Gifts that Last

Over the Christmas holidays my nephew often brings me a pound cake. He’s mastered the method of creaming the butter and sugar, mixing the batter, and consistently turns out perfect cakes that practically melt in your mouth. The cake he brings me won’t last long in a house full of relatives. Even some of the children will pass up decorated cookies for a slice.

Why would a perishable cake be part of an essay on gifts that last? Because my nephew is part of the fifth generation to make the cake from Mary Etta Merrill’s recipe. Mary Etta, or Ma Ette as she was called, was my great-grandmother. Since she died before I was a year old I don’t actually remember her. I know of her from a single photograph, some family stories, and the pound cake recipe. She gave the recipe to her daughter-in-law, my grandmother, who then passed it down to the rest of us. It’s a simple recipe, made from ingredients found in a farm wife’s kitchen: sugar, real butter, eggs, flour, and vanilla. No fancy extra ingredients or frosting, just a plain cake. The delicate flavor is comforting; its simplicity makes it memorable.

Perhaps this came to mind because I was thinking about the treats that I make, some of them only for the Christmas holidays. As I come across new recipes, I try new things, but it is the old recipes that mean the most. They have stood the test, the kinks worked out, the seasonings adjusted, et cetera, before they were passed on. Beyond that, they have a history, a connection that the new things don’t have yet. It brought a smile to my face when I pulled out the recipe for fruitcake cookies on which my mother had noted “Recipe given to me by Pat Garner’s mother in 1964.”  I helped Mother make the cookies that year, and have made them either with her, or on my own every year since. If you do the math, you’ll see that for me this year’s batch marks fifty years, a half century of my making these same cookies.

            I’ve written before about the almost sacred ritual of making candy at the holidays with my mother, and of the sadness when the time came to make candy the first year after her death. To my great comfort, one of my sons asked to make candy with me that year, and continues to do so. His wife, my daughter-in-law, makes chocolate fudge with peanut butter from the recipe that my mother received when she was in college.

            Trends in gifts come and go, often heavily influenced by advertising agencies that produce the slick gift catalogues, catchy slogans, and glitzy television ads that bid us buy, buy, buy. But my great-grandmother, grandmothers, and mother were the wise ones. Although I received other gifts, material things that for the most part have long worn out, other than a few treasured pieces of jewelry, it is the other gifts that have endured. The gift of their patience in teaching me to cook, the lesson that some things are made special by preparing them only for important occasions or holidays. And the most treasured gifts of all, ordinary little slips of paper with recipes written in their familiar handwriting that bind me to them with memories as delicate as the aroma wafting from the oven, and as warm and sweet as the just-baked cookies and cakes.

Another V. B. R. Story

Many years ago, while studying a work in a college literature class, the professor pointed out that long after the books were published the writer took his pen to his hardbound copy, making changes and corrections. If I could remember which author this was, I could find on the internet a photograph of a page from the book complete with the scribbled additions.

Given this, perhaps I’m in good company. I hesitated to publish V. B. R.: My Mother’s Story because I knew it was incomplete. But there came a time to decide that I could sit on it another half-dozen years or go with what I had. Part of the hesitation came from my realization that there were so many questions that I had never asked, so I simply did not have that information. Another thing was that I don’t have as good a memory as I thought I had. Little details from events that I had either heard about or in some cases, been there for, escaped me. On the other hand, Mother had a remarkable memory.

In cleaning out a closet this week, I came across a notebook with notes from a trip to Bella Vista, Arkansas, we took with Mother in 1999, when she was 83 years old. By this time macular degeneration had taken most of her sight. When my husband mentioned a town we were going through, Mother said “That’s not too far from Mena. I’d love to see if that restaurant is still there.” So we went to Mena. In 1928 or 1929 she had accompanied her Grandma Christopher who was to spend the summer in Mena for health reasons. Mother’s uncle had driven them there and settled them in a house that had what were called housekeeping rooms.

