Rachael Herron's Blog, page 47

Italy Bound

Oh, darlings. I'm getting so excited about so many things, and most of them are Italian in nature. So I'm going to list them, because I do love a list. 

1. Yes, I'm going to Italy again. This time I'm going with sister Bethany, who's never been. When Mom died, she left us all a little money, just enough for a special treat of a trip. My two younger sisters went to Ireland together last year, this year it's my turn. So we're off soon, for a Great Adventure. We're both very much alike in that we like to just wander, so we have little planned. We even have about four completely unstructured days between Rome and Venice (tell us what little town between those two you love the most (and why)! Reachable by train, please). 

2. Speaking of lists: I LOVE THEM. Sometimes I just open my packing list and stare at it. I've been doing that a lot lately. I'm taking a half-sized suitcase and a small messenger bag on this trip. Both pieces will fit under the seat in front of me. I get almost as excited about packing lightly as I do about our new budget, YNAB. (That surprisingly sexy program has changed our lives, and we've only been using it for two months. Apparently I had no idea how money worked. Oops. Try the free trial, tell me what you think.) 

3. My new thing is geocaching. I'm sure you know about this. Pretty much, if I dive deeply into some obsession, I'm about four years late and the bubble of the hobby is about to collapse, but it is SO cool. Basically, you use a GPS to find treasure. Bethany has been doing it for years, and I've gone with her at least once, but it didn't grab me. A friend at work has been doing it, and I was idly listening to her wax rhapsodic, and then I put the two thoughts together: Treasure hunting. In Italy. Immediately, I was online, signing up at Geocaching.com, making lists of the caches we'll hunt for in Rome and Venice. Can you imagine? The fun of that? There are puzzles, people. 

When I was a kid, my dad would buy used metal-detectors at yard sales and fix them up. We'd take them to the beach and carefully comb the sand, diving with the shovel at every tiny beep. I don't remember us ever finding anything more than empty metal tins washed ashore by the tide, but there was always that blissful hope that the next beep would be The Big One. The treasure chest of a pirate schooner, just waiting for us to dig up. 

Of course, when I was a kid, I was good for about fifteen minutes of searching before I got frustrated and ran away to build sand castles that looked more like wet lumpen apartment buildings than actual castles, and that same letdown could certainly happen with geocaching. It's possible I'll be excited about it twice and then wander away whistling, thinking about a new plot for the next book (the only things I've ever actually stuck with are Lala, knitting, and writing), but you never know. NEW OBSESSION YUM. 

4. I have purple hair. I don't know why. I just knew it was important to do. 

 

MANY EXCITING THINGS!

Cora's Heart

First of all: There's a new book out in Australia and New Zealand! The fourth Cypress Hollow! Oh, my goodness! I would jump up and down, but I'm in my office, and you wouldn't be able to see me, and then the dogs would start barking at me and I'd trip over a cat or two, so I'm going to skip all that and just show you before I hurt myself. 

Cora, a farm-girl who's been hurt too much in the past, safeguards everything--except her heart. Mac is a large-animal veterinarian who has already risked it all and lost everything that mattered. When a secret is revealed, Cora has to decide whether Mac is a safe bet . . . or the worst gamble of her life. 

Available at book retailers in Australia and New Zealand, Random House Australia and e-book link here. It will be available in other countries including the US, but I don't have a date yet. I'll keep you posted (I'm as impatient as you are to get it into your hands, I promise). 

A Life in Stitches

 My memoir! You know, the one blurbed by Josh Kilmer-Purcell, winner of the most recent Amazing Race? (Dude. I love him, and his writing is lovely if you haven't checked him out.)  

It's only $1.99 for the whole month of March on Kindle! (If you don't have a Kindle, you can use their free app on your phone, notebook, or computer.) And if you like anything about my blog, you'll find 20 essays in there which are WAY more thought-out and funny and smart than these rambles over here ever turn out to be. I hope you'll like it. The Amazon reviews are wonderful and completely humbling. Available HERE. Canada, it's here for you.

