Irene Ziegler's Blog, page 13
February 14, 2011
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon: Telling Your Story to Make a Difference, by John Capecci
(This series of posts describes the projects each of seven artists brought to "Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon," held in early February at my home in Charles City, VA. The first of the series was posted Feb. 7, 2011.)
John Capecci is my best friend from grad school days.
He and I co-edit a series of monologue collections for actors. (They're excellent. You should buy some.) For his current project, a book is titled, Living Proof: Telling Your Story to Make a Difference, John has partnered with his long time BFF Timothy Cage, and I'm really hurt and jealous. In fact, as I write this, I am crying. But suddenly I remember I don't have more than 20 years experience in communication training like Tim does, and suck it up.
At the Salon, John introduced his book, and asked for comments on content and/or clarity.
Living Proof helps public advocates and spokespersons with the essential skills necessary to tell their stories effectively, authentically, and powerfully. John talked about how much he loves doing this work, which brings together his love of, and backgrounds in narrative theory, public address, performance, and advocacy.
Let's say I was adopted many years ago in a closed adoption. I have no birth certificate, and even though I have been met my birth parents, the state of NY still will not issue a birth certificate, which greatly limits my freedoms as a citizen of the United States. The law needs to be changed, and I want to tell my story as a way to advocate for that change. Living Proof tells me how to focus my story and goals, how to assemble and craft it, and how to deliver it.
Or, let's say I have heart disease, and want to advocate for increased public awareness of heart disease in women. I will be interviewed on CNN for a whole thirty seconds. I need to boil down my message (a lot), without losing sympathetic appeal, or allowing the interview to stray from my message points, all while looking confident and relaxed.
John and Tim have coached persons who have appeared on Oprah (last week!), The Today Show; CNN; in national media campaigns; at The White House; on Mars; and in the portal to John Malkovich's brain. They have worked with celebrity spokespersons; professional athletes; heads of state; the Mayo Clinic; WomenHeart: The National Coalition for Women with Heart Disease; the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation; the National Meningitis Foundation; and major arts organizations and universities.
They are coming soon to a bookshelf near you.
And all this is really GREAT, but the thing that is REALLY great, is that John has an advanced degree in Performance Studies. You know, the major your parents BEGGED you not to declare. And with the organizational skills you learned in Speech 101 (along with a generous dose of ambition and charisma), John has built a career to rival that of any MBA. He is a walking, talking, working advocate of the arts and arts education. And next to me, he likes Tim best.
John Capecci is my best friend from grad school days.
He and I co-edit a series of monologue collections for actors. (They're excellent. You should buy some.) For his current project, a book is titled, Living Proof: Telling Your Story to Make a Difference, John has partnered with his long time BFF Timothy Cage, and I'm really hurt and jealous. In fact, as I write this, I am crying. But suddenly I remember I don't have more than 20 years experience in communication training like Tim does, and suck it up. At the Salon, John introduced his book, and asked for comments on content and/or clarity.
Living Proof helps public advocates and spokespersons with the essential skills necessary to tell their stories effectively, authentically, and powerfully. John talked about how much he loves doing this work, which brings together his love of, and backgrounds in narrative theory, public address, performance, and advocacy.
Let's say I was adopted many years ago in a closed adoption. I have no birth certificate, and even though I have been met my birth parents, the state of NY still will not issue a birth certificate, which greatly limits my freedoms as a citizen of the United States. The law needs to be changed, and I want to tell my story as a way to advocate for that change. Living Proof tells me how to focus my story and goals, how to assemble and craft it, and how to deliver it.
Or, let's say I have heart disease, and want to advocate for increased public awareness of heart disease in women. I will be interviewed on CNN for a whole thirty seconds. I need to boil down my message (a lot), without losing sympathetic appeal, or allowing the interview to stray from my message points, all while looking confident and relaxed.
John and Tim have coached persons who have appeared on Oprah (last week!), The Today Show; CNN; in national media campaigns; at The White House; on Mars; and in the portal to John Malkovich's brain. They have worked with celebrity spokespersons; professional athletes; heads of state; the Mayo Clinic; WomenHeart: The National Coalition for Women with Heart Disease; the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation; the National Meningitis Foundation; and major arts organizations and universities.
They are coming soon to a bookshelf near you.
And all this is really GREAT, but the thing that is REALLY great, is that John has an advanced degree in Performance Studies. You know, the major your parents BEGGED you not to declare. And with the organizational skills you learned in Speech 101 (along with a generous dose of ambition and charisma), John has built a career to rival that of any MBA. He is a walking, talking, working advocate of the arts and arts education. And next to me, he likes Tim best.
February 10, 2011
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon: Body, Paper, Stage, by Tami Spry
(This series shares the projects that each of seven artists brought to "Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon," held in early February at my home in Charles City, VA. The first post of the series was posted Feb. 7.)
You should go to Facebook and friend Tami Spry right now, not just because she is the coolest teacher at St. Cloud State University, or has amazing long, blond dreds,
or is so smart you can see her brain right through her head (eww),
but also because she lives and teaches in a castle in England for part of the academic year, and if she likes you, might invite you to visit. (But you'll have to take a number.)
She also has a book coming out in May from Left Coast Press titled, Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography. At Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon, she told us about it.
(Borrowing liberally from wikipedia now,) Autoethnography is a form of autobiographical personal narrative that explores the writer's experience of life as situated in culture. In other words, in addition to describing and looking critically at one's own experience, an autoethnography is also a cultural accounting.
Another way of putting it: autoethnography is a story that re-enacts an experience by which people find meaning and through that meaning are able to be okay with that experience. Using her own story to illustrate, Tami told us an upsetting story:
Over thirty years ago, (when we knew her when), Tami was on her way to a party, dressed to the nines and loving the way she looked. She described feeling empowered by her red high heels, big hair and carefully applied make-up. As she walked over a bridge, she saw a man at the other end. A warning bell went off, but she silenced it. After all, she had as much right as anyone to be walking alone in summer's perfect twilight. With her head high, she passed the man, only to be attacked from behind, pulled down the bank, and sexually assaulted. That horrible experience became the inspiration for her own authoethnography.
BUT, Tami told us, the purpose of autoethnography is not to indulge emotions, but ask questions. She tells students that the stage is not a doctor's office, and while it's important to reach an emotional catharsis, that important work is done in private. Sharing your story is not about "emotional vomit," but critical thinking. Over time, when one looks back at the experience, perhaps one discovers that the treatment of rape victims by police and the court system was abysmal at best, and required reform at a most basic level. Or perhaps the experience tore the lid off of a Pandora's box of difficult questions about the way we raise our sons. Or, one may find that through this hardship she became a stronger, more independent person, or found the strength to help others battle their post-traumatic stress. With these realizations, the person has actually made sense of, and has become fine with the tragic experience that occurred. And through this, autoethnography is performed.
In her book, Tami intertwines three necessary elements comprising the process. First one must understand the body – navigating concepts of self, culture, language, class, race, gender, and physicality. The second task is to put that body on the page, assigning words for that body's sociocultural experiences. Finally, this merger of body and paper is lifted up to the stage, crafting a persona as a method of personal inquiry. These three stages are simultaneous and interdependent, and only in cultivating all three does performance autoethnography begin to take shape.
