My Big Climb 2011 Award

On Sunday morning of March 20, 2011, my family woke at 6 a.m. so that they could take the 7:25 a.m. bus with me to downtown Seattle. They wanted to wait in the lobby while I ascended the 1311 steps of the Columbia Tower for The Big Climb:



I was an untimed climber set to go with the 9 a.m. group. Before getting into line, I wrote these numbers on my hand:



My team leader said that it helped for him to divide the stairclimb into manageable goals with stairwell numbers. There are 69 flights in the Big Climb, but the final floor is 73.

We went in intervals, and by the time I set off, the time was around 9:10 am by my watch. I started up the stairs, kept a steady pace, took the water when it was offered to me, but never stopped. Posted on the wall were different photos of people currently struggling with leukemia or lymphoma as well as photos of those who had died of a blood cancer. I was happy to see the posted photo of my friend who is a leukemia survivor, but it was hard to pass by the photos of the people who had died.

I reached the top approximately 25 minutes from the time I started. I had followed the rules by not bringing a camera with me (Crivens! This always happens.), but there were a number of people at the top who were taking photos of the Olympic Mountains in all their crispness. If you've not yet seen the Olympic Mountains in person, I hope you will visit Seattle during the summer, when you are most likely to get a view without the risk of rain. In the meantime, you'll just have to take my word for it that they are glorious.

When I got home, my daughter made an award for me:


I was sore yesterday, and am sore today, but I raised $500.00 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I hope that's $500.00 closer to people getting the help they need to deal with these blood diseases.

The Show Must Go On

I had two gigs last weekend. One was great, and one was not. Fortunately, the great one was on Sunday and the experience was the opposite of the one on Saturday in every way. I know it's unrealistic to expect every storytime to be wonderful, but I always strive to give my best performance possible despite factors beyond my control. The Sunday performance helped to take away some of the sting of the Saturday performance, and the commiseration of friends and fellow performers helped with the rest.

This morning, my "best performance possible" was put to the test when I slammed my left thumb into the car door trunk right before my monthly gig at Third Place Books. For a split-second, I just couldn't believe it. Fortunately, the car keys were still in the trunk door, and I got it open. As I looked over the damage, Lucia was yelling, "I don't want to see it! I don't want to see it!" I insisted she get out of the car while I ran indoors to get bandages for the thumb, but I didn't have time to put the hand in ice-water before the gig. I made it to the bookstore in time, and before I started, I explained to the audience what had happened. I said "Sometimes one has to smile through the pain, and I wanted to let you know what happened in case I grimaced during the program."

I was able to fret the chords, tell my stories and finish well. Afterward, I got to hang out for a bit with Eric Herman and his daughters, who were kind enough to make it to the storytime before Eric's evening performance at Crossroads Bellevue. Lucia, Bede and I attended that concert as well and had a good time (I got to be the "Local Celebrity Judge" for the dance contest again!). We all wish that we could see Eric and family more often, and may very well have to take a trip to the Tri-Cities area of Washington so that our visits aren't just once-a-year occurences.

It's been a hard week, and there have been moments that I wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep for weeks. Many thanks to all of my friends and family who helped the show to go on.

On Foot

In the New York Times online, I was interested to read an article by Nicolai Ouroussoff that a stretch of streets in New York City between 42nd -47th were now closed to traffic in order to shape a more pedestrian-friendly Times Square. What I found most poignant was the last paragraph:

What’s most encouraging about [transportation commissioner, Janette Sadik-Khan's]vision is that it reasserts the positive role government can play in shaping the public realm after decades of sitting by and watching private interests take over. Now she has to prove that she can be as nimble in her design choices as she is at imposing her ideas on a skeptical city.

Years ago, Downtown Seattle had a section of Pine Street by Westlake Center closed to traffic. I lived in Seattle during that time, as it was my "gap year" between college and graduate school when I worked as an assistant teacher in a daycare center for children of homeless parents. At the risk of sounding overly nostalgic, these were the days before the Convention Center blocked the view of Elliot Bay and the Pike Place Market Sign. Since then, some decrepid buildings have been torn down, but so have a number of beautiful old houses to make way for tall, expensive townhomes.

In 1994, I appreciated the fact that there was one street where cars could not go. It was easy to meander around the plaza and listen to busking musicians. I was only there for a year and therefore not eligible to vote in 1995 against Nordstrom opening up that street. Nordstrom basically said that if they couldn't open up that street, they wouldn't take over the former Fredrick & Nelson building.

From the beginning of its Westward Expansion history, Seattle has rarely taken the long-range view of anything. People who participate in the infamous Underground Tour learn that lesson pretty quickly. I was going to recount some of the high points (or rather, low points), but I decided to link to this article instead where you can read about some of the mishaps and mistakes. For those who don't want to follow the link, I'll give you a cryptic summary of one of the historical vignettes: "exploding toilet syndrome."

