Making the Broken Bloom

In a previous windstorm some weeks ago, the stem on one of my two new tree roses broke in half and the entire bush lay on the ground. I called the landscaper and, over ten days later, he replaced it with a new rose. He said, however, that he thought the broken rose had a 50/50 shot at living since at least half the cambium layer was still intact. He straightened the stem, bound up the break, and put the injured rose in a pot with a strong stake to hold it upright. A month later, the rose looks quite healthy and is blooming profusely. It was broken half in two and I gave it up for lost but a knowledgeable person saw the potential and I have a third lovely tree rose.

It occurred to me that my rose can be thought of as a modern-day parable. So many people have broken lives in today's stressful world. They wander around, often homeless, addicted to mind-altering substances, or mentally ill. Most of us give them up as beyond hope and are ready to throw them away. But there are always caring, knowlegeable people who get busy, bind up the broken spots, plant the damaged persons in safe, forgiving environments and give them temporary leaning posts until they can stand without help. Of course, these "broken" people can go either way, just as my rose bush could have done. But many of them respond, begin to bloom again, and bring joy to the lives of others.

My Own Private Feud

West Virginia, with its Hatfield - McCoy feud, has nothing on my back patio! Last evening, not long before dusk, I had a front row seat for a family feud between the Robins and the Cardinals. Two competing bird pairs obviously want territorial rights for nesting in my Bradford Pears.[I say nesting since I saw the male robin, earlier, with a beak full of string and fiber.]
Buddy noticed the feudal attacks first. He stuck his stubby nose right up against the glass patio doors, swivelling his head from side to side, his attention riveted on the dive bombing males. Swoop! Swoop! Screech! Over and back! Eventually the two birds landed on the fence, perched about 8 feet from each other and pecked the boards fiercely, ruffled feathers increasing their sizes two-fold. Break time over, the dive bombing resumed.
The females got into it a few times but it was mostly a guy thing. I felt a bit sorry for a small, bright goldfinch caught in the middle. He seemingly wanted only to get a few beaksful of seed from the feeder but kept having to fly off to avoid getting caught between the opposing sides. So far as I can determine, the argument was still on when dusk settled. I suppose I'll know who won when the fledglings make their first glides from branch to fence top. If I ever find out, I'll let you know. I couldn't help but wonder, though, why the robins couldn't simply opt for one tree, leaving an equally nice tree on the other side for the cardinals. It seems a no-brainer compromise to me. But I frequently wonder equally about the senseless arguments of humankind. They often don't make much

Chiggers and Ticks, Oh, my!

Last weekend, I picked up my first chiggers and a single tick while walking Buddy in the tall grass. I hadn't realized it was warm enough but it was, so now I have a can of Off sitting next to the dog leash. The tick reminded me of a piece of living the writer's life that I thought you might enjoy. I had just sold my second picture book manuscript, "Over on the River," and George Ancona, the well- known photographer illustrator for children's books, had returned to Texas. He had done the illustrations for my first book and the editor wanted to make the second one a companion volume. The photo on the book's first page was to be of "a little gray house" that Papa built himself. We found just the one we wanted - an unpainted board and batten structure built by some early German immigrants who settled next to my paternal grandfather's place.The mid-summer photo shoot involved two small girls, sisters, who went to the same church as Don and I did. The girls donned their old-time costumes, took off their shoes, and had a great time running barefoot around the outside of the house while George took the pictures. That afternoon, as we returned home to Austin, the older girl said, "Mrs. Jackson, something's crawling on me!" A close examination showed a myriad of very tiny ticks all over both children. At that moment, I realized I had the same crawling sensation myself, as did Don and George Ancona, the ultimate New York City resident who'd probably never even seen a tick! In my defense, I must tell you that ticks are not as routinely ubiquitous in Central Texas as they are in the rural Ozarks. I don't remember having many at all when I was a child. Thus, I hadn't anticipated the problem and hadn't brought any tick repellent along. On that particular day, the girls had been running around under a large oak tree where cattle had stood. Ticks do tend to congregate there.How embarrassing! I hated to have to explain my lapse to the girls' mother but, as it turned out, I didn't have to. The girls practically fell over themselves showing all the tiny pin-prick size beasties to their mom. The mother took it in stride though. The girls had very thorough scrubbings in the tub, had their second shampoos in as many days and both heads of hair were ready the next morning for further modeling. I never look at that cute picture in Over On the River without remembering my horror as I realized we had a tick infestation and it was all my fault.As for the chiggers, I will simply offer this jingle: "There was a little chigger/ And he wasn't any bigger/ Than the point of a very small pin./ But the bump that he raises/ it itches like blazes/ And that's where the rub comes in!" Spray your feet, folks, before you walk through the grass.

