Jennifer Wilson's Blog, page 6

Take a walk through Mrkopalj, Croatia. If you want, that is.

Today, at long last, I've started putting up images of our life in Mrkopalj on the gallery page of this website.

During the editing process of Running Away to Home, my editor Kathy Huck and I agreed not to add a photo insert to the book. It's not because we didn't have awesome photos—we did, and plenty, largely thanks to Jim's camera skills—but because I wanted you to have your own images of the village in your mind as you walk through Mrkopalj with me as your guide. I wanted to leave plenty of room for interpretation, the way my favorite bands do. I'm pretty sure those nebulous Son Volt lyrics wouldn't have meant so much to me if they were more specific. "Now and then, it keeps you running, to that one area of St. Louis on the side of town where me and Tweedy grew up … " doesn't stir my soul quite as much.

So, few images in that copy of Running Away to Home waiting over there on your nightstand. Dream away. What's your version of an open meadow in the mountains? Who is your own Robert-like character, the artistic tornado who both maddens you and melts your heart? Who is your stand-in grandparent, who nurtures you like her own, because you need it?

Then, if you want, check out the gallery and meet the population of our version of The Best Village Ever.

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I'll be around.

 

Well, tomorrow is the big day. The book is finally out, and copies will be propped on bookstore shelves or sent in the mail.

Stephen King, in his awesome book On Writing, calls the reading of a book a particular form of magic. I mean, tomorrow if you get your copy, you will travel through time. You will return to October 2008 when Jim and I first started batting around this idea to walk away from everything we knew, and return to something we'd always known. You will then follow me around Mrkopalj, Croatia, without ever leaving your reading nook, or your lawnchair at soccer practice, or the confines of your bathroom. It really is a pretty amazing thing, when you think about it.

Hopefully, you'll want to talk about the book when you finish it. Maybe tell your friends. Suggest it to your book club. Or maybe just shoot me a note, and ask me a question. I hope that you do any of these. And if you want to chat in person, I've got a few events coming up. You can take a look at my events calendar on this website to see when you can get a signed copy of Running Away to Home, or maybe just ask me that burning question: What did a sheep brain taste like? Because I will tell you that. Maybe you'll even meet Jeem and the kids.

But starting tomorrow, you'll definitely get to meet some of the best people ever. Robert, whom most early readers love the best so far. Stefanija, my steady guide and savvy friend. Pasha, the tough guy with the big heart. Marijan, the voice of gold. Jasminka and Mario, our first neighbors and parents of the hottest Olympian I know. Pavice and Manda and Viktor and Zeljko and Anjelka and all our family in the village.

Hold on, friends. And enjoy the trip!

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And now I have chopped down a tree.

Okay, fine, to be totally honest, my buddy Inman did much of the chopping, and it was his chainsaw, too. But I couldn't help clapping my hands in glee when that first dead birch tree came crashing down in my yard.

In Mrkopalj, you could tell a lot about people by how they stacked their wood, and wood was the sustaining force of the village. (Wood, and the hard-working women.) When my woodpile outside was getting low, Inman offered to help me take down some dead trees in the yard to re-fill it. And yes, we still have a real fireplace. No, I have no intentions of retiring it because it's not supposed to be eco-friendly. I drive a Prius to justify that refusal.

I went wood-chopping with my dad when I was a kid, and I spent the majority of my winter nights in childhood lying on the stone hearth in front of our fire. The stone would warm up as the night went on, and I read "like a wolf eats," to quote Gary Paulsen, author of Hatchet, which we just read to the kids, and which is also celebratory about fire and the making of it. (Best read-aloud ever, by the way.)

So I associate fire with happiness and warmth and reading myself into another world, and the way my dad could split wood like Paul Bunyan. I pride myself on once starting a fire with one match at Camp Buckskin in northern Minnesota (never happened again, by the way). Last winter, Jim and I liked to wear all our sweaters from the time we spent in Mrkopalj, and point out the burn marks from the wood burning stove there.

This winter, I will associate fire with the warm fall night Inman came over, and we made firewood that the kids hauled and stacked, with Zadie so pumped from the work of it that she asked when we were all finished and way sweaty: "Anything else you'd like me to do, Mom?"

She'll remember last night the way I remember chopping wood with my Dad, I'm betting.

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The cat, he waits.

El Presidente on the hunt.

Tomorrow morning I leave for the Austin City Limits Music Festival, where my friend Holli and I will be rocking out for a few days.

There's an unadulterated joy in this idea, that my only job for the weekend will be to catch all the bands I can (and avoid Coldplay). That's some awesome blossoms. Is that a phrase? It should be a phrase.

But here's the part that always blows my mind: Part of me will also remain here, with my family, in spirit. Hoping the kids have fun at their soccer games, worrying that they'll not have their mom to talk to at night, hoping I got all the logistics in order before I left. It's like the umbilical cords were never fully severed or something. I'm gone, but I'm not.

It makes me think of the cat, actually. I tried to get Bill Clinton (a/k/a El Presidente) to acclimate to the chickens. He should like them, after all, because they keep Willa busy, as she is staring at them all the time. This means Willa spends significantly less time chasing El Presidente, tackling him, and pretend-killing him.

Though the cat acted all cool for awhile, the minute I'm not paying attention, he literally pounces on a chicken. It's happened twice now, and so he has to go inside when the chickens are out. I can try all I want to foster a friendly, Disney version of animal life in my yard, but that business ain't happening. El Presidente wants to eat him a chicken. It's just his nature. He's part housecat, part jaguar from way back.