Given our history, it's highly unlikely that Seattle will ever again close a stretch of street for pedestrian use. We can't even agree on what to do about the Alaskan Way viaduct, a stretch of highway that will most definitely not survive the next major earthquake. After voting 4 times in favor of a monorail, the city has said, "No monorail" and "Sorry, we can't give you back your monorail tax money because we already spent it." Our bus system has gone from being one of the best in the country to something really subpar because people voted on a flat-rate license tab renewal fee that took money away from public transportation.

One of the reasons why the House of Glee continues to live where we live is because currently, we can make it work to have just one car. We live on a busy street with a major bus-line, and we can walk to grocery stores and banks within a two mile radius. It would be a long walk, but we could in theory walk to Lucia's school, as it's two miles away. Our local library is six blocks away. If we were to move to a quieter part of town (for a moment, I'll pretend we can afford to do this) or I were to expand my storytelling business, we would definitely need a second car.

Our family's letters from Father Christmas

Three years ago, I wrote a post about how much I loved Letters from Father Christmas (alternate title: The Father Christmas Letters) by J.R.R. Tolkien. You may read the post here. In the post, I alluded to the letters my mom wrote for my brothers and me, and later, our little cousin as well. My mom recently sent the original letters in a package to Lucia. I thought you might enjoy reading them. I've edited the letters for publication.


This was the year that Ulric passionately admired his best friend's fire-hat with a battery-powered siren.

Well, my nerves are shot, and if you receive any presents this year, it will not be thanks to the Polar Bear! Everything was going along fine, and we were ahead of schedule—and the presents down in the cellar were piling up. Then that silly old P.B. found a present which was supposed to be for Ulric. It was a fire hat with a siren on top, and don’t you know that that wretched bear couldn’t resist putting on that hat and turning on the siren like a fool, and all the Red Elves who had come to live in the house and were helping out with the presents thought that goblins had snuck into the cellar and had started a fire among the presents.

So what a hullabaloo, or however you spell it! At least a hundred elves racing around with buckets of water and hatchets and trying to stomp out fires which didn’t ever exist. Polar Bear tried to quiet them down and then he was so nervous he couldn’t find the switch to turn off the siren on the hat so in desperation he finally grabbed one of the hatchets from the elves and broke the hat and its siren to pieces, and ultimately everyone quieted down and felt foolish.

Most all of the presents have dried out and are on their way to the rest of the world, but Ulric’s hat is smashed to smithereens. But I dare say it is just as well, for only look in how much trouble it landed poor old Polar Bear. You wouldn’t believe one hat could cause so much trouble.

Farewell until next Christmas, and I promise you a longer letter next year—unless Polar Bear really does it, God forbid!

Father N. Christmas


I think this was the year that our oil furnace broke, and we had to wait for days before the oil company could come out to fix it. Every time my parents called the company, the phone lines were busy. During the day, the whole family crowded into my bedroom because that was the warmest room in the house.

Last year I promised you a longer letter this year, but lo and behold, you are lucky to get a letter at all. Polar Bear has done it again!! You will never guess what he has done this time. Well, back in November we were really in good shape and the presents were stacking up in the cellars & the Red Elves were helping out again. Then, Polar Bear got a visit from his cousin Moshe Bear who is Jewish and from Brooklyn.



Moshe was talking about Channukah being so early compared to Christmas this year, and then good ol’ P.B. got the bright idea of building a giant Menorah in the hall and to keep the miracle of the lights going, Polar Bear drained the oil from our heating tank for the Menorah lamp. Well, on the 3rd day he got too much oil in the lamp. It slopped over and the fire got out of hand.

The smoke detector went off, and the Red Elves, who were still nervous from last year’s escapade with the fire hat & siren, went crazy with the hoses. So not only do we have water damage again this year, but Polar Bear didn’t turn off the spigot on the oil tank properly, & we have an oily cellar and a cold house. We have built fires, but of course we have to be careful & our work is slowed tremendously. My hands have been too cold to hold a pen. That is why the pictures are so bad. But at least the presents are finally off, tho’ some will arrive late due to cold weather all over the world except where it’s hot.

Better luck next year.
With love from Father Christmas at the North Pole.


This is the year that Brad the Gorilla showed up in our family, hence Father Christmas' allusion to "Fred's father." Fred was Ulric's first gorilla friend.

You may well be amazed at receiving a letter this year—the last I wrote was 1983! Polar Bear decided to take an MCC assignment at the South Pole and left me quite short-handed for several years. We were glad to see him back this year, though I must admit sometimes he causes me more work!



This year, Polar Bear was helping us pack presents the way he used to do, and he discovered an Atari. He didn’t know what it was, so one of the Red Elves, who came to us after Polar Bear had gone South, and had no idea of the mischief P.B. is capable of, foolishly showed him how to set it up. Well, Polar Bear found it hard at first to use the Joy Sticks, but he was determined to master it and was soon addicted. He says after 5 years of MCC he wants to be a Couch Potato. This enraged the Red Elves, who are very hard workers and really wanted to get the presents out this year. They had spent a lot of extra time this year tracking down Fred’s father for Ulric and were in NO MOOD for Couch Potatoes.

