or there’s some sort of existential crisis at the end to prove that “this is not just a sappy love story that a female might write.”

I am, of course, excluding the excellent male romance-novel writers in our genre who usually take female or androgynous pseudonyms because they, too, could meet with prejudices over and above those we women writers deal with. Not from romance readers, I suspect. Only from the press, and from people who make themselves feel superior by sliming "girly men" who write about love.

Men’s action fiction, on the other hand, is full of important stuff like saving the world from evil terrorists/Spectre/a rogue asteroid. Or blowing things up . . . including rogue asteroids. These guys are physically the equivalent of deadly weapons or they carry really big guns. I know women who write in this genre, and of course, they use pseudonyms. Sexism operates on many levels in our society.

But its usual target is women, and in fiction, the bull's-eye is a romance novel. Love, commitment, struggles, compromise, risk, choice, family, community . . . yawn. Might as well watch reruns of Thirty Something. Never mind that these days, romance novels also pit valiant women against evil terrorists and asteroids. We’re kick-ass, if need be, in between civilizing the world and raising our kids. But the press has yet to figure that out.

All they know are the cliches. The Myths of the Seventies and Eighties have become ingrained in their saucer-deep minds. Romance novels are all about a silly female and her clothes, her advancement in society, her search for a handsome, wealthy tycoon or sheik or pirate to fulfill her fantasies, and sex.

Mostly about sex. That’s what really interests the journalists and the uninformed public. Especially in America, which is simultaneously hung up about sex and obsessed with it. Sex is forbidden, irresistible territory. So, to a degree, is rape, which made a splash a few decades ago, a splash never forgotten by the press. How bad can rape be, after all, when a romance novel hero does it and winds up with the heroine and a happy-ever-after?

I used to imagine drawing up a list of cliche words and phrases about romance novels and sending the list to the media. Heaven forfend they should leave any time-worn clunker out of the next tedious, phone-it-in article.

What set me off this time was a stupid poll on the MSNBC website. They had excerpted a section of the latest Danielle Steele novel and, about halfway through the posting, invited readers to cast a vote. Here’s the wording:

Do you read romance novels?
Yes, yes, yes! Bodice-rippers are my ultimate escape.
No way. I don't touch those books.
Sometimes, while on vacation or at the beach.

If you are reading this while the poll is still live, here's where you can vote:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25191970

The ingrained bigotry chafes my hide. “Bodice-rippers,” for pity’s sake. And why do they split the vote between people who prefer romance novels above all else to those who enjoy them from time to time?

Happily, Barbara Vey promptly took them on in her Publishers Weekly blog. She also kindly included a picture of a bare-chested Daniel Craig (the newest James Bond) emerging from the ocean. Hey, I never said I didn't appreciate a hunky guy!

You can see the picture and read Vey's comments here:
http://www.publishersweekly.com/blog/880000288/post/460028246.html

Let me add that Romance Writers of America (RWA) worked hard for a number of years to begin what is bound to be a long, slow journey to changing the public perception of romance fiction. It was my own preoccupation during the six years I served on the RWA Board of Directors. One major target back then was Publishers Weekly, the Industry magazine. Thanks to open-minded professionals like Daisy Maryles, favorable articles about romance novels and writers are no longer scarcer than nuns at a Vegas blackjack table.

Librarians are becoming our friends as well. I'll write about the vanguard of pro-romance fiction librarians after the San Francisco Conference in July, when I expect to get updates and lots of pictures.

Meantime, I have my own sad dereliction of duty to recount. Used to be, when asked what I wrote, I would answer the somewhat ambiguous Romantic Adventure, or Historical Romantic Suspense, or Paranormal Romantic Adventure . . . well, you get the drift. Weasel words, designed to disguise the Awful Truth and protect me from Negative Public Perception.

But now, sometimes forcing the words past my cowardice, I say, proudly, "Romance Novels." And then I savor the reactions.

