Foggy Day in Folsom Towne

Great egret hunkered in the fog. Baby, it's cold outside!

El Coyote

Steve took this photo yesterday near Sailor Bar on the American River. He had his camera out in the hope of shooting a red-breasted sapsucker, when he stumbled upon this fellow, resplendent in his winter coat and woolly tail. Click on the pic for a glimpse of his yellow-green eyes.

Ahhhh, Christmas

It was a great Christmas, filled with the goodies a writer/music-lover/reader/gardener appreciates most: gift cards from Starbucks, Borders, iTunes and Capital Nursery. And, yes! Massages too! And from the parents of my son-in-law, a 2-lb. box of See's candy, which Erich and I promptly dove into (and swam around in) shortly before breakfast. In true "Christmas Story" fashion, the four of us (Steve, Maya, Erich, me) finished off the first layer before the evening sky turned "purple and soft."

I also received a small bronze statuette from my mom of a girl reading; she looks like Tinkerbell, and has alighted on my desk, just to the left of my laptop. She's too young to be reading THE COLLECTOR by John Fowles (one of my very early favorites) and too old for the LITTLE HOUSE series. Maybe she's reading GREAT EXPECTATIONS, since it opens on Christmas Eve. I think she will serve as my muse.

Rounding out a great holiday was time spent with my own parents and in-laws; calls from Jena/Jeremy and Pops; and a nap on the floor with Country (Maya and Erich's black Lab puppy), his warm nose buried in my neck. Ahhhh, Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Friends

Sandhill cranes carrying Christmas love from our house to yours.
May your holidays be merry and bright.
Love, Steve and Renee Thompson

Philandering Former Plastic Surgeon

Mary McNamara, television critic for the L.A. Times, picked "House" as one of TV's best shows for 2008. Shown here is Peter Jacobson, the actor who plays the "philandering former plastic surgeon" Dr. Chris Taub.

McNamara calls Jacobson "human, life-tempered, and increasingly indispensable." This is especially fun as Jacobson is the son of my friend Lynn Straus (one degree of separation -- woo-woo!).

(Fox photo)

Seafood Watch List -- Where Does Your Sushi Swim?

My friend Liz and I were having lunch the other day, and we got to talking about how unaware some supermarkets and restaurants are when it comes to providing information about the status of the fish we're buying and ordering -- is it a "red" fish, meaning on a sustainability watch list, or is it green, meaning okay to buy and order? Is it farm-raised or wild? Liz asked her waitress where the salmon she was ordering had come from, and if it was wild or farm-raised, and the woman didn't know, nor could anyone in the restaurant tell her. (Don't chefs do the buying for their establishments, or does that only happen at small, specialty shops featured on food channels?)

Which got me thinking. It's been a while, but the last time I visited Monterey Bay Aquarium, they offered a handout in the form of a bookmark which listed "red" species. I visited that list again today, knowing ultimately it is MY responsibility to know the status of the fish I'm buying. I'm happy (and relieved) to report that my favorites -- Dungeness crab, Pacific halibut, and wild salmon (Alaskan) are all on the "Best Choices" list. I'm less certain about the Australian rock lobster I just ordered online; the aquarium lists Australian spiny lobster as acceptable, but doesn't list rock lobster -- which means I've got some homework to do. (Maybe they're the same? I don't know that, either.)

I also need to check with the chef at our local Macaroni Grill, which serves my favorite grilled halibut, to ensure it's Pacific and not Atlantic, which is on the "Avoid" list.

To find out if the fish you're eating is a "Best Choice," "Good Alternative," or on the "Avoid" list, click here. (You can download a smaller version to stick in your pocket or purse.)

Greenpeace also has some good info. Click here to petition your local supermarket retailers to adopt sustainable seafood policies.

Crikees -- You're Looking for an Agent?

I just love Poets & Writers, and this month's issue (Jan/Feb - not yet on the website) is especially appealing. There was a great article in the Agents and Editors series, wherein Grove/Atlantic editor Jofie Ferrari-Adler interviewed four up-and-coming literary agents: Julie Barer, Jeff Kleinman, Daniel Lazar, and Renee Zuckerbrot. Ferrari-Adler asked what they were looking for in fiction (voice, unusual setting, great story); where they found their writers (slush pile, lit mags, writers conferences like Bread Loaf and Squaw Valley); and ideal clients (someone who is willing to participate in the business end of selling, writers who are well connected and whose subject matter appeals to a specific audience).

As it happens, I have an agent -- Joelle Delbourgo, a terrific woman whom I trust and admire -- so I wasn't reading the piece with an eye toward landing an agent (a daunting, terrifying, gut-wrenching process, regardless of who you are and the people in your camp), but because I'm familiar with these agents and find them fun and likeable. And, of course, it's nice to know that despite my failures, I can count among my successes the things I've done right (Sweet Jesus, there are three!): thoroughly researching an agent before querying; ensuring my query is appealing and to the point; and, of course, making sure my manuscript is the best it can be before ever starting the process.

And here's some great advice from an anonymous agent: "If you take my rejection letter and post it on your Web site, there are few other agents who are going to be willing to put anything in writing to you. We look upon those writers in a bad way."

