Thoughts on dogs and rain, supper, and the search for birthparents

I think anyone reading this knows how much I love my old dog, Scooby, and my puppy, Sophie, but this has not been a good day to own dogs. Rain all day, sometimes heavy, and the backyard is a sea of mud. The path from the back door to the kitchen is lined with old rugs, and I am finally getting Sophie to the point where I can dry her feet and legs without a ferocious battle. But I think she decided this morning to be fractious today: the first thing she did, as I stood right there with the door open for her to go out, was to go to her favorite spot in the playroom and pee. I caught her mid-act and practically threw her oiutside. Then all day, if she's out, she wants to be in; if she's in, she paws at me desperately until I put her out. And of course every re-entry from the outside means all that toweling. I really need to wash their towels and rugs, but when's the chance? I have to leave them down.
Scooby has never let me touch his hind legs, though he'll suffer me drying his front paws. I usually get a treat and make him dance back and forth on those rugs until he doesn't leave footprints. Hmm, maybe if I turn that big rug over I can start fresh. This afternoon I put him in his bed while I napped, and since then every time I inquire politely if he'd like to go out and eat his dinner, he gives me a baleful look. I know when eventualy I put him out he'll dump the dinner all over and it will turn into a soggy mess.

I ate leftovers for lunch and told myself I could have salmon cakes, deviled egg, and pea salad for supper--some of my favorite foods. The eggs didn't come out of the shell easily and were hard to stuff; the salmon cakes never got brown--okay, Mom, I ignored your dictum about soda crackers and used panko, not the same; and I gave up on pea salad and had the broccoli that was in the fridge. None of it tasted quite like I imagined it would. I guess I'll have to eat chocolate.
I'm reading, for review on the Story Circle Network, The Night Sky about about the daughter of two Dachau prisoners, . Her parents were sent to forced labor on a German farm. Though they worked hard and had slight acommodations, they fared much better than most Dachau prisoners. Raised by her mother and stepfather in the U.S., Maria Sutton spent almost forty years searching for her father, in spite of red flag warning that he was not the dashing, courageous, brave and generous Polish military officer she imagined. I suppose such a fantasy is hard to let go of, but as the adoptive parent of four, I wonder about that desperate search for a birth parent. My four seem, as far as I know, to be content with me as their parent, and they are--watch me boast--happy, productive people who are wonderful parents and seem quite well adjusted, always have, to the fact of adoption. I'm not sure how I'd feel if they suddenly, now most in their forties, had to search. I think I would be afraid it was symptomatic of some deeper crisis in their lives. But maybe I'm judging without walking a mile in the other person's moccasins.

A riveting memoir--and the Bookish Frogs

Let me tell you about Gerald Duff. He's the author of fifteen books, with five coming out this year--poetry, novels, short stories. But I want to talk about his memoir, published (of course) by TCU Press. Home Truths is a memoir about growing up in Deep East Texas. Gerald spoke tonight to the Bookish Frogs, the friends group of the press, and it was one of the most enjoyable evenings I've had in a while.
Home Truths, when I first read it, was titled Home Lies, because much of it is about  the lies he had to tell--and tell himself--to cope with growing up in a land of narrow-minded, fierce opinions where tradition rules over intellect or common sense. It's both a humorous book and a bittersweet one. Tonight his talk had  listeners laughing out loud, but there was much serious truth to it. He talked about the therapy of writing a memoir--how it makes you examine your life and get to know yourself, although he admitted there are some things in his life he still won't talk about, won't deal with. He quoted Socrates: "The unexamined life is a life not worth living." And he talked about guilt, that emotion that few of us escape.
But he also told funny stories--he believed his mother lied when she said she played basketball with Babe Didrikson Zaharias, until years later he saw a picture of the high school team that included both young women; the time he finally relented and confessed his faith in the Southern Baptist Church--well, I mean his faith in Jesus Christ but the confession was a ritual of the church--and he didn't feel any different afterward; the wedding of a cousin where the groom had a cigarette behind his ear, ready to light at any minutes. He was honest and forthright about the things that made him uncomfortable, but he could joke about the time he didn't recognize his second wife. He wove in advice he gave to students as he told anecdotes and read from the book, and he said that when he writes fiction, he gets one or two sentences down and sees what develops. He writes not plots but characters and sees where they will take him. It's a maxim I've heard all my writing life: listen to your characters. Now retired as a university administrator, Gerald used to write from 5:30 to 9:00 a.m. when he was working, and he believes that it's perspiration not inspiration that gets books written. It's also discipline--he aims for two pages  a day but now, with more time, he sometimes writes six or seven if the words are flowing. So, this was part memoir, part lesson in writing, and a lot of humor--a delightful evening. And the book will provide you with the same wonderful mix. I heartily recommend it.
A postscript about Bookish Frogs: for those of you who live in Fort Worth, it's a group that meets about every two months for a potluck supper--the food is delicious!--and to hear an author. Once a year there's a dinner, where every member gets a free copy of the press' "big" book from the year before. Interested? Write me at j.alter@tcu.edu. We'll be sending our information shortly after the new year.

