Michelle Houts's Blog, page 9

In Search of A Gnome Home

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It's a bit of a stretch, I know. From cows to gnomes. But my current work-in-progress has led me to learn all I can about our wee forest friends. And on a recent hiking trip to Ohio's beautiful Hocking Hills, my daughters, my neices and I searched the woods for gnome homes. We decided the Conkle's Hollow is likely a gnome-opolis. There are just so many great place for gnome to live there among the rocks and ferns.

Hot dog sauce

Last Friday, Maggie and I made a 4-hour drive from the farm to Gallia County, down on the Ohio River.  We were on a research trip for a work-in-progress and our gracious hosts, Chuck and Marjorie, suggested a popular lunch spot in Gallipolis. 

 Because "they have the best hot dog sauce," Marjorie told me.  "If you like that sort of thing."  

 I said "Sure!" 

 Then I spent a day asking everyone, "What is hot dog sauce?" 

Most of my West Central Ohio friends and family answered with a shrug.

"I don't know. Ketchup?"

Well, on Friday, we found out.  And it turns out Remo's isn't just popular with the locals.  Folks come from all over for this!

  

It's a simple, little place.  Little, indeed.  And on this day, the temperature was teasing 100 degrees outside and maybe just a little below that indoors.  But, even so, people packed in shoulder to shoulder waiting to order.

Ordering is pretty simple.  I took my cue from my the guy in front of me.  "I'll take one with sauce and pickles."   No one asked  "One what?"  That's because the only thing on the menu is  – you got it – hot dogs.  You can get "one with sauce and ketchup" or "one with sauce and onion and mustard" or even "one with sauce and hot sauce."   But while I was there, no one ordered one without sauce.  The sauce is what makes Remo's Remo's.

Here's my "one with sauce and  pickles."  A footlong hot dog,  topped with a delicious, homemade, rich, tomato-y, kind of peppery, meaty, messy sauce.  And dill pickles! All my life, I've suffered ridicule and shame for  putting dill pickles on my hot dogs.  Here, they're on the menu!  Finally, someone understands me!

Maggie ordered "One with sauce."

 We were lucky.  We got a seat at the counter where we could watch the fast-paced hot-dog-making action up close. 

So, thanks to Marjorie and Chuck and the kind folks at Remo's, Maggie and I have officially experienced and enjoyed our first Italian Style hot dogs – with sauce! 

Frost Quake

Ohio has had a rough winter by today's standards.  It seems that we just don't have the kind of winters I remember as a child in the  1970s.   These days the snow comes and goes.  Three or four inches of the fluffy white stuff  falls, stays a few days, then melts away as quickly as it arrived.

But this winter has been a little more like the winters of my childhood.  We had a white Christmas, a brief thaw, a snowy January, and then a wild early February.  We haven't seen barnyard gravel for weeks.  Somewhere there is a new sidewalk that runs from the house to the new garage, but we haven't seen that for quite awhile, either.

It's not just snow Ohio has seen this winter.  We've been blessed with what the weather forecasters call "A Wintry Mix," which I think is really code for  "we don't really know what's coming."  You name it, we've had it in February:  snow, sleet, freezing rain, hoarfrost, ice, wind, and a frost quake. 

Yes, I said a frost quake.  It happened last week in the early morning hours.  Actually, it was almost time to get up if you're an early riser.  Say, a dairy farmer, an insomniac, or a certain kindergarten teacher I know who likes to walk before the birds even think about waking.  But for me, it was still nighttime.  Deep, dark, dreamy nighttime.  I don't remember feeling anything as much as I remember hearing it.  It was one loud thunk.

Immediately, my husband (TFOMD… The Farmer of My Dreams) rolled over and said very clearly, "What was that?"   Keep in mind that this is the same man who, when sleeping,  never hears the garage door when the teenagers come home, never hears the sick kid wretching in the bathroom, and will agree to most anything he's asked between the hours of 9 PM and 5 AM.  But this noise was so loud, so unusual, that TFOMD snapped into instant awareness.  (Granted it was much closer to his time to rise than mine!)

Now, anyone who's ever been a mother knows that when things happen in the middle of the night (and don't they always), clarity of thought is essential.  So, with the utmost authority, I replied, "It's the house settling."  