Girls Like Us

Girls Like Us - Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon and the Journey of a Generation, by Sheila Weller, is a fun and interesting read, if not warmly written. The author's writing style feels vaguely distant, as if she's reporting the stories behind these women's lives rather than striving to draw us in.

Stephanie Zacharek, a senior writer for Salon, says in a New York Times book review she's weary of "old hippies gassing on," but finds a few enlightening moments in the book and gives Carole King the most credit for changing her generation.

And the photos are a hoot, including a nude shot of King giving her dog a bath.

Commerce Clashes with Culture

Checked out A ROOM WITH A VIEW and HOWARDS END by E.M. Forster from the library today. Cover proclaims these are "stories of extreme contrasts -- in values, social class and cultural perspectives. Romantic relationships lead to conventional happiness in the delightful social comedy A ROOM WITH A VIEW, and to unexpected scandal in the richer, deeply moving novel HOWARDS END," which of course I'll read first.

Donate Funds to Falcons

The Peregrine Fund, like so many wildlife and conservation organizations, is in need of your donations. Please consider making a gift this Christmas of as little as $25 (it's tax deductible!) by clicking here. The birds will thank you for it.

Tomboys All Grown Up Now

Maya (left) and Jena, on Jen's wedding day. San Diego, California.

Ode to Elk Cove Scrub Jay

Scrub jay sits on branch
Wobbles, steadies self, hangs on
Topples, then takes off.

Elk Cove, Part 2

View from our room, Elk, California. Nice way to spend Thanksgiving!

Sunset at Elk, California, south of Mendocino.

Elk, California, on Turkey Day, Part 1

Steve and I spent Thanksgiving at the Elk Cove Inn, south of Mendocino, on the coast of Northern California. No cell-phone coverage, no T.V., just two days of hiking, reading, eating and sleeping. Part 2 tomorrow!

Sustaining Life on Earth

Stewart Udall, a former Arizona congressman and secretary of the interior from 1961-1969, spoke to students at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington, circa 1984. Steve was a wildlife biologist at Nisqually Wildlife Refuge then, and he had the opportunity to take Udall on a tour of the refuge, where they did a little bird watching and pipe smoking. Even today Steve calls Udall "one of the best secretaries ever."

On March 31, 2008, Udall wrote an essay for High Country News, "A Message to Our Grandchildren," an excerpt of which follows here:

Foster a consciousness that puts a premium on the common good and the protection of the environment. Give your unstinting support to all lasting, fruitful technological innovations. Be steadfast enemies of waste. The lifetime crusade of your days must be to develop a new energy ethic to sustain life on earth.

Be steadfast enemies of waste. This, more than anything, resonates as we fill our landfills with cell phones simply because they're dated. (I've taken a lot of ribbing over my own cell phone, which is so old it's now "retro." I've refused to buy a new one, because this one still works...even if it means my friends and family abandon me each time I pull it out.)

I want to continue to strive to be a better steward of our land, which means I've got to do a better job in areas where my commitment is lacking: continue to reduce my use of plastic; take shorter showers and shallower baths; and eat the lettuce in the vegetable bin before it turns to mush.

Over the Pass on Amtrak

Here's a shot Steve took from his Blackberry while riding over the Sierra Nevada; he loves traveling by train, hooking up his laptop and staring out the window. I traveled with him once, from Washington, DC, to New York City. Depending on where you're going, the scenery is quite spectacular -- including all that grafitti on the buildings just outside Philadelphia. The mountains, he assures me, are prettier.

2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award

I'm entering my historical novel in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, competing with 10,000 other hopefuls. Last year's winner was Bill Loehfelm, who wrote FRESH KILLS, a "powerful mystery debut."

Contest submission period begins February 2, 2009, at 12:01, Eastern Standard Time.

Check out the details here.

Obama Leans in for a Hug

Here is my good friend, Lynn Straus, posing with Barack Obama in Chicago. Thanks to Lynn's tireless efforts -- and so many people like her -- we've got a good man in the White House, and a chance for significant change.

You, Too, Can Be Wildly Successful!

My mom recently made a gift subscription to me of Reader's Digest, a magazine covering material that generally appeals to an older audience. But occasionally there are pieces aimed at younger readers, too, like this month's Q&A with Malcolm Gladwell, author of THE TIPPING POINT and BLINK -- books that discuss, respectively, "how ideas and products catch fire, and why gut decisions are often better than well-thought-out responses." His new book, OUTLIERS: THE STORY OF SUCCESS (Little, Brown), is about "people whose achievement exceeds every expectation."

Gladwell speculates that these wildly successful people -- Bill Gates, for example, or The Beatles -- have talent, yes, but they also spent a significant number of hours mastering their crafts before hitting the big time. "The magic number for them, for Mozart, and for so many outliers, as I call them, appears to be 10,000 hours."

As a writer who has spent six years on her craft, and who has written two novels and landed two agents, but who has still not sold a book, I wondered where I stood in that equation. Naturally, I penciled it out:

52 weeks x 5 days a week = 260 writing days per year.

260 days per year x 6 hours per day = 1,560 writing hours per year.