Oh. If you're a romance reader, or even if you're not, you'll probably enjoy this video put together by some terrific writers who are rivals in the same category for a prestigious RITA award. We're not all sweetness and light. Check out the Trash Talk!
http://youtube.com/watch?v=y2UXH_LWkic

LOOK! My house is starting to look like a house again. There's sheetrock on most of the walls, the upstairs shower is mostly in place, the new windows are almost all in, and as I type this, the crew is installing the first of my two sets of French doors. I was waiting to post, so I could put up a pic of them, but it's taking a bit longer than we thought, and I needed to get this up. I'll add a photo later, or just post it next week.

Things are really looking up around here, guys. Every day now, (well, every weekday at least) ends with some new bit of progress. I can see the new layout of my living room now, and I love how open and roomy it is. I'm looking at paint colors and thinking about furniture and ordering kitchen cabinets, and it's all going to be fantastic.

Only a few weeks ago, walking around the gutted remains of the house was almost too depressing to bear. It was dark, both from charred beams and boarded up windows. It smelled like fire and smoke and soot. It was damp and dreary and so sad. But now, walking through the house is a cheerful experience. I walk into a room and see the progress that's been made, and my imagination kicks in, and I start seeing all the possibilities. What color will it be? What paintings will I hang here? What sort of furniture will I buy? What sort of theme might I incorporate? Rustic? Or Egyptian or Asian inspired, maybe? What kind of bathroom sink will I choose, and what about the vanity and medicine cabinet? Where will the towel racks go? It's all gone from morose and depressing, to exciting and new! And at this point, I've stopped being impatient and frustrated, and instead, am honestly enjoying the unfolding, relishing the journey.

And it's spilling over into other aspects of my life. I'm happy where I am, and I know where I'm going, and the end isn't the important part. It's the journey! Everyday I see signs and evidence that something I've been wanting is drawing closer. And that just makes me more sure it's coming, and that sureness feeds the energy that's bringing it to me.

And it's all good.

So that's my sermon for the week. Find ways to enjoy where you are, because you're ALWAYS where you are. If you can do that, your entire life will be good, rather than just those times when the thing you want arrives. Those times are brief, because by the time the desire manifests, you're already on to wanting the next thing. Life is lived in between wanting and getting. It's all about the process.

It's all about the journey.

Tell me about your journeys!

Hugs,
Maggie

Land of the Free - Warning, A Rant (TTQ)

The other night Lee Greenwood's rendition of God Bless the USA was playing on the car stereo. My honey and I were on one of our road trips - a short one - just out for a few hours of freedom and exploration. "If tomorrow all the things were gone I worked for all my life"... I turned up the sound. And started to bellow right along with Lee. "The Flag still stands for freedom and they can't take that away." And then, "I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free..."

I felt every single syllable of that song as I sang myself into a sore throat. "It's time we stand and say..."

And here's where we segue off to the confusing. Because nothing's straightforward in ttq land. God Bless my husband for taking me on! As I sit here this morning, I'm wearing 'the' shirt. I found it several years ago on that mile long street of mall in downtown Denver. I was there for a writer's conference, and, in this tiny little tourist shop, I found the shirt. Mine. Made only for me. (And probably a good majority of the rest of the writer's population.) It's plain black. From collar to hem. Short sleeved. And in the middle, the only relief from the darkness are bold, white block letters that clearly and without apology state:

I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here.

I don't wear 'the' shirt often. Not nearly as often as I think of it! But this morning, when I got up, I knew it was a day when only 'the' shirt would do.

Depending on what book I'm writing, my world can be warm and cozy, or it can be dark and frightening. You know, readers sit down with the pages and escape into the worlds we create. They're there for a few hours. If the book is a suspense, and the writer has done her job well, the reader is going to be afraid. He or she is going to sit on the edge of the chair, experience rapid heart beat, question everything he or she took for granted, jump at a sound, look behind her (or him). The reader is going to experience the thrill of darkness. And then be delievered. The writer follows the same journey - with one major difference. It takes a lot longer for us to be delivered. It takes a lot longer to write those pages than to read them. As writers we live in those worlds. We must immerse ourselves in them to make the stories come to life, to give the reader that emotional, mind grabbing experience. That escape.

