The Western Passage

It's funny how quickly things can shift into metaphor.

It was a beautiful day yesterday -- unseasonably warm so I decided to go outside, make myself useful, and, as my Dad used to say, "blow the stink off". The first blizzard covered the west sidewalk under four feet of snow, and I was determined to break through because (a.) it was becoming more and more hazardous teetering through the smaller drifts to get the mail, and (b.) I'm stubborn.

It took two implements to accomplish my feat -- a snow shovel for obvious reasons and a spade to crack into the ice layer. At one point I was standing atop the drift trying to gain some leverage, and, let's face it, playing king of the hill. Happily I had climbed down before the UPS truck pulled in.

About halfway through the drift, the voices started in: "People have heart attacks shoveling snow, you know."; "You won't be able to move your arms in the morning."; "I heard about a guy who was swallowed by snow and paralyzed when the snow shovel hit him in the head." All kinds of rational stuff. But that's the way fear works in my head -- in a quiet, niggly voice that sounds remarkably like a Sunday school teacher I used to have.

Then I knew I had to keep going -- because I don't always. I let silly things derail me. I back down or go around, throw in the towel. I can't afford to do that any more because there are things I really want to accomplish this year -- finishing my novel, getting rid of our unsightly outbuildings, putting in new flower beds. I couldn't let a little thing like four feet of snow defeat me even if I did have a heart attack.

Which I didn't. And my arms move just fine this morning. And now I can retrieve the mail without having to harness the sled dogs.

A Family of Book Lovers

Christmas cards started coming yesterday, and one of them was from my cousin Sue who has taken on the yearly job of creating a Keenan calendar -- birthdays and anniversaries and other dates important to the Keenan clan. She organizes pictures for each month and often chooses a theme. This year it revolves around favorite books and reading, an apt choice for a family where the schoolteachers are thick on the ground. Most of the women have an education degree of one kind or another and are guilty of an awful lot of literacy.

I was excited because I can't remember a time when I haven't been starting, in the middle or finishing a book. Even before I could read, Mom would pile us all in the big gray rocking chair and read to us -- the Churchmouse Stories and Danny and the Dinosaur.

I used to tote around a pile of those little square books every time we traveled in the car. Then I graduated to Trixie Belden mysteries with which I humiliated my sisters by reading at ballgames and church.

When my nieces were little, I loved finding them books -- Professor Wormbog and the Search for the Zipperumpazoo and Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends. A couple of Christmases ago, I was delighted beyond words when Meredith climbed on my lap for a reading of The Adventures of Walter Kitty, the way we did when she was little.

I still like to find books for them, but now it's Water for Elephants and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. But better than that, they're now finding books for me. Samantha just handed me a copy of Going Bovine and said she couldn't wait to talk to me about it.

Keenan literacy lives on!

Scenes from a Snowy Playground

We woke this morning to another snowy scene. Light fluffy stuff this time, not the heavy-duty storm variety. Shelby County reported fourteen inches of snow after the first go, but I don't know how they knew for sure after it swirled around in the wind for so long.

It was so beautiful on Thursday -- the air was so rich and clear -- that we walked around and discovered the lay of the land in winter. It drifts high around the house and close to the fence line.

We didn't find deer tracks, but the rabbits were coming out of the woodwork. There was a path coming around the granary that rivaled the Oregon Trail.

The snow plow finally got around to us Thursday afternoon, and Dave and I were doing the happy dance in the window. If the operator saw us, he must have thought we'd succumbed to cabin fever. It funny because we didn't really want or need to go anywhere, but it was the idea we couldn't.

He didn't clear the dirt road to our west and it's kind of nice to have a private drive. More people use that road than I would have believed, and they pop up over the hill pretty fast. So for awhile we don't have to worry about being surprised.

Let it Snow

Miss Kitty and Arnold are curled up as tight as two wooly worms, sleeping together in a box of straw. It must be cold if Miss Kitty will deign to cuddle up to Arnold, who tends to be a little smelly, like an old man who has missed a spot shaving and drooled onto his overall bibs. I've been eager for the first snow at our new place -- just to see what the place would look like, but I didn't expect a blizzard.

We stocked up on groceries as soon as the weatherman threatened, and our neighbor called yesterday to remind me that the electricity goes out easily, so we were prepared, but when I woke up this morning to dark and desolate, I suddenly understood the bleakness of Bergman's films.

Still. It is pretty -- or at least it will be when I can get out and walk and fall into a drift or two without freezing the nose off my face. All our windows have that swirled holiday effect that you see on Christmas cards, and I'm wondering whether or not my sled made the trip from Michigan.

Of Sap and Scent

I'm like a little kid when it comes to the Christmas tree. I'm impatient to get it up and decorated, and I'm always depressed when it finally has to come down or risk becoming a St. Patrick's Day mockery.

Dave and I googled to find a nearby Christmas tree farm (Geez, can't you google anything?) and headed out yesterday before the snow began to choose one. I refuse to settle on the first one I see, but it was so windy and cold that I settled on the fourth. Shaken free of dead needles and netted in Christmas red and green, then tied down in the pickup bed, our tree was officially adopted. I don't care how many needles I have to sweep up; I want a real tree with sap and scent and the battle to get it straight in the tree stand.

