Frequent Flyer

During the first ten weeks of 2014 I’ve made four different journeys; three lasted five days and one lasted eight.  This meant I spent about a third of my time away from home.  I traveled by plane and during January, February, and March we had ongoing intense winter conditions.  For me, air travel plus weather, equals worry. 
My worries were well-grounded.  First trip, Pittsburgh to New York, we had several inches of new snow on the ground as did my daughter whom I planned to visit.  I had an afternoon flight, so woke early to check status.  The morning flights were all cancelled, but beginning with the noonish ones, the schedules reported on time.  I didn’t know if that meant the planes would really fly, or just that the airline hadn’t yet gotten around to cancelling my flight.  Still, I trudged out to the airport, ready to turn around and return home if needed.  But a midday flight actually posted as boarding, so I took that as an omen for my own takeoff, two hours later.  In fact, the only small delay I encountered was a brief stop at the de-icing machine, not something to complain about in such weather.  The return trip was similarly iffy, but I indeed took off and landed on time.  The parkway was wet but clear when I returned to Pittsburgh; my only tricky driving happened at the very end of the trip—the last three miles of afternoon driving through city streets were icy, slushy, slow.

Two weeks later, I visited my other daughter in Los Angeles.  That trip included a six AM departure, thus leaving the house at four in the morning.  Again, the weather gods were dumping on us, and while I wasn’t particularly worried about snow in either LA or my stopover in Phoenix, I did worry about what if my flight got delayed or cancelled?  Would I make it at all? Would I get stuck somewhere?  So travel plus weather plus connecting flights equals more worry equals insomnia.  And there’s not a whole lot of night available to the sleeper who must leave home at four in the morning. 

LA also brought the question of clothing.  New York and Pittsburgh share similar climates, similar weather patterns.  Mostly, Monday's weather in Pittsburgh is Tuesday's in New York,  highly predictable.  But while I could wear my sheepskin boots and puffy down coat eastward, no way would I need those in California.  So I compromised, stashing heavy winter gear in my car so I’d have it for the ride home.  A good plan, as the clouds flung a wintry mix at western Pennsylvania just as I flew home.  A midnight ride home on a clear parkway, but again, muck as I neared my house.  This was getting old.

A conference in Seattle too required an early departure, changing planes, varieties of clothing, insomnia the night before.  By the third trip, I viewed the stop at the de-icing station as just a normal stage in travel.  Likewise, having snow in the ground before takeoff didn’t even seem worth a comment.  That trip routed me through Dulles airport, where the snow was deeper on the ground and thicker in the air than at home.  Why did I have to head east in order to travel west?  It seemed to invite chaos.  But in fact, I was traveling on a frequent flyer award ticket, in first class of all things.  They offer you wine if you’d like it, at six in the morning.  No thanks.  But they also got us to our destination on time with minimal hassle, both westward and eastward.  As in the two previous trips, my last three miles home were slick and slippery, but I felt grateful to be home and safe and on the ground.

In all of my winter’s travel, only one trip included a delay, a family vacation to Colorado.  This trip required no connections, no what ifs?  If we arrived late, we’d have a late dinner, no problem.  Ironically, that trip left late in the day on a sunny afternoon.  No nasty weather to deal with at all.  Instead, as we lined up to board, the pilot entered the terminal and reported mechanical issues.  So they sat us all back down and delayed boarding for an hour.  This trip occurred, just as news was breaking via a TV at the airport gate about a plane that had gone missing enroute to China.  So I was very grateful to the pilot for discovering the mechanical glitch and to the technicians who quickly repaired the problem.  In spite of the mechanical issue, this flight was the least worrisome of all.  Departures and landings happened in warm, dry weather and they served interesting snack packages on board for once. 

On each of my long flights I worked on student papers, alternating with recreational reading.  And each flight got me where I wanted to go without serious incidents.  So now I’m back on the ground, and for the next ten weeks, I’m staying put.  I’ve been a frequent flyer, but I’ve decided something.  My next several trips will be short, local, and primarily on foot.  I have those things, attached to my body—feet.  The wings were borrowed.

Polar What???