I do not have Mother’s sense of direction. Can you imagine being able to direct someone to a town in another state - without benefit of a map, or sight to read it, or the ability to see the landmarks - that you have not been to in seventy years? Following Mother’s directions we drove around the town as she told us about the places she remembered: the park, the block where the house had been, the Christian Church they attended on Sundays, the library, and the post office.

And yes, we found the restaurant. The Skyline Café that opened in 1922 was still there! Mother had such fun telling the server that it was her 83^rd birthday, and she had eaten there when she was only twelve of thirteen years old, and was so pleased to find that it was still there. As she had done seventy years earlier, Mother dined on fried chicken, then ordered ice cream for dessert. Although she declared it a good meal, later she remarked to us that it wasn’t as good as she remembered it being. Then with her usual insight, she said something about things often being better in our memory than in reality.

It was good to find my notes and read what I had written about the trip, but that reality pales in comparison to the memory of Mother’s delight in finding that on her 83^rd birthday, the Skyline Café was still open.  

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

My dear friends, I realize I've been all but insufferable recently. Thank you for putting up with me while I agonized over finding a format for the book about my mother, worked on it at a snail's pace, then decided to 'do it myself' with a well-known self-publishing site. All who know me must have laughed at the thought, given my lack of competence where a computer is concerned. And did I mention that I bought a new computer and tried to go from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1 in the middle of all this?

 A rational person would have hired someone to edit, format, design the cover, etc., but then, I'm not often accused of being rational. I've learned a lot, but didn't quite get it right after all. Should have ordered that second proof copy! But it is out there, errors, flaws and all. Since Mother was an English teacher for over 35 years I really didn't want it to be full of grammatical mistakes, but you may find a few. The other mishaps in it are somewhat minor, mostly due to my impatience at the end. In a strange way that almost fits. My father was a perfectionist, and would take forever getting something done to his standards. Mother did a good job on most things, but her attitude was more of a 'don't piddle, just get it done' attitude. As for as she was concerned, perfection was not always necessary when good enough would do. So, though not perfect, perhaps it is at least good enough.

I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude to my family and friends who have encouraged me in this project. Even as a writer, I simply cannot put into words how much the support has meant to me. I have been surprised and delighted by the number of you who have 'liked' on Facebook, commented, or sent me messages. That so many of you would be interested in something I thought I was doing only for our family humbles me.

Last, but certainly not least, I am so grateful for the support and kind comments and reviews by my fellow writers. The writers that I've had the opportunity to meet are so generous in their support of fledgling writers like me.

I cannot thank all of you enough for sticking with me through the slogging through this project,  and now my 15 minutes of, if not fame, at least celebration.

Who Knew Such a Little Thing Could be so Difficult?

On September 8, I proudly posted a photo of me holding a proof copy of “V. B. R., My Mother’s Story” on Facebook.  I admitted in the post that it was probably too soon to brag about this accomplishment. Was I ever right about that! My anticipation that the book would be available by the end of the month exhibited all the optimism of a rank amateur. I’d worked so hard on it, edited it over and over again, and was certain that when I opened the covers I would find this wonderful, perfect product. Wrong again! Not only did I spot errors, my proof reading friends found plenty as well. And though I appreciate all their suggestions other than correcting errors, I chose not to make some of the changes.

One that I did make was to number the pages, but had I known what a nightmare this would turn into for me, I might have said "Who needs page numbers? The book isn't that long." You see, the computer and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it hates me. Did I mention that I am also in the process of learning a new computer, of moving from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1?  I’m certain that some nerdy kid somewhere with a serious disrespect of senior citizens is taking some twisted pleasure in my difficulty in making this switch.

But back to the insertion of page numbers. A normal person with a good working knowledge of Word might have done this with ease. Even I have done so in the past. Not so easy this time around. Two main problems: I didn’t want to number the title page and other front matter, and  I was switching the document from the old 7 to the new 8.1.  After enlisting the aid of friends, and spending untold hours on the various help sites on the internet I found that many of the things they suggested did not appear in any of my tool bars, but I finally got it done. So proud of myself, I was about to pop! Then I converted the file to a pdf for uploading to be printed. Where did that extra blank page come from? And better yet, how to get rid of it? You guessed it – the fun was just beginning. Other tries resulted in not one, but multiple blank pages that did not appear in the formatted Word document, but would find their way into the pdf. Or the numbers would start in places other than where I thought I put them.

