Birds, Tea, and Poetry
On Sunday afternoons, especially in the winter, Clif and I like inviting friends over for tea. When the weather is cold, there is something so cozy about sitting around the dining room table as we chat, drink tea, and nibble on something I’ve baked.
Yesterday our friend Mary Jane came over. As I was getting ready, I looked out the kitchen window and saw a female cardinal at our feeder. I stopped what I was doing, grabbed my camera, and trotted to the bathroom, which has become a sort of bird blind. Slowly, slowly I opened the windows—there are two down in the winter—hoping I wouldn’t scare her away. Success!
Cardinals are relative newcomers to Maine. Even as recently as eleven years ago, we didn’t have cardinals in our backyard, and my mother, who died around that time, never did see one in Maine. I sure wish that she had lived long enough to see cardinals in our yard. I suspect that climate change has brought these lovely birds ever farther north, and if so, this is an example of it’s an ill wind that blows no good. We love having cardinals come to our feeder.
After taking pictures of Mrs. Cardinal, I returned to the kitchen to finish making my oatmeal squares and to get the table set for tea. Glancing out the dining room window, I saw a movement in the woods, a flock of turkeys picking their way through the trees. The dining room windows do not open easily. Could I get a good picture through the window? Turns out, I could. Not quite as crisp as the cardinal, but not too bad, especially when you consider the shot was taken through the window, and the turkeys were quite a distance away.
Turkeys are another newcomer to Maine. Or rather, they are a species that has been reintroduced. Twenty years ago, I did not see them in the woods behind my house. Between habitat loss and overhunting, turkeys had been wiped out in Maine. The technical term is extirpation, meaning that the species is not actually extinct, just no longer in an area. A cold word for a brutal act.
Well, the turkeys are back. Hunting is more controlled than it was in the old days, and Maine is actually more forested now than it was in the 1800s, proof that not everything is going to heck in a handbasket.
With all that excitement, it’s a wonder that I managed to bake the squares and set the table. But somehow, I did.
Mary Jane came over, and we had a wonderful chat. Clif and I even shared some poetry from From a Far Corner, a new book that we received from my friend Jerry George, who lives in East Machias, way up north by the Canadian border. But Mainers call it Downeast, a sailing term that sailors used to describe how they utilized downwinds to sail east from western ports. Downeast Maine is a beautiful, remote place that, believe it or not, is hospitable to poets and retirees. The cover of the book, taken by the talented Ray Beal, gives a good indication of the stark appeal of the area.
All in all, it was quite a Sunday.
The Wonderful, Interconnected World of Blogging
A couple of weeks ago, Clif and I went to see a movie called The Kid Who Would Be King, a modern retelling of the King Arthur tale. We had seen the trailer, and being either young at heart or in a state of arrested development—take your pick—we could tell right away that we would like this movie.
And we were right. Although the delightful The Kid Who Would Be King is aimed at a young audience, it is also a crossover movie that adults will enjoy.
Here is a short synopsis. In modern-day England, life is going to heck in a handbasket, and there is the clever use of newspaper headlines to illustrate this. (Brexit, anyone? ) What England needs is a hero to help restore some semblance of order and defeat the dark forces led by King Arthur’s sister Morgana, imprisoned underground and itching to get out.
Enter shining-faced Alex (Louis Ashbourne Serkis, son of the great Andy Serkis). Alex is the modern-day Arthur, living with his single mother, bullied by older kids, and the defender of his best friend, who is also bullied. When Alex finds an embedded sword in a construction site, he, of course, easily removes it. Merlin is summoned, and the adventure begins. Alex must assemble a team and face his own sorrows before he can confront the wicked Morgana.
The movie goes at a cracking pace. The children are terrific, the special effects are great, and the adult actors did a pretty good job, too. Elder Merlin is played by Patrick Stewart, which seems only fitting. After all, Ian McKellen has played Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings movies. Younger Merlin is played by Angus Imrie, who did a fantastic job portraying the otherworldly Merlin. Imrie is someone to watch for in future movies.