I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here. In the past five months I've written two books and a novella. In the past three weeks I've revised two books and a novella. And yesterday started a very short period of time in which I will do line edits and read print outs of two books and a novella. I'm living with battered women - being a battered woman - surviving abuse. I'm living with lies and deceipt and mind manipulation. Oh, wait, I was supposed to be talking about the books here, okay, well, in the books the worlds have been filled with...battered women. Lies. Deceipt. Mind manipulation.

I did mention, I live in my own little world, but it's ok...they know me here.

So...now that we've clearly established that, for a writer such as myself, there are times of darkness, I can get back to my Lee Greenwood song. (Think Edgar Allen Poe, here. Minus any drugs or substance abuse. Dark. Misunderstood. Living in his own little world except I'm not sure even he knew himself there.)

Lee said, "it's time we stand and say..."

I stand to say, I love my country. I love that we're free. I love all that we stand for. And I don't undstand so much. What does freedom mean? Who's really free? People were free to take God out of our schools. Am I free to bring him back in?

Freedom means that people who choose not to work, who choose not to have drive or ambition, who choose not to avail themselves of the help available to them, get to lay their bodies down on the steps of public buildings. They get to urinate in the streets where we walk. They get to stand on street corners, with signs about being out of work, with help wanted signs within view, with very well fed dogs beside them and beg me for the money I'm working my ass off to earn. So...am I free to build a fence and put them behind it? Can I go to every city in the United States and erect fences and force those who are living in the streets due to slothenness to live in a gated community of land that they can sleep on, urinate on, for free?

Let's be very clear. I am not speaking about the members of our population who give everything they have and find themselves in loopholes and circumstances from which they can't escape. I'm not talking about the homeless who will do whatever it takes to get homes. I'm not talking about those good, precious people who are down on their luck, who hang their heads as they enter a shelter for a meal because, in spite of all of their efforts, they are unable to provide one for themselves. Or even those who enter the shelters with smiles, thankful that there is help available to them as they work their way out of untenable situations. I'm talking about the lazy ones. The selfish ones. The entitled ones. Our land of the free seems to attract them. And they impinge upon my freedom.

And what about our gas prices? We're free, right? Gas sure isn't. And I don't expect it to be. However, I should be free to act on behalf of myself and my loved ones, in this land of the free. I mean really act, not picket others to act on my behalf. Instead, my lifestyle, our lifestyles, are in jeopardy as a few powerful people in this country make decisions - or not - that are taking away our ability to travel. We have the technology. The Wright Brothers performed miracles, as have thousands of others after them, developing planes that can take us anywhere, and yet we're held hostage by the gas needed to fly them. So we have oil problems. I get that. But did you know that it's possible for every single one of us to take good old fashioned grease - the kind that is thrown away from the fryers of our fast food restaurants all over the country - and turn it into a moonshine that would safely and effectively drive all of our diesel automobiles? We could do it at home. We could really act.

And did you know that we could grow corn and make ethanol? That vehicles exist that can run on ethanol? The technology is all there. The farming land is there. But it's illegal right now, in our land of the free, to make the ethanol. I'm not sure why. I've asked. Several times. The answers I get are all cluttered with beaurocracy. It doesn't make sense.

Did you know that we could make windmills, have everyone band together to offset the cost, and once they're paid for we could have power for all of us in this land of the free? For free. I'm not sure why we don't do that, either. Maybe someone knows and I'm just ignorant. I'm free to be ignorant. I just wonder...

And did you know that if you're a victim of a crime, you become the criminal until the criminal is proven guilty? The perpetrator has rights. And his rights mean that as the victim you have to take a witness stand and be pummeled by the perpetrators defense counsel that oftentimes you are paying for with your tax dollars. You will be disseminated, made to look like a liar, your life will be on stage and motivations for your actions will be bandied about with no regard for the actual truth, in the name of the perpetrators rights.

Yeah, I get that there are those accused who are not guilty. I don't want a single one of them to pay for a crime they did not commit. But I want to be free, as a victim, to be treated with respect and caring as I tell what happened. I want to be free to live a life where truth and kindness matter more than money and winning.

