 America, meet Wilma the worm. And Baby, a velvet blue jumpsuit-clad plastic doll with a strangely bendable head. And dust fairy sequins. And John T Price, who knows how to bend a sentence like Baby bends that head—"completely backward, allowing him to stare at you upside down with his glassy eyes." Which is to say, the ordinary ups and downs of Iowa family life will amaze and sometimes smite you with joy in this loving memoir called Daddy Long Legs: The Natural Education of a Father.
You will also meet Steph, John's tolerant, positive wife and the mother of his two rambunctious nature-loving boys. You will never meet the novel John is never working on, due to teaching creative writing, repairing an old house with too many levels of decay, resisting doctor's visits (who needs the bad news?), and wondering why he feels so cut off from life (AKA exhausted) when daily his boys deliver muddy earthworms to his bed, shout at him to save every praying mantis in every Walgreens parking lot, declare a no-kill zone around their entire neighborhood (mosquitoes included?) and radiate so much joie de vivre in their buck naked red rubber boot clad explorations of John's back yard you want to lie down with him for a good long nap. But no, the next chapter brings new pleasures. New views on family life that make you say "oh, yeah, that's it!" Price's memoir is realism that redeems. And we could use some redemption, these days, help pulling our heads out of our own sorrows. If you've never had kids, there is the added bonus of gaining access to the adorable and maddening and crazy-great things toddlers say and do. I loved sharing the insider's view. (And not cleaning up any messes!) I met John Price at a literary conference in Kansas, and then heard him read in Denver. That's where I met Baby. And Pengy, his nemesis. And Gramma K. and her grouchy chihuahua. Do yourself and your dad and your best friends a favor—read this charming book and pass it along. Reading Daddy Long Legs felt like a huge nudge to pay attention to wonder and kindness and the release of self-interest. To join the family. But watch out for Baby—that blue velvet schemer has Pengy in his sights!
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I'm taking a summer break from blogging, but I just listened to a superb radio interview and had to pass this on. Author and Utah homegirl Jana Richman educates, informs and enlivens the debate about pumping water out of Utah's west desert. If you love the West, our big blue skies and vast open spaces, give a listen. You'll know more than you did about living in and really loving the West than you did when you woke up this morning.
Leave a comment. Tell your friends. Post the interview link on Facebook. Get folks talking about Utah's magnificent "big empty desert full of life." http://www.utahpublicradio.org/post/snake-valley-water-thursdays-access-utah  “A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”—Tim Cahill I made two lifelong friends on a journey of a thousand miles, Jana Richman and Erica Olsen. I also discovered the deep beauty at the heart of the state of Colorado. The quiet strength of writers. And the profound curiosity and kindness of strangers.  Barb, Jana and Erica at Maria's Bookshop in Durango, before we meet and greet and read. Erica hosted us at her place in Dolores, a little arty town in the southwest corner of Colorado. We felt gloriously spoiled, ate well, stayed up late, talked favorite authors, and shared the book readings with her the first two nights. Erica's new full-time job kept her in meetings after that. Wonder who had the better time?!  We drove ridiculous snowy distances to read at outstanding indie bookstores, during International Women's Week. And we actually felt pretty phenomenal.  Between the Covers in Telluride hosted our reading. It's a sparkling ski town with one ferocious mahjong contingent. We took turns quelling fears and triggering laughter. That wasn't hard, because our hosts for the first two nights were the outlandishly high-spirited Great Old Broads for Wilderness. You won't find a stronger, more dedicated crew of outdoorsy women anywhere. And they "do it in the wild."  With Libby, our Maria's Bookshop host, and Shelley, the great new executive director for the Great Old Broads. The tour turned three introverted writers into extroverts, who spoke on air and fluffed our hair and kept our readings to eight minutes each to keep our listeners riveted. We signed and sold our beautiful books, too.  The trip held surprises. Rowdy old-time Texans danced in the bar in Durango. Wine flowed at the reading in Telluride. Crested Butte runs on a laid back friendly energy that soothed us on day three. Thanks, Townie Books, for giving us a most pleasant intimate reading experience. And then at last, Jana and I drove the long and winding road to Paonia, where we were welcomed by our own marquee!  Intrigued, one Paonia man said to his wife, "We're going to that Grateful Dead tribute band!" They showed up at the reading and stayed to listen, asked questions and bought two books. The mountain-clad rural town of Paonia pulled out all the stops for us: lunch out with High Country News editors, two farm goats trundling down the dirt road that led to our cabin—shy as we felt most nights before our readings, a home-cooked dinner with our host librarian, a hefty library crowd and over an hour of questions about the writing life. (It is amazing what a person will admit to when the question is asked just right.) Then, at our small off-the-grid cabin, heavenly quiet under a multitude of stars.  