Why did I continue to put myself through all this, rather than just scrap the idea of numbered pages? Sheer stubbornness. The more times it all went wrong the more determined I was that this was not going to get the best of me. Cross your fingers for me. An hour or so ago I uploaded what I hope is an edited version, complete with page numbers!

If it doesn't work, I'll probably snatch every grey hair out of my head trying again and again to fix it. Should that happen, and you see me running around completely bald-headed, please lend me a cute hat.

The Company We Keep

"Choose your friends carefully, you're known by the company you keep," my mother admonished. Earlier that summer we moved from a very small town where everyone knew not only each other, but pretty much all there was to know about each other's extended family back a couple of generations. Now in the "big city" of Montgomery, it was impossible to know even all the members of the large sophomore class at my new high school. I'm not sure it was so much a matter of my choosing friends as it was a matter of who befriended me, the new girl.

Now, many years later, I hope that Mother's advice is still true. In an earlier blog I jokingly questioned if I might be considered an author groupie or stalker. Hopefully they don't consider me too obnoxious, and I doubt that anyone would ever consider me dangerous. I like to be around writers. Sometimes there is a snob in the group who is very proud of their success, and can't be bothered with lesser beings like me. But, for the most part, the authors I've met are generous and encouraging to those of us who wish to enter their magic circle.

Last weekend I attended the annual conference of the Alabama Writers Conclave. The group claims the distinction of being the oldest writers' organization in continuous existence in the United States. The weekend is packed with sessions conducted by writers in various genres, times to mingle with other participants, and a ceremony during which the winners of the annual competition are announced. That writers from almost every state vie for these awards says something. Then throw in that the conference met in Fairhope, Alabama - well, what more could one want? Did I forget to mention that Rick Bragg was our keynote speaker?

It was a wonderful weekend. It is my hope that things I learned there will help me improve my writing. Being around all those people who are actively writing inspires me.

 Oh, that I would be known by keeping company with that interesting group!

The Things We Leave Behind

Although time and geography have spread our family members apart, we still consider each other close kin to about thirteenth cousin out. Actually I’m not good at all the rankings of first, second, third cousin once removed, et cetera.  So the easiest way to explain my relationship to a cousin who visited last week is that our grandfathers were brothers.

During her visit was we shared old photos, documents, and other genealogical information.  One of the unexpected treasures that she brought was an audio tape which my mother had made in 1998, when she was 81 years old. At that time Mother was visually impaired to the extent that she could no longer read, so writing letters was no longer possible. My cousin requested that, as a gift for her young daughter, my mother make a tape of remembrances about her grandmother, (the late great-great-grandmother of the child.)

Until recently I had no idea that this tape existed. Because Mother died in 2005, it was bittersweet  to hear the tape the first time. First it brought tears, then joy to hear her voice again. I barely remember the grandmother, my great-grandmother, that Mother reminisced about, because she died when I was only six years old. So hearing Mother’s remembrances was as much a gift to me as it was for the great-great-grandchild born many years later.

All this has made me wonder what I should be leaving for my children or grandchildren. Have I told them the stories of my childhood, memories of my grandmothers, of my mother? They may not be that interested now, but many years from now would they find it as interesting as I did Mother’s tape about my great-grandmother?  From all accounts, my great-grandmother did not consider herself special, and neither did my grandmothers, nor my mother. But  each of them left a priceless legacy - funny, sometimes touching, family stories, and memories of them that warm me like a hug. What could be more special than that?

Learning to Drive

Learning to drive may present a few problems for Malia Obama. Who is going to be her instructor? What about the secret service following along? In the photos Malia appears happy or excited to begin the adventure this summer.