Dramatics - Big Time!

It's official. My well-mannered, normally undemonstrative dog, Buddy, is a Drama Queen. The vet said so. Here's the story. Buddy had been listless for several days and, when a neighbor fondled his ears, he yelped loudly and sharply. This wasn't the first time he had yelped after a minor jar, so I emailed his foster mother to ask if she had noticed that Buddy had a tendency toward complaining over practically nothing. She said no, that he had only yelled when she picked him up to put him in the car. She attributed that to a touch of arthritis in his shoulder, given Buddy is seven. Then she suggested he might have an ear infection. That sounded reasonable, particularly when, late Friday morning, as I stretched my hand out to pat Buddy's head, he yelped again before I even touched him. He sounded as if he were in real pain. Wanting to be a good dog owner, I decided to call the vet.
On Friday afternoon, we showed up at the appointed time and Buddy proceeded to rival the best of the Shakespearean tragedic actors. I lifted him up onto the examining table and he cried out. The vet assistant poked a Q-Tip into his right ear and his howls and squirms convinced us both that he must have a raging infection down there somewhere. But that dog hadn't even begun to protest yet. He exceeded all previous volume when the thermometer slid into his rectum. He yipped, he whined, he screeched and whimpered. Oh, he was dying here! Couldn't we tell that he was in desperate straits?
I imagine every pet owner sitting in the waiting room must have clutched his/her respective pet a bit more tightly as the agonizing yelps filtered through the door of the examining room. Did an equally horrific future await their loved animal as well? What was going on? Fortunately, Buddy had no fever so, pending the results of the slide sample, the assistant said I probably just had a drama queen on my hands- that Cavaliers often were.
After several anxious minutes, while the smear was being analyzed, the doctor came in and took a second swab. The first one had been negative. (The second one was too.) Considerable poking, prodding, and examination followed, all of which provoked at least one further howl of agony. This kind and thorough vet finally smiled, said he couldn't find anything wrong and was inclined to agree with his assistant's diagnosis but if I noticed anything further to be sure to call him, day or night.
So that's it. That dratted dog trotted outside, shook hands (after a fashion) with a giant poodle and a Westie, wagged his tail at all and sundry while I paid big bucks to the receptionist and we left. Oh, yes. I forgot the one bright spot in this entire episode. Buddy has lost another half pound. Onward and downward.

Take a Moment

Today is National Library Workers Day and this whole week is National Library Week. By happenstance, I wrote a tribute to the public library last week (see www.news-leader.com/blogs/louisejackson) and won't do another one, although I could, given the importance of library/media centers in our society. But I do want to take a moment to remind you of some of the special things library workers do. They find pieces of information I would likely never discover, simply because they have access to special subscription-only reference sites and are trained to use them. They know just the book to recommend when I'm not sure what to choose for a young visitor to whom I want to read. They can find books that have escaped my eye even when I've looked three times before asking. They locate and take special orders for books that will have to come from another library far away. They take time to explain the intricacies of using the computer when someone isn't sure. They listen patiently to complaints from people who feel libraries ought still to be the quiet refuges they think they remember from years before.They set up programs for the patrons of their particular branch. They run story hours for children and design related crafts. Then they clean up afterwards! (Think glue and glitter on the tables and the floors.)

Library workers do all this and still take time to give welcoming smiles at the check-out desk and speak to small children who aren't yet old enough to have a library card. In short, they make library/media centers special places for all of us - places we look forward to visiting. Without those workers, the libraries would be a dull places indeed. So I hope you'll take a moment to stop by your local library branch today and thank the workers there for all they do, even if you don't need to turn in a book or check out another.

Finally, I want to recommend a picture book that you will love, no matter what your age or interest: The Boy Who Was Raised by Librarians, written by Carla Morris and illustrated delightfully by Brad Sneed. It is a tribute to wonderful library workers who changed a boy's life.

