I have lived a Thousand Lives

It's possible that my love of Chicken Little was the impetus behind my Mom's decision to sign me up for the Dr. Seuss book of the month club when I was a child.  I suspect that she was beyond tired of my unquenchable first for another adventure where the sky was falling on the foul friends.

It wasn't really the Cat in The Hat and other Dr. Seuss books which made me anticipate the monthly book in the mail, but rather the books by other authors which were often featured.  Look Out for Pirates became my Favorite, and later my sons and students had to hear it so many times that my copy fell apart, I laminated the crumbling pages and sewed them back together.

I still 52 years later, remember the delight of Fish Out of Water, and Robert the Rose Horse and Sam and the Firefly and Little Black, A Pony and A Fly Went By and . . . Endless hours of reading and rereading, first with mom, then to myself, then to my students and my sons and now to the grandchildren.

From there, First grade became a marvel of weirdness and wonder.  We learned in a phonetic program called ITA, that book was spelled "bwk" and school was 'skwl" and Oh, how I argued with the teacher.  But there were a plethora of wondrous tales all translated into that muddle, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Danny and the Dinosaur, and many adventures with Curious George and the Man in the Yellow Hat, were waiting for me.  Life was fun, but life as a reader was more than one life, it was an endless dance from one life to another.

Scholastic book clubs became my reward for going to school.  I loved books but hated school.  I was horrible at social skills and soon my main, often only friends, were between the covers of scholastic readers.  I could pretend not to see the other kids avoiding or mocking me, if my nose was buried in a book.

As I moved on from Magic Elizabeth and The Ghost of Dibble Hollow, to Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, and then to Jaws and Flowers in the Attic, I began to tell myself stories, and share them with other children and then to write them down.  Deciding to teach Creative writing and Literature seemed a natural progression, but after Student Teaching, I kept finding myself teaching Severely Handicapped students instead, and reading the old childhood favorites to them.

Then I adopted a son and gave birth to a second son, and began writing seriously.  My Dad who also loved books, got esophageal cancer, and in a heart wrenching time, one of the most heartbreaking conversations was when he sighed and looked at his "to be read stack" and said, "I guess I've read my last book."

I'm getting to that point myself and am trying to reverse it.  I don't read unless its picture books to the grandkids, or facebook posts. My attention wanders, I rarely even write comments on the photographs I post or about the ones my friends post.   I tell myself I'm not dying but often I don't believe me.  I have seen so many Doctors and still am working on a diagnosis which looks more and more likely to be Parkinson's Disease.

But if I'm wrong, and I am dying, I am so grateful for the gift that I have been given of living in a time and place where books are abundant and girls are expected to learn to read.  There is only one gift I've cherished more, and those are the people who have shared the best story time snuggles with me.

When Things Don't Matter Which Things Still Do?

When things don't matter, and the only things that matter aren't things, you start looking around at the items you worked so hard to accumulate and realize that they could all be threatened by fire and flood, and you'd grab the people in your life snd gladly let the rest of it vanish in smoke and water.

Then your mind stumbles on that one, old ragged item that you would cry to lose, and if the people were safe, you would actually snatch up and carry away with you.  In my case, it would be a threadbare, faded, stuffed chimpanzee that went from my mom's college dorm room, to my childhood bedroom, and still sits on my shelf, still stained with my tears when first grade proved a scary unfriendly place, and with her ear still holding my whispered hopes the first night I kissed the man I've now been married to for 35 years.

That makes me think of the other thing that would matter.  They aren't the things that can be bought for money, of course not, those are insured and a trip to the market takes care of the issue. The things that matter are those that are one of a kind, hand made, shared with loved ones, passed down through generations. The stories we hear from Grandparent laps to grandchildren ears. each generation gently shaping and adding their own features to a whole that still remains recognizable.

following the youtube video my granddaughter and I drew Cinderella, and hers became a Cinderkitty so we laughed and created memories along with the paper pictures

We went to story time and our octopus shared the same beginning but quickly became our own, and maybe in the future, if climate change allows a future, her grandchild might make an octopus and just maybe they won't be extinct.  People matter, the humanities that allow us to choose kindness matter, the boredom we experience when we unplug allow us to de-tox from the political trash heap and find the spark of beauty we carry.  "We are humankind, and we can choose to be both."