I may have been the only teen in history with absolutely no interest in learning how to drive. It was fine with me for a parent, friend, or date to chauffeur me around. My mother had other ideas. At her insistence I obtained the booklet, studied it, passed the test with flying colors and was granted the learner’s permit. Getting behind the wheel was another matter. I did not want to do it. My friends would beg their parents to check them out of school on the day of their sixteenth birthday to take them for the driving test, which when passed would end in the issuance of the coveted license. Since my mother was a teacher, she took a dim view of either of us missing school for anything other than a major illness, so skipping school on my March birthday to take the test was not an option. It was also determined that I had not had adequate practice to pass the test. Reprieve!

But the reprieve was not to last. When summer came, Mother declared that there would be a driving lesson each day until I got my license. As soon as the dishes were washed after lunch she would take her ‘nerve pill,’ I would get some Kleenex, and we would get into the car. The lesson would last for a specified amount of time, until she couldn’t take it anymore, or until I was crying too much to drive.

Mother began driving when she was only thirteen. When my grandmother took her nap in the afternoon, Mother sat in the Model A Ford and studied the booklet that came with the car. One day she decided she understood it, cranked the car, and drove around the circle in front of their house. Waked by the sound, Grandmother came out of the house just as Mother circled around. Grandmother got in the car, Mother drove around the circle again a few times, and from then on Mother drove. I’m not sure when she got her first license, but there are stories, some quite comical, of obtaining licenses in various states when they moved for my father’s jobs just before WWII.

There were many things that Mother insisted that I learn. The only two that I remember disliking intensely were learning to drive and learning to type. Mother was a very wise woman; the things I liked learning the least are the things I’ve used the most.

 

Taking a Different Route

There was no Brownie or Girl Scout troop in the small town where I grew up, so perhaps I have a tiny bit of an excuse for not knowing some things. I am acquainted with people who can glance at the sky, and from the position of the sun, have a good idea of what time it might be. I am not one of those people. Neither can I tell you which direction I am facing except at sunrise or sundown. But I do like maps – as decorative objects. Their intended use of providing navigational aid is lost on me. On some intellectual level I almost understand how they work, but can’t make the leap to using the information to actually find my way around. As one of my friends said long ago, I could get lost in a paper bag. Despite the fact that I’ve lived there for years, once in awhile I get turned around in my own neighborhood. In other words, ‘directionally challenged’ does not even begin to describe my problem.

Only in recent years have I had to find my way around on my own on trips, but becoming a widow meant that unless I wanted to stay at home forever, I had to bite the proverbial bullet and get out there. Thank goodness for MapQuest and a GPS. I usually start out with both, but the GPS is the best for me because I don’t have to try to read a page and watch the road at the same time. The GPS also understands my attention span and reminds me several times what I have to do, then if I miss a turn, immediately (sometimes very aggravatingly) insists that I make a legal u-turn.

Having said all this, perhaps it is understandable that part of my trip yesterday turned into an adventure for me. Traveling from near Jackson, MS, to Austin, TX, I planned to leave I-20 near the Louisiana line and head south to Austin. My GPS was adamant that I stay on it through Dallas. For me it was an act of bravery that I turned off the GPS. True, I did have a MapQuest print-out, but not for the exact route. Nor did I have a Texas map with me. In a rather startling realization of how dependent on the GPS I’ve become, it took several miles before I got over the slight panic at being disconnected and settled down for a pleasant ride on smaller roads through the Texas countryside. Had I stayed on the Interstate I’m not sure what the scenery would have been, but along the long stretches between the small towns there were lovely wildflowers, long-horn cattle, beautiful trees, and the best surprise of the day: a Roadrunner! Seeing the spunky little bird was such a delight that I laughed out loud, and continued happily on a different route.