1,560 hours per year x 6 years = 9,360 writing hours.

Which explains why I haven't yet made it! By my calculation, I've got to put in another 640 hours before becoming as wildly successful as The Beatles!

Now, that's something to shoot for.

Save the Date

The 12th Annual Great Backyard Bird Count -- sponsored by National Audubon Society and the Cornell Lab of Ornithology -- is slated for February 13-16, 2009. Participants in the 2008 count submitted more than 85,000 checklists and identified 635 species. With your help, organizers are hoping to break those records this year, so give them a hand by adding binoculars to your Xmas list and marking your calendars now!

Cedar Waxwings -- The Mark of Zorro

A group of about 20 cedar waxwings popped in this morning on their way south. Steve shot this photo in the backyard at 8:30 a.m.

Nearing "I Do"

Jena Thompson and Jeremy Meredith on the beach in San Diego. John Gonzalez, officiant.

J & J's Big Fat Beach Wedding

Crazy few days, having just returned from San Diego, where our oldest daughter Jena Thompson married Jeremy Meredith on Saturday, November 1. Beach wedding was beautiful and vows heartfelt, and music was outstanding -- Ira Gonzalez performed at the wedding itself, and then at the reception, along with his brother John. Local rock cover band, The Trip, played at the reception.

Fantastic fun -- even for passersby; Steve and I were taking a breather outside when we noticed a guy (22 or 23, maybe) on a bicycle who had stopped to take in the festivities. Band was playing "Jessie's Girl" by Rick Springfield, and bike kid was really digging it, pumping his fist in the air and singing along. After the song was over, he drove past, grinning and yee-hawing, telling us how awesome it all was.

We thought so too.

Happy Halloweener!

Trick or treat from your favorite forest pirate.

Annie Proulx's Latest

I recently picked up Annie Proulx's latest collection of short stories, FINE JUST THE WAY IT IS. I'm two stories in, having read "Them Old Cowboy Songs" -- which appeared previously in The New Yorker, and which my friend Lynn sent along a few months ago, knowing how much I love the historical American West, with its blood-filled rough and tumble -- and "The Great Divide."

The inside flap says "Proulx's characters try to climb out of poverty and desperation but get cut down as if the land itself wanted their blood," which it does, of course, and which it succeeds in claiming.

I've just started the third story (I'm reading out of order), which features Duane Fork, "the Devil's demon secretary." I suspect this story won't end well either, which is its juicy appeal.

Belly Waders

Steve took this photo of long-billed dowitchers at the Conaway Ranch last week. Similar to short-billed dowitchers, this species is found more often in fresh water, where the birds' long bills are better suited to wading belly deep.

Dowitchers winter in fresh and salt water, and on mudflats, and breed on wet tundra. Estimated populations of breeding birds and migrants in the U.S. and Canada is 500,000, roughly two dozen of which are represented here.

Meine Gute, Ich Bin Dumm!

So I'm thinking, four years of high-school German, two years in college, I can handle this, right? Guess what? Es ist nicht passiert (translation: "It ain't happenin")!

We're three weeks into the 12-week class, and already one third of the students have dropped out. I think I know why. We signed up, expecting to learn how to hail a taxi and order bratwurst, in the event our husbands really do take us to Austria, as they long ago promised they would. But what we're getting is far more difficult. We're conjugating verbs! And not just the easy ones, either! We're learning word order and negations and vocabulary words like das Anmeldeformular and das Nichtraucherabteil und all that other schtuff!

I am stunned at how much I've forgotten, and how slowly it's coming back. To Steve's credit, he's trying to lend a hand -- setting his GPS unit so it navigates in German, and shouting "Nein!" whenever he can.

We'll see how it all plays out. My first test is tomorrow, and I'm determined to hang in there. I've got to -- Herr Busch says es ist verboten to quit.

7th Annual Winters Barn Dance

Scott Williams and Mary Louise Frampton invited us to their home to help celebrate their 7th Annual Winters Barn Dance. Scott and Mary Louise live on five acres with two beautiful barns, one of which Scott uses as a workshop. The West Nile Ramblers -- five Yolo County musicians -- set up there and performed throughout the evening (Western Swing; Jazz; Americana). Their style and sound is reminiscent of the bands we've heard in Austin, Texas, and it was a real treat to feel, for a time, we were back in the Lone Star state.

Dinner was delicious and the company was great. We had a terrific time, and hope Scott and Mary Louise invite us to Party No. 8. (Same time next year? Our calendars are clear!)

Top photo: The Western Nile Ramblers
Bottom photo: Scott Williams flippin' garden burgers
Photo cred: Steve T.

Mr. Bluebird's on Our Fencepost

Here's a migrating western bluebird, taking a breather on our fence. Still no sign of the sandhill cranes. Where the heck are they?

Happy Together

Just returned from three days in San Diego, where I helped Jena with a few wedding details. It rained while we were there, as it did in Folsom. Steve said he got up Saturday morning to take some pics near the pond (freshened by the rain and filled to the brim), when he came across these two guys (red-eared sliders?) sunning on a rock. Temperature was about 75 degrees.

(I can hear a flicker calling as I type this!)