Now, I have no idea where that came from. It sounds like something my grandma might have said to me when I was a little girl staying over in her old farmhouse, listeing to every little click and creak an old house can make.  But what I heard that night was definitely not a creak.  For some reason, though, my explanation sounded good to me.  It must been acceptable to TFOMD, too, because we both rolled over and went back to sleep.  (TFOMD for another 3o minutes and me for another couple of hours, but that doesn't really matter, does it?)

It wasn't until I was watching the news later in the day that I realized we had experienced a rare phenomenon. (Okay, so we experiecnced it somewhat sleepily, but hey, it counts).  It turns out we weren't the only ones who heard things go bump in the night.  Emergency management agencies and sherrifs' departments all over West Central Ohio and East Central Indiana were flooded with calls reporting booms and cracks.

The technical term is a "cryoseism"  but the more popular term is "frost quake."  I'm not sure how something this unusual gains a "popular" name.  It's not really an earthquake, but something that happens when the ground freezes rapidly.  The low that night was 7 degrees below zero, the first subzero temps we'd had this winter.  While frost quakes are common in arctic regions, we Midwesterns were taken a bit off guard.

Since a frost quake is an unphotographable event, I'll just attach a few winter farm scenes. You'll have to imagine the rest.

Snowy day at the farm house

 

Here's my 1-year-old puppy – aptly named Hercules.  He loves the snow!

 

                         

Proof positive:  I do sometimes get out of bed before sunrise. At least in the winter months.

SCBWInspired!

I may be more like the cattle on my farm than I dare to admit.  It's taken me a couple of weeks to ruminate and digest all that I took in at the 2010 SCBWI Confernce in Los Angeles.  I'm at a disadvantage to my bovine friends, as I possess only one stomach.  And, unfortunately, one brain to store everything.  Thank goodness for photographs!  Here are some moments from LA which are unforgettable.

Gordon Korman questions why most middle grade novels involve the tragic and untimely death of the dog.  Think about it.  Sounder, Old Yeller, and the double whammy doggy death in Where the Red Fern Grows.  No more dead dogs, Gordon pleads his fellow authors.  Save the pooch!

Lisa Yee wows the crowd with her heartfelt tribute to the incomparable Sid Fleischman, who passed away earlier this year. 

Paul Fleischman, an award-winning author himself, stood to present the Sid Fleischman award for humor in children's literature ….

to Allen Zadoff for his YA novel Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have

During the week, I made new friends.  This is author Ann Dixon, whose most recent picture book, When Posey Peeked at Christmas,  was illustrated by my friend Anne Kennedy.  We figured this out two days after we met!

And my new buddy, Leah Odze Epstein, whom I met the very first morning of the conference when we shared stories of the kiddos we left at home.

Perhaps the highlight of the weekend was FINALLY meeting an old friend, Claudia Gabel, who edited THE BEEF PRINCESS OF PRACTICAL COUNTY, with whom I've had endless telephone and email conversations, but had never met until this moment.   She's every bit as sweet in person as she is on the computer!

I'll admit it.  Walking around the conference and just bumping into some of the STARS of children's literature was cool.  I know, it's LA, but who needs Rodeo Drive?  I was starstruck enough in the hotel ballroom.  Here's David Diaz.

And the incredible Ashley Bryan, who showed us the many faces of poetry performed like only Ashley Bryan can perform.

And, then I got to speak to the gentleman himself….

Priceless.

I did manage, thanks to friend Linda, to get a quick glimpse of this

before it was time to see this.

Funny, but  I wasn't even planning to attend the SCBWI Conference in LA.  A trip across the county just wasn't in the budget this summer, so I submitted a letter to the SCBWI Martha Weston Grant Committee way back in May.  Well, David Deen won the Grant to attend the conference.  Congrats to David!  But just a few weeks before the conference, I got an email from a member of the selection committee.  My letter caught their attention and, although they do not usually select a Runner-Up, they did this year and provided me with a generous partial grant.

So, thank you, to the Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators for your support, encouragement, and for putting together a conference that many will find themselves ruminating on for a long time to come.

A little bit of Heaven ~ Literally speaking

 

What comes to mind first when you think of Ireland,  England, and Scotland?  This?

Yeah, me too.  Sheep, green grass, stone walls.

And since I arrived, there has been no lack of sheep, green grass, or stone walls.

But Scotland and Ireland have been nearly as prolific in the production of writers as they have been in the production of wool and whiskey.

