Last week we drove to California for work again. I tried to keep my camera phone on in case I could snap a shot of anything else of interest besides those beheaded palm trees I posted last time. The quality is poor because of shooting as we drove by, though the glass window and its reflection, and every other excuse you can imagine.
Freeway travel is fast and so often hubby drives in the left lane, which makes it even more difficult.
These buildings are out in the middle of nowhere.
And then we go through a rural area with cow and sheep ranches. Only they aren’t ranches as you think of them. They are FACTORIES to produce milk and meat. The stench is so bad that I have to cover my face with a towel in these areas. Remember those old commercials about happy cows in California? NOT. And as for Land O’Lakes and their sweet little signs on these enterprises, they can kiss my back forty. Today I bought some Irish butter from grass-fed cows. When I go to IRELAND this summer, I’ll check out the situation of the cows there.
(Yes, I am planning to go to Ireland. It’s not set up yet, but hopefully all will go well!)
Most of the landscape is monotonous desert stubbled with cacti or weeds, but occasionally we drive through master-planned chaos and more beheaded trees.
Last time I wrote about our drive, I wasn’t writing. I’ve been tinkering with my memoir manuscript and putting together the bones of my “genealogy” chapbook. It’s not a lot of writing, but it is writing. So YAY!!! How about you??
Leaving you with a pic of my favorite shelter cat, Slupe. I couldn’t wait to get back and see her. She’s a prickly little calico/tortie (nobody can decide for sure, but I think she’s a calico), but we have a special relationship. She’s been at the shelter for two years and needs rescuing!!!
We go back and forth between Arizona and California often enough that I am sick of the ride. There are only two ways to travel. One is via Interstate 8 through the mountains west of San Diego. We pass so close to Mexico that my cell service switches over for awhile. The other is our regular route, via Interstate 10. We rarely take the first route because I hate losing cell service while we drive through the mountains–just in case something goes wrong–because we are generally on a deadline. It’s also a little longer.
I10 takes us through the flat desert. I always thought this was the Mohave, but actually the southern boundary of the Mohave is just north of the 10. We drive through the northern section of the Colorado Desert. Go figure. Maybe that is why we drive over the Colorado River near Blythe. Or maybe the desert is named after the river.
Since we only make one stop each drive and it’s to get gas and have a potty break (5 minutes in and out), we never stop near the river, so I haven’t been able to take a pic of it.
But there are things I can snap as the car moves (since I’m not the one driving).
Look at that. Beheaded palm trees. This is the sort of view that gives me the creeps. I keep wondering what happened to their branches. You could say, “Where’s the green?” (Happy St. Patrick’s Day!)
There are the picturesque (to me) ruins of old gas stations and motels, generally covered with graffiti, but darned if I’ve been able to capture those either.
We go to California for work and to see our son and his fiancée.
After seeing them, I am always ready to head back home to this: Pear, Tiger, Kana, Felix.
I’m still working my way through the work that got behind this winter. Then I plan to get back to writing. Sigh.
Do you find it difficult to write when your head is too full of stuff to do?
Two years ago I wrote a blog post called Flutter Fun about the Butterfly Wonderland in Scottsdale. I was there with my kids. The other day I took Mom and my uncle and aunt to visit the butterflies.
As before, they had the stunning blue morphos that are brown camouflage on the outside and bright blue when the wings are opened.
They had many new species in addition to the original beauties.
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A few butterflies pressed up against the few windows, trying to get out of the atrium. I felt sad for them, but most of the butterflies seemed to be concentrating on eating.
Hubby and I also took my aunt and uncle to Sedona and Flagstaff. Then I ended up sick afterward, probably because I managed to get myself pretty tired keeping up with an 87-year-old (my uncle who is my dad’s twin).
I’ve been adding social media to my life for a few years. Some types or platforms I find more useful or more appealing than others. While I have not gotten excited over Instagram, I do love Pinterest. I rarely think about the social aspect of Pinterest. I’m simply infatuated with the intriguing photos that lead to stories, more images, or recipes.
As a collector, I find it addictive to add to boards that categorize some of my favorite subjects, and I’m grateful to other Pinterest collectors for providing pins and for the ease of adding my own contributions.
Something about Pinterest reminds me of sorting M&Ms by color before eating them. And collecting shells on the beach and sorting them by shape or color. Simple and therapeutic. Sort of puts me at the emotional age of a toddler.
