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Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog, page 19
April 6, 2013
Giveaway of e-books on Ellyn Oaksmith Books - Facebook
I have 3 copies of the e-book Adventures with Max and Louise to give away, starting now, ending April 12th.
See my Facebook page for details and Happy Spring! (You can also give it as a gift if you win!)
https://www.facebook.com/EllynOaksmith
Good luck!
See my Facebook page for details and Happy Spring! (You can also give it as a gift if you win!)
https://www.facebook.com/EllynOaksmith
Good luck!
March 29, 2013
Wild Horses
First of all, Happy Easter.
This is the most un-Easter-ish of blog entries but it involves an image I simply cannot get out of my head.
Last week my daughter, who rides at a local barn, asked me to shoot 5-10 minutes of her riding for a school project. After a quick tutorial on her Iphone, she led the horse, Beetle, to the arena, where my daughter proceeded to ride him. Or tried to ride him. Beetle tried to buck her off several times before the instructor decided to give it a shot. Beetle would have none of it and decided to really put some effort into getting rid of the pesky human on his back.
The instructor quickly decided that whatever was bothering Beetle wasn't going to get any better with a rider on him. She took off his saddle and gave him the run of the arena.
I have never seen anything like it in my life. This horse, who typically has children younger than 10 riding him, turned into Beetle the Devil Horse. He raced around the arena, a thousand pounds of flashing black flank, bucking and galloping, slamming into the corners with such speed and force, stopping short to spray gravel half way up the arena wall. He went down on his knees, moaning as if possessed, shook his long neck from side to side, got up and ran to the other side of the arena, kicking up his heels in a mad dance.
At this point I wasn't clear if the instructor was trying to wear him out so that my daughter could ride him. I was in the observation area thinking that there was no way in hell any child of mine was going to get on that horse today. Finally the instructor walked to the center of the arena, speaking in a low voice to the horse, who was at least 20 yards away. He heard her, walking slowly towards her, finally resting his head on her shoulder.
"Are we going to be friends now?" the instructor asked.
The horse tossed his head a few more times before she led him out of the arena.
Thunder rolled across the valley. Torrents of rain followed. The herd of ponies stabled next to the arena ran skittishly from their barn en masse.
"Okay, now it makes sense," said the instructor, patting the horse on his nose.
My daughter was waiting at the gate with a different horse. We began taping her riding. Beetle was groomed and settled. The next day he was his normal gentle giant self with a 8 year old perched confidently on his back.
I will never forget the site of that powerful animal showing the world exactly what it meant to be free.
This is the most un-Easter-ish of blog entries but it involves an image I simply cannot get out of my head.
Last week my daughter, who rides at a local barn, asked me to shoot 5-10 minutes of her riding for a school project. After a quick tutorial on her Iphone, she led the horse, Beetle, to the arena, where my daughter proceeded to ride him. Or tried to ride him. Beetle tried to buck her off several times before the instructor decided to give it a shot. Beetle would have none of it and decided to really put some effort into getting rid of the pesky human on his back.
The instructor quickly decided that whatever was bothering Beetle wasn't going to get any better with a rider on him. She took off his saddle and gave him the run of the arena.
I have never seen anything like it in my life. This horse, who typically has children younger than 10 riding him, turned into Beetle the Devil Horse. He raced around the arena, a thousand pounds of flashing black flank, bucking and galloping, slamming into the corners with such speed and force, stopping short to spray gravel half way up the arena wall. He went down on his knees, moaning as if possessed, shook his long neck from side to side, got up and ran to the other side of the arena, kicking up his heels in a mad dance.
At this point I wasn't clear if the instructor was trying to wear him out so that my daughter could ride him. I was in the observation area thinking that there was no way in hell any child of mine was going to get on that horse today. Finally the instructor walked to the center of the arena, speaking in a low voice to the horse, who was at least 20 yards away. He heard her, walking slowly towards her, finally resting his head on her shoulder.
"Are we going to be friends now?" the instructor asked.
The horse tossed his head a few more times before she led him out of the arena.
Thunder rolled across the valley. Torrents of rain followed. The herd of ponies stabled next to the arena ran skittishly from their barn en masse.
"Okay, now it makes sense," said the instructor, patting the horse on his nose.
My daughter was waiting at the gate with a different horse. We began taping her riding. Beetle was groomed and settled. The next day he was his normal gentle giant self with a 8 year old perched confidently on his back.
I will never forget the site of that powerful animal showing the world exactly what it meant to be free.
March 26, 2013
Book Review The Art of Fielding
The Art of Fielding by Chad HarbachMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
I don't get it. So many people, mostly critics, loved this book so I was primed to go further with it than most books. It was on so many people's Best Of lists and was the Great White Hope for publishing. A big All American Novel about life and baseball. Awesome. Maybe not. About three quarters of the way into the book, the plot for me just dragged. It swerved into so much angst for all the characters, it felt like way too much navel gazing in such a tiny little world. College and baseball. All these life-shattering breakdowns were happening to lives that hadn't happened yet. And the one mature character in the book was behaving like a (very stupid) college kid.
