Vicki Lane's Blog, page 542

Beeing

Beeing is a charming memoir by Roseanne Daryl Thomas about life, motherhood, and beekeeping. Thomas writes of how, after a 'hideous divorce,' she and her seven year old daughter moved to a small New England town where, on a whim, she took up beekeeping.

Like the ancients before her, Thomas discovers that beekeeping leads to poetry and philosophy -- and  that by assuming responsibility for the tiny world of the hive, the beekeeper becomes more aware of the larger world. Beeing is not a how to manual -- for information on bees and honey, consult Mr. Google. Or try this link, from which I took these lovely bee pictures. I found this book incredibly seductive  . . . visions of myself as a beekeeper flitted through my head till reality told me that there is really isn't time in my life for One More Thing. Still, it's a wonderful read. And the takeaway message fits nicely with my Tuesday FAQ post.
Thomas writes: "The sweetness of life does not come without the occasional nasty sting, but those who go too far out of their way to avoid the venom avoid the sweetness as well. When my life was sweet I had always savored it entirely, enjoying every drop. But when it was painful, I had to learn and relearn what life and beekeeping had to teach. If you want to get honey, you have to be prepared to get stung."
Still on the road -- through snow and sleet and ice yesterday... not too bad but it made for slow traffic and a long day -- will hope to bring you up to date soon. Thanks for the good travel wishes ...
 

I'm Alabama Bound

I'm hitting the road today for a return to (some of) my roots. My mother's family came from Alabama  and its place names still echo in my mind: Troy, Evergreen, Forest Home, Andalusia, Brewton, Dothan, Birmingham (it was always pronounced 'Bum-ingham') and Conecuh County.

There'll be cotton fields and pecan trees. I'll enjoy the soft, familiar Alabama drawl. 

Tonight I'll be in Calera, speaking at the library. Tomorrow I'll go to Birmingham where on Saturday I'll participate in the conference called Murder in the Magic City (see sidebar for link.)

On Sunday I'll travel with the rest of the participants to Wetumpka for Murder on the Menu, after which I'll go to Headland to spend a little time with my brother. (Who got back to his roots in a serious way by moving from Florida to this charming little town.)

I know it'll be fun -- I was at the two 'Murder' events in '09 and came away with a great appreciation for Alabama's Southern hospitality.
If there's time and an internet connection, I'll post.  If not, I'll be back at the farm probably by Wednesday -- weather permitting -- and will catch up with you all then.

Thinking of You!

Well, I really thought I was done with Chimney Rock and then I got an email that was too good not to share. Which, with permission and with a few names removed, I will.
But first, a little about the village of Chimney Rock.

It was pretty empty the day I was there but it's obviously a magnet for summer crowds. It reminds me of the western North Carolina I saw one summer back in Fifties.There are telescopes for looking at the 'chimney' and the main street is lined with establishments selling barbecue, ice cream, fudge, walking sticks, and all manner of mountain souvenirs. And postcards.

And that brings me to the email I just had to share.
My correspondent, who shall remain nameless, wrote:
"Back in the late 60's , early 70's  a friend and I visited the tourist attraction. Became intrigued with the symbolism of the "Chimney Rock" got the giggles, bought post cards and sent them to a few womanizers we knew, doctors that we knew dallied around, and members of our hometown's society that considered themselves, in the parlance of today, "babe magnets."
We dashed off the line "thinking of you," stamped them and sent them on their way. Always wondered what the wife or secretary thought.
We were bad. So bad.   
:)"

FAQ - Dare I . . .?

Q:I ended my last FAQ post by saying "If you really want to write, you'll find the time."  
To which one person responded: "It is not the writing that I have difficulty finding the time for, it is the "Writing". People keep telling me I should "Write" rather than write but I can never find time. And I suspect the reason is the one given in your final sentence. Deep down, I suspect I am frightened of attempting to Write in a serious way (whatever that may be.) 
   A: That wasn't actually a question but that's okay -- this isn't actually an answer.  But if the writer is talking about a fear of rejection, I can speak from my personal experience.

When I was in high school and in college, I thought I'd like to be a Writer.  I knew I wrote well -- I was an English major, after all. I wrote essays and papers and the like all the time. And got A's on them. But could I Write?  

To me, Writing meant publication -- preferably in The New Yorker and, failing that, in some prestigious literary journal. 

And I couldn't bear the thought, not so much of rejection as of anyone knowing about said rejection. I even toyed with the idea of renting a box at the post office so I could receive issues of The Writers Digest surreptitiously -- as well, perhaps,as the dreaded rejection letters.


