Books are a forest and it’s hard to see the trees, except the tall ones or the old ones. But when you enter the forest, it’s the new growth that emits the sunlight....

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Photo posts of autumn color (and free Kindle books!)

*Josiah’s Apple Orchard, MG novel, will be FREE Kindle Oct. 16-21.*

*The House in Windward Leaves, Halloween-time fantasy, will be FREE Kindle from Oct. 29 to Nov. 2*

An enchanted entrance

My one-act play, “The Lawn Auction” is published in Mused Literary Review’s Fall Equinox issue.   The journal is part of BellaOnline, a much-visited site for women and their concerns.  I've read the whole issue and found poems, fiction, and nonfiction that I thoroughly enjoyed.

The Lake Superior shore region is known for its fall color.  When I was growing up in Southern Minnesota, our next door neighbors took a trip up to Duluth every fall just to see the trees turning color.   We were in school and never could take that in.  Since moving to Duluth, I have marveled at Indian summer here.  I take pictures every year, and admire trees from my windows that are just plain breath-taking.  This year, I’m putting pictures in this blog post. 

Decoration for the evergreen

The boulevard trees arching are scheduled to be removed for blocks due to road & sewer pipe improvement.

Mountain ash
The yellow leaf road

My new banner at Facebook

When I lived in Minneapolis, I wrote this poem.  It was published in Rio Number 14 in 2004, online.

On a day when a maple leaf
is really a flower

Last walk in harpstring hues
tousled by the yellowing
palms of trees.  This day was
borrowed from August.

In other chameleon trees, fire
supplies mood but not the balm.
I gasp too at fall’s rude turmoil,
at petals imploding like dresses
exposing crooked legs.  Some
bloom backwards, stuck on a
perverse carousel around houses,
papery-soft like widows with tissues.
Squashed are most.  Appallingly
their mauves are trampled.
Striped petunias put up a
frilled front, looking less ruined.

I pass a huge sidewalk blossom.
A flamingo flower strung in
pink from the sky.  Billowed
as poppymallow, silky as
tiger lilly - maple leaf?

I picked the leaf, passed
the foundering flowers.  Picked
a laugh bluffing about maples
and meanings.  What’s in flower?
What’s dying flame?  What
isn’t borrowed?

Next day I check the maple flower
between leaves of an unborrowed
book.  It has flared, crinkled
to its capillaries, gauntly as
an octogenarian’s face.  Today
fall fell chill.  This is a leaf
the shape of a sunstorm
the flamboyance of a maple
defying definition to the death.

Clouds can be astonishing too.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Trees in the way of road repair

At first I thought that young people were getting ready for a party on Fourth Street.  That’s the street I usually take going downtown or to the shopping plaza near the Duluth branch of the University of Minnesota.  East Fourth Street is an older neighborhood and it houses many off-campus students.  I had seen the tree decorations from the road.  They remained and it wasn’t until I walked along the blocks that I could read quotes tacked on the old trees, and see how the trees were also residents of the neighborhood.  Especially to the house owners.  They are old trees, silver maple, ash, northern oak, and elm that form an arching pergola over the busy street, old trees that are glorious in the fall.

Most of my life, I’ve lived near a wide street that leads to a city downtown.  Street repair and neighborhood renewal are usual scenes.  At another location in Duluth, I watched the construction for new sewer pipes in a concave of dirt where old tires gave ballast to the streets.  This was an avenue and because there weren’t many trees on the boulevard, I watched only one tree removed and replaced with a sapling.  It mattered to a house owner at the time, and to me because of the tree’s fall color.

Fourth Street obviously needs repair.  It’s a bumpy ride.  Up here in Duluth, roads weather harsh winters.  But now, about 75 percent of the old trees on that street’s boulevards are threatened to be cut down.  Because the excavation and removal of old sewer pipes, pipes from as long ago as 1888, will damage tree roots.   Even so, the University of Minnesota Extension department maintains that the trees in question might be tolerant to having half of their roots cut.  In a city survey, most Fourth Street trees were in good to excellent condition.  The Duluth Budgeteer explained the issue.

So the argument has begun about this road construction slated for 2016.  The city promises to plant new trees in the boulevards while it also plans bike paths along the street.   Perhaps they could save trees, see how they do after the road and sewer pipe repair, and then remove dying trees and replant where needed?   I know that they’ll have to cut the arching branches to accommodate the vehicles necessary for the repair.

