tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69008546750814088532024-03-12T21:52:58.903-04:00Ginger SnappedUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-62524734850219390362019-09-11T09:49:00.000-04:002019-09-11T09:49:07.276-04:00Days 23-29<br />
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I’m eating Doritos right at this very minute because last week, my Austrian friend took me shopping. We went to a place called The Snack Shop that sells all kinds of American junk food. I succumbed, but I hadn’t broken into them until today, probably because there’s so much amazing regular food that who needs junk food?<br />
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So, yes, I ate Doritos today, but I also listened to parts of Mozart’s <i>The Magic Flute.</i> That must cancel out the Doritos, right? Better yet, I got a library card! Which has absolutely nothing to do with either Doritos or Mozart, but it makes me happy.<br />
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Anyway, since the last time I wrote, I have attended a Back to School Night and met all the teachers and got all the forms and signed all the paperwork. <br />
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I took the gingerbread boy to Prague last weekend solo because the Gingerbread Man was presenting at a conference in New York. I navigated Prague—there, around, and back. Are you impressed? I am. Especially because my data didn’t work while we were there. And this is me we’re talking about.<br />
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Lost Girl.<br />
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We didn’t see any of the things one would normally see in Prague because we’ll be back again with the Gingerbread Man, but we did hit up a gingerbread museum (well, duh! Of course we did) and an old book store. <br />
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We ate some street food (fresh potato chips, sweet cylinders of dough), met a VCFA friend of mine for lunch (Love that Ellen Yeomans!) and learned that the Czechs do some amazing things with sauerkraut.<br />
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We walked across the Charles Bridge, had a Thai massage which alternately felt like I was getting beaten up and like the best massage ever, and found ourselves in the middle of a marathon. We took a walking tour with the Night Watchman, had ice cream in those amazing dough cone-things, attended mass at the cathedral (much to the amazement of the keepers of the door: “You want to go to mass? In Czech? Sit for an hour?”), walked down the narrowest street in the world, and slept in an amazing room that was as fairytale as they come.<br />
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I went to the Naschmarkt on Monday, simply to keep the Gingerbread Man from falling asleep. A four day trip to the States does not make for a happy circadian rhythm. We somehow ended up purchasing about $25 of green olives. I’m still kind of scratching my head about how that went down. Perhaps I can chalk it up to jet lag?<br />
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I’m making plans now for our first big trip to Italy in October. I also checked out information for a trip to the Netherlands in April. This weekend? Tacofest at Mexikoplatz, and a big flea market. Hopefully, we won’t come away from it with a ridiculous number of olive pitters.<br />
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Tschuss!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-35810911513464649092019-09-05T02:16:00.000-04:002019-09-05T02:16:04.603-04:00Day 9+An update is long overdue, but it’s taken awhile to get my feet on solid ground—to find a balance between the feeling that we’re-only-here-for-a-year-and-I-must-not-waste-any-time and the sense that if I give in to that, I’ll make myself crazy with either guilt or exhaustion or both.<br />
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Life is different here, but it’s also exactly the same. The differences?<br />
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There are small ones like the fact that the toilet is in its own little room with the tiniest sink I have ever seen. The bathroom is across the hall with a bathtub that is lovely and deep, but has no shower curtain. It’s a bit of a splashfest when cleaning up.<br />
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The washing machine is next to the tub, but we have no clothes dryer, so laundry has to be considered in advance because there’s no quick-dry option. Most days, I carry the laundry up to the roof (er—more like wrangle a flimsy laundry basket around the creaking stairs) and hang it out to dry on a line that the Gingerbread Man rigged up. We also have large wire racks that will do when it rains or when winter sets in.<br />
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Our refrigerator is quite small, only slightly larger than a dorm-size fridge. It holds a couple of days’ worth of food. But there’s a grocery store across the street from us, and another one on the next corner over, so at least there’s easy access to fresh food.<br />
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Stores usually close here at 6:30. Many are closed on Saturdays as well, and most are closed on Sundays. No late-night runs to Target. Of course, I never made any late-night runs to Target when we were in New Hampshire anyway, but at least the option was there.<br />
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These are all typical European things. There are other differences, too, but they’re more along the lines of living in a city vs living in a rural area. The metro system, the people, the parks, the tiny dogs, the shops (there’s a shop entirely devoted to umbrellas here), the bakeries, the museums, the things to see and do and smell and taste. It’s mind-boggling.<br />
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The things that are the same?<br />
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The never-ending slog to learn German (but at least I’m surrounded by it now).<br />
The desire for a daily dose of chocolate (Giant bag of chocolate chips, where are you when I need you?).<br />
The maternal worry (Offspring 1 is doing swimmingly, though he has aggravatingly turned off his location finder. Gingerbread Boy is still settling in, but he really loves the bread, the lifestyle, the freedom.) <br />
The guilt that I’m not doing enough (there’s so much to see and so much to do and work that I need to do and work that I want to do and books that I want to read and places that I want to go and planning that needs to be done and German that I need to study)<br />
The exhaustion when I do too much (physical—hello bursitis!—and mental).<br />
The grocery shopping bags (thankfully, still going strong after all these years).<br />
The after-dinner walks (around the park, instead of around the loop).<br />
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Things that I really love?<br />
Our apartment is infused with light. Being on the top floor, we have multiple skylights and large dormer windows that open right to the air. No screens. Very few insects. All that light is good for my mental health.<br />
We have a roof-top terrace, accessed by a circular stairway that creaks, from which we can see the sky day or night.<br />
The church across the way chimes out the time every fifteen minutes, and really goes to town at 8:00, noon, and 6:00. I have a secret wish to ring those bells sometime while we’re here.<br />
The gelato everywhere. The pastries everywhere. The cafes everywhere.<br />
The cobblestone streets and small picturesque alleys that lead to a courtyard or a church or even nothing at all.<br />
The beach that is a metro ride away.<br />
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There’s so much that I really love. It’s no surprise to me that Vienna has been named the top city in the world to live in. It’s safe. It’s clean. It’s convenient. It’s beautiful.<br />
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And there’s gelato.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-6724920318637226102019-08-25T16:48:00.002-04:002019-08-25T16:48:51.456-04:00Days 6-8: MovingIf you were to choose the elements of a perfect place to live, you might be like a deer caught in headlights. Sometimes, you have to go somewhere else to see what there is to see, and know what there is to know before you could ever say, “This. This is where I want to live.”<br />
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Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve traveled many places, but I see the elements of what makes a good life here:</div>
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Safe, reliable, convenient, and clean public transportation. (Hello, beach day)</div>
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Small grocery stores on every couple of blocks. (Not a lot of processed foods, either)</div>
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Many green spaces. (I saw a guy standing on his head during one of my walks through the park)</div>
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An appreciation for the arts, making them affordable for everyone. (10 euro opera tickets)</div>
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Courtesy for other people. (I’ve seen people give up their seats for older women a few times)</div>
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Cafes where you can sit for hours without anyone batting an eye. (Sacher torte, anyone?)</div>
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And, there’s IKEA (accessible from public transportation, of course).</div>
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This is just scratching the surface of the culture. We’ve only been here one week.</div>
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As for our apartment, well, that’s even better. It has so much natural light that I’m sure my vitamin D level has skyrocketed. We have five skylights in our room and three large dormer windows in the living room/kitchen. They aren’t sash windows; they’re like doors that open inward. No screens. Just pure air. Very few insects, which makes eating al fresco truly delightful. There’s the circular staircase leading to the rooftop terrace, a large bathroom, and a small water closet with the teeny-tiniest sink I have ever seen. The bathroom has a large, deep tub, but there’s no shower curtain, though there’s a shower head. It gets a little wet. Heh.</div>