Thank you, Pharrell Williams

Until a recent awards show I had never heard of Pharrell Williams. I know, you are thinking that I must live under a rock to not have known about him or his music. Please bear in mind that I am at least a senior, or by some standards elderly, citizen even if I do not admit to being old. But since that first sighting of Mr. Williams and that hat, I have become a fan. Well, that is if you can call it being a fan if I am still unfamiliar with most of his music.

Anyone who can write and perform a song that makes people around the world of different cultures want to sing, dance, and rejoice in being happy deserves all the awards and accolades. But it was in an interview with Oprah Winfrey that Pharrell Williams made an impression on me. During their conversation he repeatedly gave credit to the teachers, especially music teachers that had meant so much in his life. When shown video of people across the world singing and dancing to his song, he seemed genuinely touched that his music reached so many.  Later I saw a clip of when he visited a class, surprising the teacher and her students. It seemed like an honest gift to that teacher rather than just another celebrity seeking a photo op.

In an earlier blog I talked about my music teacher and put in a plug for education in all the arts in our schools. Hearing Pharrell Williams talking about his teachers, I couldn’t help but wonder how many children are out there, loaded with talent that they may not even recognize yet, or have a chance to develop without access to an arts program.

I’m not suggesting that we neglect science, math, or any of the other areas. But we really need things that cross all national and political boundaries, unite us, remind us of the ways in which we all are alike, and make us happy. That his song can do that reminds us of the power of art.

Thank you, Pharell Williams.  

 

This and That

My last post was about music, yet most of my teaching career was as a visual art teacher, and now I'm trying to be a writer. In the lingo that some of my former students might have used, "What's up with that?" The off-hand quip I usually respond with is that I can't decide what I want to be when I grow up. But the more serious answer is that most of us live longer than some generations before us, so we have time for more than one career. In addition, many of us will spend perhaps decades in retirement and thus be able to take seriously what was once a hobby.

I have just returned from the Daddy's Girls' Weekend, a conference for writers and readers. More about that in just a bit, but for now I want to take a sidestep and mention an interesting conversation I had with someone there. We were both in favor of a liberal arts education, of programs that give students a broad base of knowledge - of instilling in them the desire to learn, and giving them the skills to continue learning over a lifetime.

When I was eighteen I was certain that I wanted to do cooking demonstrations as a Home Economist for Alabama Power or Alabama Gas (alas, the Food Network was unheard of at that time,)  or perhaps work for the Extension Service, so my first degree was in Vocational Home Economics. I taught in the field for awhile, but realized later that I wanted to do something else. Taking an art course for my own enjoyment led to another, and another, until I had a second degree in Visual Art, then later yet another degree in Textile Design, followed by additional courses in a variety of areas. You've probably figured out by now that I love going to school, so teaching was the next best thing to being a student. And I got paid to teach. I'm so grateful that my educational experience from high school forward was not limited to one specific area. My life has been so much richer for having been encouraged to explore more than one option whether it be in the sciences (yes, I also taught science, briefly) or in the arts.Will I have a late-life career as a writer? Who knows? But the pursuit of it is satisfying, and I'd like to think that it keeps my brain from totally turning to mush.

That brings me back to the Daddy's Girls' Weekend. If you are a fan of the Carolyn Haines 'Bones' mystery series featuring Sarah Booth Delaney and her side-kick, Tinkie, you probably have heard of the conference. If not, go to www.carolynhaines.com. for more information about it and her books, including the latest in the 'Bones' series that releases on May 20. At DGW, several fans and many would-be writers (including me) gather to learn more about writing and to meet authors, agents, and publishers. To let you know how much fun it is, someone who came from New Zealand last year returned this year! 

In case I don't post again before then, don't forget the Alabama Book Festival on April 19. 

"It Might as Well Be Spring"

My high school teacher, Mrs. Merle Mc Corkle, was fond of Rogers and Hammerstein musicals. Actually, of almost all musicals, so we often sang medleys from many of them. It is surprising how often I find myself humming some of the tunes or singing some of the lyrics, if I can remember them, that is. After all, it’s been over 50 years since I was in her chorus.