 And from my last post, the winners of the drawing for Sophie's amazing boook, Garden of Stones:  

From the blog comments: Darling Maggi! From my subscriber list (I love my list): Hmkaup! You've both been emailed. 

Thanks, all of you. Britain and all other places left out of this post, I promise you something more exciting soon. Pinky swear. MWAH! 

Garden of Stones

THIS IS MY FAVORITE BOOK IN THE LAST YEAR, and it comes out TODAY! (And I'm giving away a couple, so read on!) 





Garden of Stones, Sophie Littlefield


(Amazon, Indiebound, Barnes & Noble)

Disclaimer: Sophie Littlefield is a very dear friend of mine. This, however, has nothing to do with the way I feel about her writing. In fact, I'd say that the only problem I do have with our friendship is that sometimes I think, Why does a writer like HER like ME? She's so good. She writes emotion so that you feel it knife your gut, and then you turn the page and you read a sentence that makes you sigh with happiness. 


So I'm very proud to host her on the blog today. This newest book is about mother-daughter relationships so real I predict they won't let you go when you turn the last page. I love the book, and I know you will, too.


Rachael's Unconventional Sleep-Deprived Interview 


1. What fact that you learned while doing the research for Garden of Stones that was the most resonant for you? 


At the start of WWII, there were three orphanages in San Francisco and Los Angeles for Japanese-American children. Often, those of mixed race had been abandoned by their parents and were considered unadoptable. At the outset of the war, all three of the orphanages were closed, the children sent to Manzanar, where they lived in a building called the Children's Village. After the war, Japanese-American families adopted some of the children, but the rest were returned to social services in whatever city they'd lived in before the war.


I think this struck me with such force because some of the children were *infants* - and others had as little as 1/16th Japanese blood. And yet, they were considered a threat to national security.


2. omg I'm so sleepy. How are you today?


Aw, sweetheart, I'm doing great - but I've definitely got all of those book-launch symptoms: eating everything in sight (just polished off the last few Triscuits and the salty crumbs in the bottom of the box), and finding anything at all to do so I don't have to work. Moments ago I was lying on the floor talking to the dog, who is much more sanguine about the process of books coming to life than I am. 


3. I love reading about mother/daughter relationships, and the one in this book is so weighted and fraught with emotion. Um, thanks for that. [Insert your answer to my non-asked question here.]


Yeah, right? You and I have talked about our moms a lot. And how many times have you talked me off one mom ledge or another, reminding me that the kids will be fine? The mother-child (and in particular the mother-daughter) relationship is one of those subjects you can puzzle over forever, and never come up with any definitive conclusions. In fact...I believe that the more I ponder, the less I know. Fiction is a good place to work out my feelings, though. Long ago, I planned to be a *perfect* mom. Now, I'll settle for good enough. 


Yesterday, I took my 17-year-old daughter to see Jimmy Carter speak. On the way there, my attempts at conversation were met with a full measure of disdain and eye-rolling, which makes a BART ride so much more enjoyable.  (Picture the crowded car, and me yelling, so as to be heard over the train, "I remember when Amy Carter was your age! She had the most adorable freckles!" and her trying desperately to pretend she wasn't with me.) We were barely speaking when we got to the theater. About forty-five minutes into his remarks, for no reason, Sally laid her head on my shoulder and held my hand. I'll tell you what - moments like that make all the rest way more than worth it.


4. Please take a picture of your current pair of favorite shoes and tell us why you love them. 


Wow! You're the best interviewer. Okay, here you go.






I cannot wear these; for some reason they pinch everwhere. But I've held onto them for years. Why? - because my kids once gave them to me for mother's day. (Yes, they are covered with sequins. Which reminds me of the best gift I ever gave my own mom, who wore no makeup: a compact with bright blue and green eye shadow. Because I was six, and it was pretty and so was she.)