Remember Mo from the last post? Who was afraid she might be experiencing debilitating memory function? She was extremely grateful to learn about this process, seeing in it, perhaps, a way to construct her own autoethnography.
And that's what happens at Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon. Share your work, change a life.
Or share your work, have 6 old friends invite themselves to stay in your castle.
Dr. Tami Spry teaches courses in performance studies and communication theory.
She performs her autobiographical and autoethnographic work around the country, focusing on issues of gender violence, mental illness, race relationships, shamanic healing, and loss.
Tami is currently working on a book, Paper and Skin: Writing and Performing the Autoethnographic Life. Her publications appear in Text and Performance Quarterly, Qualitative Inquiry, and Women and Language as well as chapters in various anthologies, most recently in Voices Made Flesh: Women and Autobiography
In 2007, Dr. Spry was invited to Fitzwilliam College at Cambridge University in England to present research on performative autoethnography, and taught in Alnwick, England. She has also done ethnographic work with Mapuche and Peruvian shaman on the performative dimensions of healing rituals.
In her spare time, she is the Director of Players Performance Group, and maintains a family on the banks of the Rum River in Milaca, MN.
You should go to Facebook and friend Tami Spry right now, not just because she is the coolest teacher at St. Cloud State University, or has amazing long, blond dreds,
or is so smart you can see her brain right through her head (eww),
but also because she lives and teaches in a castle in England for part of the academic year, and if she likes you, might invite you to visit. (But you'll have to take a number.)
She also has a book coming out in May from Left Coast Press titled, Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography. At Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon, she told us about it.
(Borrowing liberally from wikipedia now,) Autoethnography is a form of autobiographical personal narrative that explores the writer's experience of life as situated in culture. In other words, in addition to describing and looking critically at one's own experience, an autoethnography is also a cultural accounting.
Another way of putting it: autoethnography is a story that re-enacts an experience by which people find meaning and through that meaning are able to be okay with that experience. Using her own story to illustrate, Tami told us an upsetting story:
Over thirty years ago, (when we knew her when), Tami was on her way to a party, dressed to the nines and loving the way she looked. She described feeling empowered by her red high heels, big hair and carefully applied make-up. As she walked over a bridge, she saw a man at the other end. A warning bell went off, but she silenced it. After all, she had as much right as anyone to be walking alone in summer's perfect twilight. With her head high, she passed the man, only to be attacked from behind, pulled down the bank, and sexually assaulted. That horrible experience became the inspiration for her own authoethnography.
BUT, Tami told us, the purpose of autoethnography is not to indulge emotions, but ask questions. She tells students that the stage is not a doctor's office, and while it's important to reach an emotional catharsis, that important work is done in private. Sharing your story is not about "emotional vomit," but critical thinking. Over time, when one looks back at the experience, perhaps one discovers that the treatment of rape victims by police and the court system was abysmal at best, and required reform at a most basic level. Or perhaps the experience tore the lid off of a Pandora's box of difficult questions about the way we raise our sons. Or, one may find that through this hardship she became a stronger, more independent person, or found the strength to help others battle their post-traumatic stress. With these realizations, the person has actually made sense of, and has become fine with the tragic experience that occurred. And through this, autoethnography is performed.
In her book, Tami intertwines three necessary elements comprising the process. First one must understand the body – navigating concepts of self, culture, language, class, race, gender, and physicality. The second task is to put that body on the page, assigning words for that body's sociocultural experiences. Finally, this merger of body and paper is lifted up to the stage, crafting a persona as a method of personal inquiry. These three stages are simultaneous and interdependent, and only in cultivating all three does performance autoethnography begin to take shape.
Remember Mo from the last post? Who was afraid she might be experiencing debilitating memory function? She was extremely grateful to learn about this process, seeing in it, perhaps, a way to construct her own autoethnography.
And that's what happens at Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon. Share your work, change a life.
Or share your work, have 6 old friends invite themselves to stay in your castle.
Dr. Tami Spry teaches courses in performance studies and communication theory.
She performs her autobiographical and autoethnographic work around the country, focusing on issues of gender violence, mental illness, race relationships, shamanic healing, and loss.
Tami is currently working on a book, Paper and Skin: Writing and Performing the Autoethnographic Life. Her publications appear in Text and Performance Quarterly, Qualitative Inquiry, and Women and Language as well as chapters in various anthologies, most recently in Voices Made Flesh: Women and Autobiography
In 2007, Dr. Spry was invited to Fitzwilliam College at Cambridge University in England to present research on performative autoethnography, and taught in Alnwick, England. She has also done ethnographic work with Mapuche and Peruvian shaman on the performative dimensions of healing rituals.
In her spare time, she is the Director of Players Performance Group, and maintains a family on the banks of the Rum River in Milaca, MN.
February 9, 2011
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon: Mo Tells Us What Scares Her Most
(The previous and next few blogs share the projects each of seven attending artists brought to Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon, held Feb. 4,5,6 at my home in Charles City, VA. The first of the series was posted Feb. 7)
Back in the day, I knew Maureen Burke as an actor and competitive speaker (the "other" Forensics.) She was imminently successful at both. Today, Mo is a wedding celebrant, and a member of the Celebrant USA Foundation and Institute.
Her performance skills and deep respect for "story" have served her well. When it came time for Mo's presentation, she asked for help:
"I have a problem with memorization," she said. "It's very difficult for me. I want to write a one-woman show for myself, but how can I perform it if I can't memorize?"
Good question.
Aside from the obvious problems that arise when an actor fails to put text to memory, there is the mind/vocal/ body disconnect that prevents the actor from embodying a text, which is the crux of acting. So even if Mo found a way to "cheat," she would not be acting, but speaking extemporaneously, which is well short of her goal as a performer.
Mo told us she has always had trouble with memorization, even back in the day, when she was winning trophies and accolades. She approached memorization the same way most of us approach it: by rote. She has also tried voice recordings, and wanted to know if we had any experience with audio prompters.
As we gave our opinions, it became clear that this was no minor issue for Mo. Her self-concept was threatened, her confidence shaken. She recognized that this may be the tip of an even more threatening iceberg, and her anxiety was evident.
When talk turned toward her desire to create a one-woman show for herself, it occurred to us that Mo might try writing about "what scares you most."
This idea of writing what scares you is not new. David Lindsey-Abaire and Susan Isaacs started there, and wrote masterpieces. Lindsey-Abaire wrote Rabbit Hole, (first as a play, then a screenplay) in which a young couple struggles in the aftermath of a car accident that killed their young son. (Linsey-Abaire was a young father at the time.) And Isaacs wrote about her crisis of faith in
Angry Conversations With God. Our personal monsters make good stories, and when we can tie them to a greater social, cultural or political issue, the thing that scares us most can transform fear to empowerment.
"Look deeper," said Tami. "What's really going on with your memorization issues?"
One answer, of course, is that for an actor, an inability to memorize is as debilitating as for a singer who has lost her voice. What could be scarier than that?
When Mo embraced the idea that her greatest fear could make a fascinating subject for her one-woman show, she started crying. Good crying. As in, oh my God, this isn't going to kill me, after all. As in, oh my God, I can make lemons with lemonade. As in, oh my God, I need a beer.