Pit stop at Ouray, so beautiful all our cares melted into naught. A book is not finished when the printer binds it or the publisher ships it. The little nipper still needs attention. Sometimes that attention cries out ROAD TRIP! So women pack their bags, check their tire pressure, consult MapQuest, put on sunglasses and go. Three women launched a book tour to meet audiences and sell books. We fell in love with strangers' questions, writers' minds and the state of grace called Colorado. Deepest thanks to Between the Covers, Maria's Bookshop, Townie Books, Delta County Library in Paonia, Torrey House Press, High Country News, The North Fork Times/Delta County Independent, KDUR and KSJD, KVNF, Tom Yoder, Nancy Stoffer, The Durango Herald, The Durango Telegraph, The Cortez Journal, Shelley Silbert, Libbey, Danica, Daiva and Laura Lee! And to those two adorable goats who shared the road with us.  Yes, that's Jana and me with Cookie Monster and radio host Tom Yoder, at the beautifully restored offices of KSJD in downtown Cortez. And inside the bank vault? A recording studio built for two. I love America.  "I have made no money. I am as poor now as ever I was in my life — except in hope, which is by no means bankable." Edgar Allan Poe Let me be honest. Poe and I both know firsthand hope is not bankable. Another year almost over, another book published, and earnings as a writer I have none. I haven’t yet succumbed to insanity with a black raven perched above me, dimming the bust of the Goddess of Wisdom, calling “Nevermore!” And yet, this December, this darkest time of year, when the cries of the citizens of the world—animal and leafed and wind- and wave-filled—shock me with their waning health, and I recognize the futility of willpower, and tremble at the ferocity of the world’s polarities, I realize my mortality and ask, as Poe did, “Is there--is there a balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” And here things decidedly brighten. Because no raven but a Sufi teacher flies in the open window. He’s cawing about the end of the world, December 21, 2012. Will we succumb to catastrophe this time, or start a geo-spiritual renewal, or wake up the morning after the newest apocalypse and find things are exactly the same?
Click here to read Amidon's superb essay. Click here to read Poe's "The Raven."  Look up. Breathe out. No judgment, first or Last, will end this “world of division.” Your openhearted view can.
Click here to listen to "It's the End of the World as We Know It."  Nothing says fall like fallen apples. They certainly make great cider, but much easier for the interested and lazy cook, windfall apples make wonderful homemade applesauce. All you need is a forgotten apple tree, a few simple ingredients and a little home time. My novel's heroine Clair Martin, 19th century maverick and Brigham City, Utah gardener, herewith gives her recipe for the best applesauce you ever tasted. Use windfall apples, or any apples just getting pink cheeks on the reachable branches. Store bought will not do. Go meet a tree.  
Reposting my most-read blog, from one year ago today.  My ex-husband gave me this as a card once long ago, and I burst into tears. Here was the secret woman I was not, a woman writing in a room filled with air and light. A woman undistracted. The painter is Vuillard. No painter has loved women and interiors so dearly.  I spent a dozen years with my writer-desires hidden in a tumble of life, like sheets, pulled over me. A potent simple love-filled sleep, and then  I remodeled and walked and sewed and knitted and gardened my way through the birth-pangs of my first novel. It went nowhere in the real world. This longstanding pain remained private. The manuscript, after two years going the rounds with various publishers, collapsed in a closet from exhaustion.  About a decade after receiving that Vuillard card, I visited The Phillips Collection in Washington D.C. One painting in particular stopped me. I stood mesmerized by this very small, very intimate portrait called “Woman Sweeping.” I trembled and I wept. I simply could not believe the domestic radiance, the woman and the room warm as velvet. The patterns wrenched me out of my twentieth-century freedoms into the intimacy of belonging somewhere.  This unassuming, glorious 17” x 18” painting is by Edouard Vuillard. Yet again, I didn’t choose Vuillard as a favorite painter. Vuillard chooses me. He helped me through the brighter years, the green period when landscape design and planting trees and still a bit of sewing for tranquility flung me into the arms of a new novel, a contemporary novel, the novel where perfectionism dropped in a puddle and I wrote like a drunk on fire. Guest House. How fitting that most of  Vuillard’s paintings are interiors. Interlocking interiors which glow with belonging. Belonging is a central theme of Guest House. And still the story goes. Just last week, I went to the De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park, to see a Post-Impressionist exhibit. I expected to be ravished by some of my old pals, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cezanne. I have to admit I loved Renoir’s “The Dancer” so there was a small contest for my heart—but truly and utterly, Vuillard won the day. And I’m proud to say the painting among his half-dozen paintings which threw me over its shoulder and hauled me into its crazy den was “Profile of a Woman in a Green Hat.”  