Category: Uncategorized

This morning I’m meeting my granddaughter, Brett, for breakfast. She finished her freshman year of college, got home last night, and has two days before she leaves for her summer job at a resort on Orcas Island. We’re meeting at Lil’ John’s, where, if I’m lucky, I will have a perfect cinnamon roll.

I am a cinnamon roll connoisseur. Carl was, too. We’ve ordered cinnamon rolls at restaurants all across the country and Lil’ John’s are usually the best. They are big, soft, more like bread than pastry, with just the right amount of vanilla frosting. I use the qualifier, usually, because once in a while, perhaps one percent of the time, I’ll get one that isn’t soft. The edges are crusty, as if it has been sitting around since the day before. Five star cinnamon rolls must be fresh.

Baking a great cinnamon roll is a lot like writing a great book. Theoretically, anyone should be able to do it. A baker takes readily available ingredients – flour, sugar, yeast, cinnamon – and mixes them together to make cinnamon rolls. Yet those same ingredients come out in a wide variety of ways, depending on who is combining them. Much depends on how the dough is kneaded, how it rises, the temperature of the oven and how quickly the roll is served.

Writers take words – a Dictionary full, available to anyone – and combine them to tell a story. If the person who’s mixing a batch of words does it skillfully and with great care, the end result will be worth reading. Just as a batch of dough needs time to rise, a manuscript needs time for revisions. You can’t just stir the words together and call the book finished. It must be created with care.

Today’s breakfast will be a joy no matter what I eat because I’m meeting Brett. And when I get back home, I’ll measure another cup of words, sift a simile, and stir a fresh idea or two into my current manuscript.

Mother’s silver charm bracelet began as a “grandma bracelet,” with charms engraved with the names and birth dates of her six grandchildren. Some are profiles of a little girl or boy; others are plain silver discs. Next Mother added a charm for me and one for my brother, Art. After decades of marriage, she got a new diamond wedding ring, and added her original slim silver ring to the bracelet.

A tiny silver pig dangles from the bracelet – a tribute to my father’s many years with the Hormel Company. There is also a charm from Portugal. I have no idea what its significance is other than knowing that my parents once took a trip to Portugal. Eventually, Mother added charms for her great-grandchildren. She wore the bracelet for special family occasions, and she always wore it on Mother’s Day.

After my mother died, Art and I made plans to meet at her home, to distribute her belongings. Mother had lived in California. Art and his wife, Joan, flew in from Minnesota. Carl and I planned to drive our pickup from Washington so that I could bring home a small chest of drawers, the only item my mother had which had belonged to HER mother. I also wanted to keep Mother’s “every day” dishes, the Spode Buttercup pattern which I had always loved. Her “good” dishes were white Haviland that had originally belonged to my dad’s mother.

As I left the house to make that sad journey, I fell and broke my ankle. Five hours, X-rays, and a cast later, I went home with instructions to keep the ankle elevated for a couple of days. As a polio survivor, I didn’t have enough arm strength to use crutches, so I was in a wheelchair for several weeks. I was unable to get in or out of the chair without Carl’s assistance. Travel was impossible. Mother had sold her condo before she died and it needed to be emptied for the buyers, so Art and Joan sorted through Mother’s things without us.

Art arranged to ship the chest of drawers and the Buttercup to me. I tried to think what else I might want to keep. Mother and I had different tastes. She was an elegant, stylish woman; I’m a “country girl,” most comfortable in jeans. Our homes reflected our personalities. I didn’t want any other furniture; her clothes didn’t fit me. Art called several times to ask about specific items that he thought I might want. The Haviland went to my daughter, Anne, but we gave most of the household goods to the Salvation Army.

On Mother’s Day the following year, I remembered the bracelet. Why hadn’t I thought to ask for that? When Art had called to describe Mother’s jewelry, in case I wanted any of it, he hadn’t mentioned the bracelet. I hoped Joan or one of their daughters had taken it, but when I inquired, Art said no, he didn’t remember seeing it. We assumed it had somehow been overlooked and ended up in a Salvation Army thrift store. My heart ached at the thought.

More than a year after Mother’s death, I received a FedEx package from a jewelry store in Burlingame, Calif. When I opened it, I recognized the oblong grey jewelry box, and my eyes filled with tears. Nestled inside the box was Mother’s charm bracelet!  A note from the jeweler explained that she had brought it in to have a charm added for the latest great-grandchild, but she had never returned to get the bracelet. When he tried to call her, he learned that the phone had been disconnected.