So we stopped and drank some.
Here's a little more about Mo, and how she came to be a celebrant. I love that her regard for storytelling has helped her discover a rewarding career path.
"Several years ago, my now-husband and I wrote our wedding ceremony to tell our own personal story -- our love and commitment, beliefs, and the rituals and traditions most important to us. The ceremony was more meaningful than we could have imagined -- an experience I'll remember with joy for the rest of my life. As a Celebrant, my goal is to create a similar experience for others.
My Celebrancy practice builds upon 25 years of experience as a nonprofit speaker and facilitator. I bring professionalism, highly developed skills, and dedication to meeting the unique needs of the people I serve, honoring and respecting all beliefs, religions and traditions.
Next: Tami's new book: Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography
Back in the day, I knew Maureen Burke as an actor and competitive speaker (the "other" Forensics.) She was imminently successful at both. Today, Mo is a wedding celebrant, and a member of the Celebrant USA Foundation and Institute.
Her performance skills and deep respect for "story" have served her well. When it came time for Mo's presentation, she asked for help:
"I have a problem with memorization," she said. "It's very difficult for me. I want to write a one-woman show for myself, but how can I perform it if I can't memorize?"
Good question.
Aside from the obvious problems that arise when an actor fails to put text to memory, there is the mind/vocal/ body disconnect that prevents the actor from embodying a text, which is the crux of acting. So even if Mo found a way to "cheat," she would not be acting, but speaking extemporaneously, which is well short of her goal as a performer.
Mo told us she has always had trouble with memorization, even back in the day, when she was winning trophies and accolades. She approached memorization the same way most of us approach it: by rote. She has also tried voice recordings, and wanted to know if we had any experience with audio prompters.
As we gave our opinions, it became clear that this was no minor issue for Mo. Her self-concept was threatened, her confidence shaken. She recognized that this may be the tip of an even more threatening iceberg, and her anxiety was evident.
When talk turned toward her desire to create a one-woman show for herself, it occurred to us that Mo might try writing about "what scares you most."
This idea of writing what scares you is not new. David Lindsey-Abaire and Susan Isaacs started there, and wrote masterpieces. Lindsey-Abaire wrote Rabbit Hole, (first as a play, then a screenplay) in which a young couple struggles in the aftermath of a car accident that killed their young son. (Linsey-Abaire was a young father at the time.) And Isaacs wrote about her crisis of faith in
Angry Conversations With God. Our personal monsters make good stories, and when we can tie them to a greater social, cultural or political issue, the thing that scares us most can transform fear to empowerment.
"Look deeper," said Tami. "What's really going on with your memorization issues?"
One answer, of course, is that for an actor, an inability to memorize is as debilitating as for a singer who has lost her voice. What could be scarier than that?
When Mo embraced the idea that her greatest fear could make a fascinating subject for her one-woman show, she started crying. Good crying. As in, oh my God, this isn't going to kill me, after all. As in, oh my God, I can make lemons with lemonade. As in, oh my God, I need a beer.
So we stopped and drank some.
Here's a little more about Mo, and how she came to be a celebrant. I love that her regard for storytelling has helped her discover a rewarding career path.
"Several years ago, my now-husband and I wrote our wedding ceremony to tell our own personal story -- our love and commitment, beliefs, and the rituals and traditions most important to us. The ceremony was more meaningful than we could have imagined -- an experience I'll remember with joy for the rest of my life. As a Celebrant, my goal is to create a similar experience for others.
My Celebrancy practice builds upon 25 years of experience as a nonprofit speaker and facilitator. I bring professionalism, highly developed skills, and dedication to meeting the unique needs of the people I serve, honoring and respecting all beliefs, religions and traditions. Next: Tami's new book: Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography
February 8, 2011
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon Continues with Theresa McElwee
(The previous and next several blogs share the projects each of seven attending artists brought to Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon, held Feb. 4,5,6 at my home in Charles City, VA. The first blog of the series was posted Feb. 7)
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon began with Yoga on Saturday morning at 9:00, courtesy of the lithe and lovely guest instructor, Mary Jo Lowery. Mary Jo arrived with mats and scented eye pillows, and for an hour, lead us in a series of Down-facing Dogs, Half Lords of the Fishes, and Cow Face Poses.
Mary Jo left at 10:00 to teach another class, and we undid all the good of the previous hour with Lord Aston's hearty breakfast of sugar, cholesterol and caffeine.
After morning ablutions, the salon continued with Theresa McElwee, artist in attendance, leading us in vocal exercises.
Theresa is a Yale educated actor and voice/speech coach who has trod the boards on Broadway. She told us we don't often we don't use our voices in the way nature intended . There is a difference between "natural" and "habitual" and sometimes we confuse the two. When we use our voices naturally, it feels odd, because we're used to our (often bad) habits. Theresa taught us the same techniques she teaches to young students and corporate professionals in NYC. Essentially, the exercises were designed to call attention to unproductive physical habits, and to produce immediate, palpable improvements in breathing, posture and vocal quality.
The field of voice and diction owes much to an Australian Shakespearean actor named Frederick Matthias Alexander (1869-1955). He suffered from chronic hoarseness, and often lost his voice entirely while performing. When doctors could find nothing physically wrong with him he looked for what he might be doing to cause his own problems. Using a three-way mirror to observe himself, he noticed that when reciting Shakespeare he tightened the muscles of his neck, lifted his chin and tilted his head back and down. This nine-year process of self-observation and subsequent experimentation resulted in his vocal restoration. Students who used his "Alexander technique" also saw improvement in physical issues such as back problems, chronic pain, breathing disorders and stage fright.
Some current master teachers of voice and speech include Cecily Berry, Catherine Fitzmaurice, Kristin Linklater, Patsy Rodenburg, and Arthur Lessac. While there are some differences in methodology, the goal is the same: to produce a naturally resonant voice capable of responding in the moment to the needs of any text.
For the salon, Theresa introduced exercises that 1) focused the mind, 2) released common areas of muscular tension, 3) placed the vibrations of the voice as far forward in the mouth as possible, 4) and experimented with different resonators. Here are the specific exercises and the teachers who taught them to Theresa:
For alignment: "Strings and a Beam; Joan Melton
Releasing the tongue: "Hanging out with the Tongue" -Heather Lyle
Releasing the jaw: "Feldenkrais Jaw Release" - Robin Christian-McNair
Laryngeal Massage Placing the voice: "Forward Facial Posture and Y Buzz" – Arthur Lessac
Expanding range: "Resonator Work" – Kristin Linklater
Presence: "Second Circle" – Patsy Rodenburg
Vocal Release: "The Earth, the Sun, the Water, the Sky, You, and I" – Kristin Linklater
Thank you, Theresa. We all got a lot out of your presentation, with the possible exception of Tim, the Likeable Curmudgeon, who doesn't believe in warm-ups, but tolerated the exercises with patience and good humor.
Next: Maureen tells us what scares her most.
