Lorna Landvik's Blog, page 3
February 2, 2012
It's Library Lovers Month!
Here’s to Library Lovers Month -- although fellow library lovers would agree our affair is year-round…
When I was a kid, I was a loyal patron of the Longfellow Library. An old yellow house modeled after the writer’s Massachusetts residence, it had been retrofitted into a library and was situated on grassy parkland next to Minnehaha Creek. (By the shores of Gitche Gumee.)
If memory serves -- and sometimes it doesn’t -- the staircase leading to the second landing was always roped off and the librarian’s desk was perched in front of it. Here she would welcome your returned books or check out your new ones, a process that involved taking a little card out of an envelope glued to the book’s inside cover and stamping a due date on it. While not exactly a holy ritual, it was one that threw a sprinkle of fairy dust at all bookworms standing on the other side of the desk, eager to get their hands on their weekly stash.
Entering the library, I always swerved left, into the former enclosed porch that housed the children’s section. There I discovered friends whose personalities, adventures, hopes and dreams I still remember: Betsy, Tacy and Tib, Caddie Woodlawn, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Ginnie and Geneva.
In the summertime, I tried to plan ahead, first visiting the pavilion in the nearby Minnehaha Falls park to buy a slab of handmade taffy wrapped in wax paper. Tucking this brick of butter/vanilla/sugar goodness in my book bag (backpacks were used by hikers then, not kids), I’d race across Hiawatha Ave., to the library.
Book selection was always leisurely, interrupted by leafing through copies of ‘Highlights for Children’ (I loved Gallant, but related more to Goofus) or whispered conversations with friends (these were the days when librarians ‘shushed’ all and any noisemakers).
When I finally checked out my books, it was off to the statue of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that rose in the middle of the park property. There at the poet’s feet, I’d unwrap my taffy and open a book, transported by words, and a little bit of sugar.
When I was a kid, I was a loyal patron of the Longfellow Library. An old yellow house modeled after the writer’s Massachusetts residence, it had been retrofitted into a library and was situated on grassy parkland next to Minnehaha Creek. (By the shores of Gitche Gumee.)
If memory serves -- and sometimes it doesn’t -- the staircase leading to the second landing was always roped off and the librarian’s desk was perched in front of it. Here she would welcome your returned books or check out your new ones, a process that involved taking a little card out of an envelope glued to the book’s inside cover and stamping a due date on it. While not exactly a holy ritual, it was one that threw a sprinkle of fairy dust at all bookworms standing on the other side of the desk, eager to get their hands on their weekly stash.
Entering the library, I always swerved left, into the former enclosed porch that housed the children’s section. There I discovered friends whose personalities, adventures, hopes and dreams I still remember: Betsy, Tacy and Tib, Caddie Woodlawn, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Ginnie and Geneva.
In the summertime, I tried to plan ahead, first visiting the pavilion in the nearby Minnehaha Falls park to buy a slab of handmade taffy wrapped in wax paper. Tucking this brick of butter/vanilla/sugar goodness in my book bag (backpacks were used by hikers then, not kids), I’d race across Hiawatha Ave., to the library.
Book selection was always leisurely, interrupted by leafing through copies of ‘Highlights for Children’ (I loved Gallant, but related more to Goofus) or whispered conversations with friends (these were the days when librarians ‘shushed’ all and any noisemakers).
When I finally checked out my books, it was off to the statue of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that rose in the middle of the park property. There at the poet’s feet, I’d unwrap my taffy and open a book, transported by words, and a little bit of sugar.
January 26, 2012
Ode to a Winter Coat
Once a Border Collie mistook me for Justin Beiber, pouncing on me like one of his crazed fans and slobbering my face with kisses. Another time a Vizsla wearing mud stockings tried to leap into my lap (never mind that I was standing). And then there was the St. Bernard who hip-checked me into the bushes as he trotted by on a path.
At a dog park, the occasional inopportune canine contact happens, which is why I’ve learned never to wear white . . . or anything fashionable. In fact, I’ve gone to the other extreme, wearing clothes that by all rights should be in a rag bin rather than on my body.
Take my winter coat (to that my husband might say: “yes, please, take it!”). It’s knee-length, down-filled and outfitted with a hood. The perfect coat for cold Minnesota winters and now, considering its wear-and-tear, the perfect coat for the dog park. Sprigs of feathers occasionally poke out from tears in the seam. The back hem is folded-up funny and I can’t figure out how to flatten it. The bottom of the zipper tape has ripped away from its mooring and just because the coat is black doesn’t mean its many stains are invisible, especially the one in the front that looks like dribbled rust.