To find out what Irish-born writers we know,  we only have to look at the sandwich menu in this Dublin cafe:

Crossing the Irish Sea and heading north into England, we also found the Lake District steeped in literary history as well.  My heroine, Beatrix Potter, wandered these hills and fields creating her timeless characters and enchanting stories.  Poet William Wordsworth walked these hills and had an immense impact on the literary world. 

He also left behind a beautiful home and garden to inspire all who visit.

Okay, let me ask this:  Who COULDN'T write a masterpiece from this setting?

Speaking of settings, Edinburgh, Scotland is the setting for many happy events in literary history, as noted here, at the Edinburgh Writer's Museum.

Here the works of Robert Burns (you know, he wrote Auld Lang Syne as a poem long before it became the world's New Years Eve anthem) and Robert Louis Stevenson (you know, Treasure Island)  are celebrated.

But perhaps the most magical of all Edinburgh literary events took place here…

at the Elephant House, the coffee house where J.K. Rowling sat and created the first Harry Potter novels.

With this view of the Edinburgh castle, is it any wonder she dreamed up Hogwarts?

Today, while Olivia and I enjoyed a chai latte with friends, Jackie and Paige,

 Paige decided to open the drawers in the table (who does that?)

Well, we're glad Paige does that because…

(Now, I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking we found a long-lost page of an original Rowling manuscript.)

  No, but what we did find was simply fascinating.  The drawers were filled with notes of all sizes and shapes, on napkins and paper, from all corners of the globe.  Memories, dreams, hopes, nonsense and philosophies were scribbled and drawn, some hastily, some thougthfully, and left behind for readers unknown.  The girls read, laughed, and nearly cried as they read many of the messages.  It was a moment with a true "Letters to Juliet" feel to it.

When they were done, they also put pens to paper to capture this moment for future readers.

It's the most studious the three of them have looked since the end of May!

Me?  Of course, I left behind a thought, too. It's a familiar, but important one.

Who knows who will next be inspired to read and write in The Elephant House?

Oh, Blarney!

Well, we've all heard of the Blarney Stone, I suppose.  But little did I know that it is located at the very top of Blarney Castle in the village called Blarney in County Cork, Ireland.  Lovely, isn't it?

Okay, this is what it looked like this morning.  I guess a building built in 1446 might be in need of a facelift.  I just tried to photgraph the OTHER side most of the time.

If there is one thing the Irish are, it's quite clear in their ability to give directions.

 I appreciate that.

Okay, so on this particular morning, our "coach" (we don't call them buses) arrived at Blarney along with about 20 other coaches, creating a very long "queue" (we don't call them lines) to kiss the lengendary rock.   Luckily, musicians were on hand to entertain us.  Paige and Jesse were convinced they should dance.

And dance they did!

 Finally, we entered the castle and began the 122 step climb to the top.

Now, here's the thing.  You don't bend over to kiss this stone. You lie on your back, lean over an opening that is a hundred feet above the ground, and hold on tight to kiss this stone backwards.  There's a nice gentleman there to make sure you don't slip to  your death.  I don't know what they pay this guy, but it's not enough.

Olivia puckered up and gave it good smooch.

So, why do we go to such lengths? Eternal wealth? wisdom? health?

Nope.

You're not going to believe this.  We kiss the stone in order to acquire the Gift of the Gab, the ability to talk incessantly about not much of anything at all.  Really? Do Olivia and I need this gift?  That's a rhetorical question.

So, to end, I will tell you this.  Wednesday morning we drove throught the town of Limerick.  A charming town with brightly colored Georgian doors.  Just being there inspired our group to become poets.

  Here's the fruit of our labor:

This morning we left Killarney,

To visit a castle called Blarney,

We did kiss the stone,

But we were not alone,

More germs than kissing a carnie!

 

Ew, yuck, right? Germophobes need not participate.

International Reading Association ~ Chicago!

Go to sleep.  Wake up.  Pinch self.  Indeed, self is awake.  Self is not dreaming.  Since self is not dreaming, self should pack self's suitcase.

So, I left the farm in the rain…

And arrived in SUNNY Chicago!

The city was in full bloom…

The view from my hotel is a little different than the view from my kitchen window…

Saw this while riding the bus and it sort of reminded me of a little old book called "Holes"….

I got to meet my "shelf buddy"  Jacqueline Houtman… get it?  Houts… Houtman…. we're on the bookstore and library shelves beside one another!  Check out her debut novel  "The Reinvention of Edison Thomas."