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon began with Yoga on Saturday morning at 9:00, courtesy of the lithe and lovely guest instructor, Mary Jo Lowery. Mary Jo arrived with mats and scented eye pillows, and for an hour, lead us in a series of Down-facing Dogs, Half Lords of the Fishes, and Cow Face Poses.
Mary Jo left at 10:00 to teach another class, and we undid all the good of the previous hour with Lord Aston's hearty breakfast of sugar, cholesterol and caffeine.
After morning ablutions, the salon continued with Theresa McElwee, artist in attendance, leading us in vocal exercises.
Theresa is a Yale educated actor and voice/speech coach who has trod the boards on Broadway. She told us we don't often we don't use our voices in the way nature intended . There is a difference between "natural" and "habitual" and sometimes we confuse the two. When we use our voices naturally, it feels odd, because we're used to our (often bad) habits. Theresa taught us the same techniques she teaches to young students and corporate professionals in NYC. Essentially, the exercises were designed to call attention to unproductive physical habits, and to produce immediate, palpable improvements in breathing, posture and vocal quality.
The field of voice and diction owes much to an Australian Shakespearean actor named Frederick Matthias Alexander (1869-1955). He suffered from chronic hoarseness, and often lost his voice entirely while performing. When doctors could find nothing physically wrong with him he looked for what he might be doing to cause his own problems. Using a three-way mirror to observe himself, he noticed that when reciting Shakespeare he tightened the muscles of his neck, lifted his chin and tilted his head back and down. This nine-year process of self-observation and subsequent experimentation resulted in his vocal restoration. Students who used his "Alexander technique" also saw improvement in physical issues such as back problems, chronic pain, breathing disorders and stage fright.
Some current master teachers of voice and speech include Cecily Berry, Catherine Fitzmaurice, Kristin Linklater, Patsy Rodenburg, and Arthur Lessac. While there are some differences in methodology, the goal is the same: to produce a naturally resonant voice capable of responding in the moment to the needs of any text.
For the salon, Theresa introduced exercises that 1) focused the mind, 2) released common areas of muscular tension, 3) placed the vibrations of the voice as far forward in the mouth as possible, 4) and experimented with different resonators. Here are the specific exercises and the teachers who taught them to Theresa:
For alignment: "Strings and a Beam; Joan Melton
Releasing the tongue: "Hanging out with the Tongue" -Heather Lyle
Releasing the jaw: "Feldenkrais Jaw Release" - Robin Christian-McNair
Laryngeal Massage Placing the voice: "Forward Facial Posture and Y Buzz" – Arthur Lessac
Expanding range: "Resonator Work" – Kristin Linklater
Presence: "Second Circle" – Patsy Rodenburg
Vocal Release: "The Earth, the Sun, the Water, the Sky, You, and I" – Kristin Linklater
Thank you, Theresa. We all got a lot out of your presentation, with the possible exception of Tim, the Likeable Curmudgeon, who doesn't believe in warm-ups, but tolerated the exercises with patience and good humor.
Next: Maureen tells us what scares her most.
February 7, 2011
Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon
I just hosted a most remarkable weekend event (if I do say so myself.) Taking a cue from Gertrude Stein who, in her Paris apartment, often gathered about herself a "palette" of artists, I invited a few dear friends from my creative glory days to visit me in my home, a converted oak barn. I called the event Lady Aston's BarnStone Salon.
And they came!
From Minneapolis, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago, and Riverdale, MD they came, and brought with them to share, their most pressing creative endeavors.
The next several blogs will be my lame attempts at sharing with you the projects each of the seven attending artists brought to the salon. But first, a brief backstory:
We have history. We all went to school together in the early 80s, and together, studied some specific aspect of the performance arts. Today, some of us are professional actors, others have advanced degrees and plumb the halls of academe. One is a graphic designer, another is a voice and diction coach, and one is a celebrant (she marries people.) All of us remain devoted to personal growth via artistic exploration, and I thought a salon would be the perfect way to frame a reunion.
For the uninitiated, a salon is "a gathering of like-minded people under the roof of an inspiring host, held partly to amuse one another and partly to refine the taste and increase their knowledge of the participants' endeavors through conversation."
When my friend Michael Bailey, who is working on a one-man show, feared he would not be able to sell this adventure to the "home office," Dame Cindy Meier offered this "brochure" definition: "A salon is a gathering of people under the roof of an inspiring host, in order to encourage one another in their creative enterprises, and provide an opportunity to get significant and focused work done on projects, such as one-man shows, which may expand the options of meaningful work for such a person, who may soon be experiencing empty-nest syndrome and may be reaching the end of his/her teaching career. Such salons definitely guarantee the person's increased happiness, which will result in increased joy in his/her marriage. (This particular point may be especially pertinent for the home office.) Such salons may, in fact, improve the marriage of said person by increasing the blood-flow to the brain and expanding memory of said spouse's birthdays and anniversaries."
It was nice try, but Michael was still unable to attend. Nor did Cindy make it, as she was rehearsing and directing two shows at the Rogue Theatre in Tuscon, which she founded. Ric didn't make it either, nor Dennis, in spite of lots of peer pressure and thinly veiled insults aimed at their dreary domestic and professional priorities.Que lastima!
Friday, Feb. 4
They arrive.
As the country dug out from under a major snow storm, the artists arrived at BarnStone. We ate, drank and made merry. As we caught up with one another, scream laughing ensued.That evening, I opened the ceremonies by sharing the first chapter of my new book, the third in a trilogy, tentatively titled,
The Face of the Deep. Before a roaring fireplace, I read aloud...
"Alcohol-hopped, they could not nail the lid to the barrel. Errant nails split the soft wood and sank into his shoulder, or tore his scalp. He was done cursing them and begging for mercy. They did not hear, or care. The barrel filled with blood stench mixed with the high reek of panic. He could no longer feel his legs, or where arms hugged knees. He tried to fill his lungs, but they would not expand. If he didn’t calm himself, he would suffocate. The thought made his heart hammer; his body jerked involuntarily, raking flesh across rough wood and protruding nails. His cry was high-pitched and animal strange.
“He’s buckin! Sit on this thing, Carlyle, so’s I can get it.”
The hammering re-commenced. This time, the nail must have sunk into the barrel’s edge, for he felt nothing dig into flesh, and found himself thankful, even as it meant he was not long for this world. He thought of Ida, who would be too scared to tell the police how they had been dragged from their bed by five men in white, how they butted his forehead with a rifle, blinding him with blood and pain, how they tore downward the neck of Ida’s nightgown, exposing breasts swollen with milk. His head pounded with her shrieks as they bound him, threw him truckward, and drove to this place atop Chimney Hill. He screamed and begged as they beat him, ribs snapping, into a rain barrel too small for any grown man.
He trained one eye on a crack in the slats. The big one named Carlyle moved off, stumbling, no longer wearing the white hood that had scared Ida so. In the distance, a train wailed, and he saw Carlyle’s head jerk in its direction.
“Let up a minute. Check if it’s on good.”
“How you doin’ in there, nigger?”
His tongue grew large. He promised God if he could taste the St. Johns River one more time, he would never wander from Chimney Hill again, nor talk to a white woman, or even look one in the eye. But he had never been close with God and doubted he would be heard. Ida was the one who belonged to God; she had exhorted Him over and over, until one of the men stuffed her mouth with the hem of her nightgown and threatened to ungate her legs. That he did not was due not to mercy, but time.
