On a recent trip to Missouri, ten minutes from my old hometown, we stopped in the small city of Mansfield to tour the home of Laura Ingalls Wilder. What I’d forgotten were how beautiful swaths of summer wildflowers were along roadsides this time of year: Queen Anne’s lace, soft, swaying, elegant, and black-eyed Susan’s wobbling in breeze, their bright yellow skirts dabbed with winking black bows, and alongside those, purple cone flower patches, picnicking tall and stoic under blue skies.  All this before we’d arrived at Laura and Almanzo’s home.

This historic place tucked in the Ozark hills is called Rocky Ridge Farm. She and husband Almanzo Wilder moved with daughter Rose to this lovely area in 1885 from Dakota territory.  Almanzo built the home, and since they were small folks, she four- feet-eleven, and he, five-feet-four, everything was crafted to fit them, from low ceilings to  short counter-tops. A tiny staircase led to upstairs rooms which we didn’t get to tour due to the historical society wanting to preserve original flooring. This year alone they’d already had forty-thousand visitors.

As we walked through, history whispered. I imagined Laura in the kitchen, kneading bread, she in her little bed, napping, but most of all, her at the small oak writing desk, recalling stories from her childhood. Those same books I snuggled under covers and read to my own little girls years and years later.

Characters popped alive again.  Mean ole Nellie Olson, who did things we sometimes wanted to but couldn’t because we were too nice. Her ultra spoiled mama, Harriet. Pa at the honey tree. Ma doctoring skinned hearts and knees. Mary going blind. Mr. Edwards, the dear family friend who almost froze walking through a blizzard to bring his dear Ingall’s girls peppermint sticks and sweet potatoes for Christmas. And, Laura, the feisty,  pigtailed heroine who could always make Pa’s lip quiver and eyes brim with tears, yet also make him laugh recklessly at her antics.

Did you know Laura didn’t start the “Little House” series until she was sixty-five? This inspired me. I thought of all the late bloomers, myself included, and hope welled.

Another thing I didn’t know. Her daughter Rose was a writer before Laura was. She was also a journalist who traveled the globe. In 1928, Rose, then grown, spent eleven-thousand dollars of her own money and ordered an English style rock house from Sears, built a mile away from her parents home. She presented the home, complete with electricity-which would explain the eleven-thousand-to Laura and Almanzo for Christmas, and they moved in shortly after. Rose moved into the Rocky Ridge home, supplied with electricity also. Imagine owning the only two homes in the area with electricity twenty years ahead of everyone else! Visitors would come just to gawk at the lights and Laura’s new closets, also a novelty.

The rock house is where Laura wrote the first four “Little House” books. A few years later, the Wilders moved back to their Rocky Ridge home, vowing  they would never leave again. They never did.

In 1932 Laura published the first “Little House” books. All nine manuscripts were penned in these two homes. She died at age ninety, her beloved Almanzo preceding her by several years.

All this history tucked among sun and sky and wildflowers.

He is Lucky. This guy with peppery hair and eyes the color of liquid chocolate. On a good day he says I love you. A bad one, he still says it. Really, I swear, those are his only words. His love is pure sunshine. Such a smooth operator he is. And I’ve never seen such a fast runner. Dancing pleases him, too, especially when food is involved. Living to please and pleased to live; his life in a sardine can. When the boy sees me he’s always thrilled. It matters little what mood I’m in. He could care less if I’m wearing make-up, or a pretty outfit, or if my hair looks crappy. He lets me talk myself silly, and tell stupid jokes, never noticing if the house is messy. Anything I feed him he appreciates. If he were a man, I’d marry him. No questions asked.

But he’s a dog.

Our dog, Lucky. By world standards he is considered a mutt, a cross between a German Terrier and Chihuahua, but by our standards he’s first class.

We rescued Lucky at an animal shelter seven years ago, and he says thank you every day in his own soft ways. If a family member is sick, he is there, snuggling, waiting, comforting, leaving only long enough to drink and do outside business. Animals love us through the best and worst of times, asking little in return, taking only what we offer. They lay their hearts on the table.  We often need them rather we realize it or not. For those of you who have pets, you know the joy they bring. Around here we’ve had an iguana, cats, rats, hamsters and an albino porcupine. At the moment, a snake, who has yet to grow on me.