We've never opted for a themed tree, preferring instead the historic ornaments of his youth and mine. His dad had some really cool straw Scandinavian ornaments that he bought on one excursion or another. I have the ceramic angel Aunt Donna made one year, and penguins given to me by a student at my first teaching job. One of my favorite touches is a flock of fairies made of pink chiffon and white pipe cleaners, reminiscent of the 40s. I like to cluster them together on the tree as if they're harmonizing or communing or planning a Christmas surprise.

We add our own history every year by buying at least one new ornament together. One year it was a ball in the Michigan blue and gold; one year a Christmas pickle. This year to celebrate our new home, which is also home to dozens of red-headed birds, we found a woodpecker. It's so fun to dig through the boxes looking for favorites or rediscovering ones I've forgotten.

I've cleared a perfect space for the tree in a corner of the dining room where it can fill the room with greenery and the bay window with lights. It's as hokey as Holiday Inn, but I can't wait.

Pickle Dish Update

One pickle slice finished -- only 8 million to go!!!

Church Ladies

We ate turkey with the Presbyterians in Walnut last night. It was Dave's first experience with a church supper and mine after a long hiatus. I'd forgotten how well church ladies cook.

It was the real thing -- real mashed potatoes, real green beans someone had canned, real pie crust -- even real plates. I missed out on that great pink salad that's mostly whipped cream and cherry pie filling with a few marshmallows mixed in, but I made up for it with the pistachio version that was all the rage in the 70s after Watergate.

We had a great time at our table comparing pie choices. I'm a sucker for coconut cream, and Dave always goes for blueberry. Nancy had a piece that I'm convinced had every fruit in it except kiwi. Apparently pie is a secret of longevity because a friend kept pointing out very spry people who were well into their nineties.

But, as always, the best part was laughing and talking with friends and playing "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" with the decorative gourds.

It was a rare occasion in the city to go anywhere and see the same person twice. Now when we go out, I'm beginning to see people I know -- my fellow quilt guild members and one of our favorite auctioneers, although I almost missed him because he was out of uniform. That's as comforting a feeling as knowing church ladies will always make cranberry salad to go with the stuffing.

Teddy Among the Auction Spoils

Bouncing Back Or Why I'll Wear a Rubber Suit if I Have To

Because my mom was my teacher for both kindergarten and first grade, she literally taught me to read. Which means, she can't give me grief for reading books at ballgames and embarrassing my sisters -- she's the one who started it.

She figured up one time -- in her forty-some years of teaching, she taught 1000 kids to read. That's a far better stat than "yards after catch" or "runs batted in". How amazing to be responsible for so much literacy in the world.

She's taken some falls in recent years. In fact, I've threatened to make her a rubber suit so if she falls again, she'll bounce back. But she does that anyway -- she bounces back. I went with her yesterday to her physical therapy appointment. She's struggles with movement I take for granted -- bending a knee or lifting a leg straight up, even walking backwards, but she never complains. When the therapist asked her to do something, she just said, "OK," and did it as best she could. That has to be refreshing for the therapist -- I'm thinking of myself as a potential whiner in the same situation.

It's also true, as one of my sisters pointed out, that Mom also wants to prove she can do it, which actually consoles me considerably because I see myself more and more in her -- the Ham family stubbornness (I get it from the Keenans too.), the smart aleckness (that might be all Mom), and the determination to get the hell out of a hospital bed and stay independent.

It struck me during this last stay in the hospital how much she's still teaching me -- how she's teaching me to always bounce back.

The Joy of Dirt

Under the category of Things That Would Never Have Happened in Ann Arbor, we have a load of dirt in our back yard ready to use next spring for a strawberry bed and hosta beds around the tree trunks.

It's all thanks to our neighbor, Ron, who knew we were planning more gardens and who pulled in our driveway yesterday to let me know that the county was digging out ditches a mile or so from us. Apparently, the county road crew is happy to recycle the dirt if you just ask, so Dave walked down and visited with the guy on the back hoe and voila -- we have dirt.

Have I mentioned lately that I'm really happy to be back in Iowa where even the people who work the window at McDonalds are friendly?!

Sold on Auctions

For a paltry amount of cash, I came home from an auction yesterday with two boxes of doilies, a box of aprons, a canner, a canister coffee pot, and a 1950s coffee carafe. I love a good treasure hunt. It's even better when the money involved registers in the "pittance" category as opposed to the "Geez, how am I going to make the car payment?"

You never know what you'll find because, of course, you can't tell from the sale bill. "Antique oak table" can translate visually into "table someone knocked together out of oak forty years ago and let sit around in the damp basement until we pulled it out for the auction and evicted the spider colony." You have to look underneath the tables, test the chairs for stability, dig through boxes, unfold the quilts, and sniff the linens. But therein lies the excitement.

I have come home with fuzzy black buttons I thought would make great applique spiders, table linens still in the dry cleaning bag with the bill attached, a cloth napkin from TWA, grape trivets made by crocheting purple variegated thread over bottle caps. Of course, I've also come home with a crocheted parrot pot holder, plastic doilies that had melted onto a vinyl tablecloth, and some really smelly old lace. Not only is it a treasure hunt -- it's a crap shoot.

Some -- I'm thinking of my oldest sister here -- might ask why I want all this "treasure". (Actually, Lynn would use a different word.) Lots of different reasons. Holding onto the crafts of the past is one. I can't make doilies or lace -- and will never try again after a rather horrific tatting incident -- so I can appreciate the work and patience that created them. I know how much time goes into handquilting, and gingham apron fabric is getting harder and harder to find.