They tried various tactics such as pulling the plug and hiding the cartridges, but this put P.B. in a rage, or sometimes in the sulks, and he was either No Fun, or sometimes even almost dangerous. He went stomping through the storeroom of presents looking for the hidden cartridges, kicking and screeching and a whole huge pile came crashing down around him.



Needless to say it created quite a mess, and some things were broken. I’m sorry to say that it was mainly clothes that survived since toys break more easily, but thank goodness books are tough. Polar Bear himself was a bit roughed up, and his wrist got hurt, but the one elf was not at all sorry for old P.B. but said he had “Atari elbow.”

Well, none of us like sulks and hurt feelings here at the North Pole, especially directly before Christmas, so were we were all delighted when P.B.’s Aunt Mabel came by with cookies for all of us. She saw how uneasy things were and calmed everyone down. Even P.B. listened to her. She thought that forbidding Atari to P.B. would make things worse, but she helped him make a schedule so he could play after his work was done. He’ll outgrow it, she said. We hope so!

I’ll try to write a better letter next year—maybe P.B. will be up to his old tricks then.

Love to everyone in the family!
Father Christmas

Copy and paste

I'm helping out with the graphics element of the displays for my daughter's auction, plus I have four book reviews due on February 20. (Memo to School Library Journal: it's hard enough to get two book reviews in on time.) As a result, the blog will probably be quiet for the next couple of days. So far, here's my favorite graphic, put together for the auction item that is a quilt made up of the high bidder's old tee-shirts:



Two tee-shirts that didn't quite make the cut, mainly because I couldn't find the graphics I remembered:

1) An orange and black shirt decrying the Three Mile Island* nuclear accident with the words "They Lie" on the front. The "i" is a nuclear reactor.

2) A blue, white and gold shirt of two people trying to reach out to each other around the atomic symbol in the middle, with the words, "You can't hug a friend with nuclear arms."

*As birthday presents go, the Three Mile Island meltdown is definitely my least favorite of all time.

Young raconteur

As I was cleaning up my desk, I found some old photos my mom sent me. In these photos, I'm almost three years old and I'm telling stories:


"Once upon a time in a city far off in the distance..."


"And then the brave, kind girl..."

January 7, 2008 update: At HipWriterMama's request, here is a photo of Lucia at around the same age:

One of the key differences between us at these ages may not be immediately apparent, but I believe to be true: Lucia has always known how lovely she is, whereas I always suspected adults were lying and merely saying what they thought they were supposed to say when they complimented me. The big reason was that I was self-conscious of my long, uncut hair. More than stylish clothes or new toys, those braids set me apart from other children, and I felt them to be a burden--literally. It was heavy and cumbersome. I always wanted short hair. With Lucia, I decided that her hair would be kept fairly short until she expressed an opinion otherwise. Now, she's growing out her hair for the braids that she wants every now and then, but I still try to keep it to a managable length.

You can call me Al

When I chose the name Alkelda as my blogosphere user-name, I didn't anticipate the number of times it would be misspelled "Akelda." I should have-- my real name, Farida, has had variant spellings: Frida, Florida, Fareda,Vorida, Florinda, Farinda, and Fareakda are a few (though the last one is really a friend's play on the word "freak"). We shan't even delve into the mockery names such as Burrito, Fajita, Fifi, and "Far from the Ida"-- for some reason, that last one drove the eight-year-old me absolutely bezoomny.

I told Bede, "I'm about ready to give up correcting people. It's starting to get awkward and pedantic. Should I just change my blog-name to 'Akelda?'"

"No," Bede replied, as if I had proposed surrender to the Puppet-Masters. "Because then they will have won."

Aha!

So, ALkelda it stays. If it helps you to remember, you can call me Al.

Tough Break

Yesterday afternoon, I was driving home with Lucia when we got caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic around Husky Stadium. That was nothing new. What was different, however, was the white steam that started to spew from the hood of the car. I called Bede and told him what was going on (because hey, I've overreacted in the past to things that looked scary but were really no big deal). He urged me to get out of there and pull over. There was nothing to do but drive over the median and turn right into the No-Right Turns parking lot across the way. Forty-five minutes later, Triple AAA showed up. In the meantime, I had to calm a frightened child and pray that she didn't have to pee (as she'd already had one accident while we were at the bank). I fed her a few yogurt-covered almonds and then told her the story of Why the Tides Ebb and Flow. Afterward, she drew in her sketchpad for awhile, and then started to fret once more. "We're okay," I told her. "We got off the road, help is coming, and soon we'll be home." I quoted Go to Sleep, Gecko: "Some things [we] just have to put up with."

(Years later, Lucia will probably point out that the story didn't quite happen that way. She'll probably say, "Don't you remember that you yelled at me to stop talking? And that you said rude words?" Yes, I do remember them. But I also apologized.)

So far, all that's wrong with the car is that the radiator is cracked. If that's it, then we're looking at hundreds of dollars instead of thousands of dollars. Some things we just have to put up with. Still, I wish this were a city in which public transportation were truly a viable option all the time.