Some writers use their animals in author photos, on book jackets, etc… Now the photo for this article, Lucky in the jack rabbit ears I made, was for promotional purposes, but this is the first time I’ve posted it, and I do think he makes a sweet model.

There was a discussion recently on the Writer’s Digest Forum-a splendid site for writers, by the way- regarding the use of animals in author promotion as being cheesy and unprofessional. I happen to disagree. That’s what I love about the forum, we can agree to disagree.  Animals connect us to others and I find it enduring to see an author posing with a family pet on a jacket cover if they so choose.  I would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this.

Meanwhile I’ll consider myself lucky indeed.

Joy, it’s summertime. People are once again filling gas tanks and hitting the road. Despite high gas prices, one can still get from here to there without breaking the bank. And I do hope you take the back roads occasionally. The good stuff hides there. Little old people on porches, holding hands and watching the sun slide down, an unexpected parade, a wild patch of sunflowers, men in faded overalls, whittling sticks on a store front corner.  Once our girls got older, we took back roads whenever possible.

I remember when they were young, traveling the twelve hours to Missouri every summer. We took the interstates then, our goal, to get there in record time. Ten miles down the road whining would commence. They were so good at it, I always suspected they’d rehearsed. Conversations went something like this.

“How much longer?” One would ask.

“Eleven hours and fifty minutes.”

Another chimed in, “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.”

“For crying out loud, we just left the house. Can’t you hold it?”

“You want me to pee my pants? Pull over!”

“What a pain.”

“Why’d you have me then, huh?”

“I had no idea it was going to be you!”

Boy, did we have fun. Those early travel memories are sweet, magical moments in time.  I can still see their sleepy eyes. How their heads would wobble and finally give out. The sun playing on their blond hair. I can hear the giggles, see the sparkly eyes when we’d stop and they’d get a treat.  The squeals of anticipation when rolling down the window, sticking our arms out, and getting  truckers to honk. They loved this and I did too. I also remember them laughing as I tumbled into the backseat to read them stories. The four of us, all cozy under a blanket in the middle of nowhere, happy as clams.

We’ve done road trips as far back as I can remember, the memories priceless.  On the weekend we’ll be taking another. This is the first time two of the girls won’t be going. One is attending summer school, the other working. The trip will be strange without them, but our youngest daughter will keep us well entertained.  I’m thankful to spend time with her while I can. She’s growing up too fast.

Enjoy your summer and keep making miles and miles of memories!

Diets do not appeal to me. My thighs, however, love them. That said, my whole family has climbed aboard the South Beach Diet boat. I still don’t know how I coaxed them, but we’re paddling all the same. Yes, we’re arriving somewhat late, but better late than never. Or is it?

Since Sunday we’ve been swimming in eggs, salads, meat, and ricotta cheese. Waves will be high the first two weeks.  The thunderstorm of eggs already has me shaky.  If I even imagine an egg now, I cringe.  This, and we’re only on day four. Good thing I have my V-8 juice. Great thing I like it.  We’ve already consumed more spinach than Popeye, and I half expect to wake one morning and scare my own self to death with bulging muscles.  Oh, did I mention we can’t eat fruit for two weeks? I now fantasize about apples and oranges. Sad, I know.

Last night we had a prolonged discussion on cheeseburgers and M&Ms. I finally put a stop to this. Food talk hour is now off limits, punishable by extra eggs. Pretty sure this will work.

Now back to the ricotta. With this diet I’m supposed to whip up dessert every night with this white pasty cheese.  You add slivered almonds,  almond extract, artificial sweetener, and serve it chilled.  Yuma!

Just kidding.

It tasted a bit like gussied up glue. The expressions on family faces ranged from horrified to disgusted.  A bit discouraged, the next night I added cocoa powder and baked it. Like a cheesecake, I thought. Oh, I love cheesecake. But I can’t talk about that. Anyway, it was better, but still far from cheesecake. Did someone say cheesecake?

Well, the good news is, weight is dropping. Three pounds down all around. If we can make friends with the egg we’ll have it in the bag.  On the third week, we’ll see our precious fruit once again. Be introduced to a potato.  If you don’t hear from me in the next ten days it means I’ve slipped into an egg induced coma. Someone please call a chicken. But really, this is a fine diet, as far as diets go.