Then, just because I got an award myself, I got to hang with some big-time stars! 

Here is Kirby Larsen (Hattie Big Sky, Random House, 2007) with editor Stephanie Elliott.

And, me with Rebecca Stead, author of When You Reach Me, and winner of this year's Newbery Medal.

I didn't actually get to "hang out" with Henry, but I did get a picture before his body guard told me to move on.  I resisted the urge to stick my thumb out and say, "Heeeeyyyyy!"

It was strange and exciting to see my name so many places…

And a little creepy to see my face so BIG…

I was lucky enough to get to share the special moment with new friends, teachers, and librarians from all over, and with some dear old friends, Judy, Paula, and Barb.

All too soon, I was in the air.  A quick 30 minutes later, I was landing in Fort Wayne.  But, oh, it's going to take a little longer than that to get me down from Cloud Nine!

THANK YOU, International Reading Association, for selecting The Beef Princess of Practical County as a 2010 IRA Children's Book Award Winner for Intermediate Fiction.  And, THANK YOU, Random House, for making it possible to be in Chicago to pick up the award in person.

More kids on the farm!

 

No, not this kind of kid.

  This kind. 

On the coldest night of the year Baby, one of Maggie's mamma Boer goats decided to bring her twins into the world.  

Alas, Sir Okey and Knight Dokey.

Not too long after,Maggie's other mamma goat,  Licorice, decided that delivering multiples sounded like a good idea.

She outdid Baby by one.  Licorice gave us the farm's first set of triplets.

Meet Duchess Della, Lady Louisa, and Her Majesty Queen Ann.

(Maggie must have been in a royal mood that night.)

So, overnight our goat population grew from two to seven.

But that's okay. 

If you ask me, a farm can't have enough kids. 

 Or kids.

 

 

Fan Mail – Whoda thunk it?

Now that the school visits have started in earnest, I am humbled to discover that I am developing a small but,oh-so-enthusiastic fan base!  Imagine that!  I don't know why I'm so surprised by this.  I remember vividly how, during my elementary years, any new face at school was intriguing.  And if that face smiled and showed interest in our wee selves, we were hooked.  That visitor was our new best friend.

So, here's how I nearly missed my very first fan message.  It came via email with this in the subject line: 

MY FAMES AUTHER

I was pretty sure it was a trick.  I didn't know the sender's name and I figured he or she was most likely emailing about the millions of dollars waiting for me in a secret bank account in Uganda.  I almost deleted it.  But the teacher in me, the part of me that has spent years deciphering invented spelling, said, "No wait! You want to open this one!"  And so I did.

My name is miron Iam in Mrs.Rollins class you talked with us two weeks ago we asked you question . and you answer it thank you so much for that .

Be still my little author's heart.  This young man is part of an English Language Learner's class I had virtually visited via Skype.  He and his classmates, mostly from Iran, had prepared the most awesome questions for me. Our Skype chat went by much too quickly.

Some fan mail comes with illustration.

(Oh, dear.  That's me, I think!  Maybe I need to spend a little more time in front of a mirror before a school visit.)

This is a lovely recreation of the book cover.  I adore this picture:

Okay, now you get to try your hand at deciphering invented spelling.  I'm loving this!

But most of all, I'm just basking in the love!

Ah, fans.  We all need 'em, don't we?

He waited a long time for this

My childhood home was a little lopsided.  In fact, it was WAY lopsided in favor of the females. Poor Dad was on his own. My mom and my sisters and I didn't offer much in the way of fishing fellows ("Eww… I'm not touching that worm!"), baseball buddies ("The Cincinnati Reds' are on the radio AGAIN?"), or football fanatics (we went to the Ohio State Buckeyes games to see Brutus).  Instead, he put up with princess parties, proms, and a pony.  (It was really a horse, but I had a good alliteration thing going. )  Even the first grandchild was a girl.  Eventually there came a grandson.  Who, as boys tend to do, grew.  And grew.  And grew.  Until at last…

My baby is getting older!

But my dad is getting younger.

On a beautiful Sunday in October a friendly game of basketball broke out.

Well, it was mostly friendly.

My sisters and I would have run crying to the house by now.

Yep.  My dad waited a long time for this.

Last spring, my sister was kind enough to provide the family a second grandson.

And, he's waited a long time for this.