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There’s an elevator up here that requires a key to get to our floor. The entrance to the building is tile and stone, and it’s so old that the stone has worn spots from a century+ of people walking its hall. Next to our building is a bakery. On the other side is a cafe. Nearby is a church that rings the hour beginning at 6:00 am on weekdays, but somehow it’s charming here.</div>
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Here’s some of what we’ve been up to this week:</div>
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Dinner with some lovely new Austrian friends at a place Beethoven lived when he composed “Ode to Joy.” </div>
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Chanterelles are in season, so I had chanterelle goulash.</div>
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A visit to the Hofburg Palace, where there is a LOT of tableware. Also napkins that were having an identity crisis. (Am I a napkin or am I a flounder?) Apparently, there are only two people in the world who know the secret special napkin fold for the palace.<br />
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And, finally, a walk through the city this evening, with gelato of course</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-40101653608546851922019-08-20T15:56:00.002-04:002019-08-20T15:56:58.258-04:00Day 5: OperaWe toured the Vienna State Opera House today. It’s incredibly beautiful, but it was also heartbreaking in a way, because most of it was destroyed during WWII. Here’s the one section that’s original:<div>
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In fact, as we travel through the city by tram or bus, it’s clear to me which sections had been bombed during the war, because the newer buildings are plain, flat-fronted, unadorned. It’s something that most Americans have not had to think about, as Pearl Harbor was really the only American setting of destruction. But my heart hurts when I think of so many people suffering.</div>
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This is the emperor’s special sitting room at the Opera. All the gold is 22 karat. You can rent it for a 20-minute intermission for only 500 euros.</div>
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The entrance hall at the Opera House. We toured the backstage as well, which is huge. They employ 300 workers just for the stage and sets. In addition, there is a full orchestra, choir, and ballet. They also give a different show each night, AND you can get standing room tickets for 10 euros.</div>
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And last, but not least, my daily dose of gelato. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-7297842785724973982019-08-19T16:17:00.002-04:002019-08-19T16:18:44.034-04:00Day 4: JoyTrue joy was in the air today on the banks of the Danube. Look at these people. No inhibitions, no body shaming, no flies, no mosquitos, no garbage, no fear. There were grandmas in bikinis, children splashing, sun shining, clear water flowing. We swam to the dock, dried off, and swam back. We picnicked, we relaxed, we watched a class of sailboats zoom up and down and around. The people here know how to live. They know how to enjoy life. I’m grateful to be here learning from them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxUcuIWtG47Gl8kRqIPJuQ8-ZQe1Jn5aKIdHgD7cmvIPO10_Nh1jjo7VcG4FSws6m7FyrbtbyvG_vD_REpXGQpI3BbXl_1lmlbruqSm7OT_9kzVjoRu5SecdQ5mhfiddZqa3HVCI1YEg/s1600/D146A055-069E-4CA8-A4CA-938FD3A36106.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxUcuIWtG47Gl8kRqIPJuQ8-ZQe1Jn5aKIdHgD7cmvIPO10_Nh1jjo7VcG4FSws6m7FyrbtbyvG_vD_REpXGQpI3BbXl_1lmlbruqSm7OT_9kzVjoRu5SecdQ5mhfiddZqa3HVCI1YEg/s320/D146A055-069E-4CA8-A4CA-938FD3A36106.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDNpyYQy0sUGFx5iTZk-IXHJsbvvnk43lvPh6frImSK8CQwNGDzKTbWpcJbX51N5JkJTw7rmT6KIg9HbO_cmM3Ve_6e7YZp8T28sYjUWwIK0gb32lZaiz4H9OmYyJKqL7i2VicoS5Td4/s1600/F7F83009-6601-4ABF-8951-E68732E80554.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDNpyYQy0sUGFx5iTZk-IXHJsbvvnk43lvPh6frImSK8CQwNGDzKTbWpcJbX51N5JkJTw7rmT6KIg9HbO_cmM3Ve_6e7YZp8T28sYjUWwIK0gb32lZaiz4H9OmYyJKqL7i2VicoS5Td4/s320/F7F83009-6601-4ABF-8951-E68732E80554.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-2525941455068595852019-08-18T15:04:00.000-04:002019-08-18T15:04:24.284-04:00Day 3: Public TransportationFinding my way to church today involved the tram and bus and a handy little app that showed me the way. The English language ward is chock full of internationals and embassy people. For lunch we had leftover Wiener schnitzel and potato salad, then we took a trip up to see Will’s new school. We were actually able to get in and look around, and it seems nice. Then, as reward for going out in the 93 degree heat, we stopped for gelato:<div>
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Seriously, I think I’d spend my last euro on gelato. Yum.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-50258188183620519692019-08-17T14:30:00.000-04:002019-08-17T14:30:51.716-04:00Day 2: 31 floorsThe health app tells me I’ve climbed 31 floors and made 20,363 steps today. Here’s why:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1PvgmGJtqXbHqoubx_vkKraEsVTB5yP-X1OmZKyoDwysOp0B5YnRoGkokbHfx9seHGmZrStqkq2slAoQUIYIngJDg4cm7sNnt0wDFGV_caeG3L5AA-JmXD98-NofQjML4LUkselSKM7c/s1600/782B9680-EE8F-457B-A67D-A0E2E7096F85.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1PvgmGJtqXbHqoubx_vkKraEsVTB5yP-X1OmZKyoDwysOp0B5YnRoGkokbHfx9seHGmZrStqkq2slAoQUIYIngJDg4cm7sNnt0wDFGV_caeG3L5AA-JmXD98-NofQjML4LUkselSKM7c/s320/782B9680-EE8F-457B-A67D-A0E2E7096F85.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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That’s the south tower at St. Stephen’s. We climbed it. Here’s what we saw:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80B7t-FfWsTOA7D4IJDbCZeDVudWstNpQlbfT7iAkdVG-cYaRaAtAmPF8i0mNaa73gQSw8vn2xQpAWoNhsCx-2mmKOPZF7WOOdbNDPkfHDf-MRmbmBoJ3cohBPLqCB-QuwaLjeIlspCE/s1600/49997C99-38BC-4647-B8EB-E21B57C85CDD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80B7t-FfWsTOA7D4IJDbCZeDVudWstNpQlbfT7iAkdVG-cYaRaAtAmPF8i0mNaa73gQSw8vn2xQpAWoNhsCx-2mmKOPZF7WOOdbNDPkfHDf-MRmbmBoJ3cohBPLqCB-QuwaLjeIlspCE/s320/49997C99-38BC-4647-B8EB-E21B57C85CDD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wCbTUHLyKNdMwcO-qs4QMVJ35CUx4PBwquIXaocLxa-CnC0k7BfNxicstuEF34tF9szNYAJpahOM8mbdp0dmP1VeAQlkscBmfWy6HiCAAjFj2qjFpQmXmS47OJt332qATWA5BS0Qv1Y/s1600/F66482D5-785E-4690-A897-45B43346F703.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wCbTUHLyKNdMwcO-qs4QMVJ35CUx4PBwquIXaocLxa-CnC0k7BfNxicstuEF34tF9szNYAJpahOM8mbdp0dmP1VeAQlkscBmfWy6HiCAAjFj2qjFpQmXmS47OJt332qATWA5BS0Qv1Y/s320/F66482D5-785E-4690-A897-45B43346F703.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But what goes up, must come down.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzdW_gFfiXhm3U0LpK7_oOJAd6X0VayFLiReSE-1d0csrO4PSvwLw8iV02ozaGYAeDGIOUESAauBnVYP04gVA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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And after all that, here’s what I had for lunch:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZf1ycVqc_kM2suhGpMIGZI6Nhv1TVSzi3TuS6qMoo9ODDBPY045w9qWdKNhgFamYuTt2oRdW7VB-AlKHkRX1S4HwFhgPJLgLTsnPu9xlO0aQmzLEzWxgF4bV7rNfVKWTMMYnhClN5nYc/s1600/7C01B188-7893-4661-8F0E-155E99E593CB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZf1ycVqc_kM2suhGpMIGZI6Nhv1TVSzi3TuS6qMoo9ODDBPY045w9qWdKNhgFamYuTt2oRdW7VB-AlKHkRX1S4HwFhgPJLgLTsnPu9xlO0aQmzLEzWxgF4bV7rNfVKWTMMYnhClN5nYc/s320/7C01B188-7893-4661-8F0E-155E99E593CB.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Yes, apple strudel. Don’t tell my mom. Actually, you can tell her. I’m certain she’d approve. We also wandered around the city. Here’s the Rathaus, or the city hall. I personally think this looks like a city hall, and the Rathaus is actually somewhere east of the Potomac River.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2IAVoJHDGKETnQkyJ5kCE805xClk-7KCeRfVNQJ2GLZEO-pEUTS96bp6nFAIGlA8vUdTqTCrDs4fFLvxqCDjjDNjoPF03xlVechUt5n3oeYUHtOLeH0_RPPVp99TZQjyhmiCHP9mg7Y/s1600/F53D44B2-854F-4B55-86BC-701144325A71.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2IAVoJHDGKETnQkyJ5kCE805xClk-7KCeRfVNQJ2GLZEO-pEUTS96bp6nFAIGlA8vUdTqTCrDs4fFLvxqCDjjDNjoPF03xlVechUt5n3oeYUHtOLeH0_RPPVp99TZQjyhmiCHP9mg7Y/s320/F53D44B2-854F-4B55-86BC-701144325A71.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And lastly, here’s dinner. Wiener schnitzel as big as your head. Bigger, actually.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAJfra_i59KdxDgzq6wQwocAx7n7kRVFBWC9JaCXlMVVKiOxIP4-7_UtSyC-svMD6e3IWzEZEgrI6aUIUTWXWHhBhUdDgu4lonRxE7_08BsPHIwmVUauNb-c95ShuxyNkm0q0A3507P8/s1600/65B4D18B-EA75-4190-A11B-63399307CB43.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAJfra_i59KdxDgzq6wQwocAx7n7kRVFBWC9JaCXlMVVKiOxIP4-7_UtSyC-svMD6e3IWzEZEgrI6aUIUTWXWHhBhUdDgu4lonRxE7_08BsPHIwmVUauNb-c95ShuxyNkm0q0A3507P8/s320/65B4D18B-EA75-4190-A11B-63399307CB43.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And now, to appease that jet-lag. Zzzz.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-27659410899908955762019-08-16T13:26:00.000-04:002019-08-16T13:26:08.949-04:00Day 1: Das Abenteuer beginnt <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45AsQ0gBOPdPuYkmKwR8H2OAgMqWR3ZjVjwXSllVOi7IA0CUsLCBY_rq8XavB2vtVnHjnn-hHoYFI_9nF_GvmlNisrfE1yF0iQDuTvbZIujChxdQljEQOFSPiyQYlhcf1gp88H0SfF6M/s1600/CE1FE56A-29E5-448B-99CE-161CEAF2755A.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="739" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45AsQ0gBOPdPuYkmKwR8H2OAgMqWR3ZjVjwXSllVOi7IA0CUsLCBY_rq8XavB2vtVnHjnn-hHoYFI_9nF_GvmlNisrfE1yF0iQDuTvbZIujChxdQljEQOFSPiyQYlhcf1gp88H0SfF6M/s320/CE1FE56A-29E5-448B-99CE-161CEAF2755A.png" width="147" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-1SSpji-xrgjP6CNLOJsgvA_YXIAAU72qbPexN5D8EvmYDJiJakr7YHCAv6w75zevPwriIvkN7j8CJPqqDhO_vkQivOmwdSmrTXcG_7yW_nEVmlaceZ4trWVFKoadAgxUvH5kWMOV2M/s1600/FFFEA75D-7428-4FD5-BDB9-280735C2D0CC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-1SSpji-xrgjP6CNLOJsgvA_YXIAAU72qbPexN5D8EvmYDJiJakr7YHCAv6w75zevPwriIvkN7j8CJPqqDhO_vkQivOmwdSmrTXcG_7yW_nEVmlaceZ4trWVFKoadAgxUvH5kWMOV2M/s320/FFFEA75D-7428-4FD5-BDB9-280735C2D0CC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-25370454195768168612019-08-16T13:24:00.000-04:002019-08-16T13:24:08.755-04:0058 DaysYou went to Boston yesterday for a meeting at the Austrian consulate. It felt like a blessing because the gingerbread boy will be off to German camp this weekend for a month, and his birth certificate with apostille has not arrived yet. Rather than pull him out of camp to visit with the consulate once the apostille does come, the consul lets you bring in the rest of the paperwork with the gingerbread boy immediately, but won’t date it until the official meeting on July 1st when you and the gingerbread man do your paperwork.<br />