If I could have it my way, though, I’d create the North Beach Diet. Only those who eat chocolate cake, cheeseburgers and French fries could participate.  No bikinis on this beach. Skinny people are not allowed.  Thighs flap here and have a grand time. Triple chins are all the rage.  Sunsets would swirl with barbecue smoke.  Eggs, ricotta cheese and salad would be curse words punishable by law.

But meanwhile I must go toss a salad.

You might not know this family, but Mrs. Gooseberry can cook. Mr. Gooseberry builds fabulous birdhouses and bonfires. The boy tells grand stories. All three living among flame colored birds and a stream in back, brisk and swollen with fish. In spring mushrooms hide in their woods, shooting from warmed soil like fleshy bullets.

When seized by morning sunlight, the Gooseberry family rises to the tinkle tinkle of creek noise floating in through screened windows. All are open. Every one.  Mrs. Gooseberry eats her eggs, then rolls Swedish meatballs for dinner. She stuffs them in the crock- pot, the smell eventually simmering in every nook and cranny.  Nightfall finds the family sitting among stars and fire and tree frogs. A breeze blows. They are  like eggs in a nest of land.

To find the Goosberry’s one would twist and turn down dirt roads, past fragrant honeysuckle, draping like spotty lemon-colored quilts above the road. Keep going past trees exploding with tiny orange persimmons, a fat hornets nest buzzing up one. Then cross a wooden bridge that goes click clack, click clack.  A stand of cedar next, big, small and medium. Tucked beside green, their tiny cabin, glass panes gleaming  like sunlit diamonds.

They do not own a TV, not and never have. Books and music are consumed daily. Woods are walked. Gardens tended. They have watched blossoms transform to apples, and bees disappear into flower cups; life up close and personal.

In summer the boy roams the woods, plucking blackberries and gooseberries. When he returns, bucket brimming, mother will make green gooseberry pie.

She would never tell someone new to gooseberries how tart they are, though. But she will watch you take that first sweet/tart bite and grin when you pucker like crazy. Yet she knows you will finish every last bite, curiously satisfied.

Mrs. Gooseberry likes this.

On sunny days, when work is done, Mr. Gooseberry hits plastic golf balls in back, which sometimes plop in the creek, floating downstream like bloated white fish. Other times he inadvertently aims at Mrs. Gooseberry, sitting quietly reading her book.  She’s been popped on the noggin enough with golf balls to automatically flinch when he whacks them, yet still comes outside.

“EXCUSE ME!” she will shout when he accidentally hits her. And if she feels it’s intentional, she pulls out her wide vocabulary and uses it. Mr. Gooseberry then kisses her on the forehead, an easy apology.

Those wacky Gooseberry’s can be found down a country road.

Do you have a  tender heart and experience strong emotions? Can you cry for no decent reason, and laugh a few minutes later?  Does it feel like other people’s emotions sometimes invade your own?  What about intuition and knowing things you shouldn’t? If  you said yes to all of the above then welcome to the club.  When growing up, I wondered if I’d been inflicted with a mysterious ailment.  Was this a blessing or curse?

Sad movies, even when I’m cozy with plot, still manage to make me boo hoo every time. Little Women for example; Beth gets sick. She dies young. “Get the Kleenex ready,” my children say. “Moms watching Little Women.”  They find my reactions humorous, but touching too.

Emotional types tend to laugh loudly too. They usually know how to have a grand time. This flip flop of feeling, I finally realized, was not a curse. We are the way we are for good reason. Better to belly up to our personalities so we can live down to the bones. This takes courage in a world that pops your hand when not conforming. Follow the rules. Do this. Why can’t you be more like so and so?  Now how would you know that? Quit crying.  Stop laughing. Conform, conform, conform, dang you.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always skirted around the rules I could. Walked outside lines. Questioned. It’s surely not the only way to go, but the route is quite lively.

However we choose to go through life, we fight, cry, laugh and dance along as best we can, with what we know.  Just when we’ve grown quite fond of old habits and worn out ways of thinking, change barges in and turns our world topsy turvy.  Shaking us like  coin purses, we crash and pick ourselves back up. Our purse can then be filled with new, shiny change.  At least I think that’s how it works. I’ll get back to you on this.