The haircut makes the man, an apology, and a word about memoirs

My Australian shepherd, Scooby, got his summer haircut today. He was a shaggy mess, as the "before" picture illustrates. He's a rescue dog and was apparently abused in his early life, so a lot of things scare him--including being groomed. If I try to get those mats and that dead hair out of his rear end, he simply sits down. So my solution is this haircut, which I'm sure is more comfortable in the heat of a Texas summer. But tonight, he's acting a little weird, and I wonder if he feels exposed and naked. I never gave collies a haircut, when I had them, because I heard that those thick coats insulated them against the heat (hard to believe) and that their egos or psyches or whatever would be damaged. But Scoob has had a haircut every summer now for years (he's almost eleven), so he should be used to it.
Apologies to Colin--everyone that I talked to seems to have read the blog that he didn't call for Mother's Day. He called today and said all day yesterday he kept telling himself, "I've got to call Mom," but he didn't get it done. He says we're tit for tat because I didn't call him on his birthday. I can't believe that, because I always remember my kids birthdays and particularly his--he was born on the birthday of my younger sister who died at the age of six months. When I called my folks to say the adoption agency had placed a baby with us born April 22, the first thing Dad said was, "That's Jeannie's birthday." So humble apologies to Colin. He said my transgression was worse because I blogged about him, and I suggested he start a blog. "Nah, we'll just call it even."
My last memoir class at TCU today for the semester. Gosh, those ladies have interesting stories to tell--and a few shady characters lurk in some family trees. As one woman said, "Don't shake my family tree too hard--no telling what you'll get." Several of them seem headed to really exploring some aspects of their family and childhood, and if I've gotten them started in that direction, I'll feel it was a worthwhile course. I'll miss those Monday brown bag lunches with my tuna sandwich. HR may offer it again in the fall, but we have little carryover in that class, so I'll greet a whole new group of women. Whereas the evening class goes on from session to session with the same, oh-so-comfortable group. I'm finding these classes a rewarding part of my retirement.