I love being her Grandma.

There is this girl I love intensely. She calls me Grandma, and lately she gave me, what is undoubtedly the most wonderful compliment I've ever received. She was standing in font of the mirror and I was a couple rooms away, when she called to me, "Grandma, you know what I like about me?"

"I like everything about you. What do you like?"

"When I see me - It reminds me of you."

I choked up, tears instantly springing to my eyes.  There is a lot of amazing beauty in my granddaughter, but there is also a lot of leftover doubt and self loathing in me from my early school days when I was the target of more bullying than I could easily recover from. 

"I remind you, of you?" I questioned

"Yes, we are both Strawberry blondes, and we have the same freckles and the same pink in our skin, and we smile a lot."

She came around the corner then, and clambered up on my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. I've never felt more blessed, or more loved as she nearly choked me with a hug and dropped a copy of "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" into the chair next to us, "and we both love Daddy and Grandpa and BOOKS!" 

searching for leprechaun Tracks

St. Paddy's world of beauty

So Yeah, if the size of our smiles and what we love is her measuring stick, then being the same, is just perfect.

The love of Libraries

Recently I saw a meme that read, "A truly great library contains something in it to offend everybody." There is truth is that of course, but I've also seen studies recently that say that while the Millenials are killing off several traditions that older folks thought would always be with us, they are also saving one that many people would have bet was on its way out.  Libraries.  

Libraries deserve to survive.  They are not just book storage areas, but are community centers, media has made a home there in many forms, but most importantly to me, libraries are the place that still welcomes children.

Chetco Library Storytime includes rounding up the rainbow balls

 We are lucky here to be in close proximity to two county libraries.  One is the Chetco Community Library in Brookings, Oregon and the other is the Del Norte County Library in Crescent City, California.

Del Norte Storytime making Fall wreaths to match the book they just heard

 Stories are read, art is crafted, puzzles are shared, movie showed, characters like Belle pop in to visit, the turtle swims and a big Mummy case stands guard. Beginning computer skills are explored, more stories are read, music is danced to, slime is made, and preschoolers learn to share and listen and dream.

 Many times I have seen High School kids participating in their own art, or doing their homework, while a homeless person gets warm and checks the computer for job postings. Young families give each other advice and share exhausted stories and the noise of the children is welcomed on certain days, while others are reserved for more quiet studies.

 So this month, thinking of what I am thankful for, Libraries topped my list.

Summer Reading Program

 I should have been writing this summer, but the last book I wrote was still my Redwoods book. Instead of writing, I have been traveling From the OR/CA Border Pacific Coast, to visit family in DC and then we had company visit us here and spent a lot of days playing in the Redwoods, exploring the lighthouse and the sea animals.

 Then I had to rip old, ugly carpeting out of my room, and while doing that, thin out the books crowding my bedroom library. The granddaughter thought I should keep all the books and just not put a bed back in. She assured me her dolly said the floor was comfortable to sleep on.

 but her grandpa assured me a bed was necessary so she was out-voted.

 I did keep the first books I ever wrote

 and I took the granddaughter to arts and crafts at our local library to convince both of us that we don't have to OWN every book to be able to enjoy them.

the books I got rid of

The Virdi Goode reading picnic

But of course I got new books. Three books by R. R. Virdi, with lots of super supernatural encounters, mystery, mayhem and adventure joined my own novels and picture books for a pleasant afternoon under the maple tree.