I am also fascinated by the possibilities -- a retro party with nut cups served on luncheon plates, a backyard barbecue with long tables covered in all the white cloths I bought for $5, hanging my small quilts with the wooden pants hangers that came from the Madsen Bros. of Walnut and Minden.

Auctions, at the very least, are recycling occasions, and at the most are events of transition -- death or moves to assisted living, usually. This is someone's life splayed out on tables and lowboys for people to pick through, assess, and either dismiss or covet. It's Christmas, Mother's Day, years of collecting. These things that we auction-goers casually brush past meant something once; they possessed importance, conjured memory.

And so, having brought my trove home, I feel a responsibility to surround it with new memories, imbue it with new worth, integrate it into my history. In short, treasure it.

Pearl

Pearl is hanging out on the porch again. Pearl, the riddle. Pearl, who desperately wants to be petted, but who always seems to remember he's supposed to be scared and runs away when I get to within three feet of him.

He's a large, white and fluffy, one of the cats we inherited when we bought the place and who we named before we got close enough to determine his gender. He meows constantly to draw attention to himself; he flomps on his back submissively -- all from a safe distance. He definitely wants us to notice him but can't commit.

Pearl makes me ponder the inequity of the fates of cats. Miss Kitty was immediately affectionate. In fact, the first night we sat on the porch, she came running up and dropped a mouse in Dave's lap. Arnold, the tuxedo Teddy mimic, took a few days and then figured out that humans sitting outside drinking coffee meant head scritching and tail tickling. And then there's Teddy who has two rational adults jumping up to let him in every time he jumps up in the window, a full food dish and the best chair in the house to sleep in.

We never knew any of our cats as kittens. We have no idea what happened to them to form their quirks and personalities. Teddy is aloof, even for a cat, as if he can't afford to get too attached in case we abandon him. But Pearl breaks my heart. How much terror and betrayal has Pearl survived?

I have never understood the attitude of disposable cats. Even our farm cats had names and plenty to eat. Is it because cats don't always come when they're called? Because they purr like race cars and then turn around and bite? Because they don't fawn like dogs? I like dogs, but if I'm honest, I've always preferred the stance of cats -- "You want to pet me? You come over here." Cats have self-esteem, poise, balance. Cats have control over their emotions. They're affectionate, but it's on their terms.

I believe Pearl will eventually permit me inside his perimeter. We've gone from a half-acre barrier down to three feet. I only hope I'm worthy of the trust.

I'm goin' in!

This week, on the advice of a friend, I decided to immerse myself in my novel for four days -- focus only on the writing and let other stuff go -- which hasn't been easy because there are dead bugs all over my floor!!! I don't have complete clarity yet, but I can see it on the horizon. I thought I'd share one of my favorite characters: Julie Quinn.

There was a tin-pressed ceiling overhead and heavy wooden planking on the floor. Rosso crunched peanut hulls underfoot. The noise was startling in the quiet. It suddenly felt as if he were trespassing, and Rosso trod carefully. A huge bear suddenly materialized in the corner of the room, its features fixed into a permanent growl and claw. Rosso stumbled back, sliding in the hulls.

"He hasn't bitten anyone in a long time." It was a woman's voice off to his left. "Not since last Saturday night anyway." She came forward, but didn't offer her hand. "I'm Julie Quinn, proprietress," she said. She was pretty and blonde with generous proportions. She was wearing a cardigan, belted tightly, and wide-legged brown pants and no shoes. Her toenails were a bright red. "The peanut hulls are good for the floors. It’s the oil."

He nodded. She was observant, and she'd actually used the word proprietress.

"I'm looking for a room," he said.

She nodded. "Most people use the side entrance. Only Jehovah Witnesses and city folk use the front." She sized him up. He knew he didn't look religious. She beckoned with her head for him to follow her back to the bar -- twelve foot long and polished to a gleam.

He was a bit taken aback by all the taxidermy -- besides the bear, there was a bobcat caught in mid-leap, and a snapping turtle mounted over a doorway. They'd been captured in such action that he expected them to move. Even the head of a fish, prepared with mouth gaping wide and popping eyeballs roosting on top, swam out of a wall. He stopped and circled, trying to acclimate himself.

"A bit much, I'll admit," said Julie. "But they lend atmosphere. I named them all so I wouldn't feel so intimidated. It's hard to be frightened by something you've named."

She had a point.

"They were collected by our own personal madam," she said. Had he heard her right? "Shot them all herself. She was marvelous," she continued. "No pretense, no bullshit. Or at least that's how the stories go. She said it was her mission in life to give comfort, but she couldn’t be a nurse because blood and vomit made her faint. I've heard from some of my really old regulars that she was a hell of a dancer. Called herself Coco de Mer. That's French for coconut of the ocean or something."

"The sea," murmured Rosso.

She glanced at him. "Just passing through?"

Here it was. "Something like that," he said. "I may stay a few days." He gauged her reaction, but all he read was skepticism.

"You don't look the type to spend time poking around little towns."

"I noticed the hotel on the bluff," he said. “I’m interested in architecture.”

She nodded, but he felt her powers of observation kick up a notch. She pulled out a ragged-looking ledger and flipped through the pages until she found a blank page. "How many days are you planning to be fascinated by our architecture?"

"Can we leave it open-ended?" he asked.