Can you begin to calculate the impact this 8” x 6” card-sized portrait has in a hushed crowd of reverent onlookers? With a Picasso blaring trumpets at it from across the room? I laughed out loud. I love it dearly. It’s Olive Oyl asking Popeye to can the spinach and give her a kiss. Simeran Maxwell, of the National Gallery of Australia, says about our Olive: The face is an enigma. The conspicuous brow evokes a variety of responses in the viewer. Is the woman anxious, persecuted or suspicious? Is she shying away from our intrusive gaze, archly teasing us, questioning what we are looking at, or crossly glaring at us? Simeran, she is saying: I am in my place. Don’t you envy my green lucidity? Edouard Vuillard lived with and adored his mother for sixty years, his dress-maker mother. He loved his best friend’s wife chastely and was often in their company. The radiance of his heart seems the topic of each painting; love of women and their interiors. A gal could do worse for a favorite. "I don't paint portraits," Vuillard once said. "I paint people at home." Ah, there’s the attraction. Being at home. NPR on Vuillard. The New Yorker on Vuillard. And for the first time on my blog, here is the man himself . . . stunning.   You may never have heard of Bikers Against Child Abuse. I hadn’t, until I drove past a rally in Tooele, Utah, and turned the car around and stopped. About a hundred men and women and their handsome machines milled around a deli parking lot. Every rider had a B.A.C.A. patch blazoned across their backs. They were happy and they were proud.  I only had a chance to talk with a few men before the pack drove off, inviting them to my Truck Stop reading in Tooele on July 23rd. They said they’d spread the word. My friend Carolyn bought a black B.A.C.A. T-shirt with skulls and wings on the chest. I thought that we were through. But Carolyn mulled over that meeting. And I went online to the B.A.C.A. website to find out about their work. I watched two great videos, one short, one long. I sent Carolyn their beautiful, powerfully written creed. And she said, “Make sure they come to your reading. They’re protecting kids and your book’s about a neglected kid. It’s a perfect match.” So I called the Tooele chapter and extended another welcome. On July 23rd—the night of my first Truck Stop Reading—twenty minutes before we began, a strong kind man in black said, “You must be Barbara,” and I threw my arms around him and said, “B.A.C.A.’S here!”  I read their creed aloud, to kick off the reading. And handed out B.A.C.A. decals. I read Guest House to two B.A.C.A. riders, one truck driver, the family of the restaurant manager who’d come to listen, and eighteen of my friends. It was a glorious night. Then Clutch and Droopy, the B.A.C.A. dudes, let me take a few shots with them and their bodacious bikes. And for the grand finale, we drove off into the sunset together, Guest House, Droopy, Clutch and I. I didn’t sleep much last night. I was so grateful for the long arms of men like that who care for children they’ve never even met because the children need their strength and their numbers. You find me a group with better intentions in this our day and age, and I’ll invite them to my next reading. Thanks, B.A.C.A. My only regret is I did not buy a T-shirt. The v-neck one with red piping. Size small. Next time.  FROM THE BACA CREED: I am a member of Bikers Against Child Abuse… My past has prepared me, my present makes sense, and my future is secure. I’m finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning, smooth knees, colorless dreams, tamed visions, mundane talking, cheap giving, and dwarfed goals. I no longer need pre-eminence, prosperity, position, promotions, plaudits, or popularity. I don't have to be right, first, tops, recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded. I now live by the faith in my works, and lean on the strength of my brothers and sisters. I love with patience, live by prayer, and labor with power. My fate is set, my gait is fast, my goal is the ultimate safety of children.   Among the surefire failures a person can concoct, trying to build Eden with a partner ranks high. You believe you cannot fault yourself for attempting this big job again and again, but idealism without self-knowledge is so devious. Try giving a seed to someone else to propagate. Watch them mercilessly, while they do not do your job. Try asking a neighbor to water your lawn, for the rest of your life. Try lobbing a tennis ball at a concrete wall and call it tennis. Keep calling it tennis until the joy drains from your entire body.
A graduate of several Eden projects, I found a man who already had his own Eden. Voila! This did not work. I’m the one who needs Eden. I’m the one requiring garden space. My own innocence flowers there. I can’t give that innocence away or trade it to anyone, loan it or possibly even share it. I am giving myself my own rib. Then we’ll talk partners. |
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