Dog-Sitting the Bird Dog

I'm dog-sitting Country today, Maya and Erich's black Lab pup. Oh mama, I'd forgotten what it was to have a puppy in the house. I thought I'd prepared for his arrival -- stashing behind closed doors the obvious items I knew he'd head for right away: a basket of birch sticks on the floor, near the bookcase, and another tall basket filled with wheat straw and decorative flowers. It never occurred to me he'd get tangled in a lamp cord as he squeezed between the wall and the sofa, or that he'd bury himself in the strawberry patch outside, in search of the single green berry left on the vine.

We've walked twice already, and I do believe I exhausted his puppy energy: he's sleeping at my feet in my office, where I've draped the floor-length curtains over the hard drive and barricaded the stairs with his crate (which he has no interest in at all, despite the cozy pad I placed in there, along with a stuffed-wiener toy).

Maya's picking him up in about an hour, and I know I will miss him. We've bonded, and having him here was an important diversion -- a chance to concentrate on something other than the writing (and the rejection), and to revel in his exuberance.

I think I've fallen in love.

Sierra Marlins Stampede

Sierra Marlins sponsored an open-water swim yesterday at Negro Bar, roughly seven miles from the house. Steve and I volunteered to work as timers for the Masters 1/2 mile and 1 mile swims, as well as for the USA swimming competitions (also 1/2 and 1 miles swims), and for the Youth 500 yard swim (kids 8-10).

This is the second year we've worked the event, and we've got it down: I call each swimmer's number (written in black marker on their upper arms), and Steve records their time. It's trickier than you'd think, especially when swimmers wobble up from the water as a bunch -- which they do fairly often -- and we've got to identify numbers that are sometimes smudged, and coming at us at a pretty good clip. But it's great to see the look of accomplishment on the swimmers' faces, and a real treat to be part of the event.

Steve swims with the Marlin Masters each weekday morning at 5:30, and with his Broadstone buds on Sunday. His big open-water event of the year is generally Donner, a 2.7 open-water swim that chews the hide from his skin (cold, cold, cold!). He'd love it if I'd swim too, and I told him as soon as they find a lake that's 90 degrees, I'll definitely be there, babe!

Snakedance

I almost stepped on a common gartersnake during my walk this evening; turns out I saw "him" about the same time he saw "me," and I jumped, elbows akimbo and knees hooked high while he scurried into the brush. I glanced around to ensure no one saw me, knowing I looked pretty geeky. I think the coast was clear.

Sustainable Mango

Just bought a table constructed of sustainable mango.

Sustainable wood is harvested from carefully managed forests, or reclaimed from old buildings and barns, or other wood sources, such as furniture.

To ensure the wood you're buying is sustainable, look for certification, which sometimes comes from a label. Guidelines established by the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) are the ones most environmental groups trust.

Country Kepner

Here he is, "Country" Kepner, dog-child of Maya and Erich. He's a nine-week-old Labrador retriever, and already knows how to sit! Steve and I now have two grand-dogs, a boy and a girl. I'll meet Miley when I fly to San Diego in October to visit Jena and Jeremy.

Where are the Sandhill Cranes?

Upstairs, my office window is open. I'm waiting for the faraway calls of greater sandhill cranes, signaling their flight over Folsom from eastern Oregon, as they head to the Central Valley, where they'll winter in delta grasslands and marshes.

I'll rush outside the moment I hear them, knowing that even as I peer at the stark blue sky, it will take a few minutes to spot them. And then there they'll be, riding the thermals and singing their songs, and I will breathe again.

Autumn Begins

I haven't been paying attention; the tips of the maple trees have turned pink, and I'm wondering when it happened.

I should have seen it coming, having walked every day last week. But my eyes were on soccer fields and sidewalks and artificial turf, or my chin was tilted downward while my thoughts went everywhere: on the frightening state of publishing and the exit of editors -- one of them from a terrific house considering my historical novel.

My thoughts are scattered. My foots hurts. My oldest daughter is getting married and my youngest just got a dog (they named him "Country" and I've fallen in love; now I want one too). There's a lot to look forward to. And much to think about.

I want to witness the season in all its splendor, inhale the autumn air. I want to crunch acorns beneath my feet and arrange pumpkins on the porch. I want to sip hot cider from a paper cup, and eat a sugar doughnut. I want to see it all, hear it all, taste it all. I don't want to miss a thing.

Bird Day at Conaway

Steve took this photo of a white-faced ibis yesterday at the Conaway Ranch in Yolo County, near the Sacramento River. Check out the irridescent feathers (click to enlarge).

Brian Doyle on Yes, No, and Maybe

Been hunkered of late, working on the new novel. Did take a few minutes this morning to check my favorite blogs, and found this link to an essay by Brian Doyle, editor of Portland Magazine, at the University of Portland, Oregon. Doyle's topic is rejection -- how much he's doled out over the years, and has received on his own. But he also touches on acceptance, which he discusses here:

Some of the best yesses I have issued over the years: Yes to a thirty-year-old Mormon man who wrote an absolutely haunting essay about laughter (which was also funny). Yes to a sixty-year-old man who drives a bus and wrote a piece about a six-year-old girl who was so broken and so hilarious and so brave that when I finished reading the essay I put my face in my hands and wept and wept. Yes to a fifty-year-old doctor who had sent me arch essay after arch essay but finally sent me a perfect essay about the best teacher she ever had, to which I said yes so fast I nearly broke a finger. Yes to half of an essay by Andre Dubus, an essay we were cheerfully arguing about when he died of a heart attack, and I asked his oldest son if I could print the good half and not the mediocre half, and he said yes, which made me smile, for I could almost hear Andre cursing at me happily from the afterworld, in that dark amused growly drawly rumble he had when alive.