The House in Madison Park

Last night my memoir class got to talking about the houses they’d grown up in and how you think the house is huge when you’re a child but if you go back as an adult it’s shrunk a great deal. I grew up at 1340 Madison Park in the Kenwood-Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago’s South Side. Madison Park really was a park, three blocks long, with one way streets on each side. On our side, in our east end of the park, were mostly single family homes, though with one huge apartment called the Caverswall. I remember it to this day—very elegant inside. Across the park, the south side was lined with apartment buildings and residential hotels.
Our house was built, so I was always told, in 1893 for the Columbian Exposition. It was a duplex, though nobody knew that term back then. We shared a common wall with the house next door. Ours was red brick, with lovely stone work, a bay window, and a wooden front porch that my dad screened in every summer—it became our summer living/dining room. The house adjoining us was remodeled, totally flat in front, and painted stark white with concrete steps—a stark contrast. The house was narrow—16 feet wide if I remember correctly—with living, dining, and kitchen downstairs, three bedrooms and one bath upstairs, and a half third floor that went from student apartment to junk room to a cozy study for Dad. I guess I always knew it wasn’t big, but I didn’t think about it.
Dad bought the vacant lot next door, and it was a beautiful garden—his avocation. He spent weekends in disreputable clothes, on his knees in the dirt, but the results more than justified his efforts. We used to tell him it was embarrassing when students from the osteopathic college where he was president came by and found him dressed like that, but it didn’t bother my usually proper and quite British father.
In the 1960s, Mom and Dad sold the house and built a lovely home on an acre-and-a-half in Tryon, North Carolina, where they had honeymooned. Probably in 1972, we all went back to Chicago (I was then in Texas and John in Colorado) for a big weekend at the osteopathic college, and we drove to Madison Park and parked across the street. Standing there, I said, “Mom, it looks so tiny.” Her reply? “We didn’t know any better.” By then we had lovely, larger homes.
In the 1990s, a friend and I went back to Chicago for a nostalgic visit, and this time I knocked on the door. The wooden porch was gone, and I looked into the once-beautiful yard at a sea of mud, the garden ruined by dogs. Not one blade of grass.
When we explained who we were, the owner welcomed us and gave us a tour. The lovely marble fireplace had been replaced by a Swedish modern wooden mantel, and the flanking bookcases were gone. Upstairs, the banister had been scratched at by cats so much that it had one long raw dish down the middle. I was amazed at how small the rooms were.
The kitchen was still that kitchen that Mom had remodeled in the 1950s—truly her pride and joy. Now it was shabby. The owner, whose wife was out of town, asked if I wanted to see the basement and some alarm went off. I told him I’d seen enough of the basement when I lived there—it used to flood with stinky sewer water when there were storms and Mom scrubbed it with ammonia. Nancy said she was thinking, “Judy’s not going into the basement with that man, and I’m glad.” They tell us to listen to instinct, and I did.
I wish I hadn’t gone. I would love instead to carry my childhood memories of that house—and pretty much I still do. But Thomas Wolfe had it right. We can’t go home again.

Finding yourself through memoir

My memoir class met tonight for the second session of the spring semester. It simply amazes me how those women have bonded and will share the most personal secrets--sometimes blurting them out, which is what I did tonight. Something we were talking about touched a nerve in me, and I told about an incident I had never ever mentioned to anyone--not my bad, but that of someone close to me at the time. It's wonderful to be in a group where there is such trust--what is said there never leaves that room. And, as Jordan always warns me, "Don't blog about this, but . . . ." and then she proceeds to tell me some tidbit. So, no, I can't share. But take my word--it's fascinating. This much I can share:
One class member recounted a story about a strange woman she met periodically over the years, and she said it was only in the writing that she realized the significance of those meetings and the message she was supposed to get from them. Memoir is indeed a way of discovering yourself. Another woman described her parents' descent into old age, and I suggested I wanted to hear more about her, more about how she felt. We have moved into fiction, and one woman read a part of a short story that was gripping, though she had some things to work on.
The whole time I was leading the class, I was babysitting--sort of. Jacob was in the back watching a DVD, but close to the end of the class he called for me and said he was hungry (I had bought a Lunchable for him that he despised) so Linda and I collaborated on fixing a pbj. He came in to greet the ladies as they arrived and charmed them all. After they left he was through with TV and decided to follow me wherever I went--we had some interesting conversations, but it's no wonder I find myself bone-weary tonight.
I did mention to the class that this morning I heard Diane Rhem interview a woman named Stacy Lannert, author of Redemption, a memoir about her father's sexual abuse of her and her sister and her ultimate act of shooting him, for which she spent time in prison. In the interview she came across as a remarkable woman, charming, open, frank, and dedicated to seeing that no children suffer as she had. I recommend the book highly, even though I haven't read it. It sounds like everything a memoir should be--looking back and making sense out of your own life experiences. That's what I hope I can lead these women to do--and maybe do myself. I'm going to write a piece for next time, though I never read my pieces unless we run out of class material.

