Vicki Lane's Blog, page 541

A Valentine...

   Valentine's Day, 1964 - Camp Lejeune, NC . My husband was an enlisted man in the Marine Corps. We had only been married since November and we were living in a tiny silver trailer surrounded by many other tiny silver trailers grouped tastefully around communal dumpsters. The Marine Corps officially designated Geiger Park as "sub-standard housing" and I suppose it was but we hardly noticed.

The little trailer was snug and clean and wood-paneled -- much like living on a boat. And on that first Valentine's Day of our marriage, my husband brought me a spray of wild plum blossoms from the nearby woods, centered in a metal coat hanger bent into the shape of a heart.

It's been forty-seven years -- we're still together -- and the memory still makes me smile.

Sometimes a Great Gobble...

The sound of gobbling caught my attention yesterday morning and I looked out the bedroom window to see two big boys strutting their stuff,
We counted over thirty turkeys in all and I was far more fascinated by the gobblers than were the rest of the flock.

The two big boys stayed side by side much of the time and wheeled and advanced on the ladies with a slow and stately step.
It was like some ancient ceremonial dance, involving large fans.  I snapped and snapped, wishing I were closer.

Then some of the flock noticed me and took wing. Amazing to see how well these big birds fly!

The courting gobblers were not to be deterred. They just herded their harem away from me and continued with their dance.  

Folk Art

It was several years ago that I was at our dumpster/recycling center and saw this rather amazing bit of folk art in the back of a truck.  The fellow who made it told me that he was working on a whole set of them as a gift for his son -- a set of bar stools.

I love the use of inlay and the whole cheerful/religious look of this piece. 


In fact, I love folk art.  Primitive, naive, whatever -- pieces that look as if the maker had fun doing them. I only have a few pieces. This charming hippopotamus below was found at a flea market. This mule and wagon were a gift from a friend who is (alas!) moving and seeking to pare down her collections. I adore it! The wheels are bound with thin strips of aluminum (probably from a beer can, says my husband) and the same aluminum strips form the mule's harness. See the brake on the wheel? And the comfortable slant to the seat back? And, as my husband said, the person who carved this knew mules. Lean and hammer-headed, this is a quintessential mule. Last of all is this charming cat, a gift from my friend Kathy, the prototype of Sallie Kate the realtor in my books. 
Kathy got a listing for a house that had belonged to two bachelor brothers.  One or perhaps both of them had worked tor the state road department and evidently they had brought home a number of old road signs which they proceeded to turn into folk art.  Kathy has a whole array of them which she rescued before the family hauled them off the the dump. I love the cat's smile.
And speaking of cats, I left my laptop unattended for a few moments and came back to find Miss Susue Hutchins sitting on it. 
Below is what she has to say about folk art ... or something. It may say, in cat, 'It's too freakin' cold in this house.'
But I'm just guessing. Maybe one of you is fluent in cat.  uiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii6666666666666666666666hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgtrfc ,.0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000o 9

The Old Corncrib - Repost

The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corn crib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy cornshucks. (Art's Blood, p. 123)

This, of course, is the original of the corn crib where Elizabeth and Ben found the unhappy Kyra. It's functioning today as a tool shed and a carport for our little utility vehicle but in 1973, when we bought the upper part of the farm from Clifford and Louise, the corn crib brimmed with fat dry ears of white corn -- Hickory King, I think it was.

Corn was the staff of life on the small farm. Every so often Clifford would take a bag or two of the whole corn to a mill in Tennessee where it would be coarsely ground -- shucks, cobs, and all -- and mixed with cottonseed meal and molasses to make feed for the cows. Every day Louise would pull the shucks off a few ears and toss them to her chickens who would eagerly peck the cobs clean. Nell the mule was the daily recipient of more ears (but not too many, lest too much corn make her 'rank' (overly frisky and unmanageable.) The fattening pig, who lived mostly on buttermilk, foods scraps, and garden waste, would be fed ears of corn during the month or so prior to butchering to "harden up the flesh."