 According to the calendar, the first day of spring was March 20, a day I’m particularly fond of, not only because it was my birthday, but because spring is my favorite time of year. What’s not to like when all the daffodils are in bloom? But I’m getting off track here. The song that has been running through my head lately is “It Might as Well Be Spring” from the musical State Fair.  It’s a song more about restlessness and wanting to be in love than spring, but perhaps just the word ‘spring’ in the refrain was what brought it to mind and voice in the last few days. From there my mind wandered to some of the other show tunes and once again I felt a deep appreciation for what Mrs. McCorkle meant to me. The number of students in the Lanier sophomore class that year was one and a half times the population of the town from which our family had recently moved, the number of students in the chorus almost that of the junior high I’d attended. Needless to say, I’d never seen a play on Broadway, nor heard most of the music.

Some critics said that ‘Mrs. Mac’ taught us music that was too mature for us, but I don’t think these detractors ever realized what a gift the exposure we had in her class was to many of us. We sang music from all but forgotten musicals such as The Desert Song by Romberg (which made its debut in 1926,) along with other classics including H. M. S. Pinafore, Oklahoma, South Pacific, Sound of Music, and Showboat. But it wasn’t all show tunes. We came to know Handel, Beethoven, Bach, and many others whose names I may have forgotten to attribute to their compositions, but not their soul-uplifting music. And last, but not least, were the rousing patriotic songs. The closing number of the concert each year was a stirring arrangement of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," during which we former students eagerly went on stage to once again be part of her chorus.

I’ve rambled more than a bit in this post. Maybe it’s spring fever, or perhaps it’s soap box time. In all the midst of all the discussion about Common Core and educational standards, I wonder if those making the decisions know what a life-long impact exposure to all the arts can have. Because of Mrs. McCorkle and the opportunity to sing in her chorus, I developed a joy for music that has only grown, and thanks to her, I’m never “Without a Song." 

Fifteen Minutes of Fame?

When I commented this morning that I felt like a celebrity because I was the guest on Debra Goldstein's blog today, a friend cautioned "Be careful, fame is fleeting." Of course he was right, but I'm happy with even a few minutes (probably less than fifteen minutes) of far less attention than fame.

It has been my good fortune to have opportunities in recent years to get to know authors, not just through their books, but in workshops and conferences. One of the surprises has been how generous most of them are in encouraging those of us who are hoping to join their ranks. Debra Goldstein is one such author. I am honored to guest blog for her today. I hope you'll check out www.DebraHGoldstein.com and get to know her and her work. And while you are there perhaps read my offering today.

Groupie? Stalker? Fan? Admirer?

I once described myself as an author groupie or author stalker. Neither is accurate, although a couple of authors might beg to differ. I like meeting authors, hearing them read or promote their latest books, or just getting to breathe the same air. To say I'm merely a fan or admirer doesn't quite cover it.

Auburn University at Montgomery, Huntingdon College, Alabama State University, and local bookstores Capitol Books, and Roots and Wings (sadly, now closed) have provided numerous opportunities for me to hear or meet authors, both famous best-selling authors and the newly published. In addition to the book-signings and/or one-time presentations, there are some fantastic day-long or weekend events in Alabama. In mentioning this, I fully realize that I am not providing a complete list by any means, so I'll only rave about the ones that I've attended in the last couple of years, or will attend this year.

My author fix for 2014 started with "Murder on the Menu" held in Wetumpka on February 9 (sorry that I didn't think to tell you about this is time to attend - but mark your calendars for next February.)  Held as a benefit for the library, attendees have lunch with around 20 mystery writers from across the country, hear panel discussions by the authors, perhaps become a character in an author's next book, et cetera. This was either the fourth or fifth one I've attended - they're that much fun.