The USA - land of the free. Land. Have you looked around you these summer days? Do you see the blue skies and sunshine? The lakes and parks and blooms? The gloriously tall trees with huge green leaves that sway gently above trickling streams? Do you know that, as a woman, I'm pretty much not free to take a walk alone among any of it? In this land of the free? I wanted to go to the park this morning to enjoy my diet coke. But there are heavily wooded areas there. And no one was around. I knew it would be stupid, for a few moments of diet coke enjoyment, to take that risk. Look at Central Park in New York. It's gorgeous. A phenomenon. I should be free to enjoy it by moonlight.

I feel caged in the land of the free. Caged by the freedom of others. People have the right to express themselves, to say what they feel even when it hurts others. Don't those being hurt have the freedom to not be hurt?

There's a song by Jewel (I've mentioned it here before) that comes to mind right now. She says, "Be careful with me, I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way." In my land of the free, I should be free to live my life as a sensitive creature without having to go into my own little world. Why should I have to develop a tough skin just because others want to live their lives with treachery and deceipt, lying to their loved ones and business associates, killing, destroying, playing games with peoples heads, manipulating. Why should we have to feel like fools for trusting? Or like traitors for wanting to do things another way? Why should we have to work so hard for so little?

I love this land. I love our country. And I want to be free to live here with trust, and heart and soul and love for my neighbor. I'm standing up to say so.

As my father always used to say, This is still America.

Zip Code Secrets! (Suzanne Forster)

Maybe only a writer would find this interesting, but someone just emailed me a handy link for finding out all kinds of intriguing things about one’s zip code.

Here’s the email message I got:

“You can sure learn a lot about your zip.

Click here: http://zipskinny.com/
Check out your zipcode; you will not believe the information you will find there!!!

Once open, don't forget to click the tabs across the page top..... if the click doesn’t work, copy and paste into your browser.”

Naturally, I clicked immediately. I can’t resist a url with the word skinny in it, especially when skinny means information. I’m not sure what I expected, but what I got was lots of statistics. It was only as I examined the numbers and percentages that I began to think my zip code might be a little odd. And when I checked another page that allows you to compare your zip’s stats against your neighboring zips and the national average, all doubt vanished. My zip is definitely odd.

Here’s one thing I could not believe: 41% of the people in my Z.C. have never been married. How can this be? My first thought was that we have lots of children here in west Newport, but that can’t be the case because unless I calculated wrong only 14.6% of the population fall in the 0-19 age category. My second guess was lots of surfers, but sadly, surfing figures are not included. No surfers? What kind of a data base is this? Seriously, though, I really would have liked a little more explanatory information.

As it turns out, 38.8% actually are married, which is below the national average at around 45%. However, if it’s still true that 50% of marriages end in divorce, then we’re well below that average with divorces at just 13.4%. That’s pretty good I’d say. We’re also pretty stable with just under 40% living at the same address for five years, but again that’s well below the neighboring zips, who have as high as 60%. Show offs!

Who are all these Never Married People? And where are they? Do we have a convent somewhere in the area? A seminary?

I also discovered that my zip has more males than females in all the age groups, except the very youngest and oldest groups, so if you’re a single woman, this might not be a bad vacation destination. And considering that there are 41% who’ve never married, there’s a pretty good chance the extra guys might be single!

There’s tons more information here, including an entire page with instructions on how to build a widget for my zip code, but since I don’t know what a widget is, even after having looked at the instructions, I’ll leave that to the more technically inclined.

I also found an article on Ten Rules for Stomach Fat, although it doesn’t say why residents of my zip might need these rules. No statistics on weight. Some of us are grateful for that.

There’s lots more about my area, but I’m curious about a place called Tacoma, Washington, where I’m setting a new story idea, so let me just type in that zip and see pops up. Oh, wow, looks like a pretty good place to set a suspense novel. The crime stats are fascinating.

But before I get lost again in Zip Code Land, I’m curious if any of you have seen the zipskinny link before. It was news to me. And if you clicked on it, did you find anything unexpected? I’m about to check out my home town and see if something quirky shows up. But before I do that, I need to figure out why the people of Tacoma don’t seem to have any issues with belly fat … and why there are so few people over forty. Hmmm, maybe that’s why.