And this same corn, shucked and shelled would be taken, not to the big mill, but to a nearby little mill run by a belt attached to the rear wheel drum of a tractor. The owner of this improvised mill would take his pay in meal -- in a little measure specifically for the purpose. This fragrant meal, which was freshly ground in small batches twice a month, provided the best cornbread in the world. Eaten midday -- hot and steaming out of the wood stove, dripping with home-churned butter, it accompanied an array of vegetables, fresh or home-canned, depending on the season, and a very modest taste of some sort of meat. The leftover corn bread might go to the pigs or the hounds, or, dunked in chilled buttermilk left after the day's churning, provide a light supper.

"You keep the mule to plow the corn and you grow the corn to feed the mule," Clifford told us. Man, animals, and corn -- their existence was interwoven.

Bread Alone

Bread Alone and The Baker's Apprentice (along with Beeing about which I posted last week) were given to me by Carol Murdock of Writer's Porch. These charming novels (like Beeing) have as protagonist a woman seeking to make a life for herself after a divorce and finding herself by losing herself in a demanding occupation. In these novels it's artisan bread making -- in a quaint little Seattle bakery -- that does the trick. With workdays that begin at midnight and end at breakfast time, Wynter quickly becomes immersed in the routine of bread-making.

These are wonderful comfort reads -- beautiful setting, romance, and recipes too. (Quite good recipes.) 


I find it interesting that, though I've never been divorced nor felt the need to reinvent myself, I loved these books. Perhaps it's just the pleasure of feeling that all of us have the potential for beginning again, should we need to.

Happy to be Home

These are my only 'pretty' photos from my trip to Headland -- ferns on a tree in my brother's yard and a pair of camellias on a nearby bush.  

Rain and cold and overcast conditions kept me inside most of the time.
Just as well I don't get sent on one of those month-long book tours the Big Names do -- five days away from our mountain and I was ready to get back.

I opted for the quick way home -- braving up to drive through Atlanta rather than take the by-pass. Much to my surprise, it wasn't bad at all.

Oh! the joy when I passed through Greeneville, SC and saw the mountains in the distance!

And when finally I crossed the Barnard Bridge -- a mere two miles from our driveway and another half mile up to our house -- I knew I was where I belong.

FAQ - The Book Tour

Q: So, when you have a new book out, your publisher sends you on a tour, right?  And they pay for it, don't they? Provide you with media escorts and all that, right?


A: Hahahahahhahahaahahahahahhahahaha . . .  oh, sorry, let me get a hold of myself here.
Alas, the sad reality is that, unless you're one of the blockbuster-writing bestselling darlings of the publishing world, you are on your own nickel for most of what you do in the way of travel and promotion.
Occasionally an author will be offered a stipend for travel or a room for the night. Often he'll be fed. But the reality is that traveling to promote one's book is an expense -- deductible, but still an expense.
My 'book tours' are at near by bookstores and libraries, as well as the occasional conference such as those in the slide shows below. And they are, as I said, pretty much on my own nickel.

And Now . . . Dudeism

[image error]
Come join the slowest-growing religion in the world – Dudeism. An ancient philosophy that preaches non-preachiness, practices as little as possible, and above all, uh…lost my train of thought there. Anyway, if you'd like to find peace on earth and goodwill, man, we'll help you get started. Right after a little nap.
First, you might want to
Get ordained as a Dudeist priest . There are over 100,000 worldwide.










I've already mentioned my infatuation with the Brothers Coen. And you may have noticed that I love a good bit of silliness.


So when I saw the above on line -- a religion based on The Dude of "The Big Lebowski"  -- I knew at once that it was pretty much just my cup of tea -- or my glass of White Russian, to be more faithful to the film.


And yes, I have been ordained. You may call me 'Mother Vicki'  or perhaps 'Your Ineffable
Randomness.'  


I stand ready to perform weddings or exorcisms.


(My apologies to those of you who aren't familiar with The Dude -- our regular programming will return soon.)

Silent Sunday

A Room with a View

The weather on Friday convinced me not to go in search of family graves in the hinterlands of south Alabama. 
I ended up, instead, having lunch in Birmingham with a friend I met in San Francisco, back last October.
And enjoying happy hour and later dinner with some of the other authors and some of the organizers of Murder in the Magic City and Murder on the Menu.    
The weather is supposed to be better today when events get under way.
These pictures are from the place I stayed Thursday night. My current room offers a view of the swimming pool and a mall.
I know, I'm spoiled. And I'm here for the people -- who are terrific -- not the view.
 I miss my sunrises but I thought these towers in the mist were kind of eerie.