Mondays

Somehow, Mondays are catch-up days. This morning I discovered I was almost out of coffee, so I rushed to shower, get dressed, and go buy coffee plus pick up a book at Barnes & Noble that I had ordered. Came home to unload the dishwsher, fold the towels for the apt., and do chores like that. Of course, tonight, when I looked in that cabinet that I had thoroughly scoured this morning, I found a new container of coffee. Always the way.
Taught my memoir class at TCU at noon. It's a hard one. The ladies are really nice and sharing, but they are in the midst of their workday--on Monday, of all days, as one of them said. This is just an hour out of work, and their heads may have a hard time adjusting. We did share some great stories today--one woman wrote a prose poem about the women in her life and demonstated the legacy of strong women she's come from. Her own life made her sound really strong, and I much admired  her writing. She early on tried to drop out of the class because she didn't think her writing would hold up. I encouraged her, and now she's come up with one of the best pieces of the whole session. Today, the women shared stories happily and laughed a lot, though many agreed that most of what they recall about their lives is sad. I asked them to each write six sentences--or bullets--that sum up their life, trying to get them to put the odd bits and pieces  they've been writing into the perspective of a memoir. I think they see this as a writing class in which they should write an entertaining piece, without thought of how it fits into the overall picture of their lives. I stressed again that writing a memoir is about figuring out how you got where you are today, how you became the person you are.
It's amazing how busy I can keep with nothing the rest of the day--e-mails, answering questions for an online interview that I don't know when will appear, figuring out my Christmas list, cleaning off a huge pile on the corner of my desk--sorting pieces of paper and putting them where they belong, many in the trash. It's a good feeling.
Tomorrow is election day. I'll go to the White campaign office and make last-minute phone calls. I remain a bit optimistic in the face of negative polls. White had a good explanation that those are target polls, and in recent weeks I've surely talked to a lot more people who planned to vote for White than Perry.. I think the media gets hold of the polls and makes Perry's re-election a self-fulfilling prophecy. Can you imagine a United States with Rick Perry as president? God help us all. Please vote for Bill White tomorrow--it's important for Texas and for your future and mine.
The promised pictures of the weekend have not appeared. Maybe tomorrow.

Stuff--including more rain

We bought this pillow for Megan thirty-five years

ago or more at a farmer's market. Its survived four children and seven grandchildren, though lately it had begun to lose its stuffing from seams that were coming apart. Such stitchery is not one of my talents, so I took it to a company called Clothes Carpenter where they fixed it for just over $20. I mentioned that its really dirty, but I don't know what to do about that. The woman at the counter said yes, she'd thought about it too, but she had no ideas. Jacob will be delighted to have it back--he likes to put it sidewise behind his head at the end of the bed while he watches TV. I think he thinks its his now--hope his Aunt Megan doesn't want it back.
This morning I got up at eight and turned on the TODAY show as I wandered into the kitchen. They were about to air Matt Lauer's interview with Elizabeth Edwards. Her book, Resilience, has just come out in paper, and she''s added a chapter to the new version about her decision to end her 32-year marriage to John Edwards. So I did what retirement allows you to do--I stopped (okay I did feed the clamoring cat) and watched. Usually the TV is sort of in the background while I go about the morning but I wanted to hear what she had to say. I have enormous admiration for the way she's handled a series of body blows--the death of a child, terminal breast cancer, and the news of her husband's affair, which she gradually figured out was not the one-night stand he'd led her to believe but a long-standing affair that produced a child.She has maintained, at least in public, a grace and dignity, and she still says she married a mrvelous man--he just changed over the years, as people do. We've all seen that in our lives. I was touched beyond words when she said she hoped for eight more years of life so she could be there for her younger children--who of us wants to face, head on, the fact that we may not be here in eight years?
As for John Edwards, she says co-parenting is going well. He is an assistant coach at one of the children's softball games, she goes to the games, and he comes over to talk to her. That they can maintain a camaraderie after all that's happened to them is remarkable, and I admire both of them for that. I'd like to think that in his own way he still loves her but has accepted the consequences of his own actions. Classy lady.
It's raining here again today, after a cool day. We can't complain--rain in the summer is wonderful. But tonight it feel steamy again, even though the temperature is relatively low (in Texas in summer, temperature is always relative--I get so tired of hearing the heat index that I wish they'd never invented or discovered it--it just makes you feel hotter!).
I had a pleasant lunch today with two friends from TCU's Human Resource Department. They both knew I was going home for a nap, so when I said, "Have a great afternoon, ladies," they chorused, "Shut up!" But I actually came home and wrote 2400 words, part of my memoir for the memoir class I teach. I meant to write about parenting but 2400 words never got me past the adoption of my four babies. Meantime my agent is encouraging about getting my short stories on Kindle and sent me some good correspondence he had with a legendary editor about my first mystery--she promises to read it soon.
As usual, life is good.