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The build up to leave is comical. Papers printed in triplicates (just in case). German phrases checked and double checked. A race down 95 to find get to Boston before all the parking is gone.<br />
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But then, there you all are. It’s beautifully sunny and you have 30 minutes to kill. You decide to walk to the gingerbread man’s office, but you have a thought. Why not get the visa photos taken of you and the GBM? Surely there’s a drug store around that is able to do so.<br />
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And, indeed there is. It’s right across the street from the consulate. Serendipity. You go in, ask for passport photos, and are directed to an older gentleman who seems to come directly out of a Pixar film. He takes great pride in his work and tells the GBM that his shirt is too pale, and looks at you in horror at your white tee shirt under a white cardigan. He says that it might not be accepted against the white background.<br />
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You look at the gingerbread boy and his lime-green tee-shirt. Minutes later, the gingerbread boy is hiding in the alcove by the elevator wearing your white sweater with scalloped edge detailing, and you are wearing a lime-green tee-shirt.<br />
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“It’ll only be a minute,” you say, confidently.<br />
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But then you see the Pixar man holding an old-style digital camera telling the GBM not to smile. He takes one photo.H<br />
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Then he takes another photo.<br />
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Then an Asian man walks through his perfectly framed set-up.<br />
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The Pixar man rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue and sets up yet another shot. Slowly.<br />
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Minutes are passing and your extra half-hour before meeting the consul is quickly dwindling, not to mention the gingerbread boy is hiding in a corner, mortified, while more and more people pass his way.<br />
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Finally the fourth picture is taken, and Pixar man gestures to me. He puts me in position, then tells me to take a baby step forward, then to remove my necklace. No smiling. He holds up the camera.<br />
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How long does it take to press a camera button four times? Apparently, much longer than you think when a passport photo virtuoso is at work.<br />
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It’s now 10:22. Eight minutes to adjust the background, print the photos, pay, and get across the street. What seemed like a good idea is now seeming like a very, very, very bad idea.<br />
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The GBM follows Pixar man to the printing station, while you run to the gingerbread boy. He practically rips off the sweater and dives into his tee-shirt. You’ve lost the GBM and wait by the front of the store until you catch sight of him. He hands you forms to fill out, because the consul might want all the paperwork, sans the missing apostilles.<br />
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The form is, of course, in German. There are many things you can say in German thanks to Duolingo. You can say, “My name is Hans.” You can say “The milk is hot.” Or even, “My father has a sister. She is my aunt.” But the finer intricacies of Austrian bureaucracy is lost on you. You give up.<br />
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It’s 10:29. The gingerbread boy suggests that you get to the consulate. You tell them to go, that you’ll wait for the photos and check out.<br />
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Again, you forget that you’re dealing with the passport photo virtuoso.<br />
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He snips the photos carefully, lining them up with exactness. Then he loads each photo individually into little paper folders. You want to scream. You want to grab the photos from his hands and make a run for it. You offer to place the photos into the folders, but he declines your help. He is a virtuoso, after all.<br />
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He rings you up, finally, and you give him cash, then run. But then you run back, because you need the receipt.<br />
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And the consul? Broken elevator, five floors up, and then five minutes for two signatures.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-5634160509302933982019-06-14T09:08:00.003-04:002019-06-14T09:08:35.929-04:0062 DaysThe house:<br />
Water filtration system is now in. There’s no arsenic, but the tank leaks. The driveway is scheduled to be sealed. Two estimates for some window replacements are scheduled for the windows that have somehow rotted out. The Persian rugs have been rolled up and stored at your mother-in-law’s house. The family photos have been removed from the hallway. The house is slowly becoming renter-ready, if only you had a renter to rent it.<br />
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The documents:<br />
All birth certificates and marriage certificates must have an apostille. Originally, you thought that meant a certified copy with a raised seal. Um, no. That would be too easy. An apostille is a document certifying the authenticity of said document in question with a signature, a raised seal, stapled with the flap open, and stamped across the flap—all obtained from the original state the document was processed. You have received your birth certificate with apostille, but you still await two more birth certificates and a marriage certificate. The clock is ticking, and the appointment with the Austrian consulate is quickly approaching. You’re afraid that if you don’t have the documents in order, the consul will turn all Gandalf and shout, “You shall not pass!”<br />
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The school:<br />
*In Vienna: Registration fee has been wired. Paperwork has been signed electronically. TB test has been scheduled. Passport photos have been taken. He’s all set.<br />
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*Here: Oof. One week left in which to accomplish an impossible load of work AND find someone with credentials to review the portfolio.<br />
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Packing:<br />
A packing box for the iMac has been procured. If only you knew how you were going to transport it there. Shipped? Extra baggage? Accio iMac?<br />
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You’ve also begun gathering the out-of-season things you’ll need: winter coats, sweaters, long-sleeve shirts. And you wonder how you’re ever going to fit it all in the suitcase.<br />
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State of mind:<br />
Let’s leave that for now, shall we?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-55442940344908391972019-06-03T16:50:00.002-04:002019-06-03T16:52:04.701-04:0073 DaysYou have lost count of how many loads of laundry you have done today. You have also lost count how many times you’ve driven past that pond where the geese and goslings are on your way to and from town. In fact, you’ve lost count of what day it is and who you are; you’re simply going on autopilot according to the beefy to-do list you made yesterday for this week: one graduation, one piano recital, one band concert, one car maintenance appointment, one doctor’s appointment, two dentist appointments, four houseguests, one meeting, one book club Skype visit, a road trip to Massachusetts to pick up restored paintings, a senior awards night, four band rehearsals, a festival, a silent movie, a cook-out, a restaurant or two, a seminary graduation, and some sheer panic, and that about sums it up for this week. Besides the grocery shopping. There’s that, too.<br />
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Next week brings three more doctor’s appointments for various family members in Campaign Let’s All Be Healthy Before We Leave, and a trip to Denmark for the Gingerbread Man.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-50699621603815643592019-05-30T21:19:00.000-04:002019-05-30T21:20:45.005-04:0078 DaysYou are making progress. Slowly. So slowly. Birth certificates with apostilles. Marriage certificate with an apostille. Copies of passports. Appointments with the Austrian consulate. Emails. Phone calls.<br />
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And home school. You’re reading Homer’s <i>Odyssey</i> with the gingerbread offspring, and you feel a kinship with such a traveler. But you haven’t even reached the part where Odysseus makes his entrance. You’re still in Book IV, and you’re supposed to be starting Shakespeare in June. Oof. Maybe by the time you’re finished, you’ll also be ready to begin traveling.<br />
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You did make quinoa for dinner tonight, and that’s using up some of your pantry items. That’s about as good as it gets right now. Small victories, one grain of quinoa at a time.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-19932936447488511532019-05-28T21:50:00.002-04:002019-05-28T21:50:37.066-04:0080 DaysJules Verne insisted that one could circumnavigate the globe in 80 days. The youngest gingerbread offspring must have picked up on this vibe today, because he asked if you could go to Azerbaijan. When you responded that perhaps you could just start with Austria, he smiled. And then asked if you could fly to Iraq.<br />