Be kinder than necessary for we are all fighting a battle. This is a golden sentence. I’m not sure who said it, but they were extremely wise.  Despite our personality types we are on equal  battle ground here. The best we can do is pick each other up when we stumble.  And remember to laugh!

Emotional rescue at its finest.

Happy for no reason; lighted candles dress up my mood this way. So does moonlight and starlight and turn your head smiles. Sorry if you thought this post was jogging a different direction. I’ll try not to steer you wrong. You see, I have this aversion to those who buy candles and never light them. When they leave the room I want to pop around. Fire them up.

Quick! Where’s the lighter? Matches?

Two vanilla tapers on the mantle. The flicker would be magnificent. Oh, and another two on twisted metal stands by the window, topped with cinnamon colored chunks. Perfectly formed, flame never touching wax. Imagine the whirl of white blue, soft, dreamy, reflective.

These are not my candles so I can’t light them. I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Can’t. But sweetie I want to say, you don’t know what you’re missing. I want to say life is too fast not to light slow burning candles. Do it and I’ll buy you more. But I say nothing. The candles remain dusty, intact.

My aversion actually covers anything unused. Everything in my home can be touched, sat upon, walked over, enjoyed, worn. There are no mysterious sitting rooms too huffy for human consumption. If I had one, we’d be…hmm, sitting in it. Laughing in it.

When a dish or glass falls victim to my tile floor, I don’t flinch. The lesson came from a then four-year-old daughter’s eyes  when she’d accidentally dropped an heirloom German mug brimming with lemonade. Yelling, I was upset. As I looked in those sky blue eyes blooming with tears, a revelation came. She and her sisters are and always will be my most precious walking, talking everyday heirlooms. From then on I was a changed woman. Not to say I never yell, just not about broken glass.

We have always stopped to smell the candles. Still do. And now that they are teenagers, I can leave candles burning without them playing with hot wax, or trying to start a bonfire. I have loaded up on them. Lit by day, night, anytime I’m feeling vulnerable or romantic or happy or sad.  I even pack them in my suitcase when we travel. On and on and on.

Please excuse me now. I must go light my fire.

A river is never lazy. It pretends. Meandering through, glassy water primps and prepares for summertime company. Underneath currents  fish glide and wiggle and get fat. They make room for splashing. Rock bluffs like natural metallic skyscrapers blink in sunshine, echoing shrill laughter, accommodating sun, bursts of wind, clouds and birds, gliding, passing, chattering.

Icy coolers bursting with sandwiches and soda complete the outing, along with lawn chairs lacing river banks like colored presents. If you don’t have a grand time, blame yourself. This natural  host has gone all out.

All year we wait for the river and the river waits for us.

Nothing cracks open my imagination more than floating down a crisp, lazy river. Here in Texas, specifically the Frio. On that slick, black inner-tube or puffy yellow raft, sitting under azure sky, I feel like the wealthiest woman on earth.

My happiest memories have sprung from water. Maybe yours too. As a child, Swan Creek, and Rome Creek and Rippie Creek, all complete with swinging ropes, crawdads, and family. When my dad asked mom if she wanted to go to Rome on certain weekends, she gave him a sloppy grin and said she’d love to. Then we’d pack up and head to Rome Creek.

Water is for the living, but I once saw an old man die in the Buffalo River. One minute sitting in his neon green lawn chair, dipping toes in water like chocolate to a strawberry, and the next, stiffening and face first in the water. The river seemed to shout, “Leaving so soon? Well, if you must, I’ll receive you like I always have.” I’d like to believe he died right where he’d lived the best.

Despite this, my best times have been  lived in and around water. After a day spent there, thoughts are crisp, appetite ravenous, and sleep strong. The air smells fresher, life seems deeper. Sweeter. It’s as though these things have never been experienced properly before.

Summer is here.   A lazy river awaits.

Dearly beloved, we gather together on this summer’s night to celebrate a union. Observe there are no chairs. The lawn is strewn with blankets. Please choose one which suits you. Lye back and view our natural lighting, black velvet glittered with stars. Listen, natures orchestra just arrived, frog bassoons and whippoorwill violins, flying from trees to hands and nesting there like wild poetry.