The Family that Clicks Together Sticks Together

Lucia as a several-week old baby in 2003

Just because the House of Glee has no tv doesn't mean we're immune to the lure of screen-media. Bede and I both use computers extensively for work, research and writing. Lucia's wooden dollhouse came with a variety of items including a television. When Lucia saw it, she said, "Computer." When Lucia comes up to us and says, "Close the computer!" we know we've spent too much time staring at screens.

Cucumber Thief

I'm a fan of setting out signs in the garden.

I don't know how long ago this event happened, but I think I was 5 or 6 years old:

One summer, when my family visited my grandparents in Northern Indiana, I discovered a playmate my age who lived across the alley. She lived next door to a man who grew vegetables. One day, he gave us a cucumber from his vegetable patch. I thought it was the tastiest, most refreshing treat I'd ever had (besides ice-cream cones). Soon after, my friend and I began to steal cucumbers from the patch. The first time the man next door caught us, I yelled that I could take cucumbers from the garden because I was from West Virginia. Nobody besides myself had any idea what West Virginia had to do with anything. However, in West Virginia, I went berry-picking so many times that I thought anything edible that grew in the wild was up for grabs. Still, that was no reasonable rationalization for continuing to steal cucumbers. The man next door finally confronted my mother about my petty theft.

Yes, she was furious. My mother thinks she spanked me, but I don't remember anything but the yelling. My friend was off-limits,* I had to bring flowers to the man next door and tell him I was sorry, and I had to listen repeatedly about how wretched I was. I certainly felt wretched for having been caught, but it took awhile before I truly realized what a bad thing I had done. Years afterward, the man next door would see me and ask me (while laughing) whether I was still stealing cucumbers. By then, I had the decency to feel mortified.

These days, we're growing cucumbers of our own. Whenever we talk about the vegetables and berries we hope will grow in our garden, Lucia says, "We're going to eat them!" There is marvel and glee in her voice. Yesterday, she got to eat the first strawberry growing behind the cucumber patch. Next month, we should have sweet-peas to eat. Meanwhile, the cucumbers and winter squash will continue to grow. Someday, if all goes well, we'll have blueberries, red raspberries, huckleberries and blueberries in our front yard. In the back yard, we have potatoes in the ground with plans for carrots and chard. Bede took our small pumpkin that was beginning to rot, and buried it in the ground. Maybe we'll have pumpkins this Fall. Maybe not.


The first strawberry

I told HipWriterMama that my "goal for success" for the next 30 days was to walk for 30 minutes a day, but I'm going to have to amend that plan to include 30 minutes of exercise a day. Yesterday afternoon, I overturned grass and dirt in the front-yard for 3 hours. Then, I watered the soil, sprinkled a wealth of wildflower seeds on the dirt, raked them over, and hoped for the best. I am sore all over... again. At Bede's request, I am leaving enough lawn for us to have room for a picnic and a space for Lucia to run around.

In case it wasn't obvious before, I am a big fan of The Secret Garden (with the exception of the ending, when the focus suddenly shifts from Mary Lennox to her cousin Colin).

PM Addendum: My mom just told me that the man (from whom my friend and I stole cucumbers) said that we smashed the cucumbers, and he didn't mind the theft as much as the waste. I cannot begin to tell you how offended I am. We were thieves, not vandals. My friend had a vegetable peeler in her shed, and we used it. Other than the times I smashed the chemistry bottles of the 8 year old boy upon whom I had a crush,** and tore the paper flag belonging to the same boy, I was not a vandal.


*My friend was off-limits only for the day, though I'm sure my mother wanted to institute a lifetime ban.
**I was five years old. The crush was not requited.

The Long Way Around

When I was a little girl, I often thought about different career choices. I assumed I’d grow up to write children’s books, so I never mentioned “author” as an ambition. To me, it was self-evident. At different times, I wanted to be a ballet dancer, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, an Olympic cyclist, a biologist, an astronomer, and a a comedian. Here are the reasons:

1) Ballet dancer—I could dance in “The Sleeping Beauty” with Mikhail Baryshnikov
2) Psychiatrist—I could listen to other people’s stories all day long
3) Psychologist—I could listen to other people’s stories all day long without going to medical school
4) Olympic cyclist—I admired Connie Carpenter and Rebecca Twigg
5) Biologist—I thought that if nuclear war or environmental chaos happened, the scientists would be the ones who would rescue humanity
6) Astronomer—I could look at stars and planets all night long
7) Comedian—People would actually pay to hear my knock-knock jokes

In college, I majored in English so I could read books all day long. I wrote serious, angry poetry for publication and lighthearted verse to amuse my friends. I wrote chapters of novels and then abandoned them when I found them to be too depressing. Meanwhile, pressure was on for me to figure out a career in which I could support myself. “You won’t be able to make a living writing poetry,” my advisor told me. With much reluctance, I signed up for Introduction to Education instead of Shakespeare. After each class, I went home and cried because I didn’t want to be a teacher. In the second week of school, the Intro to Ed class watched a video that discussed mediocre teachers who shouldn’t be teaching. “Hey, I’m one of those people,” I thought. I walked out of class and headed toward my advisor’s office. I needed a plan.