Feast or Famine

After three days in what I called nunnery solitude, I've had a hectice, people-filled day today--and enjoyed it. Had a 9:30 meeting with the incoming director of the press to review the acquisitions list--and officially turn it over to him. Before that I ran a bunch of Jacob's stuff by Jordan's office, so they can take it with them on a weekend getaway tomorrow, and bought animal food. (I truly believe the man who said the first step towards wealth is not to buy anything you have to feed!)
Got home just in time to go to lunch with friends at the Cat City Grill--having weighed this morning I swore I would have salad or something non-fattening. So I ordered a lobster po-boy--but I didn't eat the bread and only a few waffle fries. There wasn't much lobster, but it as battered and fried. Will I never learn?
Came home to 50 emails that had accumulated while I was gone all morning, so dealt with them, took a nap (so comfy I didn't want to get up). About 5:15 a friend of the press came by to pick up a manuscript he had promised to read, and we had wine on the porch and a good visit. Then I rushed to eat some supper, clean up the porch--well, dust the chairs--and get ready for tonight's "Writing Your Life" class, which is the real subject of this blog.
Two weeks ago I challenged the women to write five pages about any aspect of their lives they wanted, and tonight we talked about how they felt about the experience, what obstacles they encountered, and finally, what they wrote. Three of the women shared their writing-they had brought copies for each member of the class--and we discussed them. Then I asked them to take ten minutes to write what they remembered about something they didn't think they remembered. I do these exercises along with them,and the result was pretty interesting. A couple of women shared theirs--and I hinted at mine, saying it started out in one place and ended up somewhere totally different. What all of us as a group are finding is that tortuous twisted path, where one memory leads to another. We all agree, however, that memoir needs humor--and angst. A combination of both.
Keeping the ball rolling and the conversation going for an hour and a half is exhausting--at least that's what I decided tonight, because I'm really tired. Elizabeth opens each session with a meditation and closes each with a circle--I think the class members really appreciate this. But still it's up to me to make salient comments, encourage discussion, and so on. A lot of stress and brain work, but fun. I found the class satisfying, and several commented on how much they had learned. When Elizabeth has the closing circle, she asks each of us to say one word about how we're feeling. Mine was "intrigued"--others were "interested," "stimulated," "motivated," and the like. I think it was a success.
And thanks to Lisa Wilson who brought some delicious goodies--rolls of cream cheese with pesto or tapenade or pepper jelly, tiny brownies topped with strawberry cream cheese (now there's a great idea!), and wine, of course.