She shrugged and scribbled the date. "Name?"

"Lee Rosso," he said.

"Address?"

"Ann Arbor, Michigan." He lied to see how observant she really was. Did she know about Norah Finn’s good fortune?

"You heard about this all the way out in Michigan?" Her skepticism was growing.

"Sure." He had the sudden uneasy feeling he was missing something.

"Then why does your pickup have Iowa plates?"

"How do you know which pickup is mine?"

"Because it's the only truck in the parking lot that I don't recognize," she said. “Unless you walked from Michigan?”

He lifted one shoulder -- a noncommittal shrug. She could draw her own conclusions. Sometimes a disguise was more convincing if you let people fill in their own blanks.

“A man of mystery, I see,” she said. “What do I care? As long as you’re paying.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You are paying?”

He reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay in advance.” He piled twenties on the counter until she punctuated the end of the deal with her index finger on the money. “That’s a start,” she said. “Breakfast comes with the room. I do other meals, but they’re extra. Reasonable, but extra. As is the booze. If you get sick of my cooking, Sully’s Cafe is on Main Street. The sale barn does lunch and there are a couple of places out near the highway.”

He was hoping she would fold his money and stash in her cleavage, but she disappointed him. “What’s in the tin building across the street?” The girl with cinnamon hair still lingered in his mind.

Julie Quinn looked at him with renewed suspicion, and he understood. Why would he be randomly interested in a building with no discernible signage unless he was up to no good -- which he was -- just not what she was probably imagining.

“It’s the county historical museum,” she said. “If you’re truly interested in our architecture,” she said the word wryly, “you’ll need to pay a visit. The woman who runs it is especially interested in the Grand.”

He decided to move on quickly. “So this place was around at the same time as the Grand Hotel?”

“We had everything the Grand had,” she said, using the “we” as if she’d been part of the era, “gambling, good food and gossip, just without the fancy gowns and snooty attitudes.”

“It’s a little startling to see such a huge structure in the middle of the prairie. Who built it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is this? A test for the yokels? You’ve obviously heard about Declan McCleary so don’t tell me you don’t know about Eamon.” His money was still in her hand, and he thought for a moment she was going to hand it back to him and throw him out. Julie Quinn was no yokel. He’d underestimated her as, Armand would remind him over and over, he did most women.

He raised both hands in surrender and retreated a step. “I just wanted to get a local angle. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“If you are a newspaper reporter, Vivian Westby will love you.”

“Vivian Westby?” The name sounded familiar.

“She owns the newspaper. And writes most of the articles, if truth be told.”

Of course, some Westby had started the newspaper in the 1800s, and it was another Westby who seemed to have it in for Declan McCleary in the early 1900s. “Tough, is she?”

“I don’t know that tough is the word I’d use -- more like ruthless.” Julie folded her arms and kinked her body as if she were mentally stepping back to size him up, deciding whether or not he could take Vivian Westby in a fair fight.

“You think she’s not going to like outside competition?”

She laughed then, and he liked the sound of it. “She’s going to fucking hate it.”

He was a little taken aback by her word choice, and by the look on her face, that’s exactly the reaction she wanted. It was a reminder that he’d better not underestimate her again.

“Is it too early for a beer?” he asked, settling onto a bar stool. He needed information about what he’d really come to town for, but he’d have to work his way around to it with this one.

She answered by pulling one from the cooler and snapping off the cap at an opener fastened to the bar. It was a smooth, practiced move. “What do you want to know now?” she asked, settling her forearms along the top of the bar. “And before you ask, take notice of the bullet holes in the bar. Not all of those are from the wild west days.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. He liked her. “What kind of a guy was this Declan McCleary? This whole hotel on the prairie things seems pretty bizarre.”

“I didn’t know him personally,” she said. “I was only a teenager when he died.” She glared when she caught him sizing up her age. “And what the man chose to do with his money is none of my business.” She grabbed a white cloth and began polishing the bar top, taking rather aggressive swipes at his resting arm. Her phrasing startled him. Did she know about the connection to Norah Finn? If she did, then possibly everyone did, and it wouldn’t be information he could use. But then Julie prattled on about what she called too much gingerbread and foolishness on the “beast of a place”, and he realized she was just talking about the money McCleary had spent on the hotel. The phone rang then, and she disappeared into an alcove off the back of the bar to answer it.

Her voice grew strident in her phone conversation and the volume rose. She was talking to someone named Jimmy whose attributes apparently included thieving, lying and giving other sonsabitches bad names. He tipped back his head and drained the beer. His eyes landed on a framed certificate hanging above the bar -- right between a pheasant in flight and a wood duck -- could Jimmy on the phone be the same Jimmy whose name accompanied hers on the license?

She slammed the receiver down so hard in its cradle that the phone jangled. The polishing cloth was twisted so tightly in her hand Rosso hoped she never tried to strangle him. No wonder his charm wasn’t working.

“Another beer?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for his reply, just scooped, de-capped and slid it down to him. She didn’t even look up.

“Thanks.” He took a swig. Should he acknowledge what he’d heard or just feign ignorance? He decided quickly that ignorance would be better for his health. “So you’ve lived here all your life?”

The look she shot him made him want to put up his hands and retreat again. But she must have decided it was just a question because her face softened and she answered him, “I went away to college for awhile, lived on the west coast for awhile.”

“What made you come back?” Were those tears in her eyes? Couldn’t be. Must be a weird reflection of the florescent lighting.