But it’s so warm, and the pockets have zippers to keep my keys, spare gloves and cell phone safe, and the hood cuts the wind and when the hill’s too icy to traverse on foot, I can sit down and slide, the coat’s slippery outer fabric my serviceable sled.
Wearing it, I am cozy, prepared, and impervious to the messiness of dogs. Not a lot of clothes (think cocktail dresses) can make that claim.
At a dog park, the occasional inopportune canine contact happens, which is why I’ve learned never to wear white . . . or anything fashionable. In fact, I’ve gone to the other extreme, wearing clothes that by all rights should be in a rag bin rather than on my body.
Take my winter coat (to that my husband might say: “yes, please, take it!”). It’s knee-length, down-filled and outfitted with a hood. The perfect coat for cold Minnesota winters and now, considering its wear-and-tear, the perfect coat for the dog park. Sprigs of feathers occasionally poke out from tears in the seam. The back hem is folded-up funny and I can’t figure out how to flatten it. The bottom of the zipper tape has ripped away from its mooring and just because the coat is black doesn’t mean its many stains are invisible, especially the one in the front that looks like dribbled rust.
But it’s so warm, and the pockets have zippers to keep my keys, spare gloves and cell phone safe, and the hood cuts the wind and when the hill’s too icy to traverse on foot, I can sit down and slide, the coat’s slippery outer fabric my serviceable sled.
Wearing it, I am cozy, prepared, and impervious to the messiness of dogs. Not a lot of clothes (think cocktail dresses) can make that claim.
January 18, 2012
Mid-January Review
Writing from an oddly snowless Minnesota. The temperature did take a dip today, reminding me of what normal winters feel like.
Thanks to all of you who have commented and 'friended' me -- I'm still trying to figure out the ins and out of online communication. One day I shall be such a cyber wizard I shant recognize myself.
(That last sentence was brought to you by 'Downton Abbey,' a series I'm having ever so much fun watching.)
So to answer some of your questions --
I hope there'll be a new book of mine in your hands or on your bed stand sooner than later. I'll provide details as they come in.
As to my show; I have two more weekends of performance and I'd LOVE to take it on the road sometime. All theater producers are welcomed to contact me.
And my New Year's resolutions? I decided long ago to make only those I can keep -- eating more chocolate, taking more naps -- and I'm pleased to say, I have been vigilant in keeping them.
Today at the river park with my dog, a red-headed woodpecker interrupted its pecking to accompany us. As we walked, it flew from tree to tree, a swoop of black and white, topped with that startling lipstick-red head. Occasionally it stopped to show off its percussion skills (tap-tap-tap-rat-a-tat) until it finally disappeared into a hole in a tall, leafless maple.
I went home and warmed my bones with a cup of peppermint tea...and a chocolate caramel.
Thanks to all of you who have commented and 'friended' me -- I'm still trying to figure out the ins and out of online communication. One day I shall be such a cyber wizard I shant recognize myself.
(That last sentence was brought to you by 'Downton Abbey,' a series I'm having ever so much fun watching.)
So to answer some of your questions --
I hope there'll be a new book of mine in your hands or on your bed stand sooner than later. I'll provide details as they come in.
As to my show; I have two more weekends of performance and I'd LOVE to take it on the road sometime. All theater producers are welcomed to contact me.
And my New Year's resolutions? I decided long ago to make only those I can keep -- eating more chocolate, taking more naps -- and I'm pleased to say, I have been vigilant in keeping them.
Today at the river park with my dog, a red-headed woodpecker interrupted its pecking to accompany us. As we walked, it flew from tree to tree, a swoop of black and white, topped with that startling lipstick-red head. Occasionally it stopped to show off its percussion skills (tap-tap-tap-rat-a-tat) until it finally disappeared into a hole in a tall, leafless maple.
I went home and warmed my bones with a cup of peppermint tea...and a chocolate caramel.
January 10, 2012
Writing, etc.
I was lucky – I knew from the time I was in the first grade that I wanted to be a writer. Learning to read with the ‘Dick and Jane’ books and sounding out words like ‘See Spot Run!’ absolutely enchanted me. As blond and placid as they were, I was drawn into Dick and Jane’s world and the spark was fired: I wanted to create worlds of enchantment and invite people into them.
As I learned to read, I wrote. My first grade teacher, Miss Carlson wore cashmere sweaters and her hair in a flip and I was in love with her in the way kids are in love with kind and lovely teachers who make learning an exciting adventure. I remember standing at the blackboard in her classroom, chalk in hand, writing straight and tall capitol letters and round lower-case ones, letters that turned into words that turned into sentences. Shazzam – magic.