I looked at a map that showed the excavation points and of course, there are many near my location.   I had been working on the publication of Josiah’s Apple Orchard when I learned of this.   A spoiler here, but the kids in the book found out that an apple picking trip was their last because of a similar issue.  At least they didn’t live near the orchard.

One of my first writings in childhood was about a plum tree in our front yard that was charred and split during a lightning storm.  That absolutely horrified me.  The tree gave good plums.   Particular trees become familiars.  Certain trees in my childhood neighborhood, a letterbox tree, a catalpa tree in Minneapolis, an apple tree in St. Paul, a mountain ash tree at my previous Duluth address.  I think I will have to show the annual pictures I take of fall color in Duluth in another blog post.

Josiah’s Apple Orchard was published in August 2014.   It is a Middle Grade novel set in the 1960s although its farmer’s markets and its music lessons are like those today.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Middle grade novel Josiah's Apple Orchard published

Josiah’s Apple Orchard is now published by Couchgrass Books in Kindle format and in paperback at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.  In a few weeks, it can be purchased from Ingram's and other book outlets.

Here is the back cover copy:

Besides music, Vivvy loves green apples. She and her brother Matt go on morning apple raids until, one fall, their father drives them to a pick-your-own orchard. The cross old Josiah inhabits another time where pixies might appear like uprooted saplings.

In the early, eventful 1960s, Vivvy takes the flute from Mr. Fortray, a band teacher who plays jazz. Detours confuse another apple picking trip and Josiah is angry about progress. Yet if Vivvy wants to do what she loves, she must think beyond a fear that her father and Josiah share.

This was a book I revised to make it less of a sentimental journey, and to bring out the story.  I felt that the 1960's apple orchard was relevant today because of the organic farming movement.  In the fictional time frame, many farms in the Midwest were still organic.  The old man in the story, though, finally subsisted on his apple orchard, which was unusual in a region where wheat and dairy were predominant.  He became a character as I wrote because I did not remember him that well, except for his curmudgeon temperament and a scene with grass snakes.  What I recalled were our trips to that area of southwest Wisconsin, and how we anticipated picking the best apples we had ever had.

Illustration in book of Matt

Vivvy loves music in the story.  She has her instrument paths while the role music took in the early 19 60s became as ponderous as anything else in America.  It just plain filled the air in the lives of young people as if it were the weather forecast and something to await.

The original manuscript made rounds and it sat for two years at one major publisher’s, at the Director of Children’s Books house, I found finally, because he was in physical recuperation.  It much needed the revising that I put into it later.  Other projects had preoccupied me, but this was a story I simply liked to write and rewrite.

There is a forbidden prize tree in the story orchard and there is talk of pixies and talk of progress.  A freeway is being built.  These ideas formed our childhoods and they are perplexing when they juxtapose.  That was how the 1960s were for me.  Those early years with inventions and speculations and questioning had the makings of the surreal years that were to follow.  In the book, Vivvy tries to comprehend these forces as she realizes old and new music forms and what a girl might do.

Josiah’s Apple Orchard is written for eight to twelve-year-olds.  There is some interior art.  The chapters are fairly short so that it could be termed a chapter book besides a middle grade novel.

Gravel road to meadow

I had mentioned in a previous blog post that authors probably had their Requiem Mass as Mozart did.  This was mine.  I realized that was because my father wanted his ashes scattered in that region of Wisconsin after he died.  He went trout fishing there, and for a prize rainbow trout.  His settler ancestor brought up his grandfather there.  We lived in a flat prairie region while southwest Wisconsin was incredibly scenic in autumn.  Josiah’s Apple Orchard is not likely to be the last book that I will publish, however.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

My grandmother's diaries with excerpts from 1909

The Wide Awake Loons made Finalist in the Children’s/Juvenile Fiction category of the 2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.

It’s been a hard year for loons in the upper Midwest.  Our winter was one of the longest ever, beginning early, and then without abatement, record snowfall kept our spring beginning until well into May.  After that, black flies swarmed the lakes and they made nest-sitting impossible for loons.  Many of their nests were abandoned, although there was time for them to try again.  Last week, geese were flying over Duluth and that was odd since their migrations are usually earlier.  Then I saw the report about the loons HERE

My grandparents had a cabin in northern Minnesota and our family traveled from southern Minnesota each August.   To remember childhood vacations is to remember the loon call.