And though Austin (and its 98-degree heat) will be a fantatic weekend, no doubt, there's still going to be a part of me that never leaves the ground here in Iowa. I can take a little break, but I'll always be the mom. It's just my nature.

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Let's hope.

I found it very reassuring that the green roof on the chicken coop sprouted on September 11.

With clear intentions and hard work, good things rise up from the dirt.

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Hay fever.

Photo courtesy Polk County Extension

You know what I just remembered? I remembered that I'm highly allergic to hay. You'd think that would've dawned on me earlier, based on my failed experience baling hay for about 32 seconds on Schlosser's hog farm as a kid. They sent me home, head hanging in shame, wisps of snot flying out of my mouth and nose as I sneezed so loud and for so long that I scared the livestock into a frenzy.

This isn't going to work when it comes to lining the chicken coop with hay regularly.

I wonder if there's something else I could use for their bedding? I couldn't take enough Benadryl to get over this—and plus, I've got carpool duties tonight.

I just made a mess of this keyboard.

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Fish and chicken.

Look at 'em sitting so nice.

I've been hinting to Jim that I'd like assistance with the addition of both a second lock and a roost in the chicken coop.

Apparently, this sitting-upon-a-bar business is very important to a chicken. It's like their version of an easy chair, or leather interiors. The second lock was just for my own peace of mind—having been nearly physically assaulted by a raccoon on a camping trip in Maine many moons ago, I know that a raccoon will stop at nothing when it comes to food. (Nothing except the giant hiking boot of an angry Iowa girl. I'm lucky I got out of that one without rabies.)

By Sunday, with Jim hip-deep in a repair job on the front porch, I got the picture that the lock and the roost were going to have to be my deal. I got that picture because Jim handed me a tiny Japanese saw (for the dowel I was carrying around) and his drill set (for the lock I was carrying around).

"I'm going to teach you to fish," he said.

I got the quick one-two on changing out drill bits, and then he helped me with the first few screws. I've used a drill before, but the changing out of bits is more intricate than this generalist goes for. It only took us a few minutes in the end. I could do it myself next time. And probably will, when it comes to making laying boxes.

Adding the roost was just a matter of finding the handle of an old rake laying around, then measuring it and cutting it to fit across the coop. Couple of nails to keep it from rolling around.

Seriously small potatoes, when it comes to handyman stuff. But every time I go out to that coop to do the chicken chores, and see them roosting, safe from raccons for now, I feel pretty studly.

 

 

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Free kids.

What's better than tree-climbing on a nice day? Nuthin.

You know what amazes me? That you can go to a library and take a big pile of books (as many as you want!) and it doesn't cost you a penny. And that some guys stop by and pick up my trash every Friday. And it really amazes me that there are giant tracts of attractive land set aside for the sole purpose of our enjoyment. With picnic benches and trails and everything!

I know none of these things are technically free. I pay for the trash and recycling to go away. As for parks and libraries, we still pay for them through taxes, no matter how hard those Tea Partiers party. But still. They're amazingly nice amenities in life, aren't they?

We did all our weekend work on Sunday, so yesterday we were free as birds. We went to one of those nearby state parks, just to spend the day running around in the open. I spent the whole day tossing a softball and eating cheese and watching the kids goof off and drinking pop and riding a bike with Kelly and feeling happy. Ended the day with a Little Caesar's Hot n Ready (for $5; that's also amazing).

I know it's a cliche to say that the best things in life are free. But they're probably cliches because they're true.

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Grateful.

You know, I had to do some doctoring this week—tune up this, clear up that—which resulted in one of those scary moments where the concerned doctor orders you to do some tests, fast. As in drive over there right now. As I get older, going to the doctor isn't just another lame-o errand to run. It's a bit more nerve-wracking. It turned out to be nothing major; I'm just fine. But there was that moment, in the waiting room, when I thought to myself: What if I'm not?

Three hours later, when I knew for sure that all was well, lounging in bed with the kids and Jim, I had that intense feeling of profound gratitude that often came over me in the later months when we were living in Mrkopalj, Croatia. I am okay. And so is that little girl, and so are my two guys. We are here after a day of school (which is free) and work (which is fulfilling), our bellies full of casserole (which was yummy), safely ensconced in our home in which we can afford to do things like paint the walls and shop for a big fluffy rug for the family room in our ongoing efforts to stave off the cold in an old Victorian place. Grateful. Forehead kissing grateful.

There are never enough of those grateful moments. I'm sure you have plenty of them yourself. Have one today. On me.

 

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Lookit the chickens! (and the sad dog)

The chickens are four weeks old today, and they're growing way fast. I'd be lying if I said any of them were cute right now, except the Buff Orpington, which is a fluffy little ball of buttery love with sea-green eyes. Right now they're the chicken equivalent of zits and braces, all Judy Blume in their awkwardness, half chick fluff and half pin feathers. Still, in all that awkwardness, I really do love it so far, even though we're far from getting any return on investment in the form of eggs. They seem fairly easy still—no harder than the guinea pigs we took care of for the kids' school over the summer—though I'm sure there will be complications when we get "weather." They are currently experiencing their first mild thunderstorm, so that's good training.

Willa the Dog, however, isn't quite sure what her job is here. She's half Schnauzer and half poodle, both of which are hunting dogs. So she's gotten a hold of a chicken a few times, and though she had a nice soft mouth, I definitely had to remind her that herding and seizing the chickens is not her job. So now, when I let her outside during chicken chores, she stays far far away from us, looking baffled. I just yell "Good job!" to her every now and then. That's a good M.O. until the chickens outweigh her.

So check it out: the fowl version of Deenie:

 

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