Radishes

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The look of astonishment on my 3-year-old neighbor’s face when she pulled her first radish from my garden was beautiful. Her eyes grew wide as her little mouth opened and she looked at me with excitement.

“Lollipop!” she squealed, and then wondered why all the adults around her were laughing.

As a child, you couldn’t get me to eat a radish after my initial taste of the veggie that seemed to bite back. I would, however, delight in learning how to present them fashionably for my mom’s countless parties, their color and form making any dish more festive.

I suppose it wasn’t until I reached adulthood (whenever that was…30? 40? Last year?) that I would actually consider purchasing these Christmas colored bunches voluntarily. My husband claimed to love them, and so I would dutifully add them to salads occasionally, but I never really paid them much attention.

When my first-ever-garden bloomed last summer, though, and I harvested “my own” radishes, lettuce and spinach, I came to the realization that these spectacular roots are–well–spectacular! Maybe it’s because my more mature palate appreciates the juicy crunch and bite of these little decorations in my bowl, or maybe it’s because I tend to enjoy things more when I work for them.

It leaves me wondering if George Dubya Bush might have been more forgiving of broccoli had he nurtured a bunch from seed to bowl. In any case, I still wonder what my little neighbor’s face looked like when she sampled her bright “lollipop” back home!

Hooray for radishes! Let’s eat!

Seeing old things through new eyes

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Living in a race and vacation destination, I have found perfect places to take visitors of every age and fitness level. Sitting at an elevation of over 10,000 feet, Leadville challenges the fittest of the fit, and participation in the yearly Leadville Trail 100 races has grown dramatically over the past several years; completing any of the LT100 races delivers a badge of distinction.

While my husband has earned a drawerful of those badges, I have opted to stay on the sidelines and participate as support wench, a role much appreciated by those who push themselves beyond what most would consider “normal” limits. Because I am often host to racers and their support crews throughout the summer in addition to the routine friends and family who come here to escape the oppressive heat of everywhere else, I have had frequent opportunities to play tour director, and the one place that unfailingly delivers a memorable experience is the Leadville National Fish Hatchery, established in the late 1800s.

I probably should have cut a notch in a walking stick for every time I’ve taken a lap around the one-mile nature trail before depositing quarters in the fish food machine so visitors can leave with stinky hands from feeding the captive fish. My most recent lap was with my two young nieces, their mom, and Sarah, and what could have been a simple jaunt around the familiar path became a much longer adventure as each girl was pulled to explore something off-path at every turn.

The little-girl excitement at seeing a yellow butterfly, a bigger-than-them boulder, a hopping robin, or a mysterious shadow in a lake were enough to reignite my interest in a place that might otherwise leave me feeling jaded . . .

and who could leave a well-trodden path feeling bored after a swing on a playground where you can touch the treetops with your toes?

Onions and poetry

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At our last Cloud City Writers meeting (held in my home so we can enhance our creative juices with a bit of nectar) we chose a poem from the July issue of Colorado Central Magazine called “Onion Thief” by poet Laurie James. From that poem, one line was selected: “A thief of onions right there.” The challenge was to write for 7 minutes straight, no edits, no pondering, just write what came to mind. Here’s my response:

“Onions. Love them or hate them. Cartoon movie character Shrek tells his love that he has layers, like an onion. Layers of clothing on a poor woman who resorts to stealing something as simple as an onion—it’s enough to make me cry. Why an onion? Was it easier to steal than an apple? Perhaps she already had the apple.

What would I do? Surely I would not report her. Could this be her only meal tonight?

Theft makes everything more expensive for those who pay, so I could be righteously angry, but I’m not. I think of the onions I’ve let rot in my basket, onions I’ve thought nothing of tossing to the compost. What I could feed that poor woman with what I’ve wasted!

It’s enough to make me want to cry.”

If you saw an old lady stealing an onion at an open market, what would you think?

So Many Babies…

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My morning walk-with-a-friend-to-catch-up-on-life took a turn into one of our local cemeteries where the evidence of death is profound. Amongst the rows of those who lived to ripe old ages back in the 1800s were–to my mind–far too many who barely had time to breathe.

Many, like this simple wooden board, are enclosed in crib-sized fences, and others are outlined in stone or brick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some have no marker at all . . .

 

yet the evidence of what lies within is enough to stop me short.

So many lives, so many stories, so much suffering in an age when life was probably not taken for granted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breathe deeply, you who still tread the earth.