Check it out when you have a few; it's a fun/funny read.

The Keeper of Junk Food Wrappers

I don't know what to make of this. During my evening walks, I've noticed from time to time a gold Acura parked on the side of the road, roughly half a mile from the house; the car is newish, no dents or scratches, and while the exterior seems to be well tended the interior is a wreck. Each time I've passed it, I've slowed, curious about its contents but too embarrassed to check it out. Well, today I finally did.

Allow me to share.

On the passenger's side, spilling from the seat to the floor, is a pile of junk food/fastfood debris. (And when I say "pile," I really mean "mountain." As in "Kilimanjaro.") Specifically, I counted:

2 McDonald's bags
3 KFC bags
2 Wendy's bags
2 Wendy's red foil wrappers
2 KFC cups, large
1 Haagen Daz ice cream wrapper
1 Haagen Daz ice cream box
1 Nestle Crunch ice cream wrapper
1 Rold Gold pretzel bag, flattened
A mess of empty water bottles, lids attached
Beaucoup french-fry bags. Way too many to count.

And that's just the stuff I remember.

The photo above I pulled from the Net. "My" car is radically worse. The pile reaches up to the window -- actually, it comes slightly above it -- although for some reason it doesn't appear to be spilling onto the driver's side; somehow (how?) the Keeper of Junk Food Wrappers manages to contain it to the passenger side, which makes me wonder what happens when he makes a quick left turn. Does it come spilling onto his/her lap? If not, why not? How does he/she keep it in place?

The back seat isn't nearly as intriguing, although it too is a mess. Papers are strewn everywhere, as are empty plastic bags. There's a proposal of some sort peeking out from under the stash; unfortunately I couldn't identify the company or the name on the report, as I was reading upside down. Not to mention worried about getting caught.

But trust me when I tell you the pile is growing. As is the mystery. Stayed tuned for updates...

Dickens, Twain, and Tinti

Received One Story's newsletter yesterday, with the news Hannah Tinti's first novel, THE GOOD THIEF, is now out. I read the first chapter yesterday via an online link, and really enjoyed it. I'm sure I'll pick up this novel the next time I'm at Border's. Read an excerpt here.

Tobias Wolff's Latest

I'm a fan of Tobias Wolff; his memoir, THIS BOY'S LIFE, is a favorite, and I very much enjoyed his novel, OLD SCHOOL. But his latest, OUR STORY BEGINS, a collection of short stories, is disappointing. In his "A Note From the Author," he informs us he's included stories that are new, and some that are decades old. No matter. I don't take issue with the writing -- it's lovely, and there is much to learn from him, stylistically.

But the endings of the stories I've read (there are 31 in all; I've read seven so far) have inspired some serious muttering. In one instance I turned the page to discover I'd come to the end, and simply sat, dumbfounded -- I thought the story was just warming up, so it was a shock to learn it was over. (Publishers Weekly gave this collection a starred review, saying, "In most (of the stories), there is a moment of realization, less a startling epiphany than a distant, gradual ache of understanding, that changes how the character looks at the world."

In my view, an occasional startling epiphany would help these stories, but having said that, I do look forward to reading his next novel, and perhaps his second memoir, IN PHARAOH'S ARMY. He's generally very appealing -- this collection is simply a miss.

Does Thinking Make You Fat?

An article by Robert Roy Britt, LiveScience.com's managing director, reports the findings of a study which determined people who think more eat more -- up to 29.4 percent more, in fact, than couch potatoes (read about it here).

The study, however, was published in the journal Psychosomatic Medicine, which begs the question, Do we just think we're getting fat when we're thinking, or does thinking really make us fat?

My head hurts just thinking about it, which explains my double chin.

Vacay's Over -- Sob!

Back to work today, which means I'm once again at my desk. Outlining the new novel (contemporary this time), looking for opportunities to increase tension, plug in a laugh, and make my readers cry (because they're sad, not bored, which is always the bigger challenge!)

Don't Toss CFL Bulbs

I've got mixed feelings about compact fluorescent lightbulbs (CFLs) for a couple of reasons. First, the light quality is poor, and second, they contain mercury. Once broken, the mercury leaks out, contaminating air, water and soil. In California, tossing CFLs into the trash is illegal, but I'm betting most folks don't know that. Even if they do, chances are good they're sometimes tossing bulbs on the sly -- just as they're tossing batteries -- thinking, "Eh. One little bulb won't hurt."

So I don't love them, but I use them. In Folsom, where I live, I can recycle my spent/unbroken bulbs by calling Household Hazardous Waste Service and arranging for pickup, or by dropping them off at Osh, Lowes and Home Depot hardware stores. (I can drop off batteries there, too, and at my local library!)