Can I have another favorite?  






I also love these. I'm going to wear them to my launch party. To me, they are a reminder that I can have, do, and be anything I want, no matter how many wrong turns I take. Because I sure as hell never expected that when I was 49 years old, I would have a reason to get dressed up to go do a job I love.


5. Tacos soon? Where and why? (that's such a gimme!)


Ha! Here, and here's why: 


(Rachael and Nicole Peeler at Mi Rancho!)

GIVEAWAY

I'll be giving away two copies (in your choice of format, paper or e-version) of Garden of Stones, one to a lucky commenter here on the blog, and one to someone subscribed to my mailing list. I'll draw on Friday, so good luck! 

Delightful Surprises!

I'm better, and thank you for all the well-wishes! I had all the -itis's in slow, painful succession-- bronchitis, laryngitis, tonsillitis...

I'm just gonna let you reread that last word again.

TONSILS. I HAZ THEM.

AGAIN.

I had them out when I was thirty. And again when I was thirty-five. Five years later, guess what? They're back!

I went to the doctor last week. Now, I normally wouldn't go to the doctor with the flu.I know you just have to get over it. But do you know how quickly I dialed the phone for an appointment when I saw the white spots that looked exactly like strep on something that looked tonsils in the back of my throat? People dial 911 slower than I dialed the appointment line.

I said to the doc, "It looks like strep."

Doc, to whom people say this all day, said, "Mmmm. Open wide." Pause. Impressed, "That does look like strep." [It wasn't, actually, just a nasty case of tonsillitis which mimics it well.]

"Those look like tonsils, am I right?" I said. "Please tell me I'm overreacting."

She got a brighter light and shook her head as if to clear it. She peered in. Then she said in the smallest voice a doctor can possibly have, "They...do...look like tonsils."

"Could they be anything else?"

"Given their location, probably not."

So that's exciting! I'm a regrower of things that are really quite useless! I expect to grow parsley next. That or those painted wooden ducks whose wings spin when you stick them in a flower box.

In other news: I spilled this much ---->   .       water on my MacBook Air and it stopped working. Just fitzzlettz and nothing comes on but the fan. Yes, I'm drying it out. Yes, I'll leave it for a week to dry before trying to turn it on again (I did try again after two days and no dice). I'm kind of feeling like my tiny little friend might never wheeze back into life.

And dude, I was panicked over this. I spent nine days (!) in bed with the Itis's and never opened my laptop once. Then I spilled the water the day I went back to the desk and felt as if I couldn't live another hour without my computer. Lala very rationally pointed out that I could work on any of the other computers we are so lucky to have littered about the house (her iPad, her laptop, the Mac Mini in the living room (which I kind of forgot was a computer because I only watch TV on it)). So I did work, but I tell you what, it's weird writing fiction on a big flat-screen television. THE DIALOGUE WAS SO BIG. IT FELT VERY LOUD.

So I bought an iPad Mini to fill in the gap while I'm waiting to see what will happen with the computer. I'm writing this blog on it now, and I really like it. I'd forgotten how nicely the iPad does just one thing at a time. Sure, I can check Twitter, but it takes actively moving away from this writing screen, and it slows me down. I'll probably return it when I get the computer fixed or if it turns back on.

Probably.

Oh! I'm so chatty  today I almost forgot to tell you (but I told Twitter): I finished a sweater! I love it.

Lady Marple, details at Ravelry.

Aside - Did I ever tell you about the surgeon I mortally offended when I joked that I could cut off a finger, no problem, because I'd just grow it back? He held up the four (total) fingers of his right hand and said, "It's not funny. I almost lost my profession when I lost this." (I hadn't noticed his missing finger, and I probably never would have. I did feel awful and apologized profusely.)