The Glue

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“Describe an activity that is a metaphor for your life in 10 minutes. GO!”

At first I thought that “writing” would be the metaphor to define my life; after all, it’s the focus of my current stage of metamorphosis. But that would be too easy to write about, so when I heard “preparing a meal” as a suggestion, that piqued my taste buds.

I don’t like recipes…probably the rebel in me…but I’d like to think that I can throw together a tasty meal by being creative and just a bit adventuresome. I like taking different things, ingredients, people, and finding ways to harmonize.

My husband tells me that I am “the glue” in whatever community I find myself, and there have been many over 20 years of military travel. It may be a weakness I have that i want to be liked, to please others, to act in a way others will call “selfless,” although I know how much benefit and pleasure I derive from having others see me in that light.

I struggle with the paradox of feeling selfish when I am seen as selfless.

There are so many ingredients to a yummy meal, a thriving community, a happy life. There are rule books and recipe books for success, but I prefer “winging it.” I know the basic ingredients of success, and if being “the glue” is m role in my community, my world, then I will continue to do my best to keep it together

I would not, however, recommend using glue in any new dish.

This I know

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The challenge? List 5 things you know are true. Write for 7 minutes non-stop without editing or over-thinking.

1. I love my husband                                                                                                               2. I love my children                                                                                                                   3. Change makes me grow                                                                                                       4. Happiness depends on attitude and perspective                                                                  5. I have so much more to learn

All these things I know are intertwined. I “knew” from a fairly young age that I would not follow the path of my four sisters. I would escape the prescribed path, going off to a prissy private college before joining the Army after four years of doing my part to upset another status quo.

Change is good. My comfort zone was dangerous. To me, comfort is like quicksand, slowly pulling you down until you soon have no control, no freedom, no escape.

Escaping doesn’t always mean fleeing and freeing yourself from something horrible; rather, it can mean freeing yourself from what you already know so that you find yourself in a position to learn something new.

[clearly this was just the start of what I could have written on and on about if given more than 7 minutes, but I think it will fit into my memoir “someday”!]

Going in reverse

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Living in a fast-forward world, I frequently find myself questioning my direction.

When our 4th or 5th Mr. Coffee failed, I told Mike it was time to get a Keurig. Everyone else had one, and the company was finally making filters so you could make your own individual cup with coffee that was more economical and with less plastic waste.

“No. Too expensive, too much waste,” came the reply, despite my new filter update.

“Fine,” I said, and then purchased an old-fashioned electric percolator which made ever-so-tasty coffee and complemented my retro inclinations. When the electric base of the second percolator failed, however, I brought up the Keurig idea again. A couple of years had passed, and everyone still raved about the convenience and immediacy of their java delivery systems.

“No,” came the steadfast reply.

So I dug through our camping gear and pulled out the 12-cup metal percolator we purchased from REI ohsomany years ago and haven’t looked back since. No, it doesn’t have an auto-timer. Yes, you have to wait for five minutes once the water boils before getting your fix. But the benefits?

I can clean it in a minute (and to be honest, I’ve never felt comfortable with the idea of what might be growing inside the complicated contraptions many people drink from). Nothing will break. The counter space I now have because the pot stays on the stove is abundant! And best of all, the coffee is fresh and delicious!

I didn’t stop with reversing our coffee pot trend, however. When our microwave died, I felt positively giddy.

“I’m not replacing it!” I announced to my husband, who knew enough by the tone of my voice that I would not be asking for his opinion.

Although the ability to nuke things had become even more of a perceived necessity than an automatic coffee pot, it didn’t take too long to readjust to cooking and reheating things the way they did before everyone became dependent on the latest technological advances in chow prep. Even if it’s just psychological, the fact that we no longer have a nuclear device in our kitchen has made me feel healthier. And again, the counter space liberated by the absence of that old Battlestar Galactica has opened up more possibilities for fresh food preparation!

While I’m thinking about installing a clothes line this week (I’ll go to the hardware store after I post this), I’ve got to share another retro decision I’m experimenting with, thanks to a suggestion made by my youngest son, and this one feels ever so right. I’m now on day 9 of a no-soap-on-my-face-no-shampoo-in-my-hair routine.

I remember that my grandmother would use “cold cream” on her face–never soap–and when we would snuggle, her cheeks would be velvety soft.

My routine involves massaging a half-and-half mixture of castor oil and olive oil into my skin and then pressing a hot, wet facecloth over my face. My skin already feels softer and cleaner, and if you think about it, it makes perfect sense. How many years have I used chemicals to strip things off my face, only then to add back moisturizing cream? Insanity!