“It’s home,” she said simply.

He had no idea what she meant. There was the place his parents lived but he only visited them there. There was no one place where he’d gone to school with the same kids from kindergarten onward, or even played ball with the same team two years running. He’d traveled the world, but that had only been from army base to army base and that didn’t really count. When your father was a three-star general, and you were expected to best him when you grew up, the world was a very small place.

“I can show you your room any time,” she said. Whether it was the phone call or the silent reminiscing she’d been doing, she was very subdued.

“Do a lot of kids go away to college?” She’d given him his opening; he wasn’t going to let it pass by.

“Some,” she said. “A lot of kids go to Northwest Missouri State in Maryville. It’s not too far from here. Some get the hell out and are never seen again.”

“Any of them ever get as far as Ann Arbor? We’ve got a pretty big college there, you know.”

She eyed him again. Would she ever trust him? Of course, if he was honest, he’d have to admit that he’d given her very little reason to. “One did.”

“Did she like it? I’d be interested to know how Ann Arbor compares to a small town. We think we’re hot shit, but perhaps we’re wrong.”

“You’d have to ask her,” said Julie.

Trying to be funny wasn’t working with her either. “Did she come home too?”

“Ran home more like,” said Julie in a surprising bit of candor.

“Ran from what?”

“Nosy bastards like you would be my guess,” she snapped. She immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing a very good job as hostess.” Her eyes drifted back to the telephone alcove.

“Was that your husband?” He decided to chance it.

Wrong decision. Her eyes flashed. “My husband is dead.” And then he thought he heard her mutter, “or soon will be.” She waved him toward the stairway. “This way.” She walked ahead of him, her bright red toenails winking as her long wide pants swirled around her legs as she went.

Drivin' with my Arm Out the Window

I usually take the pickup, using the excuse that it's already sitting out, but the truth is I just like driving it. I like climbing into it; I like being high up while I drive; I like all the possibilities of hauling stuff -- dirt, straw bales, furniture. But mostly I like driving it because it reminds me of my dad.

I loved riding with Dad in the pickup -- bumping out across the pasture to check cows, or really bumping out across the picked corn rows to chase cows. I'd ride with him to the Matthews place to check on the hogs or into Frank's store to pick out pop.

I vividly remember the detritus of Dad's pickup -- those flat, yellow carpenter's pencils or the advertising pencils that came with a cap; a variety of booklets where Dad jotted down cow/calf number combinations or notations about the weather. (I know without a doubt where I get my penchant for notebooks and pens.) There was usually a nearly-spent spool of twine and tools behind the seat and a bull whip jammed in somewhere just in case. (i.e. the grass is always greener.) You might even find a banana peel, although he usually tossed those out the window. (When I came home from college on weekends, I learned to track him by the freshness of the banana peel in the driveway.)

The best part, though, was riding in the back of the pickup. I couldn't wait for it to be warm enough in the spring to climb back there and ride into Maloy or to the field or back into the pasture where the ponds were. It was windy and cool and too loud to hear my sisters. To a pre-teen living in rural Iowa it was the closest I'd come to flying.

It's not the most gas-efficient decision, but every chance I get, I'm going drive the dirt roads with my arm out the window, and in my head, I'll hear Dad say, "You know, the pickup drives just as well on the top half of the gas tank as it does the bottom."

Dave steals the show

About a month ago Dave and I started plotting our Halloween costumes for an annual event at my friend Brenda's house, who loves Halloween more than I do, if that's possible. The standards are high at this venue. Past highlights include Juan Valdes complete with burro, Colonel Sanders, Idi Amin and Amos Moses with attached alligator. It's not a party where you can show up in a sheet and expect accolades.

Since Dave is a huge fan of Charles Darwin, it was a natural shift to portray a Darwin Award winner. People who win the Darwin Award have spectacularly annihilated themselves in some awesomely ignorant way. Standards for winning this award are also high. In fact, Brenda's husband Pat tried to nominate someone from St. Joe, posthumously, of course, for welding a gas tank without emptying it first and was told that his example was too blase. "You'd be amazed how many people kill themselves that way," they said. They need outstanding stupidity.

Hence Dave's costume, which I believe meets all standards of excellence.

More Scenes from Around the Playground

The first way we're imprinting our new place is by adding flower beds and perennials. We used the hose trick my sister Lynn taught us -- lay out the garden hose until you get the shape you want. Our theory is that the black paper will kill the grass underneath and make it easier to till up next spring. We've already planted yarrow, asters, bee balm and sedum in this bed. The pumpkins are place holders.

(Right)I know this looks like a pile of leaves, but come next spring it will be my first iris bed. The two little brown piles above and to the left will be peonies. To the right of the iris bed, I planted a clump of apple blossom tulips. That picture really does look like a dirt spot in the lawn, so I'll let you use your imagination. (Left) Next to the house, I planted two clumps of tulips -- pale yellow and apricot. Dave scattered grape hyacinth bulbs around in this bed as well. I also put him to work planting scilla bulbs around the base of one of our big trees. If you've never seen scilla in the spring, they are a beautiful periwinkle blue bloom that creates a carpet when they spread. I have perhaps been too influenced by the small people in my life who like fairies, but that's what I think of when I see the scilla in the spring.