Sickee

Hooo. What with all that clean living and healthy eating, I've gone and fallen really sick (bronchitis, knocking at pneumonia's door, says the doc). I've been sick 8 days now and still can't walk across a room without breaking into a coughing fit that scares the neighbor's dogs. I'm mightily over this, but it's over me yet, so I'm just dropping in to say a couple of things: 

1. I'm knitting legwarmers. I would have bet all the quarters in my change jar (there are a LOT of them) that I would never say this, but I'd have lost the bet. I want a sock-like thing to tuck into the tops of my boots and go up over my knees on top of my tights, so it looks like thigh-high knitted socks, without the work. Legwarmers, scooted up, right? Is there a term for this? Thigh-warmers just doesn't sound right. (You should search on Ravelry for legwarmers, I'm just saying. There are some doozies. And before anyone gets prickled by my mocking poor, misunderstood, useful legwarmers, please understand that in California we do not wear such things unless we are in Southern California and Making a Fashion Point. And everyone has to be allowed to mock something. Crocheters are a protected group now, so what else do we have?)

*falls over in a coughing fit that looks suspiciously like laughter* 

Please forgive. I'm a crocheter, too. And being sick makes me an asshole. Ask Lala. 

2. Finished Lady Marple. This is seriously exactly the sweater I've been wanting, and it was a joy to knit. She just needs buttons and for me to feel well enough to model it. 

3. On Wednesday, I felt better for approximately forty seconds, during which I made soup. This was bottom of the barrel, kids, and it turned out SO WELL I have to share it with you. We had no stock. We had no nothing, and this still worked. You probably have every ingredient to make this right now, and it's easy and fast. The roasting is the secret here--if you throw squash into a soup, it cooks, all right, but it remains rather flavorless. Roast the veggies and chicken first? Magical soup. The total is WAY more than the sum of its parts. (Also, if I call for something you don't have, don't worry! Use a different spice! Time to play!) 

Magic Soup

Heat oven to 425. Peel and cube that butternut squash that's been languishing on the table since Thanksgiving. Rough-chop one onion (or shallot, or garlic, or all three!). Place these on a foil-lined cookie sheet along with the kinda freezer-burned chicken breast (or thigh, bone-in, bone-out, whatever) or two that you just defrosted in the microwave. Roast at 425 for about 30-45 minutes, till you like the way it looks. Bring about 8 cups water to a boil. Remove the chicken to a plate, add the veggies in to the boiling water. Lower to a nice happy simmer, and use a potato masher, big fork, or immersion blender to mash some of the squash/onion up. Add a tsp of cumin, a tsp of ground coriander, some powdered garlic if you didn't feel like adding fresh, a little rosemary perhaps, another chili powder that you like, whatever you love. SALT is necessary--perhaps a Tbs? Also necessary: an acid of some sort. I used the juice of a lemon, but vinegar would work, too. That makes it happy and bright. Shred or cube the chicken, add it to the pot, simmer till you get so hungry you can't stand it and EAT. 

Now. I can't stop coughing, so I'm going to push the computer aside and lie back down and pretend I feel well and that I'm having a glorious lie-in (which won't work--it never works--why can't we ENJOY being in bed when we have to be there? Grrr). I hope you're well. xo

ConverStations

I found myself very inspired and moved by this short TED talk by Karen Walrond on seeing the beauty and finding connection in other people. (I totally have a crush on her now. She's crush-worthy.) 

Her 1000 Faces project, showing the uncommon beauty of regular people, is worth some time, too.

I was on BART the other day, coming back from San Francisco at 6pm, right at rush hour. I followed a woman onto the packed train, and a flower dropped from her hair. I picked it up and gave it back to her, and we had that moment. You know that one? Where you talk to someone, just for a few minutes, and you get them, and they get you too. I'm pretty convinced we could all find more of these, if we looked. In the fifteen minutes we spent speeding under the bay, we talked gardening and shoes. We compared her kids to my cats (her kids buy her more birthday presents than Digit buys me, I tell you what). We bonded over tuberoses and gardenias, burying our noses in the flowers she was carrying. She gave me a sprig of jasmine from her hair and wished that her plant was in bloom already, as ours is. She touched me on the arm at least five times, that You know? Right? touch, and it was so lovely, as she was. 