The train sounded again, closer; a coal train from Richmond, he knew, and this time of night cruised at eighty miles an hour. Before they were married, he and Ida sat atop Chimney Hill and through the trees, watched the coal cars approach. He got good at calculating the train’s distance by separating engine churn from whistle bounce. Once he heard the tracks squeak, the train was only moments away, and he pulled Ida close, kissed her for good luck. As the train rushed past, the earth beneath them trembled.
Through the barrel crack he saw a hammer hit the damp grass. One of them said something about a nickel; the others laughed. They made wet, obscene noises as they took turns pulling from a bottle until it too hit the grass, killed.
“Awright, we ready?”
“Move off it, Ed. I won the toss.”
“I know that. Christ awmighty, I was just gonna help tip it.”
“I got it.”
“Careful he don’t go until ready.”
“You still alive in there, nigger?”
His cheek raked an exposed nail as the barrel side-tipped. The new position freed his chest somewhat, and a roar burst from his core.
“Yep, he’s still alive.”
Panic surged as he divined their plan. He made himself large, pushed his trapezium against the lid. In spite of their sloppy work, it was nailed thoroughly. Each exertion stabbed his ribcage, and he whimpered. One of them mocked his anguish, causing others to laugh. He was amusement, lower than a bleeding dog after a lost fight, scrabbling beneath a stream of human urine.
Strangely, the thought calmed him. If he was sport, then he would survive this game. They would release the barrel, probably several times, and he would roll down the hill until he hit a tree or a bush. The errant nails would make a pincushion of him, but if he could stay conscious, the men would tire eventually, go in search of more liquor. He would gather the strength he needed to extricate himself, make his way back to Ida. Heartened, he concentrated on breathing.
They rolled him a short distance, squabbling for dibs like children. His body went with the movement, and he thought it might not be so bad. As a boy, he had folded himself inside an old tire, and instructed his brother to release him from the top of a gentle slope. He had liked the adrenaline rush, the sense of not being in control. This was no tire, however, and the men out there most certainly were not his kin. Another coin toss determined Shelton would give the signal, and he readied.
“When I say peanut butter, you let ‘er rip.”
“Why do you have to say peanut butter? Just say go.”
“I’m the signal man—I get to say peanut butter if I want to say peanut butter.”
“Whyn’t you say ‘my ass?’”
“Shut up, you two. Here it comes.”
The train cried as it hammered near. When his ears could no longer separate the sound of whistle and engine, he saw in his mind’s eye the lights come into view. He felt Ed square himself behind the barrel and lay hands. He tore an ear getting an eye to the crack, saw only darkness from this angle, and the unthinkable occurred to him. Tracks squealed as the train bore down. He fought the panic rupturing upward through the trembling earth.
“On your mark, get set…”
Oh, Ida, he thought, I will miss your kisses. I will miss your hands on my face and the smudged outline of your hair. I will miss our unborn child. I will miss loving you when we are old. I regret, dear Ida, the blue and white dish I broke in anger, the one that belonged to your mother. You are the only one I ever loved, or ever wanted to love me back. You showed me your heart, and I die a better person for having seen it.
“Peanut butter!”
Instead of rolling, the barrel turtled end over end. He had not been prepared for the thumping, and he worked to realign his expectations. Even braced, his head cracked with each bounce. He thought he knew this spot, a steep slope leading to where the run-off drain parted the woods. Soon the barrel settled into a true roll, gaining speed as it careened down the hill. He kept waiting for the barrel to hit something, but it rolled, faster and faster, until he became a part of it. When the barrel arrived at the run-off drain, concrete beneath the brush and leaf mold, it bounced off broken slabs and brick, clattering like a marble within the grooved path.
At the end of the drain was a drop, at the end of the drop was a gravel bank, and upon the gravel bank were the tracks upon which the 3:07 raced. The barrel did not break apart, veer off course, or sprout wings as it carried him, true as fate, toward his destination. With his last breath he sang Ida’s name, then gave himself to the high, long wail that was God calling him home."
When I finished, I told the "story behind the story" which I can't share here, as I would like to live long enough to meet my grandchildren, should I be so lucky. Suffice it say, such an event may have actually taken place, and this book will a fictionalized creation of its aftermath.My guest artists shared their comments. They liked the chapter, but wanted to know more about the man in the barrel, more details of his life with Ida, his relationship to these men and what he had done to provoke their violence. I had planned to fill in these details as the story unfolded, but will look more closely at expanding the victim's backstory.
They also wanted more reason to hope that the incident would end some other way, even if evident it would not.After that, we sat around the fire with our libations and talked about the state of publishing, the experience of promoting one's own work (I had a few things to say about that, as you might imagine), the role of social media, and the wisdom or folly of self-publishing.
Later (much later) we all went to bed. Lady Aston supplied slippers and chocolate for all her guests (yes, I am referring to myself in the third person now), and warned them not to slam into posts should they wander to bathroom in the middle of the night, a genuine concern.
Tomorrow: The Saturday Salons and What We Ate.
And they came!
From Minneapolis, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago, and Riverdale, MD they came, and brought with them to share, their most pressing creative endeavors.
The next several blogs will be my lame attempts at sharing with you the projects each of the seven attending artists brought to the salon. But first, a brief backstory:
We have history. We all went to school together in the early 80s, and together, studied some specific aspect of the performance arts. Today, some of us are professional actors, others have advanced degrees and plumb the halls of academe. One is a graphic designer, another is a voice and diction coach, and one is a celebrant (she marries people.) All of us remain devoted to personal growth via artistic exploration, and I thought a salon would be the perfect way to frame a reunion.
For the uninitiated, a salon is "a gathering of like-minded people under the roof of an inspiring host, held partly to amuse one another and partly to refine the taste and increase their knowledge of the participants' endeavors through conversation."
When my friend Michael Bailey, who is working on a one-man show, feared he would not be able to sell this adventure to the "home office," Dame Cindy Meier offered this "brochure" definition: "A salon is a gathering of people under the roof of an inspiring host, in order to encourage one another in their creative enterprises, and provide an opportunity to get significant and focused work done on projects, such as one-man shows, which may expand the options of meaningful work for such a person, who may soon be experiencing empty-nest syndrome and may be reaching the end of his/her teaching career. Such salons definitely guarantee the person's increased happiness, which will result in increased joy in his/her marriage. (This particular point may be especially pertinent for the home office.) Such salons may, in fact, improve the marriage of said person by increasing the blood-flow to the brain and expanding memory of said spouse's birthdays and anniversaries."
It was nice try, but Michael was still unable to attend. Nor did Cindy make it, as she was rehearsing and directing two shows at the Rogue Theatre in Tuscon, which she founded. Ric didn't make it either, nor Dennis, in spite of lots of peer pressure and thinly veiled insults aimed at their dreary domestic and professional priorities.Que lastima!
Friday, Feb. 4
They arrive.