By now readers might be wondering how this movie ties in with the world of blogging. It just so happens that Joe Cornish, the writer/director of The Kid Who Would Be King (and also the wonderful Attack the Block) has a direct connection with Tootlepedal, one of my blogging friends. Cornish is the partner of Tootlepedal’s daughter.
Did Tootlepedal and his wife get to go to London for a special screening of The Kid Who Would be King? You bet they did, and Tootlepedal chronicles this event in his post King Size Entertainment. Oh, the excitement!
I know. Clif and I are movie nerds along with being many other kinds of nerds. So it was a real treat for us to discover this connection between Tootlepedal and Joe Cornish, whom we have long admired.
A cool winter’s tale, wouldn’t you say?
The Lone Feeder
Another Way to Support Writers: Ask Your Library to Purchase Their Books
Recently, courtesy of my daughter Shannon, my book Library Lost traveled south to the public library in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
Shannon asked the Chapel Hill Public Library to purchase Library Lost to add to its collection. And voilà! They honored her request, and Library Lost is now in the library’s young adult section. (Two years ago, Shannon did the same thing with Maya and the Book of Everything.)
Readers, this is such a wonderful way to support writers—not just me—and it only costs a little bit of time. Now I know very well that not all libraries have big book budgets, but it never hurts to request the purchase of a book. And if the library does honor the request, checking out the book, even if you’ve already read it, gives the book a good start.
Finally, when returning the book, take a few minutes to tell the librarian how much you liked the book and provide a brief synopsis. By calling it to a librarian’s attention, you will have given the book a little leg up, something that cannot be overemphasized, especially for indie writers. Librarians’ recommendations go a long way toward promoting a book.
In the spirit of practicing what I preach, I’m going to ask my own Bailey Library to purchase Myrtle the Purple Turtle written by the fabulous Cynthia Reyes.
In addition, I will request Myrtle’s Game, again by Cynthia and also with her daughter Lauren Reyes-Grange. Both books would make for a terrific and timely program on bullying and inclusion, and I will be sure to mention this when I ask my library to purchase these books.
Finally, if you do ask your library to purchase my books, and Maya and the Book of Everything or Library Lost are added to your library’s collection, I have a favor to ask. If you have time, take a picture similar to the one of Library Lost in front of the Chapel Hill Public Library. Send the picture to me, and I will feature it on my blog.
What fun it would be to see either Maya or Library Lost or both in front of different libraries.
Deep Winter
In Maine, we are now in deep winter, a cold, snowy, brilliant time of year. Some people, especially those who are affected by the lack of light, get the blues in February or go stir crazy or a combination of the two. I am happy to report that winter doesn’t get me down. No, for me, that comes with March, just around the corner, and a category of its own in Maine.
While I love the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I am grateful for the calm of winter, a time to write, read, and perhaps do a bit of organizing, although I never get too far with this. I find February restful—unless, of course, there is a big storm—and hunkering down at night is soothing rather than dreary.
Here was the temperature this morning, before I went out to take pictures. Cold but not brutal, the way it has been in the Midwest.
Our driveway is no longer glare ice, and although care is still needed, walking to the car or the mailbox is much less treacherous than it has been.
I always like to see our cozy, little home tucked in the snow.
Out back, the patio is completely covered with snow. No patio nights for a while, no glimpses of flowers as there are with some of my blogging friends.
Then there is the forest, mysterious any time of year.
Hard to resist a season where there are so many blue shadows in the yard and in the woods.
Pig in the Snow
A Repost of “Buy Indie, Borrow the Big Bestsellers” by Cynthia Reyes
Cynthia Reyes, a writer, blogger, and journalist from Canada, is someone I’ve featured in my blog several times. Most recently, she and her daughter have written the delightful Myrtle’s Game, featuring the delightful purple turtle as she deals with those who would exclude her.
Anyway, Buy Indie, Borrow the Big Bestsellers, her latest post on her blog, exactly captures my philosophy. Cynthia writes, “The way I see it, the bigtime authors will still get my support, via the public library. Local libraries are among my favourite places on earth and librarians are stars. I borrow the famous books there….But Indie authors and presses need my money. ” And when Cynthia purchase books, they are usually from indie authors and presses.