Some of my boards are writing and reading related, as you might expect. Check out Writing, Scribbling, and Jotting for an idea of my boards. If you have a particular blog post (written by you or someone else) that you would like me to pin onto the board, type the link into the comments here, and I’ll check it out!
I have boards for that ever-present child in me (I linked to Dollhouses in case you want to see a sample):
I’ve got fairy tale boards called Red in the Woods and A World of Snow. The former is one of my best boards, mainly because so many artists have a version of Little Red Riding Hood! I don’t usually pin the highly sexualized ones, but there are a ton of those, too.
For my love of textiles I have Hankies and History, Lace and other fun textiles, and Buttons buttons. Really all these textiles and trimming are related to history.
Scrapbook and paper crafts (woefully in need of work–just like my own scrapbooking!)
Most of my recipe boards are gluten-free. I’ve even got a couple of secret boards. Subjects? Hah, that’s why they are secret.
Some people (read: hubby) might think I’m wasting my time on Pinterest, but it sure seems fun to me. And I only “play” over there for a couple of minutes almost every day.
What about you? Are you on Pinterest? Why or why not?
The year is winding down, and it’s been quite a year for me. I guess it was my turn. You’ve probably had your own years with lots of ups and lots of downs. I feel a post brewing about mine, but I don’t feel up to it today. Maybe I’ll write it for New Year’s Eve.
So I’ll show you some other endings: the sunsets in Arizona have a lot of pink and red in them. I took this one at a truck stop along the 10, and the sky was a vivid burgundy. I wish the color here were more true.
This one is typical of almost every December night. Sometimes there are palm trees silhouetted across the pink and dark blue sky.
OK, those were the endings of the day. Now for the hope of new beginnings!
I know a few “special needs” cuties in Phoenix that need a home for Christmas and beyond.
This is Betty. She was born in 2007 and has lived at the shelter for years. Yes, that says years. She is overweight, although you can’t see that from this glamour shot.
Why is she overweight? Maybe because for a very long time she was confined to a cage without exercise. She now gets to roam free in the cat roaming room with the other cats.
Betty (I think she needs a name change) had gotten a reputation for once in a while biting someone. I haven’t been so honored (yet), but I am trying to figure out what causes her to do so. I think it’s when she gets mad because she is being touched when she does not want to be touched. A volunteer might be petting her for a long time and then starts to forget she’s petting her, which means she is ignoring her. Betty might bite a bit to get her to stop over-stimulating her or to pay her attention. Anyway, several of us brush her and she likes it. When I sit on the floor at the shelter, she crawls into my lap and likes me to pet her and then stop and just let her sit there for as long as she likes.
Betty needs a home with an experienced cat person who wants to give someone who needs a chance THAT CHANCE. Betty will reward that person with loyalty and demonstrative love.
Lisa is a sweet black cat with a wonky left eye. Her vision is fine, but the eye itself is scarred so a bit cloudy-looking. Her official name is Lisa Left Eye, but I refuse to call her that. In this photo, I think she’s praying for a home.
Here is Lisa again:
Finally, here is 4-year-old Slupe, a darling Calico that has been at the shelter since long before I started there (which is now almost a year!!!).
Slupe doesn’t like living in a shelter environment and desperately needs a home of her own. Recently, she has lost fur in a few patches on her body, and I think it’s a reaction to stress. She loves to play in water and hide in boxes. She enjoyed playing with the kitten Scarlet, but Scarlet was just adopted so now Slupe needs a human friend and a home. Slupe is considered special needs because she has not been adopted for so long.
Even if you don’t have the right home for one of these adorables, please share their photos and stories in case you know someone who can! They are available here:
On a cat-related note, I gave my daughter my Homer’s Odyssey book to read. I wrote about it in this post Cat Heroes. Now I see that there is a sequel out about the blind wondercat Homer!
I can’t wait to read about Homer’s life as a celebrity :). Raising Betty, Lisa, or Slupe would be a piece of kibble compared with raising lively blind Homer.
Our shelter’s cat newsletter contained the following very important Christmas tip for cat owners:
This holiday season be careful with all those curling ribbons, tinsels and other Christmas decorations. According to Pam Johnson-Bennett, “Cats have barbs on their tongue that point toward the back of their mouth. These barbs are used fo r both grooming and removing the meat from the bones of their prey. These barbs are the reasons cats cannot easily spit items out of their mouth; things get stuck. This is why toys with thread and string can be dangerous if left unattended.” Pam also warns us about real pine needles being toxic to cats as well as the tree water, so you should never let your cat (or dog) drink it. You can use netting or Sticky Paws for Plants over the reservoir to ensure your pets don’t have access to it. To read more about how to deter your cats from nibbling on tree brunches or Christmas lights and more, read Pam Johnson- Bennett’s article here http://www.catbehaviorassociates.com/how-to-keep-your-cat-away-from-the-christmas-tree/
If you celebrate Christmas, I hope yours is full of peace and joy. And for everyone, I wish you much peace and joy in your lives. See you next week!