As for the hair, Jake told me that I had to be strong for a full month to realize the benefits of using no shampoo, and it’s been a challenge to use only hot water so far. When I went to the opera the other night, I told myself that people would think nothing of my somewhat plastered-looking “do”; after all, the oils in my hair allowed me to style it as if I were using mousse and hairspray, and with the dress I was wearing, there weren’t too many people looking at my hair! Although day 5 was probably the most difficult, I feel that my scalp is finally adjusting to the new routine, and neither my husband nor my oldest son have noticed anything unusual!

Some will say that I’m being a hippy, and that’s okay. I’ve always chosen my own path, though sometimes I’ve ended up in a place that encourages me to stop and reconsider. I look at the next half of my life and think about how much more I want to learn and experience, and I want to take what I’ve already learned and use those lessons as launching points for further growth.

I want to decide for myself if what we consider to be progress is, in fact, “better,” and in many cases I know that I will need to reevaluate past practices. I believe that sometimes it’s helpful to go in reverse to set yourself back onto a path that will lead you to memorable places.

Marriage (from my Mom’s perspective)

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While riffling through some old papers, I came across a mimeographed letter from my mother to one of my sisters dated September 30, 1980. I just called to ask her permission to share it because it’s beautiful.

Reflections on a marriage by Patricia Bernier

How is that for a subject? As I tried to get to sleep last evening, I found myself thinking of you and wishing we were nearer to share our daily thoughts as well as the fun with the children and the trying times also.

You asked me if I ever felt burdened and somehow overwhelmed. Yes, occasionally. However, whether it is by nature that we forget the hard work and troubled times without sleep, worrying over a child’s temperature, or over the fact that they might not have enough playmates, or whether they were going to be smart enough to keep up with the rest, I guess it is all in God’s plan.

As far as I am concerned, some of my happiest days were when I was home with my dolls, baking, cleaning, cooking, bathing them and showing them off to the neighbors and the family. I did not have as much help with all of you as far as Dad was concerned. By that, I don’t mean that he was lax. Only that in those times, a man’s job was to work and work hard to make enough for all and the woman was to feed and nurture the little ones. Today, the men not only work hard but go to school and still seem to find time to occasionally bathe the children or take them out.

Speaking just for your father and myself I must say that we feel we have had a great marriage, blessed by wonderful children and fantastic sons-in-law to say nothing of the wondrous grand-children. In Dad’s favor let me say that without his constant love and encouragement I wouldn’t feel the same. He and I have a good marriage mainly because we both come first with each other. Perhaps you didn’t notice. Ha! He has never let me down in questioning his love. Every morning I get the same warm embrace and that starts the day off right.

This doesn’t mean that we haven’t disagreed or that we both don’t realize each other’s faults. It is in spite of these faults that we both need each other to bolster each other up. He has strengths that I do not have and I have strengths that he is without. Never have I felt threatened by another woman, his job, or his children. That may seem strange to say, but that is one of the saddest of all sad stories, when either partner tries to separate themselves with the children, against each other. Long after the children are gone you will be together and they will be living their own life, loving you, but going their own way and doing their own thing.

This is as it should be, but meanwhile make sure you bolster your own love affair for the future. You do this by sharing happy and sad thoughts, putting up with each other’s idiosyncrasies, and finding time to be ALONE without the children for quiet talks or just sharing a walk, talk, or movie. Hope this doesn’t sound like preaching. However, I must say once again that in this world, I perceive quite a lot of unhappiness; if only people would stop and assess why they are unhappy or lonesome.

Usually, it is because they do not take time to assess just how fortunate they really are. If you have your health, love of family and friends, as well as each other, how much more can one expect on this earth? Look around you at the beauty just at your elbow: the children, your love, the weather, and almost anything your eye lights on. It is positive thinking that brings happiness. You can look around the same area and see burden, work, or unhappiness if you look through those eyes, but each day offer yourself and your day up to God and you will find much joy in your tasks.

Well my honey, hope you are having as nice weather as we are having and that you stay warm and cozy with each other. You know you are in our thoughts and prayers daily. Give kisses to the babes and I’ll really do the hugging when I see you soon.

Love, Mom

 

 

Turquoise Lake 1/2 Marathon

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In honor of all you brave souls who made your way around what I hope will soon be a full Turquoise Lake, I am posting the story about the experience I had when I first ran that race in 2011. It’s called “Racing with The Girls.” Enjoy!