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Austria first, please?<br />
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“Maybe Uruk?” he asked.<br />
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This is what comes of reading <i>The Tale of Gilgamesh </i>for homeschooling.<br />
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Yesterday when you returned home from family camp, the obvious quiet coming from the chicken coop concerned you. Sure enough, when you went to check the chickens, they were all victims of a local criminal—probably of the fox variety—and it makes you sad, even if you hadn’t been to visit them in a while. The backyard feels empty now.<br />
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You went to the police station today—not to report the fox, but to get a letter stating that you have no criminal record so you can have an official piece of American bureaucracy to show to the Austrian government for their official residency bureaucracy. The youngest gingerbread offspring has one, too, and was somewhat perplexed by the likelihood of a 14-year old boy with a criminal record. If only the fox had one.<br />
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Auf wiedersehen, Hahnchen. May your coop in the heavens be full of clean shavings and plentiful water.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-55903182653365059872019-05-27T19:55:00.000-04:002019-05-27T19:55:04.151-04:0081 Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You count. There are 81 days until you leave for Vienna. 81 days to finalize schooling for the younger gingerbread offspring. 81 days to find a renter for the house. 81 days to clean out the attic, basement, and office. 81 days to eat all the random pantry items (e.g., sesame seeds, canned green chiles, red lentils, sushi rice, lots of table salt). 81 days to figure out what is essential to bring (favorite kitchen knife, garlic press, earplugs? Are there earplugs in Austria?), what can be purchased there (exercise ball? Instant Pot? Earplugs?), and what you can live without (an oven, since the apartment that will become home doesn’t have one, but it does have a rooftop terrace, so.). 81 days to prepare the older gingerbread offspring for college (send him with earplugs).<br />
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The square root of 81 is 9, and the square root of 9 is 3, which is the number of Johnsons who will be living in Vienna. Which is also probably how time will pass. 81 days will suddenly turn into nine days, which will turn into three days, which is daunting.<br />
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But oh, the excitement. It’s real.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-41609441216208760092018-03-15T09:30:00.000-04:002018-03-15T09:30:30.236-04:00Hot Chocolate with Whipped CreamEach morning, you stand by the window watching your boys until they're on the bus or picked up. You watch them leave your circle of safety and hope for the best. You can't know what that day will bring. Nothing, maybe. Or maybe a bomb threat. Maybe a math test. Maybe a lockdown drill. Or maybe a real lockdown.<br />
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But on this day, there is something different.<br />
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A rally. A walk-out. A demonstration.<br />
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Your oldest son asked if you'd call to have him dismissed and bring him downtown to attend the demonstration. You want your voice to be heard, and even more, you want your son's voice to be heard, so you call the school, you pick him up, you drive downtown.<br />
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You don't know what to expect, but the reality makes you weepy. A crowd of teenagers, many carrying hand-drawn signs stand gathered in front of the church, chanting. Adults congregate around the edges. A band plays, keeping time for the chants. Horns honk as their drivers show support. One man in a truck wags his finger in dissent at them. Local politicians chat with the group.<br />
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You chant and cheer until your throat hurts, even though you realize that you're the only adult in that part of the crowd standing with the kids doing so. You're enveloped in the courage of these kids. You wish you could squeeze them all, imbue them with strength and with courage, with hope and with love. Instead, you walk over to the coffeeshop and buy as many hot chocolates as you can carry in two trays.<br />
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"Whipped cream?" the barista asks.<br />
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"Yes," you say.<br />
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You load up the trays and hope you don't slip on the snow outside. When you make it back to the crowd, you worry that no one will want any--after all, you're a stranger, even if your intentions are good.<br />
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"Hot chocolate?" you ask, and before you know it, the cups are received with gratitude and delight, and the trays are emptied. Of course. Teenagers. March in New Hampshire. It's cold and many of them are not dressed for the weather.<br />
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A woman drives by, honking her horn and blowing kisses.<br />
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Steady on, my friends. We're behind you all the way.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-63481545573215210512017-12-09T07:47:00.000-05:002017-12-09T15:41:20.056-05:00Finding New YorkWhen you board the bus, it is dark out. You are in New Hampshire.<br />
When you exit the bus, it is broad daylight. You are in New York.<br />
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After dropping off your suitcase, you head toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it occurs to you that you have stepped into the character of Claudia Kincaid in one of your favorite childhood books, <i>From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler</i>. You just lack a younger brother with a card habit and pockets full of change.<br />
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You take the B line north and you find that your past makes you strangely comfortable on the subway, and you silently thank your grandparents for the millionth time for that summer in London when you were fearless at thirteen and navigated your way through the underground on a daily basis. It has triumphed over your adult self full of uncertainty and fear.<br />
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You are hustled up the stairs by the crush of crowds, and you find yourself curious about them. You hear snippets of conversations: "A hundred-thousand..." And you think, <i>a hundred-thousand what? </i>Dollars? Reams of paper? Pounds of beef? Cryptocurrency?<br />
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"Hey, baby. I'm two blocks away." And you think, he's meeting his wife. He's going home for lunch after a long shift. But then the conversation devolves into talk of work orders, electricity and breakers and something totally non-romantic, and you wonder if you misheard the <i>Hey, baby </i>part.<br />
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There are so many, many people here, and each of them has a story. Your writer self soaks it all up.<br />
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Your path takes you across Central Park, and you marvel at the teeny, tiny oak leaves. Back home, they grow to giant size -- the size of your head -- but you don't judge these little leaves. You know that they have an uphill battle just to exist in the middle of this massive machine of human activity. Back home, the air is fresher and the water is purer and no one bothers the oak trees except for the squirrels. So of course, they grow. They're unhindered.<br />
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You find the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It, unlike the oak leaves, is enormous. Much bigger than your ten-year old imagination pictured it when accompanying Claudia Kincaid there. You note the Greek and Roman statuary as you head toward the Michelangelo exhibit. You only have about four hours, and already you wish you had four days.<br />
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Looking at Michelangelo's sketches and full-size cartoons brings you back to your time in Florence when you were nineteen, alone in a small room deep inside one of the churches where he hid during a particularly nasty political time. There were sketches on the walls -- doodles -- and you marveled back then at being privy to it.<br />
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Here you are, once again, marveling in the presence of his work. Not his finished curated glory, smooth stone and rippling muscles, but the working part. The part with mistakes. The part with cross-outs. The part with adjustments. The part that makes you realize he was a passenger on that train of process just like every other writer, artist, thinker.<br />
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And you're overwhelmed with gratitude, because you realize oak leaves are still oak leaves, regardless of their size, regardless of whether they are in Central Park or in the woods of New Hampshire, regardless of whether they grow to paint and sculpt masterpieces or simply offer something more humble.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-69763557460802572762017-10-04T12:42:00.000-04:002017-10-04T12:42:27.992-04:00Little ThingsOn your bedside table sits a photo of two little boys: a blue-eyed dark-haired boy wearing overalls and a brown-eyed blondie wearing stripes. They stand on a screened-in porch that looks dark as night because of the trees surrounding it. Their eyes are bright and their cheeks are full. They are adorable. They are darling. They are delightful. They are childhood, joy, confidence, and light all rolled up into small bodies. They are the face of little things, the agglomeration of drips and drops of little efforts poured into a seemingly bottomless vessel.<br />