The thought, “Why don’t you go to library school?” fell into my head. My mother was a children’s librarian, and I worked as a page (a.k.a. “shelver”) at my town library, but I hadn’t ever considered librarianship before those moments prior to my impromptu meeting with my advisor. Sometimes stress begats inspiration. By the time I reached my advisor’s office, I had a plan.

My advisor said, “That’s great! There are some really good academic libraries out there.”

“Actually, I want to be a children’s librarian,” I said.

My advisor visibly paused. “Do you really like kiddy-lit that much?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied.

I improved my grades (the Shakespeare class helped) but flubbed my GREs. I never tested well. I took a year off after college to do full-time voluntary service at a daycare center for homeless children, and then entered library school on a provisional status. The school lifted the provisional status after one semester, when I earned three As and one B+. I had a professor who appreciated children’s literature as a legitimate genre (she’d written her thesis on the St. Nicholas magazine). I wrote papers and read textbooks, but I still got to read children’s books for pleasure and write in-depth essays about them. I read all of the school library’s back issues of The Lion and the Unicorn and planned to use my independent study research on violence in 10 Grimms’ fairy tales for a future essay to submit to the literary journal. (I didn't.)

It was during graduate school that I took a class in storytelling and found that I was indeed a natural at the craft. All along, I had found other people’s stories compelling. While I made up stories of my own, they were always based on folktales and other people’s experiences. I graduated from library school, worked with The New York Public Library for two years, and kvelled to all of the storytelling opportunities available there.

Ten years later, here in Seattle, Washington, I am just now starting my storytelling business in earnest. Unlike my other ambitions, I am approaching the business with a series of small steps so that I don’t get discouraged by how slowly these ventures take. Fortunately, at this time I don’t have to make a living as a storyteller. I can hand out my business cards to a variety of small businesses and say, “If you ever need a storyteller, please think of me. Oh, and I do birthday parties, too.” It helps to have business cards that make people laugh.


Storytellers all: Bede, Alkelda, Lucia and Phil of the House of Glee
Photo by Phil's computer.

Kertyschoo*

I'm sick. We're all sick. Blech. Here's a fairy tale about a man who learned from a sage that he would die after sneezing three times: How An Old Man Waited For Death. According to The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, the wolf's huffing and puffing were simply results of a bad cold. I wonder if there are any fairy tales with titles such as "The Girl With the Running Nose" or "The Three Magic Cough Drops."

Blech.

*This is how Peter Rabbit sneezes.

New Year's Resolutions for 2007

New Year's Resolutions:

1) Take singing lessons
2) Learn more stories for my target audiences
3) Attend Holy Days of Obligation
4) Help Lucia potty-train without losing heart (is she going to be in college before she gives up diapers??)
5) Eat fresh vegetables

Thirty-Four Things, Part II

Last week, I wrote out the first half of the list of thirty-four things I knew about myself. Today is my 34th birthday, and as promised, here is the second half of the list. Yorkshire Pudding requested “sex, drugs and rock and roll” in part II. I shall do my best to oblige.

Thirty-Four Things, Part II

18) Sex: I was not impressed by my first kiss (too sloppy). I was not impressed by my second kiss (too aggressive). I was ready to throw in the towel until I experienced my third kiss. It was lovely. I dated the guy for far too long simply because he was such a great kisser.

19) Drugs: The few times in my life in which I smoked had more to do with the boys I fancied than anything else. Each round of cigarette smoking ended up exactly as before: illness a la food poisoning. Eventually, I realized (a) cigarette-smoking really wasn’t for me (b) I needed to have crushes on boys who didn’t smoke.

20) Rock and Roll: When I was 14, I met Joan Jett. Ulric and my mother went with me to the concert, and they were (perhaps) the youngest and the oldest members of the audience. Afterward, I was determined to meet my hero. A newspaper reporter doing a story on Jett had an extra backstage pass, and offered it to me. Not only did I get to go backstage, but the reporter was able to manage it so that my mother and brother could come backstage too. I got autographs for all of my penpals, and Joan Jett gave me a leopard-print bandana.

21) For the first 6 years of my life, I lived in a house in the woods that didn’t have hot running water or flush-toilets. Our house was heated by a coal-stove. I suspect this experience has much to do with my befuddlement over how others find camping “fun.”

22) When I see digital time, I mentally convert it to analog. The numbers don’t mean as much to me as the position of the hands on the clock.

23) I am extremely prone to motion-sickness. As a result, I had mediocre reference skills in grade school and college because I avoided microfiche and microfilm. I am thankful for the full-text articles in databases that became more accessible just as I started graduate school.