On our blankets, the world proposes. An onyx sky flecked with diamonds, the ring. Proudly wear your jewels, for you are now married to eternity. Until death do us part does not apply. Who’s to say when we depart we are not flung into the sky? Permanent jewels at long last.

Flaming up night.

And by day, lolling on soft cloudy beds.

Look at the billions of stars! Shall we not all gather there? The wild ones, streaking, bold blinking, meek, holding down sky as they held down earth. Finally coming into your own, you crazy, exotic stars.

On earth the lucky are flushed from obscurity, you embedding them on lavish settings, the self imposed coal admiring and polishing them. They sparkle and sparkle, yet desire more. When earth opens its mouth, there they are, rioting with gleam, you mesmerized.  Move along unaware jewel. Prepare yourself for unveiling.

The earth awaits your fanciful arrival. Sky sees your vivid hues and says shine. It knows who you are and has admired you for the longest time. Diamonds, like stars, belong to all.

I now pronounce you men, women and destiny. Night sky makes the declaration, stars sliding over.

For those who write novels, you know ideas, although plentiful, are not always zipping up and introducing themselves. We look for original, fresh material, yet knowing everything is old and wrinkled. Once we make peace with this, those worn out ideas can be whipped into something new; a magical concoction infused with our unique personalities and life experience.

Novel writing is brutal work. I’ve recently finished a second one, and for those who believe otherwise, go ahead and write one and then we’ll chat. Heck, I’ll even buy you lunch, although you will have earned a Caribbean cruise and more.

To complete a novel, you’ll need to spend at least a year or two, and sometimes ten, working alone. Characters will need created, as well as setting. You get to boss people around on the page, telling them how to act, what to say, how to dress, where to live, who to see, etc… For the slight control freak this is the ultimate rush.

Hmm… think I just made a confession.

Your imagination will also be on call twenty- four-seven, sometimes jarring you awake in the dead of night, and you, half blinking, fumbling for paper and pencil. Lights off, I write the idea down, although I’ll need a translator next morning to read it.

Even the most passionate writer wonders sometimes why they do this. You are basically entertaining yourself, hoping eventually to entertain others. Every day the white computer screen shows up, waiting for you to fill with black words straight from your red hot muse. This if you’re lucky. Some days words are dry and cracked and you wonder if the monsoon will ever come again.

But when the storm does arrive, and it usually does, we sing, off key, on key, any key as long as words flow. In the funnel of story, a writer could care less if non-writing neighbors and friends whisper under their breath, speculating about what we do all day. They spot us walking dogs, or eating the occasional lunch at Panera’s, or sneaking a Mocha Frap at Starbucks when we can dig up extra change, and think we’re goofing off.  They don’t realize we might be doing a little PR, such as leaving book fliers on a bulletin board. Or viewing life in action, the wild material we need for writing up a good thunderstorm. Maybe we’re just getting out so we don’t go nuts.  Those of us who are highly social (me) have to strike a balance here.

Have you ever heard these comments from friends or family?

“Oh, you work? Yea, the book thing.” Or “We thought of you for this project  because you’re at home and have extra time.”

“Why thank you for your kind thoughts,” I say. “But, yes, I do work, and I’ll have to pass on that.”

Maybe you can relate to the “YES MAN” syndrome. If you can, I hope you’ve passed the torch like I have. Practice saying, “No thank you” in the mirror until your voice cracks. Yes now comes when I find something important and not the other way around. Writers must carve out time to work like everyone else.

These occasions are also opportunities to practice grinning skills. Once the work some forgot you were doing comes to fruition, you’ll be smiling until your face aches; at book signings, even if only one person shows up, workshops, neighbors and friends. Prior to publishing, you might also want to hang out with car salesmen.

Did I hear groaning?

Despite their reputations, they have pesky sales skills which will come in handy when attempting to chit-chat your way into people’s hearts and wallets.

The truth is, novel writing is hard work, and so is selling, but I wouldn’t trade either for the world. You know as well as I do, we writers sometimes, eh, often, work for years on a wing and prayer before anyone notices our writing bloom. We do this because writing has chosen us and not the other way around.  And if lucky, we touch many with our words.

In the end, that’s why we show up day after day, and year after year, writing up a storm.

That and we’re control freaks!

Cheers,

Dorraine