“She was a lovely lady,” he wrote, “and I know this bracelet meant a lot to her.” He had looked through his records until he found another customer who lived in the same condo complex as my mother. When he called that woman, she told him what had happened, and he explained about the bracelet. 

She knew my name, found my address, went to the jewelry store, and paid for the new charm. The jeweler sent Mother’s bracelet to me.

Each year on Mother’s Day, when I remove the precious bracelet from its box and fasten it around my wrist, I not only remember my mother, but I silently thank her neighbor and the jeweler, two generous people who took the time to return a family heirloom to someone they did not know.

I am working on a new book, trying to add 500 words per day. First drafts are always slow for me but I’ve learned to trust the process. If I keep slogging along, adding scenes, creating dialogue, and fleshing out characters, at some point it will all come together and I will have a story that I care about. That’s when the fun part, revision, begins.

Tuesday was the five year anniversary of my husband’s death. My son-in-law, Kevin, came out and repaired the bird feeders that the deer had knocked over. (My deer LOVE birdseed!) Carl had built one of those feeders so it seemed especially appropriate to have it restored to use. Kevin found the perfect downed tree in my woods, cut it to the right length and mounted the trunk in the dirt. Once Carl’s feeder was attached and filled, I went inside to see how it looked from my kitchen window. When I looked out, there were already two finches dining on sunflower seeds. I also have a wonderful new hummingbird feeder which gets lots of customers.

I attended a LIFE class about the Prison Pet Partnership program, where women inmates train dogs from local shelters to become service dogs. I’ve supported this program for many years (one of the dogs in Shelter Dogs graduated from the PPP system) but this was the first time I had heard a formal presentation about it. Two of the dogs-in-training attended the class.

Today I’m going to a birthday party for my good friend and fellow writer, Larry Karp. It will be a fun day with many long-time friends. Stolen Children and Spy Cat were dedicated to Larry and his wife, Myra.

Molly is feeling better. She has gained back some of the weight she had lost, and she’s more active. Several months ago when the vet diagnosed a kidney problem, the only suggested treatment was a prescription cat food which Molly steadfastly refused to eat. I finally gave it up and let her eat what she wants, namely Fancy Feast Ocean Whitefish and Tuna. Yes, it has to be that particular kind and not the fillet type but the mushy stuff. She has taken to sleeping on my printer while I’m working. I put a towel on it to keep the fur out. She often turns the printer on. Never off.  You can see who runs my household.

 Abduction! has won the Iowa Children’s Choice Award.  Whohoo! 

The Iowa award is an old-fashioned brass school bell, with a walnut handle. The bell is engraved with the title of the winning book, the author’s name, and the year.  My previous Iowa bells were awarded for Nightmare Mountain in 1993, Terror at the Zoo in 1996, and Escaping the Giant Wave in 2006.

Over the years, I have used these school bells as dinner bells. When my grandchildren were small, they loved to ring one of the bells when a meal was ready. We’ve rung the Iowa bells at midnight on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate the beginning of a new year.  Once, I even rang one of the bells to let a black bear know that I would appreciate it if he stayed off my front porch!

When the third bell was given to me I told the chair of the ICC committee that I really hoped I’d eventually win one more. “I want four school bells,” I told her, “so that each of my four grandchildren can inherit one.”

Along with the notification that I’m the 2009 winner was a note saying now there was a bell for each grandchild.

Good news: Yesterday I learned that The Ghost’s Grave has won the 2009 Sunshine State Award. This is the Florida young reader award, my third time to win that honor. Hooray!

Bad news: On my way to a charity dinner/auction on Sunday, I took a detour and saw, for the first time, Holstein calves in veal crates. I was sickened by the sight. I quit eating veal more than thirty years ago when I first learned of the cruelty involved in producing this meat. On line the next day I learned that the federal laws on this matter are changing, but slowly. Several states have made the confinement crates illegal.  Meanwhile I am haunted by the faces of these beautiful animals who were unable to stand or turn around.

More good news: I have some new bookplates that I love. If you have one of my books and would like to have a signed bookplate to put in it, send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and I’ll mail one to you. Send it to: Bookplate, P.O. Box 303, Wilkeson WA 98396.

Today I fixed a salad for lunch, and used the white plastic bowl. I have many lovely pottery and china bowls but I chose the old plastic one because it holds, along with my lunch, happy memories.