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But it's the little things that count.<br />
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It's the little things that nearly pull a mother down into the abyss. The endless brushing of little teeth, of washing little hands. The recurrent tying of little laces and buckling of little overalls. The ceaseless cutting of chicken or buttering of toast or peeling of carrots. The relentless singing of songs and reading of books when a mama is so tired that the words don't seem to make sense anymore. The perpetual redirection when safety or peace is at risk. The tucking in, stirring, wiping up, combing, folding, patting, hugging.<br />
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And each bit seems so mundane. Each bit seems so unimportant all on its own. But drip by drip by drop, little things grow and turn into big things. The big things turn around and now, you are a little thing, a receiver of little things: a text, a hug, some shared music. What was once bottomless becomes finite, eighteen years, size 10 1/2 shoe, working until close, and before you know it, the only thing that is bottomless now is love, built on a foundation of little, little things.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-14450545484773490282016-11-03T06:00:00.000-04:002016-11-03T06:00:00.259-04:00Throwback Thursday: A New Brand of Insanity<div style="background: rgb(244, 248, 236); border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23.4px; margin-bottom: 23px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I am a slow writer. I am always astounded by people who say they write a draft in a month, or even in two months. I placate myself by saying such drafts must not be very good. Otherwise I think I would completely despair, close the laptop permanently, and take up life as a pig farmer. <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></em></div>
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When I write, I open my files, and my characters stare at me from the page patiently waiting for stage directions. I give them setting, and they tap their feet. I give them description, and they cross their arms.</div>
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I say, “What do you want me to do? You’re the character! Do something! Make some plot happen!”</div>
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Meanwhile, my characters look at their nails, stifle a yawn, and reply, “You’re the writer. What do <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">you</em> want me to do?”</div>
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This continues until I’m so disheartened that I skip to the end and take a cue from Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll think about the middle tomorrow.</div>
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So the whole concept of NaNoWriMo has always smacked of insanity to me. It seems as if you’re just setting yourself up for failure, disappointment, and disillusionment. Not to mention a future of pig-farming.</div>
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I made one attempt at NaNoWriMo a few years ago—not to write a new novel, but to finish the one I had been working on.</div>
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It was awful from start to finish. Family responsibilities cropped up, a national holiday, and plans for the eldest gingerbread boy’s birthday party. [On a side note, that was the year in which the Christmas tree fell down the night before the party, shattering all the glass ball ornaments into the carpet. That happened at 9:00 pm, too late to vacuum as the gingerbread boys were in bed. That was also the night the power went out, leaving me with the glass shards remaining in the carpet. With a group of children coming over for a birthday party. And tons of snow outside. And no heat. Thank you, Mother Nature. Just a walk down memory lane.]</div>
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Anywho, you may be surprised after reading this that I have signed up for NaNoWriMo this year. Remember <a href="http://quirkandquill.com/2012/08/23/list-o-mania/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank" title="List-o-mania">this</a>? And <a href="http://quirkandquill.com/2012/09/10/possibilities/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank" title="Possibilities">this</a>? Well, the stars have aligned, and I have a new project. A new outline. Characters who speak to me. An actual plot. AND it’s November.</div>
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So I’ve decided to push myself a bit—in the same way I pushed myself to shimmy up the rock-climbing wall and run a 5K. A sort of manic (rhymes with panic) attempt at lassoing life. We’ll see what happens. It’s certainly not going to be pretty, but that’s what revision is for, right?</div>
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Are you doing NaNoWriMo? If so, look me up. I might need a little encouragement if my characters decide to stop speaking to me.</div>
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<i>Originally published at Quirk and Quill 11.1.12</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-26933802693663394662016-10-27T06:00:00.000-04:002016-10-27T06:00:06.349-04:00Throwback Thursday NaNoWriMo: A Report<br />
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Well, friends, it seems as if a future in <a href="http://quirkandquill.com/2012/11/01/a-new-brand-of-insanity/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">pig-farming</a> is not imminent, thank goodness. I am beyond thrilled to report that NaNoWriMo was a success for me. Of course, it helped that there were no falling Christmas trees, no snowstorms, no power outages. There were no major illnesses, and only one trip to Urgent Care during the month of November.</div>
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At the end of 30 days, I had a complete first draft: a beginning, middle, and end, not to mention characters who spoke to me. In fact, they often wouldn’t shut up.</div>
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<a href="http://quirkandquill.com/?attachment_id=2079" rel="attachment wp-att-2079" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="Winner-180x180" class="size-full wp-image-2079 aligncenter" src="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/winner-180x180.jpg?w=529" style="background: transparent; border-color: rgb(221, 221, 221) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(221, 221, 221); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgb(204, 204, 204) 4px 4px 12px; clear: both; display: block; height: auto; left: -4px; margin: 0.5em auto 1.625em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;" /></a>So what did I learn from the experience?</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1. I can start and finish a project quickly.</strong></div>
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As I said in my last post, I’ve always considered myself a slow writer. Signing up for NaNoWriMo eliminated any prior conceptions or misconceptions I had about my writing speed. One caveat, though: some serious preparation was key. Before the month started, I designated a composition notebook for this project and brainstormed characters, settings, plot lines, and ideas.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">2. I can use an outline.</strong></div>
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Who knew? OK, I didn’t really have a true outline, more like a road map, but I pretty much always knew where I needed to go. I did muck around a bit when I got to the middle, but I always went back to my notebook to see what I had planned, or even just to see what possibilities existed.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">3. Working five days a week (taking Saturday and Sunday off) really helped me.</strong></div>
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The fact is that I have a family and a house as well as other responsibilities. I cannot go into my writing cave for 30 days and come out at the end without some serious consequences. I needed that weekend down time. Come Fridays, my brain was exhausted. Having those few days off gave me time to recharge my batteries, and regroup my characters and plot.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">4. I work best first thing in the morning.</strong></div>
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When I’m wearing my “mom” hat, my mind has to balance a zillion things at any given time (for example, this week I’ve got to remember band days, piano and cello lessons, two family birthdays, volunteer time at the school library, blogging assignments for two blogs, after-school Latin/chess club/bridge club/library pick-up, cub scouts, a meeting, my husband’s days at his office vs. days at home, third-grade spelling words, an immigration assignment, when the new sofa is being delivered, three Christmas parties, Christmas cards, a Nutcracker performance, a new ballet class I’ll be taking, ski club fitting, and a partridge in a pear tree.)</div>
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Do you feel overwhelmed? I do, too, on an hourly basis. Consequently, if I let my day “begin” before getting my words in, I’d never have the focus to get any writing accomplished. So I wrote when I first woke up, before anything else had a chance to rear its needy head. It was much easier to get my words done, and I was frequently done by noon. The rest of the day I felt like I’d accomplished something. I didn’t have that monkey sitting on my back prodding at my guilt gland all the time.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">4. I can use other methods of tuning out the world.</strong></div>
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On those days when I couldn’t write immediately, or when I didn’t finish by the time the school bus rolled around, I found another way to help my brain focus.</div>
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Don’t laugh. Don’t judge. Seriously.</div>
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I put on the Pandora new-age music station. I don’t normally write to music; it interferes too much. I start choreographing in my head. Too many memories, too many lyrics, too much sensory input in general.</div>