Of course, people on the train (the ones not wearing earbuds) stared. We were obviously strangers, but we were laughing out loud at each other's jokes, grinning at each other in delight. Those who weren't staring at us kept their eyes on the devices they were holding. 

I'm usually a device-holder, too. I hate being that guy, but I like to read a book on my phone on the train. I like to check Twitter. I like to send texts. I really like to not have to eavesdrop on annoying half-conversations people have on their phones (I'd rather eavesdrop on both sides if possible). But how many flower ladies do I not chat up? How much light am I not seeing? How many conversations between stations (converstations?) am I missing? 

Food for thought. Tell me your most recent nice random encounter? 

[Book recommendation: I'm reading Jerusalem Gap, and the voice is amazing. I can't stand for it to end, and I'm only half-way through. Dog lovers, this one's for you.]

NOLA!

New Orleans was better than I expected, and I'd had pretty high hopes to begin with. 

What I expected: a Disney-fied city full of lights and magic and people who only cared about making a tourist buck. 

What we found: a working city full of lights and magic and people who cared about their city and the people visiting it. 

We stayed at the Hotel Villa Convento in the French Quarter on Ursulines. I'd just finished reading Heads in Beds (which was awesome, by the way, plus being half-set in New Orleans and written by someone who loves the city), and I was obsessed by this advice: Always tip the front desk clerk. 

Now, I was a front desk clerk for years. I worked a tiny hotel in San Luis Obispo, a sweet place where I made four loaves of bread every night before going to bed (we shut the desk from 11pm-7am, and I slept in a back dorm, staying from Friday night until Monday morning) so that the guests had fresh bread when they woke up. Every once in a while, I got a tip, and to that person I was grateful though I was sometimes confused. 

In the book, Tomsky says that you should always tip the desk. What's a twenty going to get you? Maybe nothing, but then you're only out twenty bucks. But hey, you might get an upgrade, or an extra perk, like a bottle of wine. I wanted to try it, but I was nervous. What if the clerk carefully picked up the bill between two fingers and sneered, "Is this a bribe, madam?" (Tomsky said this never happens.)

So as soon as we got to the small desk at the very old hotel, I said, "Hi, checking in, and uh, this is for you." I slid the bill across the old, scarred wood.

The darling man behind the counter said, "What's this?" (Worst nightmare.) 

I said, even more nervous, "It's for whatever you can do for us. [Stammering] You know, for a nice room, maybe?" 

"You're the last one in, and the only other room I have is the budget room." 

"Okay, then. That's just for you. I used to work front desk and I know how people can be." 

Oh, my friends. The look on his face! He just melted. "Oh! I NEEDED this. It's been SUCH a day, you have no idea!" 

I wasn't trying to buy a friend, and I know we would have made fast friends with Vincenzo anyway. But that just made it faster, right? Twenty bucks very well spent. I will absolutely do this on all my future trips. 

So our new bestie Vincenzo sent us down the block for a drink (I'd been up for literally 48 hours at that point, but really wanted to see a little of the city before we went to bed) to his favorite place, Pravda. At Pravda, we had a wonderful cocktail waitress named Lucy, who was so friendly it was unreal (we're from Northern California. We do politely disinterested, at best). She said, "Oh, you're not from here? Can I tell you some places to eat?" We expected her to return with a printed list of recommended restaurants. Instead, she brought us this. 

Dante's Kitchen, best meal we've had in memory

And then she proceeded to take the time to tell us what she liked at each place and how to get to each one. ("Well, you could take a cab, but it would be better to take the streetcar. What you do is...")  This was Friday night after Mardi Gras season had just started. (Lala and I kept looking at each other and saying, "What? Are we in Canada or something? People are so nice.") 