My desire to be a writer never wavered, even as I briefly considered a career in baton twirling. (I didn’t even own a baton but was awfully fond of the twirlers’ fringed boots.) I wrote stories throughout grade school, through junior high, through high school with a deep and simple knowledge that some day I would write novels.
And I’d act on the side.
This was another fun discovery – I could make-believe not just on paper but in front of people. I especially liked to be in those plays and skits that made people laugh – wow, what a payoff that was!
Writing is my first and deepest love, but it doesn’t demand absolute monogamy: I’m allowed to fool around! So throughout the years, I’ve been in improv groups,
theater groups, comedy troupes.
Right now I’m performing in a one-woman all-improvised show called, ‘Party in the Rec Room.’ With my trove of wigs, hats and glasses, I create characters and monologues based on audience suggestions. I also mix up a batch of margaritas on stage, which has to be my all-time favorite stage prop.
In performing, I get instantaneous reaction; I know immediately what an audience likes and doesn’t like. In writing, I am my own audience and write as a reader: how does this touch me, intrigue me, make me laugh?
I’ll close by amending the words I began this with: I am lucky.
As I learned to read, I wrote. My first grade teacher, Miss Carlson wore cashmere sweaters and her hair in a flip and I was in love with her in the way kids are in love with kind and lovely teachers who make learning an exciting adventure. I remember standing at the blackboard in her classroom, chalk in hand, writing straight and tall capitol letters and round lower-case ones, letters that turned into words that turned into sentences. Shazzam – magic.
My desire to be a writer never wavered, even as I briefly considered a career in baton twirling. (I didn’t even own a baton but was awfully fond of the twirlers’ fringed boots.) I wrote stories throughout grade school, through junior high, through high school with a deep and simple knowledge that some day I would write novels.
And I’d act on the side.
This was another fun discovery – I could make-believe not just on paper but in front of people. I especially liked to be in those plays and skits that made people laugh – wow, what a payoff that was!
Writing is my first and deepest love, but it doesn’t demand absolute monogamy: I’m allowed to fool around! So throughout the years, I’ve been in improv groups,
theater groups, comedy troupes.
Right now I’m performing in a one-woman all-improvised show called, ‘Party in the Rec Room.’ With my trove of wigs, hats and glasses, I create characters and monologues based on audience suggestions. I also mix up a batch of margaritas on stage, which has to be my all-time favorite stage prop.
In performing, I get instantaneous reaction; I know immediately what an audience likes and doesn’t like. In writing, I am my own audience and write as a reader: how does this touch me, intrigue me, make me laugh?
I’ll close by amending the words I began this with: I am lucky.
January 1, 2012
Happy New Year!
Of course I've got all sorts of resolutions that concern writing and publishing, but along with 'write ten excellent -- okay, four pretty good -- pages a day,' I also resolve in 2012 to:
Besides ‘Writing 10 excellent – okay, 4 pretty good – pages a day,’ I resolve in the year 2012 to:
1. Be in the moment only if the moment’s good. If it’s lousy, be elsewhere.
2. Laugh more, and not just while looking in the mirror.
3. Remember the act of reading a book is not a fixed courtship and I am allowed to break up with a bad book.
4. See more movies, especially at theaters use serve real butter on their popcorn.
5. Air-out my yoga mat more often and think about updating my ten-year-old Sears sweat pants.
6. Take more walks in this beautiful world.
7. Accept more awards.
8. Sing louder.
9. Learn to speak better French by allowing the Paris Ritz management to put me up in a penthouse pour troi mois.
10. Remember we’re all in this together.
Besides ‘Writing 10 excellent – okay, 4 pretty good – pages a day,’ I resolve in the year 2012 to:
1. Be in the moment only if the moment’s good. If it’s lousy, be elsewhere.
2. Laugh more, and not just while looking in the mirror.
3. Remember the act of reading a book is not a fixed courtship and I am allowed to break up with a bad book.
4. See more movies, especially at theaters use serve real butter on their popcorn.
5. Air-out my yoga mat more often and think about updating my ten-year-old Sears sweat pants.
6. Take more walks in this beautiful world.
7. Accept more awards.
8. Sing louder.
9. Learn to speak better French by allowing the Paris Ritz management to put me up in a penthouse pour troi mois.
10. Remember we’re all in this together.
December 29, 2011
On Baking
Ahh, ‘tis the season for this cookie snob and self-nominated President of the BSC (Butter, Sugar & Chocolate) League.
