Outside the Writer's Room: Writing in the Kitchen on a Snowy Day in Vermont

I know writers are supposed to barricade themselves in private soundproof rooms, where they can keep the outside world away while they create new worlds on paper. So, why do I find myself writing in the kitchen so often? Maybe it's the closeness of the tea kettle. Maybe it's the light. Or maybe the expectations loosen up and it's just more fun ...

At any rate, I was sitting at the kitchen counter scribbling a first draft of a poem (shown at the bottom), which kept getting changed each time I looked at it (multiple drafts; and can we still call it "scribbling" on a computer? well, why not?), and out of the corner of my eye caught something in motion outside the kitchen window. In one coordinated leap, I grabbed the binoculars and made it to the window, and then ran to the next one, pulling out my cell phone and adjusting its bold little camera to "zoom." And here's the result: a fox that wove back and forth along the field, then came right down to the edge of the yard where the gardens begin, where a mouse must have been traveling under the snow. I watched the fox pounce, dig down, and snap up its snack and chew (with mouth open, eeyew).

It paused to look toward me -- movement at the window drew its attention, I'm sure -- before heading back toward the woods at the top of the field.

And THAT is why writing by a kitchen window is a Very Good Idea. Forget the desk, for today.

***

Religion
I was seven, my brother five, my cute little sisterjust three years old. We played tagwith lots of other kids in the neighborhood.The Slaines were Catholic, lived across the street,and their girl my age – was it Nancy? –had a “wedding dress” when she turned sevenand made her First Communion. How enviousI was of her cuteness, and her day of lacybeauty. The little girl who lived on our other side,Eileen, sat on the wooden edge of our sandbox and edged her words with scorn:“Nancy’s Catholic,” she emphasized in a new way,a pout of her rosebud lips indicatinga form of disgust. Even then, I knew it must besomething she’d learned from her parents.Then she announced, with pride,“I’m Protestant!” – sure, we had heard that label in our house.My brother grinned, bobbed his crewcut head, agreed.I had curly hair (too curly said my mother),which bounced even with my neutral nod. Then my little sister, rising to the call,stood up, saluted, and said, “I’m American!”
-- BK