These characters are people I simply don't recognize. They seem to come in two molds: extremely detached from their plight or so extremely wrapped up in it that they rage against it with all their might. Not one of them seemed real to me. They seemed like very well written literary characters.
That being said, I really enjoyed the first two-thirds of the book. Mr. Harbach is a very, very good writer and his plot might be incredible. I say that because I'm not a fan of baseball and so many people just love this book that obviously I could just be missing the point.
View all my reviews
March 22, 2013
Military Wife in Germany Hosts My Book for the Day
Check out her site. It's great looking, well run, interesting and worth it for her bio alone. This lady is busy, busy, busy.
tiffanytalksbooks.com/tasty-book-tour...
tiffanytalksbooks.com/tasty-book-tour...
March 18, 2013
March 14, 2013
Lost and Found on the Bering Sea
On New Year’s Day around 20 years ago, in Dutch Harbor Alaska, I boarded the M/V Arctic Enterprise, a large fishing processor. I had flown up after signing a 2 month contract with the Arctic Alaska Corporation. My sister, Liz, was beside me. She was waiting to hear about law school. I was a writer looking to pay off my student loans and develop a writing life that didn’t include endless meetings in Los Angeles.
The Chief Engineer of the vessel saw us board the boat from the vantage of the wheelhouse. Snowflakes fell lazily down from a steel grey sky. Beyond us stretched the icy waters of the Bering Sea and some of the most profitable and dangerous fishing grounds in the world.
The other people boarding the vessel for their contract were from vastly different backgrounds. My sister and I were from private colleges and in my case, had a graduate degree. We were clean cut, enthusiastic and in the eyes of the Chief, who said, “Oh boy, those two think this is Outward Bound,” completely unprepared for life on a fishing boat.
The boat was older, well-used but perfectly safe thanks to one of the finest Chief Engineers ever to grace the ocean. We were to work 16 hours on, in the slime line, gutting and packing fish. In our 8 hours off, we would eat 2 meals, take a shower and somehow, on a rolling, turning, groaning boat, sleep.
Given that lots of people turn up in Dutch Harbor thinking they can easily make their fortune, the Chief’s estimation was dead on. Not only were we “Greenhorns,” we were women, a rare commodity in Dutch Harbor and on fishing boats. Some old timers even considered us bad luck.
My sister, whose previous work experience involved counseling those in crisis, worked her way into the part-time position (in addition to working in the factory) of “house mouse,” doing laundry, stamping roe bags for sale to the Japanese.
Everyone loved her. Not only was she a hard worker, she found ways to make the factory workers lives a little easier. She joked around with them constantly, taking special care with their laundry and made it her business to help people. When the cook had what I can only call a well deserved nervous breakdown half way through his contract, she suggested that I at least get a chance to cook one meal, as a tryout. If I worked out, the Skipper would save time and lots of money. We wouldn’t have to tie up at the dock, burning through cash, sitting out the season waiting for a replacement.
My tryout recipe was, stupidly enough, taken from the Silver Palate Cookbook. I used prime cuts of chicken that should have been saved for several meals, bottles of lemon juice I would kick myself later for dumping into a marinade. The shaking, chain-smoking, jabbering cook watched me prepare Lemon Chicken for a crew of men whose tastes ran to plain stew, biscuits and gravy and under-the-sea Jello salad, (a dish I’d never heard of and would try, later, with little success, to prepare.)
Amazingly, the Skipper, who had the same taste as his crew, promoted me to cook. I learned to listen to the crew, posting a sheet and pencil asking for favorite meals, most of which I’d never heard. I borrowed cook books from other boats cooks who took pity on me.
I’d been raised in a family of gourmet cooks, which was a liability with this crowd. I made stews without vegetables, thick white gravy with lumps of sausage, invented Chicken Cordon Bleu on a bun, which everyone loved. I was generally admired not for my ability to master down home cooking but my willingness to kill myself trying.
I was even hit, during a bad storm, with a flying ham. I was locked in freezer. I saw a man jump from his bunk during a nightmare wearing nothing but a pair of leopard print skivvies. I watched from the galley during a storm while a deck hand had his shoulder set by the Chief, who received directions from the doctor on call via radio satellite.
My sister lasted out her entire contract. They weren’t able to find a replacement for me so I ended up working for 4 straight months on the same boat, rarely seeing daylight, piling up checks and redefining, for all time, what being exhausted meant.
Later, once I’d rested in Seattle, I signed on for 2 more contracts. I flew to Alaska for 2 months of cooking at sea and wrote, traveled and lived reasonably well for the six months I had off. Eventually I paid off all my student loans and a portion of my future husband’s. I helped contribute to the purchase of our first home.
Working in Alaska is extreme living and moments of unbelievable beauty. I will never forget the playful Dahl porpoise swimming alongside the vast hull as it sliced the water or the Aleutian Islands sloping into the improbably bluest water.