(hoping all this running water will fill our Lake soon!)

Nipples. “Wow! You can see those girls a mile away!” exclaimed Mike, my somewhat protective husband, as I finished dressing for my start-summer-off-on-the-right-foot-race. Although it was not a particularly cold Leadville morning, about 54 degrees, “the girls” felt no fear in greeting a boat ramp full of friends and strangers all gathered to run the half marathon around Turquoise Lake.

Just the day before, Mike had suggested, “Maybe you might start your summer training program with the 5K on Sunday?” But he knew better. Twenty-seven years of watching me “taper” for weeks/months/years before pulling out ridiculous physical challenges had left him with little to say, and perhaps a sense of mild amusement. No, I would do the half marathon. It had been six years since my last one.

“When was the last time you ran?” he persisted, genuinely concerned that I was about to make a big mistake. Turquoise Lake is, after all, situated at an elevation of 9,600 feet, and the race includes climbing to 10,700. “I’ve been running on the treadmill at school a couple times a week,” I fibbed. Although I had clocked a handful of two mile days earlier in the year, the most strenuous thing I had done recently was make it to school on time every morning, an easy half-mile walk.

My teacher friends were also in on trying to change my mind; after all, it was Friday night, the first night of summer vacation. The ring-leader handed me a rum and coke, a tall one, “Mostly coke,” he lied. But I knew him better than he thought, and confirmed the lie with my first sip. Nevertheless, the summer beverage went down smoothly and finishing it, I decided it would help me sleep before the big event. It did.

Our town Mayor started the race with a 12-gauge shot gun, and I laughed at my Forrest Gump-like resolve to start running. Nipples at the ready, I decided on my race goals: finish in less than six hours and enjoy the experience. I would run when I could and speed-walk when I could not. I would sip from my Camelback every 15 minutes or so while taking in the beauty of the famed course.

Perhaps I’ll sip every 7 minutes, I began to think. I was immediately grateful that I had outfitted myself with the extra weight of water. I also knew—from my prodigious tread mill training—that if I could find a pace at which I could suck wind steadily, I could maintain that pace for many laps with no increase in suffering; I speculated that I could maintain a steady pace for the treadmill equivalent of 52ish laps. My pace was slow, but ah! The beauty that surrounded me!

Azure skies—punctuated by puffy cumulous clouds—outlined the surrounding snow-peaked mountains which drizzled down into the chartreuse covered hillsides; the hills dropped down into the truly turquoise lake, around which I vowed to enjoy my run. And for the first hour, it was relatively easy. With the sun at my back and a welcomingly cool breeze in my face, I tried my best to disregard the woman near me who appeared to be hacking up fur balls. The thought of offering her some of my water passed quickly . . . we all knew the course description and understood there would be no aide for seven miles. Must take care of self, I thought guiltily as I increased my pace.

I focused on the power of the deafening waterfalls to my left that proclaimed a new season in the mountains and found fresh new flower buds struggling to awaken. Sure, it was June, but why rush? While flowers at lower altitudes were already ho-hum, those tough treasures were ready to be eye-candy for passers-by.

Using my arms more to exaggerate my forward progress, I increased the gap between cat-woman and myself and came upon another runner. “Sausage fingers?” she asked, seeing me pump my hands as I ran. Laughter. In another hour I would start to crave scrambled eggs and sausage.

I started to feel like I had trotted significantly further than my “training” would recommend. My butt cheeks, which I had early dubbed “Thing One” and “Thing Two,” began to torment me; but I would have no Seussical shenanigans that day. Instead, I would focus my thoughts on higher things: our foremothers, Manifest Destiny, all those poor bastards who had to run/push/suffer to survive, and all without the miracles of Gu, Gortex, or Camelbacks. I refused to whine. And then, just when my uphill stride threatened to falter, a little miracle.

“Awesome power-hiking pace!” exclaimed a red-shirted man who had just caught me on an uphill stretch. Yes! That’s what I am, I realized. I’m not really a runner . . . I’m a POWER HIKER! I felt—at least for the moment—like a superhero. Then I reflected on how fortunate I was to have inherited such perfect genes.

My father, an 89-year-old ten-pin-bowling pro-crossword-puzzle-solving genius, can chill with the best of them. My mother, an 84-year-old still mother/grandmother/great-grandmother of many, pro-bargain-hunting genius, can cook/clean/entertain/shop and never drop. I managed to land the perfect mix of mellow and mania!