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But since I don’t listen to new-age music, there was nothing to spark a memory. There were no lyrics to give me cause for pause, and so it allowed me to tune-out all the other daily chatter that goes on, both internally and externally, and the words came easier. Strange, but it worked.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">5. Quantity eventually leads to quality, and fluency helps get you there.</strong></div>
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While writing five days a week helped me balance my other responsibilities, it did <a href="http://quirkandquill.com/?attachment_id=2080" rel="attachment wp-att-2080" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="IMG_1207" class="alignright wp-image-2080" src="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2012/12/img_1207.jpg?w=317&h=423" height="423" style="background: transparent; border-color: rgb(221, 221, 221) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(221, 221, 221); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgb(204, 204, 204) 4px 4px 12px; display: inline; float: right; height: auto; left: -4px; margin: 0.5em 0px 1.625em 1.666em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;" width="317" /></a>mean that I had to increase my word count from 1667/day to 2250/day. At the back of my notebook, I kept a chart of my daily numbers, with date, starting point, goal, and ending point, as well as the final daily word count to keep track. It got easier to write those words each day.</div>
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You’ll notice I wrote at the top, “I refuse to be derailed by migraine, monster, mandate, or muppet.” That was my way of saying no excuses. During the month of November, all of those things tried to claim my attention. I refused to let them. Even the Muppets — and that was really hard, because they were singing the Banana Boat song with Harry Belafonte.</div>
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<span class="embed-youtube" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; display: block; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><iframe allowfullscreen="true" class="youtube-player" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZAuYmhaiXvE?version=3&rel=0&fs=1&autohide=2&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&wmode=transparent" style="background: transparent; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" type="text/html" width="420"></iframe></span></div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">6. </strong><strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Challenging myself and completing a goal is empowering.</strong></div>
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I suffer from the imposter syndrome, but really? An imposter writing a novel in 30 days? No chance. This experience made me feel like a real writer. That’s not to say you can’t be a real writer if you don’t write a novel in 30 days. It just validated me in a way other things have not, even with an MFA from VCFA. I can’t say I’m an imposter anymore. I’m a writer. Of course, it helped that when I finished and verified my word count at the NaNoWriMo web site, I was sent a video of the people at the Office of Lights and Letters cheering for me. <span class="wp-smiley wp-emoji wp-emoji-smile" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; box-shadow: none; display: inline-block !important; margin: 0px; min-height: 1.2em; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: static; text-indent: 9999px; vertical-align: bottom; white-space: nowrap; width: 1.35em;" title=":)">:)</span></div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></strong></div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">7. </strong><strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The writing community is incredibly supportive. (Even though I already knew this) </strong></div>
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While it might have been annoying to lots of people, I posted my daily word count on Facebook. I went public, which is something the NaNoWriMo organizers suggest. It did help, too, to see comments from friends cheering me on. Thanks.</div>
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<strong style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">8. My own circle is incredibly supportive.</strong></div>
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I recognize that I’m extremely lucky in being able to have a large block of time daily to write. I know many writers hold down other employment, in addition to writing and taking care of family, and I stand in awe of all that they do (I’m looking at you, <a href="http://greenhouseliterary.com/index.php/authors/profile/obrien_a/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Annemarie O’Brien</a>, <a href="http://quirkandquill.com/author/lindenmcneilly/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Linden McNeilly,</a> and <a href="http://www.varianjohnson.com/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Varian Johnson</a>). I couldn’t do what I do without the support of my gingerbread man, and the understanding of my gingerbread boys, each of whom lends an ear and keeps me going.</div>
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So would I do it again?</div>
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Perhaps. If the timing was right…and I start feeling like a pig farmer.</div>
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<i>Originally published at Quirk and Quill 12.6.12</i></div>
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</article><article class="post-1733 post type-post status-publish format-standard hentry category-fiction category-in-real-life category-the-writing-life tag-nanowrimo tag-pig-farming" id="post-1733" style="background-color: #f4f8ec; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.16px;"><header class="post-title" style="padding: 0px 0px 20px; position: relative;"></header></article>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-76356339026102178352016-10-24T08:28:00.000-04:002016-10-24T08:28:39.316-04:00Art and Fear<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-HVwGM8lELih61G0IYt5bFOf-DWU8Gew9G7t_ft7cfItMfU2EhusG6rw02NftJMPB04zB2hm8Ac2AnPB-bg6YjWFTKPoWoA9YOQlpyvK99Evj-Hr795HoTdccyNQcuzRqwI3lrAhuWs/s1600/IMG_6390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-HVwGM8lELih61G0IYt5bFOf-DWU8Gew9G7t_ft7cfItMfU2EhusG6rw02NftJMPB04zB2hm8Ac2AnPB-bg6YjWFTKPoWoA9YOQlpyvK99Evj-Hr795HoTdccyNQcuzRqwI3lrAhuWs/s320/IMG_6390.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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"[W]hat we really gain from the artmaking of others is courage-by-association."<br />
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-David Bayles and Ted Orland<br />
<i> Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking</i><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-20916888885446192292016-10-21T14:06:00.000-04:002016-10-21T14:06:58.949-04:00ObsessionsI am currently obsessed with houses. Old houses. Giant houses. Houses with far too many bedrooms and bathrooms for my small family. Houses with <i>porte cocheres </i>and carriage houses and barns. Houses with fireplaces and tall windows and leaded glass. Houses with peaks and turrets and bay windows and balconies. Houses with libraries and butler's pantries and multiple staircases. I even found one with an elevator.<br />
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I visit circaoldhouses.com more often than I should. I scroll through pictures when I should be organizing my tax documents. I look at house plans when I should be folding laundry. But laundry gets undone almost as soon as it's done, so why bother?<br />
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If I lived in one of these houses, I would have a room of my own. In fact, I would have several rooms of my own. Probably one for each day of the week. One could be an office, one an art studio, one a dance/yoga studio, and one just for empty space where I could lie down on the floor and make snow angels, minus the snow. I'd have a guest room for anyone who wanted to come visit. I'd have a room for foreign exchange students or refugees or foster children. There would be space in the kitchen for absolutely everything. Even the plastic food storage tops. And think of the Christmas parties!<br />
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It's a lovely dream, isn't it?<br />
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The reality is more likely to be lots of dust bunnies and cobwebs. Acres of floors to clean and far too many toilets to scrub. There would be a huge mortgage, not to mention the property taxes. And oh, the maintenance. All those chimneys to have swept. The grass to mow. The roof? Oy.<br />
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Still...a library <i>and</i> a butler's pantry?<br />
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I think I could find a way around the dust bunnies and cobwebs for a library and a butler's pantry.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-48667740644098336182016-04-21T06:00:00.000-04:002016-04-21T06:00:17.099-04:00Throwback Thursday: Warming Up<div style="background: rgb(244, 248, 236); border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23.4px; margin-bottom: 23px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Before practice or performance, dancers stretch their muscles, head to toe. Not only does stretching feel amazing, it prevents injury, and allows the performers to push the limits of their physical capabilities. See <a href="http://www.loisgreenfield.com/galleries/dance/index.html" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank" title="Lois Greenfield dance photography">here</a> for some favorite photos of dancers pushing their limits)</div>