In the past, when we’ve visited Michigan, hubby and I visited his parents’ graves. This time, we went with my mother to the veteran’s cemetery where my father is buried. When we got to Toronto, we also visited hubby’s grandparents’ graves. Sherri Matthews gave me the idea to write about our cemeteries.
In Michigan, it was “pouring rain,” (is that a Michigan expression where pouring is used as an adjective meaning the rain is coming down in a downpour?) and we had left the umbrella back home. There is a government building on the very large property, and I stopped by to see if they had an umbrella to borrow. A nice young man ran about looking for one, even running out to his own car, but alas no umbrella.
The cemetery feels very spacious because there are a lot of grounds with a curving road that cuts through. All the newer sections use flat markers, rather than gravestones, so the illusion is as if one is in a park. It looks clean and contemporary.
When we got to my father’s section, the rain stopped.
Graves are dug in the order of date of death, and many have come after my father. There is an institutional feel. Everything is large and impersonal. Big equipment just beyond my father’s grave is carving out room for more of our dead veterans, and in some cases, their spouses.
I’m grateful for the sacrifices of our veterans, and I am glad that this national cemetery is well cared for and in a beautiful setting. But it’s not where I would have liked my father to be buried. Originally, my parents had plots in a family section of a local cemetery. He would have had a regular headstone, where we would not have been limited by government rules. I also don’t like this idea for my mother because eventually (she’s in very good health and a very young 80, to be clear) she would have to go in the same grave with him, I believe. But near the end my father became more and more focused on his military service in the Korean War, and he changed his funeral and burial plans.
In Toronto, we found old traditional cemeteries. We were told the name of the Jewish cemetery where we would find hubby’s grandparents, so we followed my iPhone directions to get there. We were told it was on the north side of the road, and when we got there we discovered two cemeteries–both Jewish–one on each side of the road. We went to the appropriate side, but we couldn’t find any of the relatives, although we searched the names on every stone. I kept thinking we were in the wrong place because in general the dates appeared too old to me. Although there were a few where the deaths were past 2000, for the most part I thought these plots had been bought 100 years ago.
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I felt bad about this cemetery because although someone was taking care of the grass, many stones were falling over. I didn’t know how much vandalism had to do with this and couldn’t help but wonder why nobody had fixed them!
Jewish cemeteries are sometimes subjected to vandalism. Quite recently in France hundreds were vandalized. But these are old stones and maybe they have fallen over on their own?
Eventually I wandered across the street to the very neat and orderly, but crowded, cemetery.
I searched for some time, as the sun was moving down in the sky, creating shadows. Finally, hubby reached a cousin on the phone. He drove over and showed us that there was yet a third cemetery just up the street! That’s where we found hubby’s grandparents.
Although this cemetery had the right feel and was quite beautiful and old, I won’t show you my photos of hubby’s grandparents’ gorgeous stones because his relatives are what hubby and I think of as superstitious, and I don’t want to annoy anyone.
These Toronto cemeteries all had the look of big city cemeteries where the rows of gravestones are quite close together because land is precious.
I’ve witnessed a spin of the circle of life again.
Mourning upon mourning
My dear darling oldest cat Mac passed away yesterday morning. He had been battling a congenital heart problem, diabetes, and chronic kidney failure for a long time and suddenly he took a turn for the worse. He refused food and water, and hubby and I could see it was his time. I sang to him for awhile, mainly nursery songs like “Billy Boy,” “The Riddle Song,” and “Tumbalalaika.” Then we took him to the vet. I held him, bundled in a beach towel, in my arms while he passed over the Rainbow Bridge.
Mac had a huge personality. He put everyone he met under his hypnotic spell. I don’t know how he did it, but it was simply from the force of that dynamic and powerful personality. I am too sad to do much except clean up the house from the effects of his recent illness, but I will post a few pix, along with a story about him that I wrote a few years ago.
My friend, Barbara Tapp, a talented artist, made this picture for me of Mac:
As you probably know by now, my father passed away in May, so this is another blow.