As the country dug out from under a major snow storm, the artists arrived at BarnStone. We ate, drank and made merry. As we caught up with one another, scream laughing ensued.That evening, I opened the ceremonies by sharing the first chapter of my new book, the third in a trilogy, tentatively titled,
The Face of the Deep. Before a roaring fireplace, I read aloud...
"Alcohol-hopped, they could not nail the lid to the barrel. Errant nails split the soft wood and sank into his shoulder, or tore his scalp. He was done cursing them and begging for mercy. They did not hear, or care. The barrel filled with blood stench mixed with the high reek of panic. He could no longer feel his legs, or where arms hugged knees. He tried to fill his lungs, but they would not expand. If he didn’t calm himself, he would suffocate. The thought made his heart hammer; his body jerked involuntarily, raking flesh across rough wood and protruding nails. His cry was high-pitched and animal strange.
“He’s buckin! Sit on this thing, Carlyle, so’s I can get it.”
The hammering re-commenced. This time, the nail must have sunk into the barrel’s edge, for he felt nothing dig into flesh, and found himself thankful, even as it meant he was not long for this world. He thought of Ida, who would be too scared to tell the police how they had been dragged from their bed by five men in white, how they butted his forehead with a rifle, blinding him with blood and pain, how they tore downward the neck of Ida’s nightgown, exposing breasts swollen with milk. His head pounded with her shrieks as they bound him, threw him truckward, and drove to this place atop Chimney Hill. He screamed and begged as they beat him, ribs snapping, into a rain barrel too small for any grown man.
He trained one eye on a crack in the slats. The big one named Carlyle moved off, stumbling, no longer wearing the white hood that had scared Ida so. In the distance, a train wailed, and he saw Carlyle’s head jerk in its direction.
“Let up a minute. Check if it’s on good.”
“How you doin’ in there, nigger?”
His tongue grew large. He promised God if he could taste the St. Johns River one more time, he would never wander from Chimney Hill again, nor talk to a white woman, or even look one in the eye. But he had never been close with God and doubted he would be heard. Ida was the one who belonged to God; she had exhorted Him over and over, until one of the men stuffed her mouth with the hem of her nightgown and threatened to ungate her legs. That he did not was due not to mercy, but time.
The train sounded again, closer; a coal train from Richmond, he knew, and this time of night cruised at eighty miles an hour. Before they were married, he and Ida sat atop Chimney Hill and through the trees, watched the coal cars approach. He got good at calculating the train’s distance by separating engine churn from whistle bounce. Once he heard the tracks squeak, the train was only moments away, and he pulled Ida close, kissed her for good luck. As the train rushed past, the earth beneath them trembled.
Through the barrel crack he saw a hammer hit the damp grass. One of them said something about a nickel; the others laughed. They made wet, obscene noises as they took turns pulling from a bottle until it too hit the grass, killed.
“Awright, we ready?”
“Move off it, Ed. I won the toss.”
“I know that. Christ awmighty, I was just gonna help tip it.”
“I got it.”
“Careful he don’t go until ready.”
“You still alive in there, nigger?”
His cheek raked an exposed nail as the barrel side-tipped. The new position freed his chest somewhat, and a roar burst from his core.
“Yep, he’s still alive.”
Panic surged as he divined their plan. He made himself large, pushed his trapezium against the lid. In spite of their sloppy work, it was nailed thoroughly. Each exertion stabbed his ribcage, and he whimpered. One of them mocked his anguish, causing others to laugh. He was amusement, lower than a bleeding dog after a lost fight, scrabbling beneath a stream of human urine.
Strangely, the thought calmed him. If he was sport, then he would survive this game. They would release the barrel, probably several times, and he would roll down the hill until he hit a tree or a bush. The errant nails would make a pincushion of him, but if he could stay conscious, the men would tire eventually, go in search of more liquor. He would gather the strength he needed to extricate himself, make his way back to Ida. Heartened, he concentrated on breathing.
They rolled him a short distance, squabbling for dibs like children. His body went with the movement, and he thought it might not be so bad. As a boy, he had folded himself inside an old tire, and instructed his brother to release him from the top of a gentle slope. He had liked the adrenaline rush, the sense of not being in control. This was no tire, however, and the men out there most certainly were not his kin. Another coin toss determined Shelton would give the signal, and he readied.
“When I say peanut butter, you let ‘er rip.”
“Why do you have to say peanut butter? Just say go.”
“I’m the signal man—I get to say peanut butter if I want to say peanut butter.”
“Whyn’t you say ‘my ass?’”
“Shut up, you two. Here it comes.”
The train cried as it hammered near. When his ears could no longer separate the sound of whistle and engine, he saw in his mind’s eye the lights come into view. He felt Ed square himself behind the barrel and lay hands. He tore an ear getting an eye to the crack, saw only darkness from this angle, and the unthinkable occurred to him. Tracks squealed as the train bore down. He fought the panic rupturing upward through the trembling earth.
“On your mark, get set…”
Oh, Ida, he thought, I will miss your kisses. I will miss your hands on my face and the smudged outline of your hair. I will miss our unborn child. I will miss loving you when we are old. I regret, dear Ida, the blue and white dish I broke in anger, the one that belonged to your mother. You are the only one I ever loved, or ever wanted to love me back. You showed me your heart, and I die a better person for having seen it.
“Peanut butter!”
Instead of rolling, the barrel turtled end over end. He had not been prepared for the thumping, and he worked to realign his expectations. Even braced, his head cracked with each bounce. He thought he knew this spot, a steep slope leading to where the run-off drain parted the woods. Soon the barrel settled into a true roll, gaining speed as it careened down the hill. He kept waiting for the barrel to hit something, but it rolled, faster and faster, until he became a part of it. When the barrel arrived at the run-off drain, concrete beneath the brush and leaf mold, it bounced off broken slabs and brick, clattering like a marble within the grooved path.
At the end of the drain was a drop, at the end of the drop was a gravel bank, and upon the gravel bank were the tracks upon which the 3:07 raced. The barrel did not break apart, veer off course, or sprout wings as it carried him, true as fate, toward his destination. With his last breath he sang Ida’s name, then gave himself to the high, long wail that was God calling him home."
When I finished, I told the "story behind the story" which I can't share here, as I would like to live long enough to meet my grandchildren, should I be so lucky. Suffice it say, such an event may have actually taken place, and this book will a fictionalized creation of its aftermath.My guest artists shared their comments. They liked the chapter, but wanted to know more about the man in the barrel, more details of his life with Ida, his relationship to these men and what he had done to provoke their violence. I had planned to fill in these details as the story unfolded, but will look more closely at expanding the victim's backstory.
They also wanted more reason to hope that the incident would end some other way, even if evident it would not.After that, we sat around the fire with our libations and talked about the state of publishing, the experience of promoting one's own work (I had a few things to say about that, as you might imagine), the role of social media, and the wisdom or folly of self-publishing.
Later (much later) we all went to bed. Lady Aston supplied slippers and chocolate for all her guests (yes, I am referring to myself in the third person now), and warned them not to slam into posts should they wander to bathroom in the middle of the night, a genuine concern.
Tomorrow: The Saturday Salons and What We Ate.