Camp NaNo and Trying for Lucky 7 while marketing my 6th book

On February 5th, the third Duffy Barkley adventure in Uhrlin, Duffy Barkley: the Third Charm, was published. Now it is being offered on Goodreads with a chance to win one of three autographed paperbacks.

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/177180-duffy-barkley-the-third-charm-tales-of-uhrlin-3?utm_medium=email&utm_source=giveaway_approved

If you are interested in the other books in the series, they are available on Amazon, or can be ordered by your local bookstore. http://www.amazon.com/Dixie-Dawn-Miller-Goode/e/B004458ES2/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1457742536&sr=1-1

Here we go a NaNoing

 Once agin it is November and writing is something I don't have to do alone and chained to my desk in the dark after the rest of the family is asleep.  Every November this group of introverted, lonely people suddenly turn all social networky and both incredibly supportive and crazily competitive as some try to start a new novel and finish it in one month, and some merely try to do the same 50,000 words in one day. Um yeah, that is NOT me.

 This year I am having fun, adding to the third book in my Duffy Barkley series, which was already at 70,000 words. So if I actually finish it, which is my plan, I will use the extra word count to get back into my second Double Time Novel and revisit Pompeii, but Im not sure. In preparation for November, I reread what I have on that book.  I liked it, a lot, but it made me sob.

 So I'm not sobbing yet, I'm spending my time, walking the deck of a ship, exploring an Island and traveling with SeaMonsters.  If it wasn't for missing family members and broken bones and a great bloody plague, life would be good there.

 I got lucky enough to be able to go to sea on The Lady Washington, google her, she is lovely, so my ship detail is well researched, including exactly why you don't actually puke over the railing.

 If you are Nanoing too, best wishes.  If not but you are curious, there is a less intense but still fun option called CampNaNoWriMo in the summer, or um, winter for you Southern Hemisphere writers. If you are curious what I'm writing, here follows an unedited excerpt

On board the ship, the air was thick with tension. The Captain of the Vessel was swiftly calling orders, which his crew repeated back to him before calling, “Sir, Yes Sir!”

He had their attention before the landing party stepped on deck, but every detail was always double and triple checked before a move was made.

“Captain on Board,” was called and acknowledged.

“All Hands” summoned everyone to gather around although they were already there, and they echoed back.

“All hands, Aye,” and then went silent and listening.

Questions burned in their eyes but they were too well trained to ask them and he was too focused on what needed done immediately to deal with them.

“This woman to the Captain's Cabin with a guard.”

“With a guard, Aye” and so it was understood that while she was to be given comfort rather than tossed into a damp dark holding brig, she was not to be trusted.

“Medic. To me.”

“Medic reporting, Aye” and a team stepped forward quickly to assess the situation and transfer Captain Rockwell to their care. The injured man was lifted to the deck of the ship from the small boat and stood on his own two feet, but was obviously unable to straighten, or to stay upright without support from the young man beneath one of his arms. The medic team lifted the injured man and carried him to a small cabin. They apologized for causing him pain, but although he was sweating from it, he made no complaint. The young man with him followed anxiously on their heels. Before the Dr. could even arrive to begin his assessment the ship's Captain stepped into the room, intent on judging for himself if this man was a threat to his ship.

The fact that there were two captains in the cabin suddenly made it seem like an even smaller cabin. They locked eyes and they stared at each other with suspicion that soon turned to the respect of men who took each others measure and instantly knew they could be friends. Captain Rockwell started to hold out a hand but nearly doubled over in pain when he moved his arm away from being pressed tightly to his stomach. The men who helped support him were quickly waved toward the row of cots.

The sailors gently eased him down onto a narrow bed and the Dr. came hurrying into the room, drying his hands and already glancing around the room, assessing the patient and his supplies. As he began giving orders the Captain got a chair for the younger man and set it in a corner where he would be able to watch his father without being in the Dr.'s way. Then the Captain slipped from the room to check on the prisoner.