Janet Fisher's Blog, page 4

Hazelnut Time

Remember these little guys? Remember their story, how they were started on Martha and Garrett Maupin’s Donation Land Claim in Lane County to be planted here on Martha’s farm in Douglas County? The story is here. I was working on my great-great-grandmother Martha’s story, A Place of Her Own*, at the time and was sure surprised to find that link.

Well, look at us now (below). These trees are producing nuts that are headed to market.

We have a nice coop in our area, the Northwest Hazelnut Company/George Packing Company, Inc. They bring us bins, we fill them, they take them away for processing.

Here my son-in-law Robin Loznak checks out our first bin as we wait for the truck to come pick up our bins. He and my daughter Carisa partner with me on this project. He does most of the work now–mowing and harvesting–although on this first seven acres I spent several summers watering those babies by hand with multiple hoses. I almost knew them by name. I did that until they got too big for me to reach over them and drag the hoses across to the next row. At that point Robin took over the watering with a big water tank drawn by the tractor. He put in the next orchard, 15 acres, and installed a water system for that. This first orchard has dug deep roots by now.

Robin carefully eyes the bin while Troy Mueller from the Northwest Hazelnut /George Packing Company guides him in. The farm’s old 1933 vintage barn can be seen in the background of this photo and the one above it.

A few tidbits for the curious: Oregon grows 99 percent of all the hazelnuts produced in America. Turkey and Italy are the only countries that grow more than we do. Turkey grows by far the most at about 70 percent worldwide. This may be one reason hazelnut farmers are so welcome in the state. Every Oregon hazelnut farmer adds to the state’s market share. Besides just being helpful, friendly people.

Oh, and for people who are wondering. A filbert is just a hazelnut by a different name.

*A Place of Her Own: The Legacy of Oregon Pioneer Martha Poindexter Maupin portrays the story of my remarkable great-great-grandmother who came west over the Oregon Trail. I grew up on this farm Martha bought more than 150 years ago. I’m now the second woman to own and operate this family treasure. I would never have done it without the help of my kids.

PNWA Writing Conference Seattle

I’m just back from an excellent conference in Seattle where I went primarily for the purpose of pitching agents for my new historical novel set in ancient Ireland. I was happy that my friend from my Eugene writers group, Kristine Jensen, attended also.

Here we are in one of the many halls at the DoubleTree by Hilton hotel with a lovely interior garden behind us.

PNWA (Pacific Northwest Writers Association) always offers a good conference. People are friendly and mutually supportive, but it’s especially nice to have someone there that I know. Kris was also pitching agents for her new novel.

It’s an intense program because stakes are high. We both scheduled two pitch blocks.

These are 90-minute sessions where everyone who has reserved a certain block pours into a large room where agents and editors wait behind a long table. You get in line before an agent or editor you’ve chosen and when it’s your turn you sit across from that person and pitch your work. You have four minutes. Then the buzzer goes off and you hurry to the line of another agent or editor on your list.

I had four agents I particularly wanted to pitch, and I was glad I had reserved two blocks. The first day I only had time for two. Fortunately the second day I was able to pitch the other two. And that’s when magic happened.

This is my oh-my-goodness-she-loved-my-Ireland-setting-and-my-storyline face. I was so happy.

All four agents and one editor asked me for material. That’s the goal. Whether you get everything said or not, you want that invitation to send pages, chapters, or even a full manuscript, as requested. Whatever you forgot to say or decided not to say because of the strict time limit, you can say in a cover letter.

On one of my pitches I had taken the end of a very long line of people waiting to pitch to this particular agent. I was afraid the 90 minutes would end before I got to her. But I eventually saw that I would make it. I stepped up to the blue line where the next author to pitch had to wait. A lady who was a volunteer helping things run smoothly stepped close to me and asked what I was pitching. I said it was a historical novel set in ancient Ireland. She spoke softly because we needed to be quiet, but she let me know how much she loved Ireland and the special places there. By the time the buzzer went off and it was time for me to pitch she had me in a zone of delight over my story.

I sat down in front of the agent and with the confidence just instilled in me told her I had a historical novel set in ancient Ireland. Her eyes lit up. Her whole face. She loves Ireland. She’s part Irish. And when I relayed my story points, my protagonist’s dilemma, the conflict, the tension, she responded with such enthusiasm I was thrilled.