24) Before I got together with Bede, I told a friend of mine that I doubted things would work out because Bede “wasn’t silly enough.” At the time, I didn't realize I was just trying to find an excuse for things not to work out, as I had no prior experience with healthy relationships.

25) I decided to become a librarian to save myself from having to train as a teacher. (In my twenties, I would have made a lousy teacher.) Hardly anyone believes me that I didn’t become a librarian because my mother was a librarian, but think about it: how many people do you know these days who actively want to do what their parents did?

26) It’s been two and a half years since my youngest brother died, and I am still incredulous that he’s gone. Some part of my brain is waiting for the joke to be over and the punch-line to be worth it.

27) I don’t tolerate bullies. I don’t have much in the way of brawn or clever, on-the-spot responses, but I do have a long memory and a boatload of patience.

28) Schroeder from the “Peanuts” comic strip and the score for the film “A Clockwork Orange” fanned my love of Beethoven. There was a time when “A Clockwork Orange” was my favorite film. It was incredibly violent, and I didn’t like the violence, but still, I was obsessed with the film. I don’t think I could watch it today.

29) When playing Monopoly, I almost always pick the iron, even though I rarely iron my clothes. I acknowledge the irony.

30) My favorite light reading is spicy historical fiction set in the Elizabethan Era or just before.

31) Although I don’t believe in reincarnation, sometimes I get the sense that I wasn’t always this fortunate.

32) I grew up with three sets of grandparents: my mother’s parents, and my father’s parents who divorced and remarried before I was born.

33) As long as you’re respectful, you can pretty much ask me any question you like, and I will answer it as truthfully as possible (or let you know that I only want to tell you part of the answer).

34) On the calendar of saints, the feast day of Alkelda of Giggleswick is March 28. I gave the name “Alkelda” to a character (Twi’lek Jedi, if you’re interested) I developed as a guest-player in the Star Wars role-playing game.

Thirty-Four Things, Part I

In one week, I will be thirty-four years old. I was inspired by an entry in someone's LiveJournal (you know who you are!) to write down thirty-four things I know about myself. The exercise was harder than I realized, because I wanted each item to contain a story within itself. So far, I've got seventeen items. I'll work on the other half this week and post the second part of the list on my birthday.

Thirty-Four Things, Part I

1) If I had to pick a fairy tale that reflected my life-outlook, it would be the Three Sillies. I wish it were something more heroic along the lines of The Brave Little Tailor.

2) In high school, I briefly considered choosing astronomy for my college major, despite my poor math grades. A friend of mine said, “You don’t need to know that much math for astronomy.”

3) When I was pregnant, people advised me to keep crackers by the bedside to help with morning sickness. To this day, the sight of a saltine makes me queasy.

4) I’ve said I’d rather endure dental work than read a mystery novel. I’ve had to pay for that remark. My mouth is a dentist’s cash cow.

5) Most of the food items I disliked as a child had to do with the texture and acidity more than the taste.

6) Most of my favorite foods come from the Middle East: stuffed grape leaves, megeddarah (lentils, rice and caramelized onions dish), little spinach pies, thyme/sesame seed/sumac spice mixture sprinkled on top of yogurt spread, lamb kabobs.

7) I enjoy devising cunning plans that are impossible to execute.

8) When I was a teenager, I wanted to be an alien “sleeper agent” who would be released from planet Earth once I had fulfilled my secret mission. I was at a bit of a loss as to the nature of my secret mission, but I hoped all would be revealed in due time. If “due time” included alien spacecraft zapping the meanies in my school, so much the better.

9) I taught myself origami because I hated organizing craft programs for the library, and I wanted to have something to do that was enjoyable.

10) When I was seven years old, I decided that when I died, I wanted to be buried with my dolls and my Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House books. I thought I really could take them with me.

11) When I am happy, I like to listen to sad songs. The reverse is not true.

12) I like having gone out dancing more than I like planning to go out dancing.

13) I think getting enough to eat is a right, not a privilege, and that people are more likely to “better themselves” when they’re not starving.

14) I like bats, but I don’t often tell people because then they give me bat-related items. (Please! No more copies of Stellaluna.)

15) My favorite part about acting in plays was the built-in after-school social life. I missed out on a bunch of the cast-parties, but I’m convinced they weren’t as much fun as the pre-performance gatherings in the dressing rooms.

16) When I tell people I can’t swim properly (i.e. the crawl stroke), they think a miracle has taken place when I start dog-paddling.

17) I want to see the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere.

Life update from three 1/2 years ago

Life update posted to my unofficial college alumni listserv:

Thursday, 19 Sep 2002
I've avoided drafting one of these life updates, because what I really wanted to write eventually was, "Guess what! I sold my first novel!" I'm still working on that first novel, but it may be another couple of years before I can share that news. I'm optimistic, of course. But I work slowly. Two summers ago, I quit my 30 hour job at the library to focus on writing and storytelling on more of a full-time basis. Since then, I've done substitute work in my library system and have storytelling gigs from time to time.