Despite what has become my lifelong quest for spiritual enlightenment, I panted an audible, “Thank you, God,” not only for my parents and their genes, but for the water point ahead which signaled the change from uphill pavement to rolling, pine-filled trails and a new view of the lake. The wind was now at my back, the ground was soft, and the ripples in the lake were flowing dizzyingly away from me.

All I had to do was remain upright and moving forward for five more miles, easier said than done with ankle muscles trying to roll over and sleep. Even though I felt energetic enough to run, I knew that if I turned my ankle on any number of loose stones or slippery roots, my “enjoy the experience” goal would be compromised, so I kept my pace between jogging and power-hiking while anticipating the finish line.

The remaining verdant miles passed quickly and I finally heard the hullabaloo back at the boat dock; there was just a quick sprint up a set of stairs and a cruel last lap around the parking lot before I could hear my hubby and friends—already rested from their far faster finish—hollering my name. I finished in less than 3 hours with a smile on my face.

“I tried to catch you,” a man about my age confessed at the water table. You can’t catch a superhero, I thought, chuckling. I knew I won’t be winning any trophies, but . . .

Raffle prizes! Not only was I not the last place finisher, I won a colorful athletic bra! “The girls” were happy, and much like teenage boys, were still ready for action. There was no use ignoring them. Forget hiding them. They deserved to be as proud as I was for accomplishing all I had tapered for that chilly Leadville morning!

Agent Search

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I finished my novel in March, yet I’m still unsure of the final title. Will it be Melancholy Mondays, or will it be what I originally dubbed it, “Miss!”? Neither will matter, however, until I land the perfect literary agent.

My quest began as soon as I received feedback from someone in the publishing business who had an editor read my novel as a favor. The editor reported an “overall positive read” and suggested some edits, which I completed in April. “Hold off on self-publishing unless you cannot find an agent,” I was told, which I immediately translated into, “It’s marketable.”

Now that another month has passed, I’d like to share the process I’m going through so that when you find yourself in my situation someday, you’ll know a little bit about what to expect.

On May 7th I paid for a one-year subscription to Writer’s Market  (online version: $39.99) and started looking through the pages of agencies that represent my current genre: Literary Fiction. I made an initial list of names I liked (completely silly, but hey, I had to start somewhere). For each agency I followed their specific requirements for new submissions, and noted the name and submission date in my steno book (all while still in my fuzzy fuchsia bathrobe).

By the way, does anyone even know what a stenographer is anymore?

Before midnight on the 7th I sent out 10 query letters (and anything else the agency requested, i.e., the first 3/10/25 pages copied and pasted below the query letter). For online submissions, agents WILL NOT open attachments, so don’t attach anything!

Within a week I started to receive my first “thanks but this is not for us” responses. After the first one (which made me want to gnash my teeth and rock in a dark corner somewhere because it had been from an actual referral), the rest were much less painful, and now I find myself anticipating with pleasure whatever the next response will be–because I know that one of them will come back with, “I’d like to see more.”

After sending out another 8 letters (this is a tedious process, because at each agency there may be several agents, and you must read all their bios and submit to only one), I decided to have my query letter evaluated by a pro. I probably should have ponied up the $42.75 before I sent out any letters, but after reading through countless articles about “What to put in a query letter,” I thought I had the perfect product.

Hubris? Me? Who woulda thunk it.

On May 26th I sent my letter to a Writer’s Digest representative, and with the feedback he provided to me today, which included a more engaging template based on the letter I provided to him, I revised my query letter and sent out four more submissions today, May 31st.

Meanwhile, my wonderful husband and constant source of encouragement–Mike–suggested that I might want to upgrade my steno method of data collection and create an Excel spreadsheet, which I have done.

This will allow me to see more clearly what’s still out, and I can include any special notes for future reference. If I should get a “no thank you” from one person in a multi-agent practice, then I might want to query another at the same agency.

I also learned today that with my Writer’s Market account I can access a tracking tool, but I haven’t yet explored that. When I do, I’ll let you know if it’s better that creating your own spreadsheet.

Lessons learned so far:                                                                                                         1. Querying is a tedious process (get your Writer’s Market subscription)                            2. Agents around the world may not immediately arm-wrestle for your masterpiece of a novel (*Shocking*)                                                                                                                     3. Pay the measly fee to have your expertly crafted query letter evaluated by an actual expert before you spend the time sending out bunches of potentially sub-standard ones     4. Track your submissions efficiently                                                                                     5. Have the patience of Job.