Here is the story of how Mac came to be part of our family.
Our new house came with a stray cat, but we did not realize this until after we closed on the property. Apparently the previous owners had been feeding this predominantly white calico female in the backyard for quite some time, but when they moved, they didn’t mention the cat to us. Our new next door neighbor told us he was going to “shoot that damn cat next time it comes around here.” I wondered if he would pry that beer can out of his hand long enough to do so, but I suppose there are some people who are great shots even while drinking.
Though I came to the house for two weeks to feed her every day, one day the calico just disappeared. I felt a twinge of relief because she seemed to be half feral and would not make a house cat and then sadness welled up in me. Although it’s unlikely my neighbor actually killed her, I grew furious with him.
We needed to remodel the house before we moved in. The workers ripped off the façade of the house on the side where a new room would go. This left a large gap behind the bathtub. One day the workers were framing as we gardened, when I heard a yell from Brad, one of the workers. He told us he saw an orange and white tabby kitten pop its head out from behind the tub to look. We ran over there and found three kittens: the orange kitten, a calico, and a black and cream tabby with fur almost as long as a long haired cat. Brad explained that he had seen the kittens the other day and was sure that they no longer had a mother. The orange and white kitten, still so young he had blue eyes, walked boldly out and looked at us with curiosity. He was followed by the calico, and then the long haired tabby crept out bashfully. Those two seemed to be following the orange kitty.
My daughter was ten and had grown up with two dogs in the family. The preciousness of a furry kitten appealed to her and she began a fierce campaign to keep one of the kittens.
He said he hated cats!
Hubby said, “I hate cats.” Those big blue eyes peering out of the tiny furry face forced me to argue with him, “You just don’t know cats since you’ve never had one.” I told him how beautiful my childhood cat had been.
Finally, hubby relented and agreed that we could select one kitten, but we had to “take the rest to the shelter.”
I took the friendly orange kitty on my lap and dialed my vet’s office. I talked to Jan, the tech. Jan told me to choose the orange tabby because they are friendlier and more dog-like. As she well knew, I was very used to dogs. This viewpoint was confirmed for me because the other two cats were meeker than the orange; he was already melting into my lap as though he belonged there. Jan encouraged me to bring in the cat I was going to keep for a thorough exam and vaccinations, but she issued one caveat; under no circumstances was I to bring in the other two cats because the office already had a litter of kittens they were trying to find homes for.
DON’T BRING THOSE OTHER CATS IN HERE!
When I got off the phone my friend, a veterinarian who worked at the vet’s office, called and told me to choose a boy: “they are more outgoing and friendly.” She said she’d run over and look at them real quick on her way to an appointment, so I tried to ignore the sexism in her statement. She examined each kitten in turn and declared them all boys. Years later, I read that most calicos are girls, so I still wonder if that boy was really a girl or a rare cat.
I found one big cardboard box in the garage and put all three kittens into it on an old garage blanket which sported pieces of dried leaves clinging to it and which I covered with a clean towel. I drove the kittens immediately to my vet’s office. I know, I know. But I didn’t know what else to do with the other two kittens.
I heaved the box up onto the counter in front of Jan. She couldn’t resist the temptation and peered inside. “You brought all three; I TOLD you not to!! “ She grimaced. “Aren’t they cute though?!”
A woman and her elderly mother peered into the box. The younger woman oohed over the kittens, asking me what I was planning to do with them.
Without missing a beat, I said, “I’m keeping the orange one and taking the other two to the shelter!” My words had the desired effect of horrifying and motivating her. The woman told me she would give them a home if I liked.
Conferring with Jan in private, I discovered that the woman was there with an injured squirrel, so I figured we had a winner. I offered to pay for the neutering, but the woman told me she would take care of that herself.
My new kitten was examined and vaccinated and declared a fine, healthy specimen. I brought him home to our “old house” to meet our two dogs, Oliver and Sandy.
Before we let the dogs see the kitty, I put him in my daughter’s bedroom because it was connected to the Jack and Jill bathroom she shared with her brother and it had a little walk in closet. The room was small at 10×10 feet, but with the closet and the bathroom, it was the perfect size for such a young cat. While the kitty got used to the bedroom, my daughter and I went to PetSmart and bought supplies, including a plastic carrying kennel.