Okay, click away,

Suz

The Big House (Anne Stuart)

I've been writing at the Big House recently, when the weather is warmer. I've discovered over the years that I tend to write well and fast when I'm facing water, and I've had plenty of opportunities to do so over the last thirty years.
I live in a town that has about 350 people in the winter and two to three thousand in the summer. The town surrounds a beautiful pristine lake in Northern Vermont, and I first arrived here at the age of two months. It was my grandparents' summer place (half of the Princeton faculty seemed to come here) and my father and all his siblings eventually bought or built places up here. When I was 22 I packed up my 7,000 LP records and my 26 million books and moved into our family summer home to write, and write I did. I didn't know how to drive, I lived two miles out of town and I only knew a few people from the winter community. So there was nothing else to do but write and watched Star Trek in French. (We're up near the Canadian border and we get French language TV stations).

And then I met and married the divine Richie, whose grandparents also came up here every summer (both started arriving in the 1920s). Richie's aunts and uncles built or bought their summer houses, but Richie's mother inherited the Big House, the sprawling summer house Richie's grandfather built.

We had the same kind of sprawling house but ended up selling it off in the early 60s when my grandmother died. But so far the Big House remains in the family, a treasure and a blight, as powerful as the ring in Lord of the Rings and just as divisive. I love the place. I've wanted it to burn down for more than twenty years.

My mother-in-law clung to it like an angry terrier. It has five bedrooms, a huge porch, massive living and dining room, and she lived alone in it with her current husband. The sad thing was she loved it more than her children and grandchildren, and I think, even in her blank, late-stage Alzheimer's condition, inwardly she's still saying "my precious" in a breathy whisper.

But it's going to have to go. The taxes and upkeep are more than some families make in a year, it can't be winterized and Vermont can be very cold in June and September. It's a white elephant, a luxury for people who can't afford luxuries, and its time has past.

But in the meantime, sitting on the porch is divine. The house is surrounded by tall pines and set back from the road, so it's very quiet, and the lake is still and beautiful. In the 1970s I wrote at my Aunt Emilie's house, in my Uncle Arthur's cabin in the woods. In the '80s I wrote in Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Reed's house, on the back porch facing the lake. Those houses are gone now, my aunts and uncles are gone now. Everything has to end.

We'll leave the Big House behind -- Richie and his sister will have to sell it once the Alzheimer's takes its final toll. We'll leave the lake behind -- we've been here too long, and the whole town is changing. It used to be the refuge of college professors and their families. Now the place is filled with Lexuses (Lexi?) and BMWs and ridiculously expensive cars and lives.

We need to find a lake of our own, where I can wake up in the morning, walk out on the porch and see the water. We need a new life, but the trouble is we're not quite sure where to find it.

I still miss Nana's Cottage (our family house) and it's been gone for forty-five years. I'll miss the Big House as well -- the long hours of sitting on the wide porch, listening to the loons, drinking Tab and writing long-hand.

But one of the best, wisest things you can learn in this life is to let go. I'll spend as much of this summer as I can working over there, when Richie's sister and her children aren't in residence.

And then I'll let it go.


Do any of you have a Big House in the family? My former brother-in-law has one on Martha's Vineyard that causes the same sort of dissension, but they still manage to cling to it. (I burned it down in a book as my way of symbolically burning down the Big House).

Have you learned to let go?

Happy Father's Day!

Don't worry, son. Piddling on the carpet isn't a capital crime. Did it once or twice myself, back in the day. C'mon. I'll show you where to do your business.



Sonora Louise Smart Dodd was sixteen when her mother died in childbirth, leaving her father, a Civil War veteran, to raise six children on a farm in eastern Washington state. In 1908, while listening to a sermon about the newly established Mother's Day, she decided there ought to be a Father's Day as well.