Since my original posting, I've learned how to drive a car. I got married. We bought a house. And now, there's a child on the way. I am looking forward to the birth of the child (due in late April), but I always thought I was more of an eccentric auntie who would swoop in from exotic places, play for hours with my nieces and nephews, and then give them back to their parents at the end of the day. Afterward, I would go home, make a cup of tea, and read until I fell asleep.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Michelle Shocked at the Seattle Arts Festival called "Bumbershoot." It was 10 years almost to the month since I'd last seen Michelle Shocked in Chicago. I saw a woman 10 rows ahead of me holding her baby in a sling and dancing while the baby slept. That's the way I want to be, I thought. Michelle herself was great. Her band has brought a lot of African and Latin-American influenced rhythms into their songs. Michelle said that she had gone through a lot of hardship in the past 10 years, but somehow managed to get through it without being bitter. I couldn't help it-- after the concert, I wrote her a thank you letter.



[Note: We had written back and forth on occasion in the 1990's.]

Tuesday, July 6, 2004
I found a postcard in my mailbox this morning that hadn't made it into our Saturday afternoon collection:

***
Dear [Alkelda],
Thinking of you as I'm going through mail that's VERY old and found your sweet note. At the time, you had a little baby on the way. By now I imagine it's a two year old. Thanks so much for keeping in touch. I was playing in Madison a few nights ago and ran into some fellow _____ College alumni. Any guess who it might have been? I don't remember his name. Wishing you the best, hoping your life is rich and rewarding. Lots of love, Michelle Shocked

What happens in storytime stays in storytime

“What happens in storytime stays in storytime.”*

Right: Matching shirts for Lucia and Alkelda from their (great) Aunt Brigid. Not pictured: Alkelda's shirt.

*Strictly speaking, this statement is not entirely true. Many of the funny, sweet, embarrassing, strange incidents that happen in the course of a storytime series may be combined, stretched and remolded into new tales to delight and shock. We keep your personal information confidential: where you live, the books you’ve checked out, the reference questions you’ve asked. Even if the courts of Cascadian law don’t recognize the Library Code of Ethics, your librarians do. In fact, any similarities to what you’ve experienced in the library and what you’ve read on this blog is entirely coincidental. However, there are two general, vague, non-specific things I’ve learned from doing storytimes over the past 9 years:

1) Answer all questions as if they are reasonable requests.

A rowdy third grade class had just finished listening to some stories. I opened the floor for questions or comments. One girl asked, “Are your pants on backwards?”

“No,” I replied.

Perhaps had I been in 3rd grade at the same time as the girl, I would have responded with something along the lines of, “Is your face on backwards?” and everyone my age would have thought I was funny. I have standards now. If someone is intentionally rude to me during storytime, I will scare the toenails off of everyone with my Gunniwolf roar. (Trust me, it’s terrifying. Also, it’s mainly the grownups who have nightmares afterwards.)

2) No one is immune from foolishness.

During an earthquake, everyone scooped up their children and ran for the doorframes, except for one parent, who ran out of the storytime room sans child. I was incredulous.

Three years later, I was in the grocery store with Lucia. I had just put my wallet on the counter when Lucia ran for the sliding doors. I began to run toward her, then stopped and looked back toward my wallet. In that instant, the cashier said, “Get her! I can guard your wallet, but I can’t guard your girl.”

I’m sure the cashier was incredulous, too.

Blast/Past/Aghast/At Last

The summer after my freshman year of college, I commuted by bus to a government job in Greenbelt, Maryland. One day, a man I'd seen a number of times on the bus came up to me with photocopies of charcoal pictures he'd sketched of me. I asked him if he would sign them, and the man said that he would only sign originals. He then ripped the sketches out of his note-pad, signed them, gave them to me, and took back the photocopies. As it turned out, the man wasn't a total stranger, but the ex-boyfriend of one of my mother's coworkers. I don't remember his first name, but he signed his last name, "Kamp" on the sketches, so I'd like to give him full-credit for his own sketches.

These sketches, along with a host of other objects, arrived in a large box this afternoon.What struck me most about the portraits was not so much that they looked like me then, but how I would look ten years later.

As I looked through ancient journals, juvenalia printed out on an actual typewriter, and other potentially embarrassing things, I expected to reel in disgust. I didn't. What a relief! Of course, the poems were filled with murky, overblown images inspired in equal parts by my adolescent struggles and Simon LeBon's lyrics. (Does this sound familiar, O Goddess of Clarity?!) However, I can read the poems and remember what I was thinking at the time I wrote them. For example, I submitted a poem to Cricket Magazine. The subject matter was supposed to be about clouds. This is the poem I sent:

Beneath the clouds of midnight
The gale of dream blizzards blow
Sweeping icy splinters of hate into the hearts of mortal men
Chilling the bare hope that eternity exists
Where wishes live between the songs of lemon trees
Ever convicted to lie in wait for the rebirth of the moon’s daughter
Shadowed silhouettes dance on blades of grass
Stained with the blood of a thousand years hence
One hundred whispers sway in the breeze as one:
“Pass by quickly, child, pass by quickly.”
But I will never be a child again.
--Alkelda the Gloomy, age 13, 1985

Nevermind that nonsense about "songs of lemon trees"-- that was classic Simon LeBon obscurity. I stuck in the "clouds" so that the poem would technically be eligible for the contest. My mother gently pointed out that this poem was probably not what the editors had in mind when they asked for "clouds," but I was undeterred. I wanted to be treated as an adult. I had no idea what that concept truly entailed, I equated innocence with naivete, and I wanted to stop being treated like a child. I wanted my writing to have the depth of a grownup's.