Later that night, we put the kitty in the kennel and introduced the dogs. Sandy began to growl and yip at the cage, but Oliver took one look at the tiny cat and barked a sharp order at Sandy. Sandy never bothered the cat again. I wondered if animals teach each other in the same way that people often teach one another. When our first dog Muffin was alive, Oliver was dog number two, and Sandy was not yet part of the family. On the rare occasion that Oliver would get a little testy with the children when they were quite young, Muffin would bark at him exactly the same way. It’s as if the older dog warns the younger dog to be careful of the youngsters, no matter what species the youngsters are.
Very quickly, Mac and Sandy became best friends.
Mac with Sandy
Now there was only one other family member to win over and that was hubby.
I had named our new cat Macavity, after the T.S. Eliot cat known as the “hidden paw.” I should have known better because Mac lived up to his name, hiding as many of hubby’s belongings (keys, notes, ring) as he could tote off. He didn’t try to win over the husband.
But one day I came home and Mac was curled up around hubby’s head as he lay on the couch watching TV. And from then on, they were great friends. Mac never stole another object belonging to my husband. He started a campaign to reduce my earring collection by 50% by stealing one earring from each set. All these years later, we’ve never found the earrings.
That’s how Mac-the-cat (one of his nicknames) became part of our family
Another nickname is Monkeybunnyratowlpig.
Eventually we accumulated three other cats that are still part of the family. But it was Mac who persuaded hubby that cats are pretty cool people. It’s because of Mac that we both volunteer at the shelter with the kitties. And it’s because of Mac that hubby and I have been crying.
When I was in Michigan for my father’s funeral and to spend time with my mother, I organized the family photo albums and loose photos so that Mom could find her way in the basement. I took a couple albums home with me to digitize for her.
The first one I worked on is an album that my mother put together when she was 10 years old, so the photos are all from the 1940s.
I love to see that the kids had dolls. In this one, my aunt is holding her two Christmas dolls. This would be about 1946 or 47.
Here my mother and her siblings are with a couple of cousins. My mom is the tallest girl because she was the oldest of all the cousins. I don’t think my uncle is holding a doll. What IS that he’s got? A bow?
I love that crocheted shade pull you can see hanging in the window. Just another little touch that was part of my young life and slowly disappeared over the years.
Given a little time, I can probably figure out what dolls most of these are. Surprisingly, none of them look like Shirley Temple dolls–and those would have been very popular.
In this last photo (actually there are a few more, but the dolls and stuffed animals aren’t as visible), my aunt (age 6) is sitting with Pat (age 7), one of their cousins. Pat is the larger girl. Pat has a very important surgery coming up next month. If you are a praying sort, please put her on your prayer list.
Notice the wagon handle off to the side, showing they are sitting in a little red wagon. And the leather sandals and saddles shoes with the stretched out saggy socks. Sometimes I think there was more in common between my childhood and my mother’s than between mine and my kids’!
I’m not sure if all the girl cousins loved dolls, but the ones in these pictures seem to have enjoyed them.
Do you have any old photos of family members with dolls? Over on Pinterest I have a board of photos (particularly vintage and antique) of children with dolls.
I don’t intend to natter on about dolls all the time, but on Thursday I think I will share with you a doll story you might find interesting. Actually it’s about The Doll Empress. You thought The Doll Lady overdid the dolls in her house? Hah, she is nothing compared with The Doll Empress.
Saturday night hubby and I went to see the musical Oliver, which was a collaboration between the Phoenix Symphony and Phoenix Theatre. I’d forgotten how much I love that show and how much I miss reading 19th century British literature like Charles Dickens novels. What a treat. Acting, singing, and music were all fabulous.
But to get to Symphony Hall, we had to make our way through streets peopled by the denizens of Comicon. Think of it as a place, not an event that occurs inside the convention center and spills out onto the surrounding streets. Particularly, think of it as a place in the minds of these people.
Sometimes I think I would have more fun if I were more geeky than I am. I know I am more geeky than hubby. So maybe he’s the one holding me back. He would never appear in public in a costume, for instance. I have a Renaissance Faire outfit all ready to go, but I haven’t actually worn it because he would be embarrassed.
In fact, I wouldn’t have minded dressing up as a character out of Oliver.
But I know I am not as geeky as the people who seem to be having a lot of fun at Comicon. From the deck of Symphony Hall I took a few pics. They aren’t very good because the angle was wrong and the tree was in the way.
Just before dark when things started happening
Wait, is this Mimi from the Drew Carey show? Or is it some character I’ve never heard of?
Here are some others:
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My favorite costume was that of Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons (Game of Thrones). Oops, yes, I am a Game of Thrones geek. I loved seeing young women in strong, beautiful costumes like Daenerys.