Imprints and Footprints

Our neighbors came over for supper last week, and Peg brought pictures of what our house looked like in the 1980s when they lived here. The barn, chicken house and other outbuildings are gone now, and the last owner added on two rooms to the east side of the house and a closed porch to the west so the place looks very different, and, yet, still the same.

Groves of trees still border us on the west and east, and you can still see the old cement steps under a new back porch. In one picture, the flowers planted by the house looked nearly identical to what I put in this year in the very same beds. Peg and Ron's son, Troy, took his little boy up to see his old room and recreated the warning signal of "Mom had had enough" by shutting the basement door hard. "When you heard that," he said, "you knew she'd hidden the yardstick."

Part of the old kitchen is still here -- used as a laundry room now -- the linoleum and cupboards are the same. What was the dining room we now use as a reading room or kitchen annex -- we haven't settled on what to call it. And what is our living room they kept shut off from the rest of the house because it was too cold to heat.

It must have been weird for them to sit in a house that was theirs and is now ours, with our aesthetic and way of life. We have lots of books and quilts and no toys (not counting cat toys which Teddy doesn't play with anyway). Aside from the occasional bursting into song, Dave and I are relatively quiet so it must have sounded very different around here too. They had boys in and out of the house and snowmobiles and bicycles and dogs.

I'm grateful for their stories because we have a better understanding of our place. Now we know that the pumpkins grew like gangbusters because the garden is right where the cow lot used to be, and the pipe Dave ran over with the lawn mower was once actually connected to a building and not mysteriously out in the middle of nowhere.

Their stories give me a better sense of history as we move forward and put our imprint on the place. And a deeper responsiblity as well.

In a Pickle Dish

I've been approaching the quilts at estate auctions as I would puppies at the humane society. I want to be sure they all have a good home because most of the quilts are rare breeds that may soon be extinct.

The quilting industry, it seems to me, is slanting toward the "do it quick" quilt. Kits with pre-selected fabrics, Stack-n-Whack, Slapplique (Don't get me started on this one) are more and more the norm. And I understand why busy women or quilters on limited budgets might opt for this, but I fear we're going to lose our heritage.

My best friend has a beautiful Drunkard's Path quilt draped over an antique ladder in her dining room. It's a two-color version -- white and that great faded pink of the 30s and 40s, and it dawned on me one day that it may be the last one I ever see in captivity. Who sits down to make Drunkard's Path anymore? Or Dresden Plate or Double Wedding Ring -- at least not without a quick method and a guarantee of success.

So it's time I put my money and time where my mouth is. A friend once said that one person doing something is an action; two people is a cause. I'm willing to be the one person who takes an action. One of my favorite quilts is Pickle Dish so that's my first step, and you're all in at the beginning. Literally the beginning because I haven't even pressed the fabric yet. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Beetle Invasion

I am not a woman of great patience. Those of you who know me will not be shocked by this news. So if one more person says to me, "You know, you're living in the country now," I am not responsible for my actions, which might involve a rotary cutter and rubbing alcohol. Just because I have relocated does not deprive me of my right to bitch.

The lady bug mimics have invaded my home! Those beetles that look like lady bugs but are literally pale imitations minus the sweet disposition and the predilection for staying outside among the flowers are crawling across the ceilings, dying on the carpets and generally clogging up my life -- not to mention my vacuum cleaner. As it is with mosquitos and crossing guards on Interstate 80, they serve no useful purpose. They swarm, they bite and they stink if you squish them. I cannot utter "YUCK" with enough force or meaning.

And to those of you who like to remind me where I live now, let me just remind you that I have lost my boots in manure, walked acres of beans, herded cattle, tried to herd hogs, sprayed thistles, thrown hay bales out of the hay mow and dressed chickens with a hangover. I know where I am.

Lightning Bugs and Unripe Tomatoes

Seasonally, it's been a quirky few months in Iowa. It began well. We had several gorgeous nights sitting on the porch watching the fireflies light up the garden, but as the weeks advanced into July, I prepared Dave for a blistering August, but it was so cool at the state fair, I could have danced down the boulevard in a sweatshirt. "It'll get hot in September," I said.

"Don't expect a Michigan fall," I said.

"We can still get hot weather in October," I said.

Saturday morning we woke up to an inch of snow on the ground, and last night I gritted my teeth every time the sleet pinged and zlinked against the window screen.

Dave now thinks I'm full of crap.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a fan of humidity and 90-degree summer days. I can remember the torture and frustration of standing in front of a fan -- which was only blowing hot air around -- trying to pull on pantyhose over sweaty skin because we had to go to a wedding or church or something, only to be elbowed out of the way be a sister who was waiting to attempt the same feat. I'd be happy if the thermometer never rose above 75 -- if it weren't for the tomatoes that stayed green until last week. But this is just weird.

Yeah, yeah, I know -- global warming. I get it. I don't ignore evolution either. But what am I supposed to do for BLTs?

Coming Home

Joy has always been a scary condition. Growing up in the philosophy of God as a grouchy old man with his finger poised over the "Smite" button will do that to a person. But I'm learning to be brave and not duck every time I feel happy. Which is a good thing because I'm so happy since we came home to Iowa.

I certainly miss some things about Ann Arbor -- foreign films at the Michigan Theater, the Sweetwaters Cafe on Washington Street, the availability of goat cheese -- but I've gained so much more than I've lost. Nothing huge -- unless you count the square footage of mowable yard -- just lots of little things I'd forgotten I loved -- the color of ripe soy beans, working outside all day and getting really dirty, the calls of killdeer and bobwhites, battered farm cats who live a Darwinian existence but still like a cuddle if you'll only sit down on the front step.