Speaking of Mardi Gras, we NEVER would have booked a trip had I known that Mardi Gras is not a day or even a week, but apparently a month or so of crazy-pants-time. But we were innocently clueless. Lala had an old friend there, and we met up with him and friends (awesome friends! Adopting them!) and did a local's night, watching the Petit Rex parade. A whole parade of little tiny floats! Plus bands! Jayzus! 

And, oh, oh! We did a bike tour with Bob of Big Easy Bike Tours. This cannot be highly stressed enough: if you go to NOLA, go on a bike tour with him. Read his reviews there on Yelp. The man knows everything, and is passionate about the city.

Bob, at the cemetery, talking about how the crypts are built. 

Three hours, pedaling through the (mercifully flat) town, we got miles and miles of information. The stories he told us about Congo Square in Armstrong Park made me teary, and I'll always think of that as the spiritual center of the town.

His excitement was contagious, and the most important part was that he told us about THE DOG PARADE which was happening on Sunday. 

The Dog Parade (Barkus)! With New Orleans jazz bands? What? HEAVEN. 

You know that game you play at the bar? "Who would you go home with?" We played "Who would you adopt?" This was the one I'd have taken home.

She was very small, very short like a French bulldog with a head like a pittie and legs splayed like a cowboy long months on the trail. I fell in love with her joyous waddle. 

Dachshunds are natural peacocks, after all.

Her sign says "Show us your ticks!"

Mr. Smartypants here would like Miss Idaho.

We saw Bob!! He gave us a football for Clara.

 

There is a very cute moment when Lala gives herself over to something. Example: She's going to LA. Fine. That'll be fun, she thinks. Then, when she's there, she's all, "DID YOU KNOW ABOUT HOLLYWOOD? THE STARS! THEY'RE AMAZING!" There's hand-flapping, friends. It's awesome. At the dog parade, at first she said, "Nah, no beads, no worries. Don't need 'em. Just here for the dogs, thanks." And as the children continued to throw them at us from their dog-mobiles, she turned to me and said, "THIS IS AMAZING. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. I WANT MOAR BEADS MOAR." In the above picture, she was finally (regretfully) culling her Mr. T. stash. 

It was the best freaking parade ever. 

I also got a very funny shirt while there: 

If you don't get it, that's okay. 

New Orleans, it turns out, is Lala's Venice. She wandered at night, long after I'd gone back to the hotel, jamming on the banjo with some punk kids, losing herself in the streets. She's in love. (And in a particular way, New Orleans reminded me very much of Venice. A city that runs on tourist dollars yet still retains stubborn civic pride; a city falling down, crumbling at the edges but still beautiful; a city that smells of diesel and stagnant water and pastries; a city gorgeous in its unapologetic debauchery.)

We packed so much wunnerful stuff into a single weekend. And I adore the fact the fact that we'll be back. 

Miss Angel

This story is from my friend Katie. My day (and my life) is brighter because of it. This is her story, and it's best told in her words, with her permission. (This is the good stuff, friends. This is what it's all about.)

* *  * 

I live in the historic downtown of a small town in the central valley of California. Hanford. You might have seen the sign on the I-5 or even driven thru it on the way to Sequoia. It is the county seat, which means this is the only place where you can get welfare or mental health help or free meals from churches.

We have a huge homeless population, and because I'm out early in the mornings, walking the dogs in the alley, I see pretty much everyone. I'm not talking about the guys standing at the stoplight out by WalMart. I'm talking about the guys who are sleeping behind dumpsters wrapped in trashbags. People who have lost their jobs and been evicted with all their belongings in a Target bag.

This winter has been particularly wet and rainy and foggy and dreary. I was taking out the trash and saw a young woman with two kids...proably school-age but just, so maybe 5 and 6. They were wearing a half dozen t-shirts all on top of each other for warmth because they didn't even have sweatshirts on. They were digging through the dumpster for something to eat and the kids had on FLIP FLOPS. It is rainy and they are digging thru trash for food in flip flops. Mom wasn't even dressed as warmly as the kids and they all had that skim milk colored skin...sort of white and blue at the same time.  Broke my heart.