Dreams

I am known for wild dreams that stay with me after I wake. I used to go to the office and recount them. Melinda has never forgotten the time I dreamt that someone had brought a possum to the office, and she went to pick it up and oust it,and it peed on her. She'll still say, "I sure hated being peed on by that possum." I dream often of my parents, more often than I'd like of my ex-husband but almost always in the good days when we were happy. Sometimes generations are juxtaposed in my dreams, and reality intrudes--something that I know is true of the present moment or the day ahead appears in my dream. I remember them for a day or two and then forget.
Once I told Melinda I wrote a complete novel in my dreams. She said, "Quick! Write it down," and I replied, "It wasn't any good." She laughed. "You not only wrote it, you critiqued it!"
All of us have recurring dreams, whether we remember them or not--some of mine are so common as to be boring, such as not knowing where to go for an exam when I haven't been to class all semester. Another one for me is climbing a staircase. I get to the top and can barely push myself over the edge--somehow I never walk up to the top. I've looked these up and decided almost any recurring dream you have relates to childhood insecurity--I don't remember feeling insecure as a child. That came later. So I've lost a bit of faith in dream interpretation sites on the Web.
But last night--or rather this morning--I dreamt that I was climbing a staircase that was very icy. The best I could do was get a foothold, grab the railing, and then push myself up with all my strength, gaining a few feet each time. I looked up and the top was still far away. The friend I was with was way behind me, and strangers were in between, but my friend kept calling, "Sorry, Judy." Well, I woke myself up, because I was really struggling up that staircase in my bed in my sleep. Good thing I sleep alone--anyone in bed with me would have been alarmed, as I was. Scooby, however, didn't seem to notice.
If you saw my post of yesterday on the web and looked for it, I apologize. I woke at 5 a.m. and rushed to delete it. I don't like self-pity, and I had indulged myself in a bit of Mother's Day self-pity. As it turned  out, I had a wonderful evening. Went to Jordan's to share the holiday with the entire Burton family and thoroughly enjoyed myself. The other kids all called, and we had good conversations, so I feel loved as a mother and happy with my lot in the world.And I thought a lot about my own mother and what a strong influence she was on me--teaching me to cook and to laugh, which she often did better than anyone I know. I can see her now with tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks as she recounted stories of her early married life, when all of my uncles were in osteopathic medical school and hijinx seemed the order of the day. I should have gone to the cemetery, but I need Jordan to show me the gravesite--I always get lost.
This morning, before I fell into that climbing dream, I was awake for a while, writing in my mind a chapter in my memoir--I have to keep up with my memoir-writing class. I chose the chapter I titled "Loves, Loving and Lovers" and wrote all I had to say. I may post some of it here, but not all! I'm even uncertain about sharing it with the class--and my kids, oh that's another matter!

Writing class and bad publishing news

Tonight was the first meeting of the Writing Your Life class that I'm facilitating, and Elizabeth (known to the rest of the world as Beth) is helping me with it. Ten ladies joined us on my front porch, and they were a wonderful group--responsive, talkative, interested, some writers, some who had never written a word. Some have such strong backgrounds I'm going to be challenged to make this a rewarding experience for them, but I plan to work at it and work hard. They all have interesting stories to tell and many of us will have to confront the "elephant in the room." My brother once said to me that he has three-oclock-in-the-morning thoughts of, "Oh, I wish I hadn't done that one." We all do, but those are the things we have to look at squarely in order to come to terms with ourselves. The premise of the group is that each member share only as much as she wants, and nothing shared goes beyond the group. But I encouraged each member to be as honest as possible with herself--otherwise, the exploration of self ends up being less than satisfying. I think each of us can learn a lot about ourself if we look at our life honestly. A definition I like: memoir is a record of how we got where we are. They have an assignment to write five pages in the next two weeks, and many moaned they can't do it. I am going to do the assignments myself, but I'm not sure where to begin. It requires some thought--and some time. Like others in the class, I'll have to force myself to do the assignment and not be diverted by other things. But I am on the whole excited about it.
Otherwise the world seemed topsy-turvy today. SMU announced the "suspension" of publishing activities for its press--do they have any idea at all of how hard it is to pick up and rebuild a pubishing program that has been suspended, however briefly? Good friends of mine form the staff at SMU, and I grieve for my friends, for the authors who will be left in limbo--both those published (who will market their books?) and those waiting to be published. But must of all I grieve that a university is so short-sighted as to measure the value of its academic press in dollars and cents. Huge presses like Columbia and Oxford can probably support themselves from income; a small press, publishing eight to ten titles a year can never do so. Yet a press does so much more for a university--bringing it prestige, spreading its name into communities that don't care about football. Who measures athletic programs by dollars and cents?
The groundswell of support for SMU from all over the country has been tremendous. The SMU Faculty Senate passed two resolutions supporting them, and their editorial board is actively up at arms. There's a glimmer of hope that, as editor Kathie Lang says, David will beat Goliath. I cling to that glimmer--it affects not just SMU Press but all of us in academic publishing and all of us who value a good, well-written, beautifully produced book. New York publishing just isn't going to do for the book world what small, academic presses do. Pray with me, folks.