Here’s Kris after the pitching was over, serene in the knowledge that she had made some good contacts for her wonderful story set in 60s South Dakota. She got requests for all her pitches too. We went to a couple of workshops afterward, feeling good and somewhat drained. One of the things I like about this conference is that you meet many authors who are seeking that positive response, and you’re plugging for them as they’re plugging for you. So there’s a lot of “How did you do?” “How did it go?”

So it’s nice to rest up a bit. My room was about a mile from the lobby, or almost that, but it was a room with a view. The blue peeking through the trees below that building in the distance is a lake.

Here’s the nearest elevator on my trek to the room, which better shows the lake.

And from inside the elevator.

Later that evening I happened to see the volunteer who had encouraged me so much before that pitch. She smiled. “It went well, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.”

“I saw her face,” she said. “I knew.”

You never know when you’re going to meet an angel, just when you need one.

Fine Fort Umpqua Days Despite Weather Surprise

Fog and a little smoke from nearby fires cleared early on Saturday morning, the first day of the two-day annual Fort Umpqua Days event in Elkton, Oregon. Lovely weather. Sunny. Soft fluffy clouds. Gentle breezes. And the people came out. My, they did come out! I kept busy up in the vendor area on the hill above the reconstructed fort. So busy I didn’t even get down to the fort itself on the flat below.

In midafternoon I checked my phone for the air quality report, as I’d been doing daily since fires started in the area after a lightning storm several nights before. My phone indicated something to the effect that rain would start in thirty minutes or so. I stared at my phone, glanced up at the blue sky with the white, fluffy clouds.

“That’s ridiculous! It’s a perfect day.”

About twenty minutes or so later a cloud shadowed the ground. Lots of clouds. Gray ones. Enough to cover the sun.

I’m in my booth, with a canopy overhead, but I’m selling books. Rain and books don’t go together. And I had pictures, photographs, on display. Winds picked up. No overhead canopy would protect from blowing raindrops. My son-in-law checked his phone. It’s not just warning about rain. It’s warning about lightning.

All right. That convinced me.

The sprinkles came. About 3 o’clock we started packing up.

That said, even with a short day (vendors usually close at 4), it was an enjoyable time. So many people. So many stories shared. And a little weather excitement to boot. Didn’t see lightning but heard thunder by the time I got home.

Sunday remained clear all day, but quieter–well, except for those booms down at the fort. All in all, a delightful weekend.

Robin Loznak’s photo again from a former Fort Umpqua Days event

Back to Fort Umpqua Days

Here’s the poster shared by the Elkton Community Education Center (also known as the butterfly place), whose staff puts on this excellent annual event in Elkton, Oregon, the small town where I went to school in the somewhat distant past. Just a few miles up the road from my great-great-grandmother Martha’s farm.

I’ll be at the event as usual with a booth, selling my two books, A Place of Her Own, a creative nonfiction account of Martha’s story, coming west over the Oregon Trail in 1850 and eventually purchasing that farm on her own, and The Shifting Winds, a novel about a young woman whose father brings their family west to Oregon in the 1840s, much to her displeasure. Both women face huge challenges on this formidable frontier.

The Fort Umpqua Days gathering offers folks a glimpse of what life was like for these pioneers and the American mountain men and British fur traders who came before them. Today’s fort was built as a replica of the original with considerable research for accuracy. Volunteers will be on hand to answer questions, and there will be plenty of fun activities for the kids, closing off each evening with a pageant that adds a bit of historical accuracy with a strong touch of humor.

Cannon at Fort Umpqua. Photo by Robin Loznak.

When Writers Meet

My writers’ group came out to my house at the farm today for our regular luncheon meeting.

From left to right: Lynn Ash, Jennifer Newcomb-Marine, Kristine Jensen, Carol Brownson, and Susan Wyatt. We missed Elizabeth King, who’s out sick.

After our lunch we take turns talking about our current projects, sometimes reading a sample of our work. That’s my new manuscript on the near end of the table. I read a few opening pages from Chapter One from my protagonist’s viewpoint, and a few pages from the viewpoint of another major player in the second chapter. I was thrilled by the group’s response.

We always go away inspired and encouraged. Writing and marketing can be a tough go, so it’s great to have such a supportive group to help us over the rough spots and cheer us for the accomplishments, as well as just the fun of getting together.