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<a href="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/img_1115.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="" class="alignright size-medium wp-image-1613" src="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/img_1115.jpg?w=225&h=300" height="300" style="background: transparent; border-color: rgb(221, 221, 221) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(221, 221, 221); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgb(204, 204, 204) 4px 4px 12px; display: inline; float: right; height: auto; left: -4px; margin: 0.5em 0px 1.625em 1.666em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Gesture drawing" width="225" /></a></div>
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Visual artists complete quick warm-up sketches or gesture drawings to loosen up the hand, and to practice before drawing more complex and detailed work.</div>
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Singers perform vocal gymnastics in preparation for a performance. Lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-lolli-POP. (That used to be my favorite.)</div>
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And we writers? We open up a scene and dive in.</div>
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There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’ve found in the past week that a warm-up really helps my process. These warm-ups are nothing elaborate, nor are they award-winning writing. They are simply meant to get the internal editor out of the way and get the words flowing when I finally do sit down with my work-in-progress.</div>
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The rules? I write one side of a page in my notebook with a freely flowing pen, top to bottom. I don’t time myself, because I don’t want to get pulled out of my process wondering if I have 5 seconds left or 15. I just write from top to bottom as quickly as I can. If I get stuck, I write something stupid until another thought comes to me.</div>
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Here are some of the topics I’ve written as warm-up:</div>
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<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A description of a city I’ve visited</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What I’ve neglected</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My mother</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I must be nuts to do this</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Leaving</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Being eternal</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All boundaries will disappear</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What am I obsessed by?</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The details of life</li>
<li style="background: transparent; border: 0px; line-height: 23.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A description of my morning</li>
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Many of these topics have come from <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Writing Down the Bones</em> by Natalie Goldberg, which is more like a visit with a writing coach than plodding through a craft book. With a quick google search, you can find dozens of other writing prompts, as well as writing prompt generators.</div>
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I write three of these pages then turn to my manuscript. It doesn’t take long, and by the time I’m done, I’m easily able to transfer my attention to my manuscript. Because of the practice, my words just fly out, without any hemming and hawing, and that makes me a happy writer.</div>
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Try it and see what you think, and be sure to let me know if it works for you.</div>
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<i>Originally published at Quirk and Quill 10.4.12</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-52230497443280232632016-04-14T06:00:00.000-04:002016-04-14T06:00:00.163-04:00Throwback Thursday: On Becoming Revisionary<div style="background: rgb(244, 248, 236); border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23.4px; margin-bottom: 23px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Last week, I helped a woman who is moving from a very large house (probably over 3000 square feet) to a three-bedroom apartment.</div>
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We sorted the contents of her garage into piles of garbage, piles of recycling, piles of donations, and piles of things to keep. Some things were easy to sort: the bags of trash that had been sitting for weeks; the broken picture frame; the dented metal garbage can; the bags of clothes that no longer fit.</div>
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Some things were not so easy: the dollhouse that needed a few touch-ups but still had many hours of good Barbie time left in it; the unused $600 ski rack; the deflated soccer ball.</div>
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It was not my stuff, so it was easy for me to be objective. I had no emotional attachment to any of it, no history, no story, no memories lacquering the surfaces of these objects.</div>
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They were just things.</div>
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If I were to sort the contents of my own garage, I might not have such an easy time. We humans have a touch of the squirrel in us, a touch of the magpie. A response of “Oh! Pretty!” A desire to own and consume. We place an emotional value on things. With a nod to Tim O’Brien, some of us carry peaches in heavy syrup when we’re slashing our way through a war zone.</div>
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It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?</div>
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In contrast, others carry very little at all, preferring to live a Thoreau-like deliberate existence. A guy named Dave created the <a href="http://guynameddave.com/about-the-100-thing-challenge/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">100-Thing Challenge</a>, the goal of which is to “live a life of simplicity, characterized by joyfulness and thoughtfulness.”</div>
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He explains that so many of us feel “stuck in stuff” and the way to get unstuck is to reduce (getting rid of stuff), refuse (to get more stuff), and rejigger (your priorities).</div>
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<a href="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/simonevans_everythingihave_close.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="simonevans_everythingihave_close" class="alignright size-medium wp-image-2289" src="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/simonevans_everythingihave_close.jpg?w=300&h=201" height="201" style="background: transparent; border-color: rgb(221, 221, 221) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(221, 221, 221); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgb(204, 204, 204) 4px 4px 12px; display: inline; float: right; height: auto; left: -4px; margin: 0.5em 0px 1.625em 1.666em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></a>The artist Simon Evans created a personal inventory cataloguing everything he owns. Sometimes, we need a proper inventory to see what’s what.</div>
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I fear I would brilliantly fail the 100-Thing Challenge. I suspect I have more than 100 things just in the drawers of my desk, and if I were to create a visual personal inventory, it definitely wouldn’t fit on one poster.</div>
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You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?</div>
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We writers collect words. We drape our stories with them, roll ourselves up in them, and swing them around until our worlds are filled with them. We say, “Oh! Pretty!” and hang onto them. We are unable to see that many of these words, while perfectly serviceable, do not fit our need.</div>
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As I approach revising my current manuscript, I’m trying to become a revisionary. I’m trying to see what’s there, to see what’s necessary and what’s not. It’s hard to be objective about the verbal stuff hanging out in my manuscript file-garage.</div>
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When I get to the end—when I get to what’s left behind—I’m hoping I’ll be left with what really matters. I’m hoping I’ll be left with an economy of words that are deliberate and that sing. That’s becoming revisionary.</div>
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<i>Originally published at Quirk and Quill 1.21.13</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-54546279899443309892016-04-07T15:46:00.000-04:002016-04-07T15:46:00.187-04:00Throwback Thursday: You Want a Story?<br />
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You say you want a story? A true-life story, an end-of-the-road type story?</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Yeah, yeah, that kind</em>.</div>
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A what’s-important story?</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You got a story or not?</em></div>
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Alright, alright, keep your shirt on. I’m thinking, ok? Ok.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ok.</em></div>
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Ok. I’ve got it. Here’s your story. So my grandfather used to fly planes during WWII.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Planes?</em></div>
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Yeah, you know those things in the sky?</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Pffft.</em></div>
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He was a test pilot. And one day, he was supposed to test fly this one plane, only for some reason his emergency pack wasn’t complete. See, they were supposed to carry a bar of emergency chocolate, and his pack had no chocolate. Yeah, I know, right? They had emergency chocolate! Smart brass, eh?</div>
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So my grandfather’s missing his chocolate.</div>
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No, I don’t know what happened to it—maybe he ate it one night when the mess hall had fiber fish for dinner. Maybe it melted in the Georgia sun. Maybe the rats got it, or the cockroaches carried it away. Who knows? That part’s not important to the story. For whatever reason, his pack had no chocolate.</div>