I met people I would have otherwise never encountered: strong, intelligent people and misguided fragile people with vastly different lives and goals. That New Year’s Day, when we stood on that ramp, was the beginning of a test that ultimately, my sister and I both passed.
(My sister got into UW Law School. She also married the Chief Engineer.)
The Chief Engineer of the vessel saw us board the boat from the vantage of the wheelhouse. Snowflakes fell lazily down from a steel grey sky. Beyond us stretched the icy waters of the Bering Sea and some of the most profitable and dangerous fishing grounds in the world.
The other people boarding the vessel for their contract were from vastly different backgrounds. My sister and I were from private colleges and in my case, had a graduate degree. We were clean cut, enthusiastic and in the eyes of the Chief, who said, “Oh boy, those two think this is Outward Bound,” completely unprepared for life on a fishing boat.
The boat was older, well-used but perfectly safe thanks to one of the finest Chief Engineers ever to grace the ocean. We were to work 16 hours on, in the slime line, gutting and packing fish. In our 8 hours off, we would eat 2 meals, take a shower and somehow, on a rolling, turning, groaning boat, sleep.
Given that lots of people turn up in Dutch Harbor thinking they can easily make their fortune, the Chief’s estimation was dead on. Not only were we “Greenhorns,” we were women, a rare commodity in Dutch Harbor and on fishing boats. Some old timers even considered us bad luck.
My sister, whose previous work experience involved counseling those in crisis, worked her way into the part-time position (in addition to working in the factory) of “house mouse,” doing laundry, stamping roe bags for sale to the Japanese.
Everyone loved her. Not only was she a hard worker, she found ways to make the factory workers lives a little easier. She joked around with them constantly, taking special care with their laundry and made it her business to help people. When the cook had what I can only call a well deserved nervous breakdown half way through his contract, she suggested that I at least get a chance to cook one meal, as a tryout. If I worked out, the Skipper would save time and lots of money. We wouldn’t have to tie up at the dock, burning through cash, sitting out the season waiting for a replacement.
My tryout recipe was, stupidly enough, taken from the Silver Palate Cookbook. I used prime cuts of chicken that should have been saved for several meals, bottles of lemon juice I would kick myself later for dumping into a marinade. The shaking, chain-smoking, jabbering cook watched me prepare Lemon Chicken for a crew of men whose tastes ran to plain stew, biscuits and gravy and under-the-sea Jello salad, (a dish I’d never heard of and would try, later, with little success, to prepare.)
Amazingly, the Skipper, who had the same taste as his crew, promoted me to cook. I learned to listen to the crew, posting a sheet and pencil asking for favorite meals, most of which I’d never heard. I borrowed cook books from other boats cooks who took pity on me.
I’d been raised in a family of gourmet cooks, which was a liability with this crowd. I made stews without vegetables, thick white gravy with lumps of sausage, invented Chicken Cordon Bleu on a bun, which everyone loved. I was generally admired not for my ability to master down home cooking but my willingness to kill myself trying.
I was even hit, during a bad storm, with a flying ham. I was locked in freezer. I saw a man jump from his bunk during a nightmare wearing nothing but a pair of leopard print skivvies. I watched from the galley during a storm while a deck hand had his shoulder set by the Chief, who received directions from the doctor on call via radio satellite.
My sister lasted out her entire contract. They weren’t able to find a replacement for me so I ended up working for 4 straight months on the same boat, rarely seeing daylight, piling up checks and redefining, for all time, what being exhausted meant.
Later, once I’d rested in Seattle, I signed on for 2 more contracts. I flew to Alaska for 2 months of cooking at sea and wrote, traveled and lived reasonably well for the six months I had off. Eventually I paid off all my student loans and a portion of my future husband’s. I helped contribute to the purchase of our first home.
Working in Alaska is extreme living and moments of unbelievable beauty. I will never forget the playful Dahl porpoise swimming alongside the vast hull as it sliced the water or the Aleutian Islands sloping into the improbably bluest water.
I met people I would have otherwise never encountered: strong, intelligent people and misguided fragile people with vastly different lives and goals. That New Year’s Day, when we stood on that ramp, was the beginning of a test that ultimately, my sister and I both passed.
(My sister got into UW Law School. She also married the Chief Engineer.)
March 8, 2013
Another Awesome Review - Love this one!!!!
Except from review: "This was such a fun book. I was laughing and giggling so much I think I've discovered a new way to tighten your stomach muscles. Find a funny book, read, repeat. lol!"
http://www.seducedbyabook.com/2013/03...
http://www.seducedbyabook.com/2013/03...
Guest Interview on Beautiful site! Happy Friday!
http://lavenderandcamomilepress.com/2...
Also, I am going to do a giveway next week so keep an eye out for Adventures on the freebie list!
Thinking about running a contest with 1) worst date stories 2) Most awkward kiss stories 3) Funniest wedding stories.
Which one would you rather share or tell?
Also, I am going to do a giveway next week so keep an eye out for Adventures on the freebie list!
Thinking about running a contest with 1) worst date stories 2) Most awkward kiss stories 3) Funniest wedding stories.
Which one would you rather share or tell?