Different Easter Custom

It took the actuality of Easter day and the fact that many family Easter Egg hunts had to be conducted inside houses yesterday to jog my memory about another delightful Easter custom often carried out inside a building. I'm talking about cascarones - hollow egg shells filled with perfumed confetti - that are broken over the heads of friends in Mexico and the Southwestern US. Usually, the breaking is meant to be a surprise and occurs when someone has sneaked up behind the target.
I learned about cascarones when I taught in the barrio in Austin, TX. The children tried to catch me when I was sitting down so they could reach my hair. The first experience was a real surprise since I hadn't heard about the custom before. It comes from Mexico. I later learned that, because cascarones take a bit of time to make, children are very choosy when it comes to using one. It is a means of honor and a way to express affection. Having a cascaron broken over one's head is also said to bring good luck. I loved walking around the school with confetti in my hair. Everyone knew where the colored bits came from and it was a lot of fun.

If you'd like to make some next year, here are the directions.
Making Cascarones
Open the top of the egg.You can do this using pins, a small nail or a knife.Since it will be touching food, remember to sterilize whatever you use by running it over a flame.Do it over a bowl so you can use the egg in a meal.If you're placing toys or candy in the eggs, you'll want a larger hole to fit them in.If you're placing confetti in the egg, then you can place a small hole on each end and use a spoon to fill the egg.Rinse out the inside of the egg.Use egg dye, water colors, acrylic or finger paint to decorate the eggs (Be Gentle)After the eggs dry, place a little glue around the edges of the opening and close it with a piece of tissue paper.With the egg you emptied out, you can make quiche, omelets, or another dish with egg in it.

Br-r-r!!

The great spring freeze has come and will soon give way to warmth. I covered all the baby plants, except for the two tree roses, in my newly-landscaped patio garden . The roses were up on the second level and I'm not able to step up that high. So they had to take their chances. With luck, I'll still get late blooms.
It's interesting to note how people who live in different climatic zones deal with plants in cold weather. The most unusual experience for me has to do with tomatoes. I grew up in Central Texas, where the growing season is long and tomatoes have plenty of time to mature. In that climate, we put our tomatoes out early, stake them and help them grow tall. We get more yield in a smaller space and keep the fruits off the ground. Soon after I moved to Wyoming and visited a friend's ranch, one of the first things I noticed was their tomato patch. At mid-summer, when the sun was high and the days were long, these gardners still allowed their tomatoes to lie on the ground in an unsightly, tangled sprawl. I almost said something about the value of staking when I noticed a large tarp lying all along the edge of the garden, looking for all the world as it it had been gathered back just that morning. As, indeed, it had. Each night, just before sundown, someone in the family took hold of either leading corner of the heavy canvas sheet and, together, they carefully dragged it over the tomatoes. I didn't know until that moment that it was likely to frost on any given late summer night in Wyoming. If you wanted to carry tomatoes on the vine until they ripened, you had to allow them to spawl so they could be protected each night and uncovered to the sun's warmth the next morning.
Not wanting such a large patch and not being around every night to cover my garden, I kept a small greenhouse instead and let my tomatoes plants grow quite mature before I ever planted them outside and, even then, sometimes in early July, we had to drape a sheet over the plants to protect them from a sudden snow. You really have to want home-grown tomatoes in Wyoming to make such an effort.
My tomato plants are still indoors, by a sunny window, so they're safe. As soon as the sun warms things up, I'll go check on everything else. I hope your plants fared well last night. Good luck with them and happy gardening.

Fiddlesticks!

I've heard and used the term "fiddlesticks" all my life and it was always used in response to some mild annoyance or as a dismissive term, as in "Oh, fiddlesticks!" I never knew that people used fiddlesticks to make percussive sounds on fiddle strings while a tune was being played by someone else. That is, I didn't know until Saturday.

On Saturday, I attended one of my favorite luncheon meetings of the year, that of the Greene County Historical Society. The society always has an interesting program. This year, Gordon McCann, a folklorist, and Ashley Hull, a fiddler who studied with Bob Holt, the Ozarks fiddler given a National Heritage Award in 1999, presented the program. McCann narrated and "seconded" the fiddle tunes on the guitar while Ashley played her fiddle. The offerings included pieces from the 17th to the 20th centuries - hornpipes, jigs, reels, waltzes, rags, and even a bit of western swing. Toward the end, Gordon took out two wooden sticks, each about a foot long, and struck the fiddle strings on either side of the bow as Ashley played, providing an accompanying rhythm for the tune. Hence, "fiddlesticks."