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So what did Grampy do? Well, he had two choices. One, fly the plane anyway, and risk getting written up for testing a plane without a complete pack.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Not so good.</em></div>
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No, not so good. Or, he could simply get a replacement bar of emergency chocolate.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I’d go for the chocolate, myself.</em></div>
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That’s exactly what he did. So the replacement bar of chocolate is across the base, and Grampy runs for it. The guys are waiting for him, checking their watches, checking the schedule. Come on, Sam, they say under their breath. Hurry up!</div>
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But there’s no Sam.</div>
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The minutes tick by. No Sam.</div>
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They prep the planes for flight. No Sam.</div>
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Five full minutes pass, and the other test pilots are sweating, there in the hot Georgia sun. “Go get Remus!” one of them says, disgusted that Sam’s not back yet.</div>
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Remus obliges. He’s got a full pack, complete with regulation chocolate. Sam will have to wait for the next group of planes. Remus will take Sam’s plane.</div>
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So Remus goes up.</div>
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And his plane goes down.</div>
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And Grampy not only had his emergency bar of chocolate, he had his life.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">That’s some story.</em></div>
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Yeah, ain’t it, though?</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Exceptin’ I don’t believe it.</em></div>
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It’s true, every word!</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Every word?</em></div>
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Well, I made up the name Remus.</div>
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…..</div>
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And Georgia. I don’t know if he was in Georgia.</div>
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—<em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Hm-mm.</em></div>
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But everything else is true, I swear it.</div>
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<a href="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/hershey-ration-d.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #990000; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="hershey-ration-d" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-2548" src="http://quirkandquill.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/hershey-ration-d.jpg?w=300&h=225" height="225" style="background: transparent; border-color: rgb(221, 221, 221) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(204, 204, 204) rgb(221, 221, 221); border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgb(204, 204, 204) 4px 4px 12px; clear: both; display: block; height: auto; left: -4px; margin: 0.5em auto 1.625em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Originally published at Quirk and Quill 3.21.13</i></div>
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</article><article class="post-2426 post type-post status-publish format-standard hentry category-in-real-life category-were-reading tag-lee-library-foundation tag-libraries tag-read-across-america" id="post-2426" style="background-color: #f4f8ec; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.16px;"><header class="post-title" style="padding: 0px 0px 20px; position: relative;"></header></article>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900854675081408853.post-49446652280306078392016-03-31T06:00:00.000-04:002016-03-31T06:00:02.214-04:00Throwback Thursday: A Love Song for Libraries<div class="wp-caption aligncenter" id="attachment_774" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; border: 1px solid rgb(221, 221, 221); font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 10px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center; width: 310px;">
<a href="http://jessicaleader.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/ginger-belly.jpg" style="color: #5e4d92; outline: none; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-774 " src="http://jessicaleader.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/ginger-belly-300x212.jpg" height="212" style="border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="the author and her sister" width="300" /></a><br />
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Ginger and her sister</div>
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In the beginning was the Word. In her beginnings, there was a book. Her mother told her she could read before she started kindergarten, and she started kindergarten at age four. Each week, she would walk with her grandmother and older sister the nine or ten city blocks to their local branch of the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library, a low brick building down a side street.</div>
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There, she and her sister would settle in the children’s section, while their grandmother browsed through paperback mysteries and Regency romances. She remembers little of that library—windows, low shelves, Ezra Jack Keats’ <em>A Snowy Day</em>, and the front desk, where a stereotypically severe-looking librarian stamped their books with a heavy rubber stamp—<em>ka-thunk!</em></div>
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By the time she was in fifth grade, her mother was in graduate school studying to become an elementary school librarian. Long Saturday afternoons were spent in Lockwood Library at the university: Mom at the copier with piles of coins, sister claiming the best of the blocky chairs available. The options were limited. Ride the elevator up and down, up and down. Run out to the vending machines, having first snatched a quarter from her mother’s towering pile. Quarter in, press F8, curly-cue swivels around, out pops frosted nut brownie. Or, of course, there were the stacks.</div>
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Mostly, she spent time in the stacks. One single row of children’s books, mostly books that sported shiny gold Newbery stickers. Somehow she got her hands on a bookmark that listed all the Newbery award winners, and she decided she would read them. Some of her favorite books were Newberies: <em>A Wrinkle in Time, Tuck Everlasting, Bridge to Terabithia, The Westing Game, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.</em> They were quickly joined by <em>Summer of the Swans, My Side of the Mountain, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, The Great Gilly Hopkins, A Ring of Endless Light.</em></div>
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She remembers, though, mostly spending those afternoons with E.L. Konigsburg. Oh, they weren’t on a first-name basis, she and E.L., but nevertheless, she became great friends with Claudia and Jamie, wishing more than anything that she could stay in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that she could go to an automat (<em>What was an automat, anyway?</em>). She thrilled to the sound of <em>Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth.</em> She gobbled up <em>About the B’nai Bagels,</em> while developing <em>A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver.</em> She even became <em>Father’s Arcane Daughter</em> for a while.</div>
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Those Saturday afternoons ceased, but she found other libraries to haunt. She could make a dot-to-dot design on a map of the United States of libraries she has frequented over her lifetime. It would undoubtedly look like an open book. Some of those libraries don’t exist anymore; some of them have expanded. All of them have been important to her. This one is the one she went to in college, studying with her roommates while wearing large hats (to channel the brain-waves, of course). This one she frequented when she was first married, borrowing books with unlikely plots and even more unlikely heroines. That is the one she walked to with her first baby, borrowing books on child development, as well as board books and movies for cheap date nights.</div>
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This library, here, was one of her favorites. She brought her toddler there for story time, but also to see the fish in the fish tank, and to work the puzzles on the table, and to borrow picture books to read to him, and CDs to listen to (a compilation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems set to music was her favorite). It was there that she returned to her love of children’s literature, often grabbing <em>Anne of Green Gables</em> off the shelf to read while her gingerbread boy played quietly. It was here that she realized she liked children’s literature better than literature for adults.</div>
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Now she frequents her current town library, an old schoolhouse built in the 1800s. It is a place where the librarians not only know her name, they know her library card number. She also volunteers in the elementary school library, where she returns dozens and dozens of books back to their places on the shelves. Sometimes, though, she sees a book that catches her eye, and she sits down right in the stacks, caught up in the pleasure of a book, just like she did when she was in fifth grade. Some things never change.<br />
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<i>Originally published <a href="http://jessicaleader.com/blog/2011/03/gingers-library-lovin-guest-post/" target="_blank">here </a>3.31.11</i></div>
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