Check for recycling locations for your own community at the Environmental Protection Agency's website, then follow the links to the state where you live. The world will thank you for it.

Short Stories by William Gay

There's a rumor that Barnes & Noble will absorb our local Border's, and you know, I hope it's true. I have valiantly tried over the years to support my local bookstores (independent and chain -- they all deserve our patronage), but so many times when I've gone into Border's to pick up a book, they haven't had it. Same was true a few days ago, when I'd hoped to buy the 2008 O. Henry Prize Stories. Nada one on the shelf.

They didn't have the 2008 Best American Short Stories, either, so I picked up the 2007 version, altogether grumpy about the situation and determined not to like anything in it. But guess what? There's a story by William Gay, "Where Will You Go When Your Skin Cannot Contain You?" that I can't wait to read. Gay wrote my favorite short story, "The Paperhanger," which was an O. Henry winner in 2001. (This story is so dog-eared and highlighted, it's falling out of my book.) If you haven't read it and can't find it, zip me an email and I'll send you a copy. I'll warn you, it's dark. But oh so delicious.

Thompson Takes a Tumble

Steve and I just returned from two days at Grover Hot Springs State Park, located south of Lake Tahoe, on Hwy. 89, between highways 50 and 88, and just a few miles west of Markleeville (pop. 200; Steve and I love this little town).

After we picked out our campsite and Steve set up the tent, we had a few hours to kill before heading over to the campground pool (fed by the runoff from six mineral hot springs), so we drove over to East Carson River so Steve could test his new fly-fishing rod. I sat on a boulder and took notes while Steve walked the river. The water looked pretty shallow, so he decided to wear his old hiking boots as opposed to waders, and to forgo his walking stick. I watched him stride in, then took in a bit of scenery while he practiced casting. Both sides of the river were lined with rocks the size of basketballs and bean-bag chairs, and just above the south bank there was a ridge covered in green-gray sage and stately Ponderosas. Cottonwoods shimmered in the sun. Every so often I'd glance over at Steve, and pretty soon he called, "The rocks are really slick -- I wish I had my walking stick!" Not three minutes later he tumbled into the river, rolling slowly onto his left side, his new rod gripped in his right hand, which he'd raised high into the air. (I guess he didn't want to get it wet.) Declining to look at me at first, he got up, then turned my way and sheepishly smiled. "Don't write that down!" he hollered while I giggled and scribbled. (Steve is the most coordinated human I've ever met -- that he would fall was a record-breaking event -- someone had to get this on paper!)

Next morning, he propped his wet boots at the edge of the campfire's grill while drinking coffee and watching birds. Distracted by a Steller's jay, he forgot about his boots and the soles began to burn. And, yes, I wrote that down too. Lucky for me, Steve's a great sport -- not only does he take the photographs for my blog, but he lets me make fun of him too. (Chipmunk, above, was a pill!)

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

This evening I watched the documentary, “Pete Seeger: The Power of Song,” which not only entertained and educated, but moved me in a way I’d not expected. Seeger, a pioneering folksinger and political activist, paid a price for his activism, as he was blacklisted during the McCarthy Era for his involvement with the Young Communist League at the age of 17, despite having drifted away from the party and serving in the U.S. Army during World War II.

In the Sixties, he was an opponent of the arms race and of the Vietnam War, and in 1967, when he was invited to appear on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, he performed “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy,” a song later cut by the network for its anti-war/anti-Johnson sentiment. There’s a clip of this song in the documentary, and he performs it so fervently that I could not help but turn to Steve and say, “I can’t take it anymore.” Eyes welling, I got up and walked away. Here is a portion of that song:

All at once, the moon clouded over,
We heard a gurgling cry.
A few seconds later, the captain's helmet
Was all that floated by.
The Sergeant said, "Turn around men!
I'm in charge from now on."
And we just made it out of the Big Muddy
With the captain dead and gone.

Well, I'm not going to point any moral;
I'll leave that for yourself
Maybe you're still walking, you're still talking
You'd like to keep your health.
But every time I read the papers
That old feeling comes on;
We're waist deep in the Big Muddy
And the big fool says to push on.

Seeger is 89 now, moving more slowly and singing more softly, but the desire is still there – to make the world a better place through music and through song. Who will make the rallying cry once he's gone?

Holy Cow (And Milking Goats)

Took my parents to the California State Fair today, where I learned that lactating cows drink between 30-50 gallons of water per day -- enough to fill a bath tub.

My mom milked a goat. (This photo is from wikihow.com.)

Food Interrupted by Kingsolver

I'm in the midst of reading ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE by Barbara Kingsolver, the story of how her family was changed by their first year of deliberately eating food produced from the same place where they worked, went to school, loved their neighbors, drank the water, and breathed the air (her words, back cover).