On the first weekend in April I'll be in Mobile for Daddy's Girls' Weekend. Followers of the Bones/Sarah Booth Delaney series by Carolyn Haines will recognize the term Daddy's Girls. If you don't, run out and get one of the books immediately, because you're missing something. The weekend features events for writers and readers. Mini-workshops with well-known authors, agents,and publishers are coupled with several social events that are more fun than some of us should be allowed to have. There is the crowning of a new Big Daddy each year. You just have to be there is all I can say about that! Oh, and did I mention (insert brag here) that I got to work with Carolyn Haines and other Daddy's Girls on a cookbook that will make its debut that weekend?

April 19 is the date for the Alabama Book Festival, held in Old Alabama Town in Montgomery. It would take pages to tell you about this, but for now I'll remind you that it is a free, all-day event. Notice, I said free. Of course you will probably want to buy some food or books, but it's nice to be able to bring a family on a nice outing with events for all ages that has no admission charge to any of the venues. If you have children, there are special free crafts as well as wonderful authors. I can't even tell you how excited the children are to meet the authors of the books they love. (Parents, are you listening here?) There is only one problem with the book festival - you can't be everywhere at once. There are usually six or more venues with things going on at the same time. I think the line-up includes around 60 authors this year. Check the Alabama Book Festival website to see who they are this year. Come that morning and stay all day, or come for an hour or two if that's all you can do. My favorite local bookstore, Capitol Books sets up on site in the Grange Hall that day to make the books by the presenting authors available if you want to have an author sign one.   

The Alabama Writers Symposium held in Monroeville is the weekend of April 24-26. This year the theme is "Saints & Sinners." In addition to the readings and discussions by wonderful authors, there is the presentation of the Harper Lee Award for Alabama's Distinguished Writer. This year's recipient is Mark Childress. The Eugene Current-Garcia Award for Alabama's Distinguished Literary Scholar will also be announced. A not to be missed extra is the stage version of "To Kill a Mockingbird" performed at the courthouse. Yes, the very courthouse where Harper Lee's father was a lawyer, and the locale for Gregory Peck's scenes in the movie version. Be sure you drink the water while you're there. So many outstanding authors, musicians, and artists have Monroeville connections that many think "there's something in the water."

Fairhope is the setting this year for the Alabama Writers' Conclave Conference on July 11-14. Rick Bragg, the Writer-in-Residence, will speak, and will lead a workshop as will several other authors and an agent. A highlight of the conference each year is the awards banquet, where awards are presented to winners from across the country. It's a good conference, and it's in Fairhope - not that I need much reason to go to Fairhope.

As I said at the beginning, I know this is not a complete list. Visit the Alabama Writers' Forum website www.writersforum.org often for news of events in Alabama.You may be surprised to find how many wonderful things are going on!

Postscript

The weatherman was right. We did have snow. Unfortunately we had freezing rain first, then sleet, then snow that left our streets coated with ice. Facebook posters and national news commentators made numerous comments about us being shut down over such a small amount of snow. We should have been prepared, they said. And how were we supposed to do that? First of all, we didn't know that Mother Nature would change not only her time schedule, but the temperature and type of precipitation.

Yes, we've had ice before - but the last time I remember anything even vaguely like ice to this extent was in 1982. We don't buy snowplows and stock chemicals for something that happens maybe every thirty-plus years or less. Snow tires or chains? Most of us in the South have never even seen them. Comments about lack of skill for driving in this? What are we supposed to do - construct an ice field somewhere and run us all through it as part of our driving exam? And as best I can tell, even the most experienced driver can get into a real mess when ice is involved.

And you laughed about some of our schools closing. Some didn't, and hundreds of children were stranded overnight and longer because the roads became impassable when the storm moved in much earlier and further north than expected. School buses couldn't run, parents couldn't reach the schools. As a former teacher I can say from personal experience, most people do not realize how seriously teachers take their jobs. Nor do those outside the field understand how much responsibility each teacher takes on every time she or he enters the classroom for the day. Teaching the content of the curriculum is but a small part of the job. To all those teachers who not only stayed with stranded students, some of whom had possibly never spent a night away from home, but made them feel safe and secure, I want to say "Thank you."

Did the Weatherman Say SNOW?