This polar vortex thing is really bothering me.  As  writer, I pay close attention to words.  I choose them carefully in my own work and I try to respond appropriately to them in my reading.  So all these predictions of another polar vortex, or a named winter storm, they make me grumble and shiver.  Earlier in my life we had these things called cold spells.  It meant that the thermometer would plunge for several days and we should wear  lots of warm clothing.  Stir up some hot chocolate.  Every winter we had a spell of frigid weather, and if we were lucky, it would coincide with he arrival of spring planting catalogs, which offered a vision of warm days, bright sunshine, fresh garden tomatoes.

Cold weather has not just been recently invented.  The planet has even endured ice ages and glaciers.  For those of us who live in the north, ponds do freeze.  Snow does fall.  But also, spring will arrive.  If you believe in Punxatawney Phil, the Western Pennsylvania amazing marmot, spring will in fact arrive soon this year, as today, February 2 (aka Groundhoug Day) was gray and cloudy.  Not a furry shadow in sight.  But don't put away your mittens just yet...

As a younger woman in graduate school, I once bemoaned the terrible cold of a Boston winter's day.

"Well look at you," one of my classmates said.  "Of course you're cold.  Light jacket, no scarf, no hat, thin gloves.  You need to layer up.  Get some warm stuff."

I stared at her.  She wore a sheepskin coat, thick boots, what appeared to be hand-knitted hat and scarf and mittens.  Her cheeks were ruddy but she also wore a smile.

I followed her advice and learned to dress for that slimy Boston winter weather, snow-changing-to-rain.  I stopped complaining and began to enjoy winter--snowshoes and cross country skis and hikes along frozen rivers.  When time permitted, I even left Boston behind for the colder weather of Maine.  Enjoyed it.

These days I feel like a missionary of sorts, encouraging others to also enjoy this dramatic season.    But naming winter storms as if they're hurricanes, or calling a cold snap a polar vortex doesn't help.  It just encourages people to complain.  And complaining involves mostly hot air, not hot chocolate.  Not nearly so delicious.

Long Time No Blog

Sometimes life gets in the way.  For the past year and a half, I've been AWOL, no news, no blog.  That's not quite right.  In fact there's been too much going on, so I've been preoccupied, mostly by family concerns.  But as they say on some TV show or another, sheee's baaack!  And just as bad news seems to clump up and overwhelm us from time to time, just now I have lots of good news to share.  So I'm starting the New Year off right, with good news times five.   

First, and most exciting, Bear Season has just been released by Autumn House Press.  It's my first book of nonfiction for adults, a series of braided essays about the American black bear.  Why?  I've had a number of bear encounters, some of them fairly close-up and exciting.  And the book is for adults, as some of the content is X-rated.  Yes, bears do get up to mischief, but sadly, we've behaved badly toward them as well, not such good reading for children.  I've had a couple of reading events and will be promoting the book at the AWP Conference (Associated Writing Programs) in Seattle in late February.

My second bit of news is that an old friend has returned.  Family Tree, my first book, is back in print after being out of print for some time.  The current edition, available on Amazon in both print and electronic versions, has a new cover with my young friend Claire as model and my old friend Susan Abrams as illustrator.  The story has been revised only slightly.  In the first version, Tyler, the main character, discovers and plays some music tapes.  In the newer edition, those tapes have morphed into CDs.  Not a lot of change, but it should feel more up to date for today's readers.

Another book has a new face.  In a few days, Up, Down, and Around will be released by Candlewick Press in a brand new, Spanish Language edition.  This story has traveled widely in English, and now gets to venture forth to Spanish readers as Arriba, Abajo y Alrededor.  Fortunately for the book and for readers, the wonderful illustrations by Nadine Bernard Westcott remain the same.

For people who know me well, the next bit of news won't come as a surprise.  I do like to tell people what to do.  Some folks might label that as bossiness.  I prefer to think of it as sharing knowledge, which I do on a regular basis as professor of writing.  Now, two articles of professional advice and writing technique will appear in the 2014  collection produced by The Institute for Children's Literature:  "Secret Weapons in Character Development," and "Avoiding the Passive Voice."

All of these projects have been underway for some time, but it's fun when so many lovely things happen at once.    Sometimes, the good news doesn't even come from one's own efforts, as is the case with the last bit of news.  I now have a new title, a new job description--I'm a Great Aunt.  I hope I've been a great aunt for some time now, or at least a good one, with nephews ranging in age from early thirties down to mid-teens.  But with the arrival of the newest member of the Ayres family, it's official.  I'm a Great Aunt--and he's a little sweetie.  Nothing like a new baby to make the New Year truly joyous.  I hope your year is lovely too.