So I wrote a little note on Facebook, asking if anyone had extra anything could they drop it off at the back of my building. I'm on an alley, so you hardly even need to slow down.

A couple of days later, I park my car and this raggedy guy is digging thru the one cardboard box I have out there and asks me if I'm Miss Angel. Rachael, I am so far from being the A in Angel that I'm the end of the Russian alphabet. He said he had heard that Miss Angel had a box for poor people; a box they could just look thru and get whatever they needed. He had found a pair of pants that would fit but he had found two pair of socks (old ones of my son's) and wondered if it would be okay if he took both of them so his boy could go to school in dry socks. I told him I could not see any reason on earth why that wouldn't be okay.

Then I wrote another little note on Facebook, telling about this guy and within a week, there are four or five boxes of clothes and blankets and stuff being dropped off at the corner of my building. Last night, I saw a little family...dad, mom and a little boy about four (I taught kindergarten, so I can tell when they are little about how little they are.) I'm upstairs with the window open, just checking on things because I don't want some professional yard sellers to be driving by and just scooping this stuff up.

So the grownups are digging through the boxes---people have put blankets in trash bags so they will stay dry--and they find some little blanket that is blue and drape it around the little kid's shoulders. Then, the dad pulls a little teddy bear out of one of the boxes and you would have thought that money was raining down on them. The last little bit I saw was the kid, wrapped up in his blanket, snuggled up on dad's shoulder, clutching his teddy bear. Heck, I don't even know if they were a real family...I just know a little boy had a dry blanket and a teddy bear to sleep with.

In the meantime, people drive by, drop off boxes or bags of stuff as well as little bags of hygiene items...those travel sized toothbrushes and tooth paste and soap.

I'm not running a charity. I'm trying to stay out of it as much as I can but the outpouring of abundance is just amazing me. Two months ago, I was finding crack pipes in the alley. Now I'm finding blankets and socks and tampons...because even homeless women have periods. Someone even dropped off a big box of Tampax (did  you know homeless women use socks and ripped-up tee shirts?) 

I know there are several shelters here in town and also several churches who provide hot meals. But these people are on foot and so transient that they don't have anyplace to keep anything. So the people in my little town are dropping off not huge boxes of fur coats, but extra socks or blankets or sweatshirts. It has sort of taken on a life of its own. I still see home guys in the alley when I take the dogs out and they still will tell me to not go east down the alley because it's not safe. But here? They say it is safe because they keep an eye on it, making sure that the wimmens and chillern can find something dry for the night.

And sometimes I findt little notes...little bits of paper saying "Thank you, I havent had dry feet in so long." or just little scraps of paper saying "Thnk u"
 
Does it just blow you away? Homeless people around here are not like they are in San Francisco. They are invisible. They sleep behind dumpsters or in the little spaces between buildings or in the little alcoves of the back doors of buildings.....and those are just the ones I see because I'm out with the dogs. I see a lot of homeless guys I had in class in prison....and I feel safer because I know they know I'm a person, just walking my dogs.

All I did was write a couple of little posts on Facebook.

So there is the whole story. If all it does is make you feel as good as it makes me feel, fine. If you decide to share it, dandy. I guess what I'm saying is that even a teeny little bit of help is good for you, for your self. And if people who have yard sales every weekend of the world come in and take every last little bit...that is on them.

But the world is not as bleak as I thought it was. And my life is not as hopeless as I sometimes think it is.

Katie 

* * * * 

Katie mentioned in a follow-up email to me that there have been SEVENTY-FIVE boxes dropped off silently and anonymously in her alley so far. 