Am almost halfway through the book and am struck by the effort required to undertake and then sustain this lifestyle. Like to imagine (fantasize, really) I could do it, too, if Steve and I owned 100 acres in northern California -- or perhaps the Olympic peninsula -- but how, good Lord, to give up coffee and sugar? She poses this question, too, but I'm 159 pages in and she's only briefly addressed the challenge. I'm hoping she'll tackle the trickier aspects of her family's deprivation, and suspect she will -- once they face the naked vines of winter (and that aromatic brown dust at the bottom of the coffee bag).

Fisher the Problem Bear

Two years ago I worked as a volunteer for the Folsom Zoo Sanctuary, an impressive organization that harbors wild animals which were once kept as pets and cannot be released, or which have been injured and cannot be rehabilitated. I had the afternoon shift (clerk in the gift shop), and each day before I started work, I'd take a quick lap around the grounds to see what the animals were up to. One day, Fisher (dubbed the "problem bear," due to his love of garbage and how far he'd go to get some) had just begun to eat his lunch when I got there; he was sitting on his rump with a stainless steel bowl between his legs, tying into an orange. He curled his lips back and picked off a small bit of peel, then split the orange in half and plucked away all the fruit with his front teeth. Next he tackled a green apple, but only ate half. I told the gatekeeper, Jan, he didn't eat any of his artichoke, and she said, "Well, he didn't have any mayonnaise!" I thought that was clever.

Remembering this story makes me smile. I hope it makes you smile too. Happy Saturday, all.

Glimmer Train -- Honorable Mention

Still in the midst of vacation, but wanted to post a quick note to let my writing buds know I received a note from the editors of Glimmer Train today. My short story, "Balm," received an honorable mention (top five percent of 1,000 entries) in their June 2008 Fiction Open, thanks in part to my Squaw Valley writing partners, who made great suggestions for this story. Thanks, friends -- could not have done it without you!

Staycation

Taking a few weeks off to hang around the house, shred six years' worth of old checks and documents, and tidy up the garage. In between, Steve and I will visit with visiting daughter Jena and her fiance Jeremy, hit the pool a time or two, and split an omelet -- we like the do-it-yourselfer at Sutter Street Grill in historic Folsom: three eggs, tomatoes, onions, green peppers, and cheddar cheese. With a side of sourdough toast and blackberry jam. Yum!

A Love of Reading

My own love of reading was inspired by my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Malone, who read to us every day after recess. I remember well the stillness of the room, 30 bodies hunched over their desks, chins resting on fists as we lamented the travails of Tao, Bodger, Luath, Laura, Mary -- poor blind Mary! -- and of course the tragically doomed Charlotte.

I remember too the days we were so utterly entranced with Mrs. Malone's reading that we begged her to keep going, and sometimes she would, admonishing us she was cutting into scheduled mathematics to do so, but relenting even so, smiling in her emerald green suit, book propped open atop her desk, mouth pursed just so.

Those afternoons were heaven.

Here are the books she read:

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White

The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell

And by Laura Ingalls Wilder --

Little House in the Big Woods

Farmer Boy

Little House on the Prairie

On the Banks of Plum Creek

By the Shores of Silver Lake

The Long Winter

Little Town on the Prairie

These Happy Golden Years

Thanks, Mrs. Malone, for instilling a love of reading.

Ode to a Peach

Size of a grapefruit
Sweet and juicy on my tongue
In my stomach now.

Tejas Boys

Maya, Erich, Steve and I drove to Sparks, NV on Friday night to catch the 8:00 performance of del Castillo, a Latin rock band from Austin, TX. The drummer, Mike Zeoli, went to high school with our oldest daughter, Jena, and spent a few days with us when we lived in Virginia. We haven't seen him in ages, and it was such a treat to hear him play, and to finally meet the other band members: Rick del Castillo (guitar and vocals); Mark del Castillo (guitar and vocals); Bert Besteiro (bass); and Alex Ruiz (vocals). Rick and Mark are wildly talented on the guitar, and engage in fingering duals that truly boggle the mind. Alex, the vocalist, is also something of a flamenco dancer, and that, too, was so much fun to watch. Bert and Mike's solos were also impressive, and when the guys finished their 90-minute set, the audience wasn't about to let them go. They kindly performed an encore, but get this (and it was truly a first for me), they held a meet-and-greet at the end of the show, so anyone who wanted to stick around and say hi was encouraged to do so. Talk about inspiring loyalty! These guys know how to do it. Check out their tour dates here.

Riding Shotgun

Here's Maya flying over Cache Creek in Northern California. The team is using radio telemetry to search for elk with radio collars and/or ear tags; once located, Maya and her coworkers plot the GPS coordinates on a map to track the animals' range.

When Steve saw this photo, he said the plane looked like a Cessna 185 taildragger, the aircraft he flew in to count waterfowl as a wildlife biologist in Oregon in the late 1970s. He says he put in 100-150 hours a year at roughly 150 feet and 20 percent flaps. "We went as slow as we could go without stalling." Oh. Well. That's reassuring.

Larry McMurtry's Life with Books

I confess up front I’m a loyal fan of Mr. McMurtry, so I won’t attempt an unbiased review of Books: A Memoir, except to say this is not a memoir in the traditional sense, but a series of essays detailing Mr. McMurtry’s love of books – reading them and hunting them down, and eventually amassing a collection that numbers in the tens of thousands.