So I will not dishonor joy by pushing it aside. I'll sit down on the back step with a little calico cat with a crumpled ear, watch the wind blow the pansies around, and wait for the cicadas to start warming up.

Texting Shakespeare

My niece just bought a book about how to successfully discuss books you've never read. Not a bad concept, albeit a little scary. However, since I made it through a Twain, Howells and James course in grad school while only reading Twain, I can't be too high and mighty.

She's reacting to a reading list forced on her this summer, and I have to agree with her on some of the choices. What kid wants to read Great Expectations? I really like Dickens and even I don't want to read Great Expectations. And really, what angst-ridden teenager should read Romeo and Juliet without proper supervision? Someone should be standing close by to say, "Look, Romeo is a real jerk."

I'm a huge fan of literature. I think kids should read literature and be exposed to many different kinds, but I'm against turning them off the classics because of some archaic list of "must reads". Just because high school freshmen have read Romeo and Juliet for a hundred thousand years doesn't make it a good choice.

I'd love to not sound like an old fart with this next point, but there's no way round it -- with the instant gratification of the internet and texting, kids have even less patience and attention span than before. My niece complained about The Odyssey, and on that I had to disagree because it's not only a great story, but the basis of so much that came after. "OK," she said, "but couldn't they summarize it?"

Yikes!

Scenes from Around the Playground

The fall weather in Iowa has been gorgeous -- especially if you love breezy, cloudy days, which I do! I took time yesterday just to explore my own yard.

Teddy finds his boundaries.

Point of view: Miss Kitty
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Me
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Pumpkin
My yarrow survived!!

A monk's eye view of the neighbors' house.

Doesn't Everyone's Teapot Have Parents?

I have always loved stories. I can't remember a time since I learned to read that I wasn't starting a book, in the middle of a book, or finishing a book. I used to carry stacks of little square books with me in the car, and I used to horrify my sisters because I read at basketball games. (I still think the best parts of basketball games are the highlights on ESPN.)

Somewhere along the way, I apparently started assigning stories to everything -- objects, situations -- even numbers. The numbers 1 to 10 weren't just lines on a page with values; mine had personal lives. Number 1 was the stalwart; 2 was the ingenue and 3 her childish sidekick. Number 4 was Gilligan to #5's Skipper. Six and Seven were in love, but Eight was jealous and did everything she could to break them up, but #9 kept 8 in check to protect the lovers. Nine was the swashbuckling hero -- and a bit arrogant. Number 10 was the wise figure who had made it to the top and just smiled at all the foolishness the others got up to.

I have always thought of them that way. Even now when I am memorizing Italian numbers, seis and siete cannot be split up.

I didn't realize it was anything special until a friend of mine turned to me after I'd been animating the pansies or the teapot or something and said, "You know, LeAnn, not everyone does that."

Really? I assumed it was inherent in all brains -- like Paul McCartney who said once he thought everyone heard songs in their heads.

And then I thought . . . Cool!

Dave and I vacationed at Traverse Bay, Michigan one summer. We were standing on the beach really early one morning when two middle-aged men put a remote-control boat into the water and starting zooming it around. It was fun to watch -- for awhile. It was kind of boring with no story. Then Dave and I both turned to each other and said, "Pirates!"

My Cat from the Universe

They say (whoever "they" are) that you are sent the cat you are meant to have. Teddy proves that rule. He found us -- climbing on the windowsill and meowing in the window at our old house in Ann Arbor. Happily I had a spare can of tuna and a cat owner relationship was born. And I mean "cat owner" as in he owns us. I don't know how we managed our household before Teddy arrived because he is clearly in charge.

He's the perfect cat for me because he loves quilts. If there's a quilt available, he's snuggling in. Sometimes this happens when I've got one bunched up on my sewing table trying to get the binding attached. Trust me, it is not easy to maneuver a quilt with a furry passenger.

I arranged my antique quilts on a shelf under a wooden serving piece in the dining room, and I wondered how long it would take him to play "Prince and the Pea". Not long. My very next trip through the dining room I spotted him curled up on top of the embroidered daffodils.

Happily, he's very respectful of quilts. If only the same were true of the upholstery.

Pushing Past the Demons

Since I've been determined to reach the top of the mountain, my personal demons have been especially grasping and needy, and they haven't made it easy this week to persevere. Why is it that the familiar ruts feel so safe even though in the long run they are the most unhealthy choices?

Some of the best advice I ever received was to walk headlong into any fear or strong emotion I was experiencing. It's the same concept as the "straight to the top of the mountain" analogy. So with that in mind, I plunge into my propensity for self-sabotage.

I eat more than I know I should or even want; I don't exercise even though I know I'll feel better; and I watch too much television because it's easier than facing the obstacles of writing or designing. But none of those behaviors feels good -- or represents the woman I'd really like to be.

The former is who I've always been. Am I afraid I'll lose something important if I let her go? Can't I keep the best parts of her and still become someone better? Someone I've learned to be after years of living and thinking and reading?

I know I began this rebellious behavior in response to my mother's shaming. I've always been an "Oh, yeah, I'll show you" person. But the rebellion doesn't serve me well either.