However, I did notice quite a few groups of young females in costume (mainly long princessy gowns) who had frustrated and longing expressions on their faces. I suspect that they weren’t having any better time than when they go out en masse to a local club.
As my kids were growing up, they wore their share of costumes for school events. My daughter wore plenty of dance costumes and, later, play costumes (and still does). I dressed up sometimes for Halloween to pass out candy.
The last year I was allowed to Trick-or Treat (Mom thought kids got too big for going out begging for candy) I wore a real 1920s Flapper dress–silk with beading–that had belonged to an elderly relative. Of course, the dress was ruined by wearing it out like that–the fabric was 40 years old and very fragile. And I couldn’t think of anything to wear under the transparent dress but a PRINT shorts outfit my grandmother had sewn for me.
The purse was also vintage, and I made the headband. Not sure about the earrings, but I know I loved them. I always loved long dangly earrings. Looking at this pic, I’m wondering how I ended up with a cool husband when I have always bordered on geek.
Are you a geek or are you cool?
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I have a DOLL GOD Giveaway going on at Goodreads until June 7. Hop on over there and sign up if you want to win a free copy!
Although I haven’t been writing this spring–on purpose, I might add–when I started my new poetry project last fall I focused on creating poems out of the genealogical research that I do for my family history blog The Family Kalamazoo. It makes sense to narrow in this way, as I am always spreading out in too many directions. However, it’s difficult to write poems about a subject that is so personal to my family. It makes sense to write a poem about a maple tree or a new baby because these subjects are universal, but what makes someone else’s dead ancestors interesting to readers? That is a difficulty.
So far I’ve had one poem from this small grouping published, and that was in December. It was in the online journal Blast Furnace, but here is the poem, a prose poem:
When Your Grandfather Shows You Photographs of His Mother
You identify yourself in the antique image. Long slender neck, narrow torso, your face tipped to avoid the light. Your hands rest in the valley between your thighs sharp under yards of stiff calico. Your face long, well-sculpted by a lean diet and youth, nearly but not ascetic. Blue veins clutch the temples under translucent skin, a milky film that just contains you. In the next photograph your black dog Carlo poses at your side.
But Carlo isn’t your dog. Three degrees separate you across the time dimension. You never beat a man with his horse-whip for using it on his horse, though you wish you had that sort of courage and that sort of hands-on life, or burned all the books except the family Bible, praise her lord. And yet you hold your bodies as both shields and thresholds.
Because a face never reflects the same, every photo sees something else. You’re your father under the red star and your mother’s grandmother in the morning sun. But not your mother who is the image of her aunt. You never did let her kiss you. You see Carlo and his mistress in another photograph, and her smile is so familiar. Now the gauzy mask of your mother’s face floats across her-your features. Another light source and hour. Another shift of the hologram that is you.
If you happen to be one of the three people who read this blog from the first post you might find the subject recognizable. I rewrote that first blog post into this prose poem. I am fascinated with how we look like our ancestors and relatives, but in some lights, various shadows, or on different days, we might look like a completely different person–or share his features. It’s as if our general counteance is always shifting.
This is the great-grandmother I wrote about in the poem. Even I find our resemblance (when I was younger, of course) astonishing. The black dog in the one photo is Carlo.
My idea with the poems is to create a chapbook–a publishable collection that is smaller than a full-length poetry collection. Maybe around 20-25 poems. And I want to focus on my female ancestors. These are the people difficult to research because they don’t show up in old documents and newspapers as shopkeepers, dog breeders, or politicians. What was the day-to-day of their lives really like? I am trying to find out by researching and then allowing the material to develop into poems. At the moment a poem is completed, I feel that I have brought to life the experience of one woman.
It’s difficult to find literary magazines to send individual poems to because the subject matter is not contemporary and only universal in the notion of the project as excavating the lives of generations of women. In other words, I need to find places that specialize in or are sensitive to the intersection of history and poetry.
Are you interested in two unrelated subjects that you have been able to connect in your own life?
In case you are wondering why I am not writing on purpose, it’s because I was writing so much for so long that I knew I needed a period where I don’t take on any old or new projects. I’m resting my brain. Except for blogging, of course, dear peeps.
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I have a DOLL GOD Giveaway going on at Goodreads right now. Hop on over there and sign up if you want to win a free copy!
I’m still working my way through the work that got behind this winter. Then I plan to get back to writing. Sigh.