I conclude with a contemporary poem that certainly portrays one of the ways fiddlers, if we're lucky enough to have one to hear, make a difference in our lives, even in these days of iPods, CD's, and all the other electronic doo-dads.

Angel With A Fiddle

Tall 'n lean 'n lanky,
with a fiddle 'neath his chin....
the days weren't quite so cruel
when he played his violin.
Depression years- the thirties-
hard times all around.
When Palmer played his fiddle,
trouble filtered through the sound
and somehow seemed more bearable-
more apt t' go away;
and listenin' folks were certain-
there would be a kinder day.
With pennies in their pockets
and debits by the score
when Palmer started fiddlin'
none a' them were poor.
Magical it was,
the way cares filtered through the sound;
till folks were certain, down the road
times 'd turn around.
When Palmer played his fiddle
couldn't hear no angels sing...
but in the harshest winter
it felt a bit like Spring.
Bette Wolf Duncan©November 2005

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month, so from time to time this month, I'll talk about this lovely medium. Maya Angelou says that "poetry is music written for the human voice" and, long before we had the printed word, poems were spoken in evening gatherings as a way to share and remember some special event.

The lilt and rhythm of poetry is pleasant to our ears. I think that's why many of us, but most especially, children, like rhyming poetry better than any other kind. However, good rhyming poetry - the type that escapes being close to doggerel - is hard to write and most poets today seem to lack the skill and discipline to do it well. It's far easier to write free verse.
If you want to read some poetry this month, you can go to http://www.poets.org/ and sign up for a "poem-a-day" for this month. I have. It will be interesting to see what we get.

Meanwhile, I love this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It seems to fit the days of spring.

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

Family Ties

I drove to Texas last Friday morning for a family funeral. A dear niece died suddenly and unexpectedly and, in my family, the aunts, uncles, and cousins all rally round when tragedies occur. If they live too far to gather, they call, email, send flowers, and variously stay connected. It doesn't matter whether you were born into the family group or married into it, you are a part of the whole. From as far as Arizona, Colorado, Minnesota, Indiana, and Florida, they express concern. It doesn't change the outcome, but I can tell you from personal experience that it spreads a balm over the soul.
As I drove home yesterday (it took nine hours so I had plenty of time to think), I pondered the ways in which families maintain the bonds that hold them together through thick and thin. Even while we mourned, we took time to do so much more. We spent time listening to the oldest among us (not me, not yet), inquiring after their well-being and laughing at familiar stories. We sympathized and encouraged the adult children who are now caretakers of those frail in body or mind. We found out about a new baby on the way, admired the toddlers,and applauded teenagers for school accomplishments. We expressed relief when we discovered layoffs are over and jobs are still safe. We remembered those who couldn't be with us, caught up on their lives by asking others, updated email addresses, and noted those who could use a bit of follow-up later. I told a story to a five year old who needed a bit of distraction and is now old enough to remember his great-aunt next time we're together in June for the family reunion.
Does this matter? You bet it does. Even when we're on opposite sides in some matters, we never, ever let those differences drive us apart. These people are our family, our kin, and no matter what happens, we belong together. If you are separated from family members by distance, either geographic or psychological, I urge you to do what you can to strengthen your own family ties. And do remember that families don't always have to be blood relations. In addition to the family I mentioned above, I have another one right here where I live - friends that I'd do exactly the same things for because they are very dear to me and the bonds of friendship can be equally strong and good.
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Fresh Start

I have been a regular blogger for months on my local newspaper site (www.news-leader.com/blogs/louisejackson) but that wasn't accessible via a Google search and I like to be easily located. So I'll be blogging here as well. As my profile indicates, I'm a children's writer. The names of my most recent novels are: Gone To Texas: From Virginia to Adventure and Exiled! From Tragedy to Triumph on the Missouri Frontier. Both are published by Eakin Press, a regional press located in Waco, TX and are available in bookstores, on Eakin Press' website, and via Amazon.com.

Exiled! recently received the nationally recognized WILLA award for "the most outstanding book about the women's west written for children/young adults, published in 2007. That is one of the most exciting things that happened to me last year. You can read more on the News-Leader blog. Access the October, 2007 archive on the right side of the page.

You can also find out more about me at my website - http://www.louiseajackson.net/