Engaged

Usually I do an end-of-year recap, don't I? I guess I didn't this last year. 2012 was rough on a lot of folks, seems like, and we were ready to boost it out the door. I'll throw a quickie out there and call it good. 

On the low end of things, I had a hysterctomy for medical reasons, discovering in the process a life-threatening condition that hurtled me into full menopause at 39, and tried depression on for the first time (it doesn't suit my coloring, I found out).

On the higher end of things, I traveled to Pittsburgh and San Luis Obispo to teach creative writing, went to Italy by myself, finished writing two novels, camped in the great outdoors, and bought the SmartCar of my dreams!  I sewed a lot and bought many pairs of glasses on cheap internet sites. I changed my diet completely (to an anti-inflammatory regimen, which is amazing), and I dropped thirty pounds as a result. I hung out with Lala, the family, and friends more than I had in years, which was honestly the best part of any of this. 

The word for this year? ENGAGED. 

Last year, much of the time I was present but not engaged. It was a symptom of the depression (and it took me forever to recognize that) and I hated it.

This year, I want to connect. I know it sounds trite and easy, but I'm really serious about it. I mentioned it a while back, but the volunteer work I've been doing at the George Mark House (the hospital for children with chronic, life-span-limiting and terminal illnesses) is blowing my damn mind. I can't give particulars, naturally, out of respect for both the patients and HIPPA regulations, but take a look at their website if you're curious. And in a couple of weeks, I'm training there to work with the palliative aquatics program! Eee! 

The above video has a bunch about the aquatics program and a little about the house itself. 

And you know what I'm MOST excited about this morning? I just signed Clara up for the first step in training her to be a therapy dog! She's the most empathetic dog I've ever met--she plays hard with exuberant kids and big dogs, and is beyond gentle with timid children and animals. And if she gets certified, then she can come with me to George Mark! 

So this year is already lining itself up to be a good one, as I hope it is for you.

(And apropos of nothing but thinking about awesomeness, my new favorite yarn in all the wold is Cascade Eco Cloud. I haven't felt like this about a kind of yarn in years, literally. I want all of it. Check it out if you haven't already.)  

Craft ADD

I have craft ADD going on right now. I always get this way when I start writing a book. First drafts are rough for me, and I flap about during this stage, searching for anything else I might be good at so that I won't have to write. 

I'm deep into being in love with metalworking at home. I want to make jewelry! Like the darling Kate Richbourg does in her great Craftsy classes (highly recommended). I bought the tools but I'm kind of being a chicken about starting, and I'm not sure why. (I was this way with my serger, too. It took me a full week to get the guts to take it out of the box.) 

I'm also sewing my little fingers off. Made this today at Sonya Philip's studio: 

It's yet another dress for my Uniform of Tunics. It has flashy gold on the bias tape, which I love. 

And I made Tiramisu by Cake Patterns! It turned out great in $3/yard sale fabric. 

I was so inspired by that success that I tried to make another one in quilt cotton. IT DID NOT WORK, YO. The whole dress was beyond hope. So I tried to make some zippered bags to make myself feel better and put the zippers in upside-down. You take the crumbles with the cookies, right? (I think I just made that up. Because it doesn't make sense, I'm willing to bet this isn't a common phrase.) 

I've been painting, too! 

I painted Clementine for Lala for Christmas.

(Tangled by the neck in the jasmine. As she does.)

Want to know what's funnier than that painting? The fact that Lala painted me a picture of Digit. Same size frame, mat, everything. We laffed. It's the anti-Gift-of-the-Magi! 

(She even got his cranky expression!) 

I swear to you, I'm doing everything I can not to write. I'm knitting both Madroña and Lady Marple. Oh, and four different socks. 

And yet, even with all the ways I try to get out of writing, somehow I still get my grumbling ss to the cafe and get my writing done in the mornings. Because someday a first draft will be a second one, and I love revising. And then a revised draft will someday become a book!

That's the best bit of all. And it's my favorite craft.

(Except for knitting.)