The history of his career as a collector and antiquarian bookseller are interesting (and educative: if at some point you begin collecting books and think you might one day sell them, don’t write your name in them; it’s death for resale), but it was the understanding that he’s almost indifferent when discussing the creation and success of his own books that I found not only astonishing but unsettling. He shares a brief anecdote early on about the publication of his first novel, Horseman, Pass By, which, he says, was anticlimactic: “…unfortunately I felt very little, but almost at once, it was sold to the movies and soon produced. The reason for the speedy route to production—which usually takes several years—was that Paul Newman wanted to star in it, and did. The movie was called Hud, and it did well.”

Toward the end of the book he says, “As I went on through life I wrote novel after novel, to the number of about thirty. Most were good, three or four were indifferent to bad, and two or three were really good. None, to my regret, were great, although my long Western Lonesome Dove was very popular—the miniseries made from it was even more popular. Popularity, of course, is not the same as greatness.”

Mr. McMurtry also shares an anecdote, where, in the 1960s he was interested in the writer Gershon Legman, and says he “foolishly” sent Legman a copy of his second novel, Leaving Cheyenne, which he’d inscribed to the man. Legman fired back a rude response, claiming “fiction was shit,” after which there was no correspondence between them for 10 years. Mr. McMurtry says: “That copy of Leaving Cheyenne, by the way, has been on sale on the West Coast for several years. Legman didn’t want it and neither does anyone else.” That’s surprising, considering a quick search on abebooks.com reveals that Between the Covers—Rare Books, Inc. in Gloucester, NJ, is selling his “scarcest novel”—a signed, first edition with dust cover in fine condition—for $4,500. It might as well be $450,000, but if I had it, I’d spend it, and in a heartbeat too.

It's Here! Larry's Book!

Larry McMurtry's book, Books: A Memoir, just arrived from Amazon and I can't wait to tear into it. Will read as much as I can this weekend, then report on Sunday evening. (Only downside is there are no photos -- got to have pics with a memoir!)

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2

A couple of years ago, I bought Annie Proulx's Bad Dirt, but set it aside after reading only a handful of stories. As I told my friend Lynn, Annie Proulx's writing is always delicious -- but the stories themselves are sometimes hit and miss. I picked the book up again the other day and came across this description, which I'd earlier underlined and dog-eared:

"Warmin up," called one of the men, stretching his back. The sun shone behind his ears, which turned the color of chokecherry jelly."

That, my friend, is yummy!

Also read "The Wamsutter Wolf," which I enjoyed as much as "Brokeback Mountain." When she gets it right, it's perfect. And wow, was Wamsutter good! (Also just ordered Larry McMurtry's Books: A Memoir, and can't wait for it to arrive. More on that later...)

Michael Chabon's Maps and Legends

Publishers Weekly, in a review of Michael Chabon's Maps and Legends, a book of essays, says Chabon is "bitter and defensive about his love for genre fiction such as mysteries and comic books," and that it's "hard to imagine an audience for this book." Granted, I didn't buy it - it was a gift from a friend of my husband, a man who knows I'm a writer and who made the effort to acquire a signed copy for me. I'm really very grateful -- let me tell you why.

Years ago, after moving to Georgia, I had the chance to hear Chabon speak at the Marcus Jewish Community Center in Atlanta, shortly after he was awarded the Pulitzer for Kavalier & Clay, a novel that taught me much about expanding my vision as a writer; phrases such as "slumped like a question mark against the door frame" and "a canoe of lemon" made me realize I'd not been thinking like a writer, but a reader, and that I had a lot of work to do.

At the community center that night, a young man in the audience raised his hand and asked, "How do you handle those times when you're worried you might offend someone with something you've written?" Chabon said, "Look, if you never offend anyone, you're probably not doing your job."

And now, some eight years later, he defends that remark in his Maps and Legends essay, "The Recipe for Life," in which he says:

"Literature, like magic, has always been about the handling of secrets, about the pain, the destruction, and the marvelous liberation that can result when they are revealed. Telling the truth when the truth matters most is almost always a frightening prospect. If a writer doesn't give away secrets, his own or those of the people he loves; if she doesn't court disapproval, reproach, and general wrath, whether of friends, family or party apparatchiks; if the writer submits his work to an internal censor long before anyone else can get their hands on it, the result is pallid, inanimate, a lump of earth."

Perhaps Publisher's Weekly missed this essay, and if so, it's a shame. It's the most relevant advice I've read about how writers can best help themselves. As for audience: one can only imagine.

Sneaky Chef Missy Chase Lapine

My agent, Joelle Delbourgo, also represents Missy Chase Lapine, author of The Sneaky Chef: How to Cheat on Your Man (In the Kitchen) Hiding Healthy Foods in Hearty Meals Any Guy Will Love. Missy wrote an article, "Dessert for Breakfast," explaining she needed a plan to avoid gaining weight while working around food. To that end, she incorporated the Weight Watchers point system into her Sneaky Chef Breakfast Cookies, which I plan to make and share with my own Weight Watchers class next Saturday morning. (I've been a Lifetime member since 1990.) A one-ounce cookie has two points. Can't wait to sample one!