For several years I have attended a week-long summer institute in July held in Radford, Virginia. Around a thousand gather there – families, singles – all ages from infants to some in their nineties. They come from all over the United States along with a few from foreign countries. Spending the week there has given me the opportunity to make friends a wide variety of people.

When some of them realize that I live not just in the Deep South, but in south Alabama, the question often arises: “How can you live there?” It didn’t take many times for me to figure out what was behind their question, and given the time it often leads to wonderful discussions. If time doesn’t permit or I think the person is not really open to discussion, having already made up his or her mind about our area, I answer “January.”

Most of the questioners are from those areas of the country where January is always cold, often with snow and ice. I mention that our cold season is from December through February with an average daily high of 63° F., and that by mid-March the daffodils are blooming. Sometimes I just can’t help myself!

Our weather was unusual for a few days in the past weeks, with colder than usual temperatures that led to closing schools or delaying opening. No doubt that amused our neighbors from cold climates. They didn’t realize that we rarely have weather like that, so often a sweatshirt will suffice. Few if any of the children have clothing appropriate for standing at the bus stops when the wind chill is in the teens or lower.

Snow is predicted for tomorrow, and again our weather-hardy friends will wonder why even a little of it shuts down everything here. Think about it though – most of us have never even seen a snow plough since none of our cities own even one, and the state doesn’t have any of that stuff that keeps the overpasses and roadways from freezing. Our best hope is that the sand they scatter about can make for a little less slipping and sliding, and that people who have rarely seen icy roads will stay off them.

There is the also matter of ice on the lines that causes them to snap, leaving us without power or phones. It could happen, so I guess I’d better end for now and make a grocery store run before all the bread, batteries, and candles are gone. Stay warm friends!

 

Snowflakes and Candy Canes

Some people put up their Christmas trees on Thanksgiving afternoon and take them down the day after Christmas. I am not one of those people. I tend to run much later. My excuse for taking them down later is that at least some of my elders believed you should leave them up until January 6 or, as they called it, “Old Christmas.”  Actually it’s just that I’m either lazy or really hate to give up little white lights, wherever they may be. But at some point that day arrives when I can’t take the clutter any longer and have to get my house back to a somewhat normal state.

To those of you who don’t know me, I was a teacher for many years, surrounded by students for most of the year. Then there was our family. Before the last of our children left home, my parents moved in with us. In 2005 everything changed. I was no longer teaching, and the last inhabitant of the house other than me died. Suddenly I was alone, for the first time in my life, and to say this was an adjustment is an understatement. I must add, however, that I’ve always been a night owl, the tendency perhaps fueled by needing at least a few minutes without people. If I stayed up late enough, I could have at least an hour or so of solitude. Seven years ago I moved from the large house with attached apartment that previously held all of us to a small townhouse. I’ve become accustomed to not having others around, and actually love the quietness and order of my much smaller space.

Patient, readers, I’m about to get to the snowflakes and candy canes part. Over the holidays, three of my four sons, their wives, and five of the grandchildren decided to all come at the same time. It was wonderful! Yes, it was crowded. Sleeping eleven extra people makes for a lot of togetherness, so air mattresses and camping gear were everywhere. Total chaos part of the time, but very happy chaos. Among the activities was a cookie experience. One son found cookie kits for Ugly Christmas Sweater cookies and Ninja Gingerbread Men cookies. He baked the cookies, then everyone gathered by turns at the dining table in the living/dining area to vie for the decorating bags of red, green, and white frosting along with a variety of decorating candy additions: snowflakes, candy canes, silver dragées, sprinkles, stars, colored sugars, jimmies – all very tiny and difficult for both young and adult hands to keep from dropping.

The last left on January 4. Umpteen loads of laundry later, and with most of the decorations down, my house is more or less back to order. And quiet, very quiet. I’ll miss them, but they left me a few reminders. Even after sweeping, mopping, or vacuuming the various rooms, I’m still finding some of those little tiny candies from the cookie marathon – snowflakes and candy canes that make me smile.