Ironically, it was around the time of my brother's death that I finally got it: there is enough world sorrow. There is more than enough pain. No matter what we do, we will always have struggles. Therefore, why not encourage joy? Why not remind you of the times you laughed? Why not make you laugh again?

Sew, play guitar, write, parent, and maybe vaccuum (if the family's lucky)

The photo: I created the pattern for this dress based on looking at one of Lucia's storebought garments. To date, it is the most difficult project I've attempted. There is a little green heart button on the front for decorative purposes only. I used snaps instead of buttons to fasten up the dress.

I'm in a writing lull right now. I want to keep in contact with my fellow bloggers, and part of that contact involves posting on a regular basis. Right now, the things I'm actively interested in don't necessarily lend themselves to blog posts of a storytelling nature. I have been working with both the guitar and the sewing machine. Both activities involve focused concentration, and while it's great for clearing away the clutter in my mind, I become irritated when distracted. It takes me at least a half hour to become absorbed in something, and that does not lend itself well to parenting. Lucia is going through the phase of asking, "Where's the...?" for everything. I know that "where" will soon be replaced with "why," but in the meantime, I'm finding that conversations about striped-trousers, the girl who played piano at church, the conveniently missing dollies (usually under the bed), the frustrations of stopping at stop-lights ("Where's the more driving?") quite, quite tedious.

However, playing guitar with Lucia is fun. It's not the same as practicing on my own, but it's definitely more entertaining for both of us. Lucia stands behind me and examines the mole on my neck (incredulous that it "doesn't hurt") while requesting the songs "Jenny Jenkins," "Mama Don't Allow," and "Hallelujah." She strums the guitar, too, and likes to stop the strings with the flat of her hand. Sometimes she slings a leg over my shoulder.

Sewing holds a similar interest, too: there are sharp needles and scissors, long spools of thread to unravel, and the sewing box inevitably turns into a bed for the dollies. Early on, she got the nickname of "Textiles Girl" because of her interest in stripes, dots, spirals, checks and all manner of patterns. Thanks to Lucia, I've branched out from my basic black wardrobe to include bright colors and patterns. Just because I probably wouldn't wear a red and yellow polka-dotted shirt doesn't mean my socks have to be humdrum.

Most of the time, I don't view our interchanges as distractions. I am, after all, a full-time parent right now. It's something I wanted to do, and something we can afford to do if we live prudently and don't get any spendy notions. I don't write about cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, or going to the park unless there is something funny or poignant to share. The sounds that Lucia finds so funny (and I confess, I do as well) don't translate well to print. Lucia has a song she usually sings only when I'm running the sewing machine, and another one for when I vacuum, but the words are both nonsensical and joyful. As I write this post, she is laughing and running around the fireplace that divides the kitchen from the living room, singing "Di-waaaaaay."

Now you know why I like it when you offer me words for stories. I have something specific and concrete to think about when I'm pushing Lucia on the swings or examining every leaf on our way to the post-office. By the time I sit down at the keyboard, I can write a little story as if it were inspired by the moment, when really, I have been mulling over it for a good while.

Future Busker of Cascadia

A month ago, I wrote that Bede had found at a garage sale a guitar for me for $10.00 USD. What I didn't know at the time was that the neck of the guitar was bent, rendering two out of six strings untunable. I gave the guitar to another parent on my neighborhood email group who wanted a stringed instrument for his toddler son. The quality of the instrument wasn't as important as the parent getting his son to play something other than his parent's guitar.

Today, I came home from my monthly Meeting of the Minds* to find a guitar case in the living room. Bede had gone to another multi-family yardsale and found a guitar that the seller's father had bought for her. In essence, it had never been played, and had lingered in storage until the day of the yardsale. "This guitar cost more than 10 dollars," Bede informed me, but would not say more. I have gathered that we will be eating rice and beans (or the Cascadian equivalent) for the next few months. It's too bad I don't already know how to play guitar, because then I could earn a few coins as a busker in Pioneer Square. (Getting people to pay me to stop playing "Peter Gunn" on one string is not cricket!)



Now I must compose a real ode to Bede (on the guitar! or on the ocarina.) However, Bede has gently reminded me that now we need to clean the house before friends come over tonight. So it goes. As Richard Wilbur wrote, "Love calls us to the things of this world."


_________
*Not its real name. Some of my friends get together once a month to talk about what we're reading, thinking, planning, etc. We have tea, scones and other yummy treats to fuel our fervent discussions.