On one of our motorhome trips I spoke at a school where the staff provided a potluck lunch. I’ve found that most teachers are good cooks, and Carl always loved it when we were invited to share a meal with educators. I don’t recall which school this was, or even what state we were in. I do remember that someone had brought a salad that Carl and I both raved about. When we prepared to leave that day, the teacher who had brought the yummy salad asked if we would like to take the leftover salad with us. Naturally, we accepted. 

She put the salad in a white plastic bowl. I offered to go get a container from the motorhome but she insisted the bowl was “just a cheap old thing” and sent us off with it. Well, that bowl IS a cheap old thing but every time I use it, I remember those happy days of traveling with my husband, talking to hundreds of excited kids, and sharing meals with generous teachers and librarians.

I could happily be a fulltime student. I love to take classes. I like to study, to write papers, to learn new things. I’ve never minded tests. I have studied all my life.

I am currently enrolled in the Green River Community College for a semester of Spanish. I’m looking forward to learning a new language and to practicing it with my grandkids, who are way ahead of me in foreign language skills.

For many years I’ve belonged to a group called L.I.F.E., Learning Is ForEver. These are older folks, like me, who organize and attend classes on a variety of topics. A few years ago, a neurologist and I, both polio survivors, gave a class on polio. The next one that I’m signed up for is a presentation about the Prison Pet Partnership, which teaches women inmates to groom and train service dogs. I wrote about one of their dogs, a seizure-alert dog, in Shelter Dogs: Amazing Stories of Adopted Strays.  I’m also registered for a L.I.F.E. class/concert on harp music.

I’m looking into an animal training institute that uses only positive reinforcement, never punishment. The class that interests me is called Barky Dog Workshop. You will have to ask Lucy why I might want to take that particular one.

Some of my favorite gifts have been small, inexpensive items. On my last birthday, my granddaughter, Brett, sent me a package that contained, among other things, a Whitman College pencil. She is a freshman at Whitman so every time I pick up that pencil I think of her and remember when I visited the campus with her last summer.

About two years ago, my friend, Jenny, attached a leather loop to the handle of my cane. When my hand is through the loop, I can let go of the handle without having the cane fall to the floor. This comes in handy when I’m shopping or if I need to open a door when my other hand is full. Each time the cane dangles from the loop on my wrist, I mentally thank Jenny.

Another friend, Myra, knit me a big orange carrot. It has eyes and green dreadlocks. It hangs from my pencil sharpener and I laugh every time I sharpen a pencil.

The pencil holder on my desk is a coffee mug that looks like tree bark. There’s a yellow smiley face on the front of it. Many years ago, my family went camping on Mother’s Day weekend. My kids were about eight and ten and as we sat around the campfire, cooking our breakfast, they gave me that mug. It was a wonderful Mother’s Day gift and when I look at it I am transported back in time to Deception Pass State Park, and I feel like a young mother again.

My home is filled with small, treasured gifts.  They help to make it a home, rather than merely a house.

It is thundering as I write this, so Lucy is on my lap. I try to reassure and comfort her but she is trembling with fear and looks around wildly each time there’s another clap of thunder. Molly glares out the window as if she is ordering Mother Nature to cut it out.

Lucy’s fear seems unnecessary, even foolish, to those who know that thunder won’t hurt her, but her fear is real and no matter how many times I tell her, “It’s okay,” she clearly doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t know what that loud noise is and, therefore, she’s scared of it.

We humans also fear the unknown. For us it may be a person from a different background or someone of another race. Elderly people sometimes look with suspicion at teens, and people of certain religions view anyone with different beliefs as dangerous. We don’t quake and pant as Lucy does, but we too often back away from unfamiliar people or concepts without giving them a chance. This is one reason why I think it’s important to read widely. Books expose us to fresh viewpoints. With fiction, we meet characters who are unlike the people in our daily lives. With nonfiction we learn about ideas and lifestyles that we wouldn’t ordinarily encounter. The more we are exposed to those unlike ourselves, the less afraid of them we are.

When a teacher has read one of my books to the class and then has the kids write me letters, I enjoy reading and responding to them, especially when the letters are mailed as a group, not individually. Of course, I always love to get the genuine fan letters written not as a class assignment but because someone truly likes my work.

Recently I’ve been swamped with letters from students (56 of them yesterday) who say they are writing to me as a way to learn the proper way to write a letter. The problem is that they hope for a response and I simply don’t have time to answer them all.

I think there is a better way for teachers to handle this. Why not have the students write to someone who is serving in the armed forces? Or write letters to the elderly in a local nursing home. There are many lonely people who would be pleased to receive a letter from a child. It’s an opportunity to teach compassion, which is even more important than knowing the right way to write a letter.