They don’t often come out to my place since it’s a bit of a trek, forty to sixty miles. I think they all enjoyed the trip into the country. A beautiful day.

And once more for the memories:

Spring Abloom

The new little prune-plum orchard came into bloom, heralding spring on the farm. About a month late, given the late spring we’re having in western Oregon. We just went from frosty mornings to summery afternoons. With warm sunny days now the fruit should set well. It’ll be interesting to see. My kids and I planted this small orchard below the hazelnuts soon after we moved to the farm.

In my other life, my writing life, the new book blooms too. The rough draft’s complete. Beta readers reading. I can’t seem to leave it alone. I think of a change I want to make in one of the scenes. I fix that. Read a little farther because–well the words are on the screen right in front of me. The next thing I know an hour has passed, or two, and I have read many more pages. The story has captured me. I’m immersed in the world of my characters in faraway lands, deep in the past, caught in their overwhelming dilemmas. The joys. The sorrows. The anger. The triumphs. I believe that bodes well.

Feedback is good so far. Some constructive critiquing and suggesting. But overall positive.

I still need to do several more straight-through readings myself for fine tuning, once the initial revisions are made.

May it all produce fruit.

Ta-Da!

First one out!

And so we reach the climax of the glacial saga of the enduring golden daffodils on their reluctance to face a chilly approach to spring. Yet they must. Hope reigns after all.

Below, these curious critters look on, perhaps wondering why in the world I would be down on my knees before a flower, not knowing they have become witnesses to a camera’s capture as well as minor characters in the story.

Now, confident in my flowers, I am ready to charge forward with that other saga, my new book. I’m reaching back to ancient Ireland again where a young woman, an Irish goldsmith, takes a perilous journey in search of a forbidden secret held by the Saltlanders, a people who would one day be called the Celts.

Promises

A show of promises came in doubles yesterday when a rainbow formed over my emerging daffodils–an ancient symbol of promise for better days along with my own floral symbol of promise for spring light pushing back the darkness of winter.

The daffodils haven’t quite opened yet, but these brave flowers have stood tall through a lot of unusually cold days. I’m at 600 feet above sea level so I’m a little colder than the valley floor, but mine are on their way.

Here come the first ones today on a balmy afternoon. Almost there.

By next week I expect they’ll be in full bloom as I sit down to begin writing my new book. I’ll take that for a promise. May the book be a good one. The actual writing is always exciting for me. I appreciate the show of hope nature provides.

Waiting While Stories Bloom

Waiting for winter to go. Waiting for snow to melt. Waiting for spring.

Waiting for that important email. Waiting for that vital phone call.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Now, I realize that those of us in western Oregon know nothing of snow the way our friends or family in, say, Maine or Montana. But it’s already March 5 and my daffodils are usually opening their faces by now. They’re my flowers of promise. They remind me that after the dark winter the light of spring will emerge. Oh yes, we get plenty of dark winter skies in the rainy Pacific Northwest. And snow is bright and beautiful. But I’m ready for spring’s light.

Below you see these same daffodils on February 28, 2022. February 28!

Of course winter offers one positive feature. It’s a good time to delve into indoor projects, like writing. I’m happy to say I just finished the outline for my next book. I’m ready to start the best part of creating a new story–the first draft when I immerse myself in another world and that world comes alive. May it bloom no matter how late the world outside my door.

Morning Light

First light on snowy western hills always thrills me. I wake in the dark early hours, thoughts spinning, as my new book comes to life. I know I should be sleeping, but I’m just beginning to see how that next scene will take shape. It grips me, won’t let go.

Finally the room fills with light and I rise from my bed to see this. How can I not stop to share it?

For my followers who may not realize, snow rarely comes to these Oregon hills. Not like the mountains of Montana where I lived for a few years. These foothills of the coast range usually stay green with Douglas Fir forests, even in winter. The middle ground is Pleasant Plain, so called by the pioneers who settled it, the foreground my own oaks. All more accustomed to green. The deep-green river wraps around Pleasant Plain on its snaking journey to the sea.

I step out onto my deck for the early picture. A quick shot. It’s cold out there. In the 20s. We’re not used to that either.

It’s also the view from my office where my stories grow.

The sun lifts higher. I’m just past the three-quarter mark on the outline. Time to turn those waking thoughts into story.