I wish I had a tangible step to take to get past all the demons, a sure-fire way to avoid their clammy green hands and emerge into the clear. But I don't. Yet.

Sometimes when my plot gets stuck, I'll write the question I most need an answer to and leave it to the Universe to respond. Perhaps that's my next best step to push past the demons.

So.

How do I achieve that "tweak" of perception that allows me to move beyond my old way of thinking and being? How do I get clear of the demons?

The Poetry of Quilts

Good quilts are like good poetry. When you look at them, you notice something different every time. A color combination, an exquisite line of quilting, even something that makes you chuckle. Quilts should reflect something about the maker -- quirks and all. They should be individual expressions.

With the exception of polyester, there's really nothing you could add to a quilt that would be wrong, but many quilters are way too fearful. "The colors must all match exactly", "I want it to look exactly like the one in the magazine", or "I can't do that. It's too hard." So they buy quilt kits with the fabric pre-selected and attend classes where the prevailing themes are "Get it Done Fast and Easy."

Quilting should be about fun and creativity. It should be about quality, not quantity. It should be about the experience of quilting, not the end result, especially when the end result is a pile of quilts with absolutely no personality.

I'm guilty too. I want to design quilts, but I'm afraid I'm not good enough, my ideas aren't intricate enough. I bought quilts at an auction Sunday, (it's like going to an animal shelter and wanting to make sure all the puppies have a good home) and the quilts I fell in love with weren't particularly intricate. One was scrappy; one was posies in pots. They weren't complicated, just exquisitely pieced and appliqued. Their beauty was in the execution and in the time the quilter spent working on them.

How many times have I heard it? It's not the destination; it's the journey. It's the time we spend on vacation looking around, soaking up the experience, talking to the locals , not the pictures or the t-shirts we can show people when we get home. It's not the quilt-in-a-day that you forget you have because you have nothing invested in it. It's the one that takes a year, the one where you remember every stitch, especially the ones where you poked yourself and bled on the fabric, the one where Sun Bonnet Sue looks like the Flying Nun or your appliqued flowers grow backwards.

It's not about being perfect. It's about having perfect moments.

If there's no beer at my funeral, I'm coming back to haunt you.

I started writing my own eulogy yesterday. Last week I attended yet another funeral where the minister didn't seem to have the slightest clue who he was celebrating. I see no point in reading an olio of unrelated scriptures, reading the mini-bio off the back of the bulletin and calling it a "good-bye".

There are too many "suppose to's" in life as it is, and there are definitely too many associated with a funeral. Has to have scripture, has to have cheesy hymns, has to be in a church or the next best thing -- a funeral home swathed in gauze orchestrated by men in dark suits. And there's nothing wrong with that if that's what the celebrated person wanted. I would have preferred to bury my dad in a pair of overalls, but I know he would have been appalled. My mom has been a church-goer all her life; for her it would be odd to not hold her funeral in a church when the time arrives. But ever since graduate school, I've spent more time in delightfully sleazy little taverns than I have churches so why be a hypocrite.

I want to be celebrated outside in my flower garden. If I croak in January, you'll just have to wait. I'd rather be remembered in a place where I felt absolute joy under a vast blue sky with the birds overhead and cats underfoot.

I hope there will be music -- Dave Mathews, Bonnie Raitt, any good jazz. And if there are readings, I hope it will be passages from favorite books. If fiction must be read at my funeral, I want it to be the good stuff.

It's rather empowering to write a final message for the people you love -- the words you want to leave them with. I wrote that "I have no regrets." In real time, I have to make sure that is true at the end. So that forces me to look at my bullshit for what it is and get past it. It doesn't matter that my mother never encouraged me or made me feel so ashamed of myself that I've struggled for years to feel worthy of breathing. I can give meaning to myself. And I'll have to if that "no regrets" thing is going to be true. Besides, haven't I really known all along that she was wrong? That all the people who made me feel small -- idiotic eighth-grade boys, a morose ex-husband -- were all wrong about me?

Absolutely.

So that's the message I'll want to leave people with -- believe in yourself; listen to your own truth. Do nothing you're "supposed to" just for the sake of social convention or someone else's convenience.

And eat lots of ice cream!

Straight Up the Mountain

from Petrarch's "The Ascent of Mount Ventoux" : "Once more I followed an easy, roundabout path through winding valleys, only to find myself soon in my old difficulty."

It's reassuring to realize that Petrarch has some of the same weaknesses and foibles I do -- I skirt the mountain too, hoping for an easier path, or just because I'm too afraid to commit fully to the climb. If I never commit, I never fail. Of course, I never succeed either. And like Petrarch, who looked three times for an easier way up the mountain, I didn't figure it out the first time either.

Petrarch considered carefully who he would ask to accompany him on his ascent -- one friend was too timid, one friend too loquacious. One was too sad, another overly cheerful. In the end he asked his brother. His brother was the one who headed straight up the mountain, while Petrarch was fooling around looking for an easier way, and Petrarch, in the end, who expended more time and energy achieving his goal.

If I think too hard about all the time I've wasted ascending my mountain, I'll probably crawl under the bed and commune with the dust bunnies. But that would only waste more time. I'll be 50 sooner than I want to acknowledge -- I don't have the time to waste. Maybe the memento mori poets had it right. (Of course, they were mainly hoping to get laid. )

I create this blog for some accountability -- to remind myself daily what my goals are and that I am strong enough to get to the mountaintop.