Is Grandma Disgusting?

Christmas morning. We have mostly opened our gifts and are sitting back, relaxing. From somewhere a word emerges: disgusting. My three-year-old granddaughter repeats the word, a new one for her.

As my older daughter shakes her head, trying to fend off trouble, my younger daughter, wicked gleam in her eye, asks, “Is Grandma disgusting?”

This scientist daughter is the chief contender for the Rascally Aunt position in the family. Not long ago she gave the little one a chicken that squawks. Before that, she gave our son’s children small stuffed toys in the exact anatomical shapes of e coli and halitosis, the bacteria that cause intestinal distress and bad breath, respectively.

Of course the little voice repeats, “Is Grandma disgusting?” Emphasis on the –gust.

I crack up and so does her mother, which makes it difficult to redirect the conversation.

I can’t get too grumpy about this accusation though, even if it weren’t so funny. I’ve studied child development and I know the task of threes: to generate language. To this end, they ask the endless whys, even about things to which they already know the answers. They are driven by curious minds to provoke us adults into spewing forth a gush of words, in the hopes that some interesting ones will emerge—words that sound fun and energetic. Like disgusting—three bouncy syllables, several different consonant and vowel sounds, altogether pleasing to play with.

The room is mostly in laughter at this point. I have tears pouring down my cheeks.
Our son-in-law, sweet man that he is, gathers his daughter into his lap. He will fix this. “Grandma is not disgusting,” he explains. “Grandma loves you. She plays with you and reads you books. That is not disgusting.”

If he stops there, I might recover, but no.

“Disgusting is like when the cat got sick,” he continues. “When she threw up on the rug, that was disgusting.”

I am now completely gone, lost, out of control, belly aching with endless laughter. Those sick cat images… in direct juxtaposition with Grandma. I know this small mind will forever link the two. It’s too much.

And I can’t blame the little one. She is just living up to her potential. Rascally genes run strong in the women in our family. As does the love of words; we all devour books. I am a fiction writer and teacher of writing. Her mother is a teacher and freelances as an editor. Her aunt writes crisp and lucid nonfiction. So of course she will hear and repeat and snare all interesting words in her vicinity. It is her birthright, her heritage. Disgusting? Anything but.

Veggies and More

I was recently interviewed by an online book shop, Little Ones Books, about my picture book Up, Down, and Around. They asked some fun questions, so here's the interview---

Q: What is the main message you want children to get out of your book Up, Down, and Around?

Ayres: Help! No messages! Books are to enjoy. I hope children will get excited about seeing those giant carrots, and oh my goodness, how many ants are there on the pages, and look there's a worm under the ground. The sense of wonder is one of the most precious gifts of childhood and I'm hoping my books appeal to that sense.

Q: What was the most fun aspect of creating and writing UP, Down, and Around?

Ayres: Seeing the art! You write a picture book text and sort of imagine how it might turn out, but once I saw some of Nadine Westcott's sketches I got very excited. The writing wasn't too hard, as there aren't too many words in this book. I did fiddle around with the verbs--climb, vine, twine, wind. That was fun.

Q: What is YOUR favorite vegetable?

Ayres: Tomatoes, hands down. But I had a sort-of rule---I had to like every veggie in the book. When I was a small child I was a very picky eater, so corn and tomatoes and potatoes were about my only veggies, but these days, I love lots of them. You didn't ask about a least favorite veggie. I'll answer that anyway---brussels sprouts---bleah! But they're my dad's favorite. All our tongues get to make up their own minds about what tastes good.

Q: Do you personally have a garden?

Ayres: I love to play in the dirt. I grow mostly flowers and flowering shrubs. We have two houses, so I'm not in one place all summer at the present time. If I planted veggies in Massachusetts, by the time they ripened, I'd be back in Pittsburgh. So the bunnies and the deer and the bears would eat them all. I do plant herbs in a big pot by the back door. That's it for now. Oh, and my smallest granddaughter likes to eat my begonias. Does that count?

Q: What has been the most rewarding experience you've had of a child with this book?

Ayres: I love it when kids dance to the story. Probably the most amazing moment came while on tour for the Pennsylvania One Book (Every Young Child) when an entire library full of kindergarten children (300 of them) sang my story to me. Wow!