Since my mother died, I have acquired her mother’s diaries which range from 1905 into the 1950s.  My grandmother was the daughter of a Lutheran clergyman who came from Norway in the 1870s. 

Emilie Eggen grew up in Mower County where I grew up, worked in Minneapolis for some years, and after she married, lived on the Iron Range, in Virginia, Minnesota.  We had been told that a man she cared for died of tuberculosis.  She met my grandfather while he was working his way through law school, and eventually married him at the age of thirty-three. 

She worked as a matron at Thomas Hospital  in Minneapolis, established for tuberculosis patients.  She also was involved with acting, as her father had been in Oslo.  From her diaries, it seems that her first paid performances were recitals at Masonic Lodges in Minneapolis.

My grandmother when she was young

The diaries before her marriage are lively and wonderful to read, too little of them for me, while the diaries after her marriage are regular diary entries.  I will glean them for historical information and the possibility of writing a book with excerpts and the Minnesota history that surrounded her. 

Her diary about being a matron at a tuberculosis hospital was written in pencil and often with haste.  I typed out the whole thing and sent it to members of my family.  One saw how I could write a fiction from it, however I don’t know if I could write fiction about my grandmother.  Here are a few excerpts:

“Olsen came down to look at the books and took me with him when he went to Angaards where I stayed til nearly suppertime. -   Of course there had to come a new patient when I was gone. – I knew there would!  I never go out but I feel I ought to be in.  But then I suppose that is one of the 1000 things I have to put up with as a ‘matron.’  How I hate the very word.  Catch me being it if I did not have to. – It is not the position so much as the feeling of being it – ish!”

“Last night Dr. Brey asked me to go for a walk and we went down in the park.  We had both of us felt terribly blue all day on acc't of Miss Holten for Dr. Bell said there was a congestion in the right lung tho it may be from a cold only. - But it made us so sad and worried.  Then when we had walked a while Dr. Brey told me he did not think he would be back in the winter and asked me not to get mad at him for it.  He said he was scared.  That he did not consider this place safe especially his work of it.  You know the heavy feeling that comes sometimes! - It came there. - It was one of these storm-portending nights and the wind rustling and bending the trees and the lightning flashing dully across the skies guiding us across the grassy plots out and in among the trees.  I like Dr. Brey.  He has meant much to me here.  At best it is not such a very cheery place, and he has been quite a streak of sunlight here.”

“A great day all right.  Margaret Haley is quite a society girl here and nurses more for the joy of it.  She has a friend who lives near Lake Harriet – Clyde Ricken, and he owns a canoe so she asked me if I cared to go canoeing this P.M. – Well as it happens I am crazy about it so I said “yes” on the spot.  Margaret has taken a sort of “shine” to me as they say, tho I hardly know why.  We are not really congenial either  - anyhow we went.  I in my white duck suit & a borrowed sweater, she in her workaday clothes. – He was waiting for us by the pavilion and we pushed the little slender thing in the water very carefully jumped in.  A canoe is perfectly safe if one is careful, but dangerously unsafe if one is not.  Mr. Picken & Margaret paddled as there was quite a strong current & I laid back on the cushions and watched them & the water & the skies.  It was a perfect day and I thoroughly enjoyed it.  We crossed the lake and then drifted along the shore in very shallow water. – Then Margaret came & sat by me and they began to fight over a paddle & before I knew what was happening  Mr. R was in the water and half the lake was soaking in my clothes & the cushions.  Of course Margaret being on the other side hardly got one bit wet but I was soaked to the skin up to my waist about.  Well he scrambled in again and paddled to shore.  We put up the canoe and walked up to his house – a pretty trio I promise you -   Mrs. Ricken furnished me with skirts that reached somewhere between my knees & ankles & had me lie down on a great big soft couch & threw a cover over me & brought me a chicken sandwich and some fruit while Margaret hung up my things & phoned for the orderly Jim Martin to bring over my clothes & a suitcase.  And when Mr. Ricken had gotten dry he came down & played for us – I have never seen such a beautiful home in my life.”

That all happened in 1909.   I will have to share the diaries somehow, besides planning to eventually donate them to a historical society.

My grandmother and me in the 1950s