In honor of her father, she began a campaign that was often ridiculed or ignored, but Spokane passed a supporting resolution in 1910. By 1916, President Woodrow Wilson approved, but it only became a national event in 1924, when Calvin Coolidge came on board. In part, according to his proclamation, the purpose was to "establish more intimate relations between fathers and their children and to impress upon fathers the full measure of their obligations." In 1966 President Lyndon Johnson established the 3rd Sunday of June as Father's Day.

Sonora Smart Dodd, who was honored at the World's Fair (Spokane) in 1974, died four years later. She was 96.


For always and always, I will be with you. You are my heart.
And when the time comes, I will show you the stars.



From On the Beach by Walt Whitman
On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.


From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

Potter Dogs Chime In (Patricia Potter)

Okay, okay. Enough with this cat superiority nonsense! Cat Week, Indeed!!!

First, let me introduce myself. I’m Ting Ting, the Dowager Duchess of the Potter household. In other words, I’m the most important person in the household. Not that I lord it over the others, but I do like my quite reasonable demands met immediately. I am quite sharp with my bark when confronted with poor service.

To be quite clear, I’m a little old fur lady of the canine persuasion. I live, unfortunately, with two ruffians. My person calls them the ‘Wild Indians,” but that’s an insult to Indians. She says they’re really nice Australian Shepherds but don’t believe her. They are undisciplined peasants who try to steal my food and run over me like banshees. I refuse to associate with them.

Other than being subjected to their behavior, I have a happy home. Unlike, humph, cats, I have a purpose in life. Cats, on the other hand, are ne’er-do-wells.
My person said she had one once. Named her Kitty (astounding lack of creativity in my royal Shih Tzu opinion). She said that despite being a feline, Kitty was quite nice because she thought she was a dog. She even groomed her dog sister. Now I wouldn't mind that.

/>But be that as it may, I am proud that I do have purpose in life. I make people happy. I wait at the door every night at 6:30 p.m., and my person takes me to her mother’s nursing home. I truly like everyone (the only exception being the ruffians), and I like greeting everyone. I like the hands that reach out to rub my ears and the smiles on wrinkled faces when they do. I always make little rumbling noises inside, and some who don’t know me well, are afraid I’m growling. Really, I’m making little happy noises and when people learn that, they give me all the attention I deserve. I say with all humility that I am the best known and most admired fur dowager at the Memphis Jewish home.

I must admit the ruffians have their purpose, too. No would dare try to dognap me with them in the house. Intruders would be loved to death. Smothered with
delusional affection, but then the ruffians are always doing strange things. At least they no longer chew my person’s belonging and furniture. There was even that night they locked themselves in the bathroom, and my person had to call the locksmith at one in the morning. Now THAT was an interesting conversation. I hoped they would be banished, but no . . . they’re still there.

I think, on reflection, that my person should trade them in on a – shudder – cat.

“Not so fast!”

We’re Sisters Katy and Allie, and we have a completely different view on the situation. We’re really quite likeable, if a little enthusiastic about meeting people. Before we came here, we were hard luck dogs, and we want to ingratiate ourselves so no one will hurt us again. Ting is just a stuffy old lady who doesn’t appreciate our many virtues.

True, we were not very helpful in the beginning because we had to test our new person. Before we gave our hearts, we had to know whether she too would abandon us after being sick or digging up the garden. We tried everything. We ate the furniture. We ate the computer cords. We ate all the shoes.

But she kept us, and now we are the model dogs. Kinda. We protect the house. We do. We make our person smile when we follow her everywhere she goes and keeps her company as she writes on those machines. We stay with her when she swims at night. We are loyal and fearless and, indeed, far more worthy than a . . . cat.

The Cat Whisperer (LynnK)

posted by Lynn Kerstan on Friday, June 13, 2008 . Post a comment for a chance to win free books!

Photo by Jose Libres Librodo

Back in the 80's, my sister hired a “Cat Psychic” to, well, I’m not sure what. Read the cat’s mind? Good luck with that!

It related to a health problem the vets couldn’t figure out, so maybe the cat could communicate the source of trouble to the psychic. That was the theory. We never learned how it would turn out because the psychic, pleading family duties, cancelled the appointment.