I didn't do this -- neither did I pursue Writing any farther after sending one poem to The New Yorker and, not surprisingly, receiving one rejection letter. 


It took over forty years before I decided to Write -- ie pursue publication. And somehow, a wonderful thing had happened.  I had lowered my expectations. (I suspect it had to do with age and wisdom.)


It didn't have to be The New Yorker or a fine literary journal. It didn't have to be The Great American Novel or even literary fiction. I decided to have a go at a mystery -- crime fiction -- a genre that reaches from just adequate writing to Really Amazing Writing.


I gave myself permission to fail. And permission to fail publicly. (More age and wisdom -- I find that the older I get, the less I care about what others think of me.) I told people I was trying to write a mystery. When I finished it (and what an achievement that felt like!) I let it be known I was querying agents. 

My family saw the rejection letters clogging the mail box.  (The post office is over thirty minutes away -- thank goodness I'd gotten over the secrecy bit.)


The above is not one of mine -- I wish that it had been. Encouraging rejections are few.  And in spite of my lowered expectations, each form rejection was like a body blow. A scribbled note on a rejction letter, on the other hand, felt like a hug.
I've told people that I think one needs to feel fairly strong and secure in themselves to risk repeated blows to the self esteem. But if you want to Write, that's what you have to do. You can't succeed without risking failure.
People deal with rejection in many ways from papering a room with rejection letters to changing their names and moving out of town.  
Here's a novel approach.  Check out the Journal of Universal Rejection .
 It might be therapeutic.  Or at least good for a giggle.

Spring-like Stirrings

Though I know full well that winter's a long way from over, Saturday and Sunday were a lovely respite.  I spent a little time pruning, scratching around in the dirt, removing some early weeds and admiring the pansies which are trying to stand up after being buried in the snow.
 
Eddie helped. Beneath the dead leaves of the Siberian Iris, daffodils are pushing toward the light.
 I trimmed the dead foliage so it wouldn't form a mat, but scattered it back over those impatient shoots, hoping to slow them so they don't get nipped by the next snow.  Both cats enjoyed the sun . . .

And when the sun dropped behind the ridge and I returned to the house, it felt as if my veins were full of champagne rather than blood.
How glorious to get a foretaste of Spring!  

Silent Sunday

A Frozen Waterfall By Any Other Name . . .

More pictures from my trip Thursday to Chimney Rock and the scenic Hickory Nut Gorge.
There are any number of cabins lined up along the gorge, all advertising good views of the "chimney" (snigger) and the waterfalls.

Indeed, the waterfalls are gorgeous, even in their frozen state, and I took lots of pictures.
And then I read Kath's post on  . . . oh, dear. . .
Her post on "Rocksnot" . . .  and I'll never get that image out of my mind.  This time it's not my inner English major that's awakened but my inner kindergartner.
Oh, my . . .  will somebody fetch a tissue?

Chimney Rock

I've heard of Chimney Rock ever since we moved to North Carolina -- but somehow had never visited this popular tourist attraction.  So when I traveled yesterday to speak at a luncheon that was just up the road from Chimney Rock Village, I took the time to have a look at this beloved landmark.
Probably because I have an English major's dirty mind, it didn't exactly look like a chimney to me. Nope, I know a phallic symbol when I see one.
I only admired from afar. There was no time to climb the stairs to the top.

More Mountain Talk

Last month I did a post about Mountain Born -- a book I'd gotten for Christmas with a lot of old timey mountain sayings.  Stephanie in Flat Rock read the post and very kindly sent me a compilation of phrases that the doctor she worked for had made over the years. 

Some were familiar-- others not.  Thank you, Stephanie -- these are too good not to share!
Draws -- spasm or cramp, as in "My leg sure draws."

Arthur -- arthritis  (Arthuritis) ' Ol' Arthur has done got hold of me."

Fireballs of the Eucharist -- fibroids of the uterus "She was just full of fireballs of the Eucharist."

In movable health -- doing okay, as in "I was in movable health till this here stroke got me."
Scowers (or scours) -- diarrhea  "He's took the scours right bad."

Vomick -- vomit  " Law, riding in the back seat on that twisty road makes me want to vomick."

Toucheous -- painful to touch "Pa's gout has made his big toe right toucheous."

And my personal favorite --
Traveling fart -- lots of migrating belly gas pain.  "She had her a traveling fart but that Mylanta holp (helped) right much."

Light on a Grey Day

Rainy January days like yesterday are why I bring forsythia inside so it will bloom early.  And in spite of the brilliance of the cardinals outside, the leftover Christmas lights add a welcome sparkle.