Hear, hear! I, too, do my best to support indie writers, artists, and other creative types who earn money selling their creations. Readers, I know a lot of you do, too. However, Cynthia’s eloquent words remind us why it’s so important to buy from indie writers and artists.
This post, of course, falls squarely in the department of shameless self-promotion because not only am I an indie author and publisher, but also my book, Library Lost, is featured in Cynthia’s post.
Many thanks, Cynthia!
Once More to the Frozen Lake
Yesterday, on my way to pick up the Sunday paper, I decided to swing by the lake to see if the ice-fishing village had expanded. It had. And although the pictures don’t indicate this, it was actually quite lively on the ice, with people calling to each other and moving between shacks.
I think this little green shack looks especially fetching as it peeks through the branches.
And this shot gives an idea as to how close to shore some of them are.
While I was taking pictures, I heard the muffled roars of far-off snowmobiles, which, as someone who cares about the environment, I know I am not supposed to like. However, as a Mainer who rode on snowmobiles when she was young, I have a soft spot for them.
Growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, I had what is now referred to as a “free-range childhood.” When I was eight, we moved to the rural town of North Vassalboro, and I was allowed to roam the fields and woods as I wanted.
This was not unusual back then. My friends had the same freedom, and somehow we set reasonable limits on ourselves, with our range being about a mile’s radius from where we lived.
We climbed trees, we rode ponies, we picked strawberries in backfields, and in the winter, as we got older, we rode snowmobiles. My parents had a little Arctic Cat with a pull starter that was easy for me to use. And off I went, sometimes by myself, sometimes with my friends, buzzing around the countryside but again, never straying much farther than a mile so so from home. Not exactly good for the environment, but oh so much fun as the sharp air hit our faces when we went up hill, down hill, and through the woods. Then back to a warm house for hot chocolate and cookies.
Funny how a trip to a frozen lake will bring back memories.
Life Running in a Different Direction
“Life ran back and forth, land into people and people back into land, until both were the same.” –Lura Beam, A Maine Hamlet
Last Sunday, we had very cold weather and eight inches of snow, both standard for Maine in January. Then yesterday, the temperature shot up to 49° Fahrenheit, and the rain came bucketing down, rapping against the windows, slanting into our faces, soaking our coats as we did errands.
Before we left to do errands, Clif threw sunflower seeds on the snow for the ground feeders, which are often birds but in this case were squirrels.
Then the wind came, fortunately not strong enough to knock out our power but strong enough to make it difficult to open our car doors as we went to the various stores.
Last night the rain stopped, the temperature dropped to freezing, and this is what we woke up to.
First, the good. Our front steps are completely clear of ice and snow, no small thing in our shady yard.
Second, the not so good. Our driveway is glare ice.
As are the walkways to and in the backyard.
And the snowbanks are as hard, dirty, and ugly as they are in March. Except this is January.
I started this post with a quotation from the remarkable Lura Beam, a Maine native, writer, educator, and researcher. According to Wikepedia, “Her interests included the poor, minorities, women, education, and the arts. She co-authored two books discussing medical studies on sex adjustment and sex education with Robert Latou Dickinson, and a noted memoir of growing up in turn-of-the-century Marshfield, Maine. She was the long-time companion of Louise Stevens Bryant. ”
Lura Beam is perhaps best known for her “noted memoir,” A Maine Hamlet. The opening quotation comes from that book, and I was much struck by it.
Like Lura Beam, Clif and I are also Maine natives, going at least five generations back for both of us. We belong to Maine. It is a part of us, and we are a part of it. For most our lives, we knew the rhythms of Maine and moved knowingly through the seasons—the brilliant cold of winter; reluctant spring, which burst in a frenzy of blossoms upon us in May; beautiful summers, not too hot, not too rainy, just right; and the glory of fall, so bright and beautiful with its explosion of yellow, red, and orange leaves.
But now, with climate change, it hardly seems as if we know Maine at all. Summers so hot that we can barely stand it? September being an extension of August? Rain and 49° in January? In what universe? In this one, it seems.
We must adapt. We have no choice. But for Clif and me, two old Mainers, it is very disconcerting.
Notes From the Hinterland 