I saw it as $50 saved from going down the drain. Especially when the cat came south to live with me and the symptoms vanished. A matter of location and allergies, I suspect. Maybe the psychic would have elicited the information in her mysterious way.

I’d forgotten all that until just lately, when I came across several articles about the new art or science or fantasy of “Cat Whisperers.” In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that I’m pretty skeptical about those who charge money to locate ghosts, tell fortunes, or communicate with animals and the dear departed.

It’s nothing new, our wish to reach beyond ourselves and find a link with what interests us, or what we most care about. Quacks have been around to exploit that primal need since time began. And so, perhaps, have true practitioners been around, their gifts unrecognized by those turned off by the fakery. Like me. But let me also say I’d love to be convinced otherwise.

It would take a bolt from the blue, I suppose. An astonishing revelation out of nowhere. Or, perhaps, a beloved pet gone wholly to seed.

The editor of Species Link estimates there are 2000 or more animal whisperers, half a hundred books on the subject, and—get this—whisperers often work with via phone or email. I have visions of Dell’s technicians in India trying to diagnose my computer problems, except that I can’t understand what they are saying.

Leanne Italie, in an AP article, tells how she was troubled when the whisperer she hired to deal with ten-year-old sister cats told her the cats thought their food tasted like sawdust. Italie felt they wouldn’t know about sawdust, but the whisperer assured her that “Animals have normal vocabularies like you and me.”

I must start watching my language around here!

In a more comprehensive report, Kirsten Weir of Salon writes about her loving, troubled, rambunctious kitten who eventually settled down . . . except for the biting. We’re not talking nibbles here, or “love licks.” Between sessions of affectionate purring and nuzzling, Thompson was clamping down and drawing blood. Weir went looking for help.

Picture by Mignon Khargie, Salon

A good journalist, she began with the science of cat behavior, in particular as it compares with dogs. Turns out that when it comes to domesticated animals, the cat stands apart. All the others are pack or herd animals, accustomed to cooperating. Humans exploited that characteristic and put them to work. Some of the animals, like dogs with protective or friendly instincts, were eventually invited to become pets.

Cats, on the other hand, moved in to exploit food sources turned up by human agriculture, pouncing on mice and rats drawn to stores of grain. They didn’t come looking for company or asking how they could be as of help. Being solitary by nature, they have a “What’s in it for me?” attitude. Then again, they are generally low-maintenance.

The whisperer Weir chose, Mieshelle Nagelschneider, is a “cat behaviorist” working to develop a TV show with a major network. Weir first completed a questionnaire about her cat’s environment and behavior. Then, in a phone consultation, the diagnosis was reached: Thompson the cat had low self-esteem.

Yeah. I had the same reaction most of you are having. It’s a cliche. Besides, cats esteem themselves just fine. Usually to an excess. And why would low self-esteem cause a cat to bite the hand that feeds it?

For the whole story, you should real the comprehensive, witty article. Especially you, Suz! Perhaps Nagelschneider can figure out what’s going on with Mandy and how to fix it. Her plan of action for Thompson required some work, but it appears to have worked out really well. I tried a long time to create a link, but Blogger was cranky and wouldn't take it. Best I can do is provide the URL for Weir’s piece in Salon:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/03/19/cat_whisperer

On a related subject, I hadn’t realized that dog people and cat people were on opposite sides of some line or other. There’s no rivalry. Really.
And we StoryBroads appear to be perfectly balanced:
Lynn and Suz: Cats only
Tara and Pat: Dogs only
Krissie and Maggie: Cats and Dogs

Then again, I can’t resist mentioning that in the world of pets, there are 13 million more cats than dogs. Must be a reason for that!

I Got Your Cat Week, Right Here (Dozer)

posted by Maggie Shayne on Thursday, June 12, 2008 . Post a comment for a chance to win free books!

Okay, okay, so it's Kitty Week. So I'll introduce you to mine. Her name's Glory, and at first she was sort of a bitch to me. She wouldn't even speak to me for the first week or so. Now, though, she worships the ground I walk on. Oh, sure, she pretends to barely tolerate me. But it's all fake. She loves me. We bot