February 2, 2011
Stop #7: Safety Harbor Public Library
And so it ends. My last stop on Leg One of The Great Ashes to Water Florida Library Tour was Safety Harbor, in the Tampa Bay area, where I conducted a 90-minute dialogue workshop for aspiring writers. Lisa Kothe did a great job assembling an enthusiastic group. I hope they learned as much from me as I learned from them.
Safety Harbor is a great little town: "Like Mayberry," Lisa said. I strolled Main Street, admired the 300 year-old live oak (the oldest in Pinellas county) and made a date to return to the Safety Harbor spa when I return to Tarpon Springs in mid-February. The gem of the town is undoubtedly the pretty little marina and pier that juts into the bay. I talked to a fisherman from Yorkshire who said he'd only caught a cold so far, and "helped" a man "fix" his trailer, for which I can only apologize.
I returned to my sister's house in the Orlando area. having put 1300 miles on the Miata, and 1300 years on my lower back. BUT, it was great fun when the top came down, and we part friends, even if a little bit worse for the wear.
I stopped in at libraries in Seminole county and Orlando, and offered myself as a resource for the Friends speaker bureau. We'll see what happens. I'd love an excuse to return next winter.
Was it worth it? I'll just say I've never worked so hard for a long term investment in my life. But I do believe my efforts will take root. I'm building a readership, one book at a time.
I'm leaving for the airport in an hour. Tomorrow: Arlington, VA! And then six FANTASTIC house guests for a long weekend of creative brainstorming and food.
And then back to Florida for Leg Two. This time, we're driving the Porsche. Heh heh heh.
Safety Harbor is a great little town: "Like Mayberry," Lisa said. I strolled Main Street, admired the 300 year-old live oak (the oldest in Pinellas county) and made a date to return to the Safety Harbor spa when I return to Tarpon Springs in mid-February. The gem of the town is undoubtedly the pretty little marina and pier that juts into the bay. I talked to a fisherman from Yorkshire who said he'd only caught a cold so far, and "helped" a man "fix" his trailer, for which I can only apologize.
I returned to my sister's house in the Orlando area. having put 1300 miles on the Miata, and 1300 years on my lower back. BUT, it was great fun when the top came down, and we part friends, even if a little bit worse for the wear.
I stopped in at libraries in Seminole county and Orlando, and offered myself as a resource for the Friends speaker bureau. We'll see what happens. I'd love an excuse to return next winter.
Was it worth it? I'll just say I've never worked so hard for a long term investment in my life. But I do believe my efforts will take root. I'm building a readership, one book at a time.
I'm leaving for the airport in an hour. Tomorrow: Arlington, VA! And then six FANTASTIC house guests for a long weekend of creative brainstorming and food.
And then back to Florida for Leg Two. This time, we're driving the Porsche. Heh heh heh.
January 31, 2011
Stop #6: Palm Bay and Franklin T. Magroodt Public Library
My friend, John drove me to Palm Bay for my visit to Franklin T. Magroodt Public Library. Then he pretended not to know me, so that when he rushed forward to buy a book (the plan went), he would create demand and cause a stampede to the front of the room. Before he could put the plan into motion, a real patron stepped forward and bought two books, thus keeping us honest. Thank you, kind woman.
Vero Beach is a beatiful small town with lots of big town advantages, like twenty-six miles of pristine beach with NO high rise condos or hotels, an art museum which would be the envy of a city three times this size, a thriving independent bookstore, an equity theatre, and some "old Florida" neighborhoods on unpaved roads shaded by live oak hammocks. The nature preserve, Pelican Island, is the first preserve ever established (1903), and home to hundreds of pelicans and other water fowl. The historic Jungle Trail, while compromised by recent development, still snakes along the Indian River. And, of course, everyone is good looking and above average. If you're looking for a winter home, you could a lot worse.
Tomorrow I drive to the opposite coast and visit Safety Harbor. I'm giving my dialogue workshop. I think I'm expected to arrive sober and fully clothed, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know.
Vero Beach is a beatiful small town with lots of big town advantages, like twenty-six miles of pristine beach with NO high rise condos or hotels, an art museum which would be the envy of a city three times this size, a thriving independent bookstore, an equity theatre, and some "old Florida" neighborhoods on unpaved roads shaded by live oak hammocks. The nature preserve, Pelican Island, is the first preserve ever established (1903), and home to hundreds of pelicans and other water fowl. The historic Jungle Trail, while compromised by recent development, still snakes along the Indian River. And, of course, everyone is good looking and above average. If you're looking for a winter home, you could a lot worse.
Tomorrow I drive to the opposite coast and visit Safety Harbor. I'm giving my dialogue workshop. I think I'm expected to arrive sober and fully clothed, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know.
January 30, 2011
Stop #5: Venice Public Library
I don't want to attract bad Karma by talking trash about DeeDee, my GPS, but she screwed up big time. The Miata and I pulled into Venice, and I'm thinking, where's the canal? The gondolas? The city on the water? But I found the public library so I went with it.
Roland introduced me to a good looking group of readers who stuck around to hear what I had to say. They asked great questions, too, and we all agreed to meet again in one year's time in the REAL Venice.
Then I drove 300 miles across the widest part of southern Florida on a 2-lane highway and loved every second of it. I'd never seen this part of Florida before (or if I have, I don't remember it). I'd never seen the miles of Florida cattle ranches (chronicled in a dozens of "cracker westerns" by Janet Post, Jon Wilson, Rick Tonyan, and Lee Gramling), or the orange trees of my youth in their impossibly straight rows, heavy laden and tumescent. At a rare intersection, an 18-wheeler drove past, hauling a crate cage loaded with fruit. I can't remember the last time I saw that. And it's January, remember!
In the early '80s, the Florida orange industry suffered a one-two punch when several hard freezes and a blight devastated the trees. When the groves were sold to developers who built big box stores and reshaped bushes to resemble Mickey Mouse ears, I became interested in a culture and way of life disappearing right before my eyes. Here, along the Indian River, the groves survived, due to a geographic quirk that prevented prolonged temperatures below freezing. I know this because I read John McPhee's "Oranges," a wonderful little book which tells you everything you ever wanted to know about...well, oranges. It's surprisingly fascinating. Conceived as a short magazine piece, it grew into a slim, fact-filled book about orange farmers struggling with frost and new breeds of citrus. Oranges come to seem a microcosm of man's relationship with nature. And it's funny, occasionally hilarious. In fact, I'm going to read it again just as soon as I find a public library.
At the end of the line was Vero Bach, and my college friend, Johh, who opened his beautiful home to me and gave me alcohol. The Miata is safely garaged, my belly is full, and DeeDee is unplugged. All I need is a glass of orange juice and good "cracker western," and it's off to lala land.
Cheers.
Roland introduced me to a good looking group of readers who stuck around to hear what I had to say. They asked great questions, too, and we all agreed to meet again in one year's time in the REAL Venice.
Then I drove 300 miles across the widest part of southern Florida on a 2-lane highway and loved every second of it. I'd never seen this part of Florida before (or if I have, I don't remember it). I'd never seen the miles of Florida cattle ranches (chronicled in a dozens of "cracker westerns" by Janet Post, Jon Wilson, Rick Tonyan, and Lee Gramling), or the orange trees of my youth in their impossibly straight rows, heavy laden and tumescent. At a rare intersection, an 18-wheeler drove past, hauling a crate cage loaded with fruit. I can't remember the last time I saw that. And it's January, remember!