A week or two before Christmas, I begin browsing through recipes; handwritten ones of my mother’s, others torn from fifteen-year-old magazines, and now those on the Internet. Like a Broadway producer, I assemble the very best cast each year but always, front and center is my star, the Almond Crescent cookie. This pale blonde cookie, rolled in cinnamon sugar, is a crowd-pleasing, melt-in-your-mouth taste sensation. People have been known to swoon, cry, yodel and propose marriage after sampling one of these cookies.
So why didn’t I make them this year?
I was mad at the world.
Actually, I wasn’t, but I thought: hmm, here’s a Norwegian almond-bar recipe that I want to try and since it has almonds in it, maybe it’ll take the place of the crescents this year. So I made it. And the bars were good, in a modest, unassuming Nordic way, but they inspired no howls of delight, no proposals of marriage (not that I would have accepted; I am still crazy, after all these years, about my own husband). But man, a baker, like a writer, like anyone who puts forth something for someone else to enjoy, appreciates a little ardor.
But I made my mother’s fudge and embellished it with bits of candy cane I pulverized with a hammer (that was fun), and the old reliable ‘Peanut Butter Blossoms,’ and Melting Moments, a cookie who always makes me think Salvador Dali’s in the kitchen.
Now there are tins of leftovers which I will eat so that by New Years, I’ll have reason to add to my list of resolutions: Lose Five Pounds.
And to all my friends and family who were deprived of those fabulous Almond Crescents . . . my most humble apologies, and an acknowledgment that in the kitchen, as in life, loyalty matters.
A week or two before Christmas, I begin browsing through recipes; handwritten ones of my mother’s, others torn from fifteen-year-old magazines, and now those on the Internet. Like a Broadway producer, I assemble the very best cast each year but always, front and center is my star, the Almond Crescent cookie. This pale blonde cookie, rolled in cinnamon sugar, is a crowd-pleasing, melt-in-your-mouth taste sensation. People have been known to swoon, cry, yodel and propose marriage after sampling one of these cookies.
So why didn’t I make them this year?
I was mad at the world.
Actually, I wasn’t, but I thought: hmm, here’s a Norwegian almond-bar recipe that I want to try and since it has almonds in it, maybe it’ll take the place of the crescents this year. So I made it. And the bars were good, in a modest, unassuming Nordic way, but they inspired no howls of delight, no proposals of marriage (not that I would have accepted; I am still crazy, after all these years, about my own husband). But man, a baker, like a writer, like anyone who puts forth something for someone else to enjoy, appreciates a little ardor.
But I made my mother’s fudge and embellished it with bits of candy cane I pulverized with a hammer (that was fun), and the old reliable ‘Peanut Butter Blossoms,’ and Melting Moments, a cookie who always makes me think Salvador Dali’s in the kitchen.
Now there are tins of leftovers which I will eat so that by New Years, I’ll have reason to add to my list of resolutions: Lose Five Pounds.
And to all my friends and family who were deprived of those fabulous Almond Crescents . . . my most humble apologies, and an acknowledgment that in the kitchen, as in life, loyalty matters.
December 8, 2011
Book Clubs
Man, I love book clubs -- so much so that I wrote a book (ANGRY HOUSEWIVES EATING BON BONS) about them. Since I published my first novel, PATTY JANE'S HOUSE OF CURL, I've been invited to countless (somewhere between a hundred and a billion) book clubs and always leave thinking, 'that was fun.' Especially the ones where the wine flows liberally. Which is most of them.
I've been to two recently -- one was composed of chic and professional women who wore a lot of black and whose elegant footwear made me wish I'd polished my cowboy boots. We discussed OH MY STARS and the hostess, with a nod to the Depression era the book is set in, ladled out hobo soup.
The other was a daytime book club that served brunch. Attendees were offered regular orange juice or 'high octane,' which was laced with peach schnapps.
While the discussions in both groups centered around my books, they sparked all sorts of stories from the women; stories of love, loss (one woman had been in the Thailand tsunami), memories of mothers, confessions of parallel parking mishaps. There were a lot of laughs.
And dessert.
I've been to two recently -- one was composed of chic and professional women who wore a lot of black and whose elegant footwear made me wish I'd polished my cowboy boots. We discussed OH MY STARS and the hostess, with a nod to the Depression era the book is set in, ladled out hobo soup.
The other was a daytime book club that served brunch. Attendees were offered regular orange juice or 'high octane,' which was laced with peach schnapps.
While the discussions in both groups centered around my books, they sparked all sorts of stories from the women; stories of love, loss (one woman had been in the Thailand tsunami), memories of mothers, confessions of parallel parking mishaps. There were a lot of laughs.
And dessert.