In the early '80s, the Florida orange industry suffered a one-two punch when several hard freezes and a blight devastated the trees. When the groves were sold to developers who built big box stores and reshaped bushes to resemble Mickey Mouse ears, I became interested in a culture and way of life disappearing right before my eyes. Here, along the Indian River, the groves survived, due to a geographic quirk that prevented prolonged temperatures below freezing. I know this because I read John McPhee's "Oranges," a wonderful little book which tells you everything you ever wanted to know about...well, oranges. It's surprisingly fascinating. Conceived as a short magazine piece, it grew into a slim, fact-filled book about orange farmers struggling with frost and new breeds of citrus. Oranges come to seem a microcosm of man's relationship with nature. And it's funny, occasionally hilarious. In fact, I'm going to read it again just as soon as I find a public library.
At the end of the line was Vero Bach, and my college friend, Johh, who opened his beautiful home to me and gave me alcohol. The Miata is safely garaged, my belly is full, and DeeDee is unplugged. All I need is a glass of orange juice and good "cracker western," and it's off to lala land.
Cheers.
January 28, 2011
Stop #4: Sanibel Public Library
If I ever said anything unkind about this Miata, I take it back. I arrived on Sanibel Island at 1:30 pm, pulled over and put the roof down What a glorious day to be alive and well on a semi-tropical Florida island in a cute convertible carrying books and clothes that travel well when wadded into balls and stuffed in crevices.
Then I suddenly remembered this was not my "free" day as I had thought (the lost tornado day messed me up!); rather, I was expected at the library in 15 minutes!
I pulled into the visitors' center, removed my wadded black suit from between the seats, gave it a snap and donned it in the bathroom. (If you don't have a black suit you can wad and don in the nearest bathroom or phone booth, I highly recommend you purchase one. It won't stop a speeding bullet, but it will get you out of a jam.) I made it to the library with five minutes to spare. I had hat head and zinc oxide on my nose, but hey.
Duane showed me the library's Author Wall of Fame, which includes such Florida dignitaries as Connie May Fowler, Susan Orlean, Tim Dorsey and others. I'll be added to the wall, and I couldn't be more proud.
After my presentation, I checked into the Anchor Inn and drove around some more in the convertible. I stopped at a casual grill for oysters and striped bass and met a young muscian named Jimi C who promised he'd be famous one day. I believe him.
I wish the Miata and I could have stayed another day. We really liked it there.
Then I suddenly remembered this was not my "free" day as I had thought (the lost tornado day messed me up!); rather, I was expected at the library in 15 minutes!
I pulled into the visitors' center, removed my wadded black suit from between the seats, gave it a snap and donned it in the bathroom. (If you don't have a black suit you can wad and don in the nearest bathroom or phone booth, I highly recommend you purchase one. It won't stop a speeding bullet, but it will get you out of a jam.) I made it to the library with five minutes to spare. I had hat head and zinc oxide on my nose, but hey.
Duane showed me the library's Author Wall of Fame, which includes such Florida dignitaries as Connie May Fowler, Susan Orlean, Tim Dorsey and others. I'll be added to the wall, and I couldn't be more proud.
After my presentation, I checked into the Anchor Inn and drove around some more in the convertible. I stopped at a casual grill for oysters and striped bass and met a young muscian named Jimi C who promised he'd be famous one day. I believe him.
I wish the Miata and I could have stayed another day. We really liked it there.
January 26, 2011
Stop #3: Lake City Public Library
My parents have this Box; when severe weather thrreatens, the Box whoops and squawks in a most alarming manner. If you weren't afraid of thunderstorms before, you sure as heck will be after experiencing the Box. I was prepared to drive to Lake City, Stop #3 on the Great Ashes to Water Library Tour, when the Box went off and almost blew me out of my high heels. "Tornado watch! Take cover! The sky is falling!" After much discussion (and support from the local newspeople saying things like "very dangerous situation" and "nail down your house so it's not ripped from its moorings and sent spinning through the air"), I called Katrina Evans at Lake City Library and said (essentially), "My mother won't let me come over." She understood, and we rescheduled for the next day at 2:00, provided the Apocalypse had spared the library. For the rest of the evening, I watched news clips of unfortunate locals removing duct tape from windows and picking fallen twigs from their yards.
Stoopid Box.
When I got to Lake City the next day, I was told several people showed up the evening before, and there would be very few likely to make it back to the rescheduled program. I understood, and had a seat in the library, where I overheard a woman returning a book. She said, "Ashes to Water, yes. It was very interesting."
!!!!!
What could I do? I chased and tackled her before she could get away.
"Did I just hear you say you turned in Ashes to Water?!" I asked, as she rose from the floor with aid of her cane."...yes.,,"
"Well, I'm the AUTHOR!!"She blinked.
"Yes?""I wrote that book!"
"I think you're standing on my glasses."
"Oh, sorry. Say, at 2:00, I'm going to be talking about Florida Fiction and "Writing Your Life" in the meeting room."
"At 2:00, I'm going to be icing my knee."
So she didn't show up, but sixteen others did, and they bought books and fed me nice food (including Katria's homemade chocolate dipped pretzels), and a good time was had by all. Thank you, Lake City!
Then I spent the night in Gainesville, a house guest of my best high school friend, Cherie, She and her beautiful family were very kind and generous. I'm especially grateful to Cherie for filming emailing my call-back audition for a movie. If I get the part, it will be because of her.
The Miata is holding up well, and we're back on schedule. Tomorrow, tornado or no tornado, Sanibel Island.
This just in: the lady I tackled has agreed not to sue, but will not be checking out Rules of the Lake from the Lake City Public Library.
Stoopid Box.
When I got to Lake City the next day, I was told several people showed up the evening before, and there would be very few likely to make it back to the rescheduled program. I understood, and had a seat in the library, where I overheard a woman returning a book. She said, "Ashes to Water, yes. It was very interesting."
!!!!!
What could I do? I chased and tackled her before she could get away.
"Did I just hear you say you turned in Ashes to Water?!" I asked, as she rose from the floor with aid of her cane."...yes.,,"
"Well, I'm the AUTHOR!!"She blinked.
"Yes?""I wrote that book!"
"I think you're standing on my glasses."
"Oh, sorry. Say, at 2:00, I'm going to be talking about Florida Fiction and "Writing Your Life" in the meeting room."
"At 2:00, I'm going to be icing my knee."
So she didn't show up, but sixteen others did, and they bought books and fed me nice food (including Katria's homemade chocolate dipped pretzels), and a good time was had by all. Thank you, Lake City!
Then I spent the night in Gainesville, a house guest of my best high school friend, Cherie, She and her beautiful family were very kind and generous. I'm especially grateful to Cherie for filming emailing my call-back audition for a movie. If I get the part, it will be because of her.
The Miata is holding up well, and we're back on schedule. Tomorrow, tornado or no tornado, Sanibel Island.
This just in: the lady I tackled has agreed not to sue, but will not be checking out Rules of the Lake from the Lake City Public Library.