Q: Is there anything you would change about Up, Down, and Around now that its been out for awhile?

Ayres: No. To me, it's yummy, just as it is.

Foxy Thoughts

Some say you can’t go home again—that any attempt to recreate a beloved moment in the past is doomed to fail. I agree and at the same time, disagree. Last summer I took a group of students on a travel course to the Maritime Provinces of Canada, an extraordinary two weeks. My only regret was that I hadn’t somehow made the trip with my husband, as one or two particular spots seemed to have his name inscribed on them.

This summer, we took that chance and repeated a section of the journey—traveling The Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. In my husband’s words the night we arrived, “…there’s something about Cape Breton. It makes you relax whether you want to or not.” I was relieved then, and even more so as the days passed and he kept remarking on the natural beauty of the island, the politeness and friendliness of the people. Oh, and we had to eat fresh-off-the-boat-seafood every night. We both loved every minute—I had guessed right.

The key to returning is not to attempt a re-creation, but rather to design a brand new experience. Yes, you might revisit some much-admired locales but add others as well. While we retraced my previous summer’s steps along the Skyline and Middle Head Trails, we added a round of golf. (Great scenery, lousy golf scores, but who cared?) We experienced the same mild, sunny weather, but also added a new destination to the trip, so that I too would have fresh sights and novel experiences. The fortress at Louisbourg allowed us to visit, at least in the imagination, an eighteenth century French military community, and even eat lunch from a menu that might have existed in that time. (We had oversized napkins tied about our necks and were only given a spoon—forks were for the fancy folk back then.) And while we saw moose on the Skyline Trail as I had the summer before (the same large rack of antlers—the same moose?) we did not go searching for whales. Instead , we discovered a fox, waiting for us at the Louisbourg Lighthouse (or she discovered us). Now my husband wants to return yet again—there’s much of Nova Scotia that we haven’t yet seen…

Whose Tree?

About two weeks ago, a massive storm hit the Berkshires in western Massachusetts. Six trees went down in our yard that night, including one spectacular white pine nearly a hundred feet tall that stood sentinel at the edge between yard and wetland. Some called the wind a micro-burst; some called it a tornado. I call it terrifying when the winds reach a speed that produces a high pitched, singing sound. I wanted to hide.

The next morning I surveyed the damage and took pictures, which I then sent to various family and friends. My older daughter was first to reply: “That’s Rob’s tree isn’t it? He’ll be so sad.” Rob is a painter and has painted landscapes, which include that tree, so yes, he has a claim. In my reply, however, I mentioned that I thought it was my husband’s tree, as he was the one who climbed up with a ladder to remove dead branches and stubs, to give the tree its particularly graceful shape. My younger daughter then weighed in: “That was our tree. The tree we were looking at when we got married. And now it’s gone!” I reminded her that she has the painting made of that tree during the week of the wedding. I also mentioned that it is now a unique wedding, as nobody else can ever be married in front of that tree again. She’s a botanist, a plantswoman who understands the cycle of growth and decay. She laughed.

A couple of days later I had the occasion to speak with the previous owner of our house and with her daughter. They were both sorry to see the big old tree down, and the daughter shook her head. “That was the tree-house tree.” So even before our family grew attached to the old white pine, another family had claimed and loved it.

About a week after the storm, our son and his family came to visit. The youngest grandson was very excited to see such an enormous tree lying on the ground; its root-ball rose more than twenty feet into the air which is pretty tall for a six-year-old. It wasn’t exactly lying on the ground, however. It was lying on (squashing) one of my favorite gardens. My daughter-in-law took one look and said, “Oh no! It fell on our garden!” And indeed it had, for that garden was planted by the women and children in the family several years ago.

So yes, we’re all sorry to see such a majestic tree come to the end of its life. And a part of me worries what we’ll find when the trunk is lifted off—how much of the garden will survive? But I can’t worry too much. No people, no buildings, no cars were harmed in the treefall. And plants have strong roots. They can sustain injury and re-grow.

So whose tree was it really? It belonged to all of us. And now, as the slow process of decay begins, as it is hauled off to be ground into mulch, it will return to the earth from which it sprung. A good long life, for a beautiful tree.

Books and Berries

Summer—the first image that comes to mind is a strawberry. When I was very tiny—six or seven months old—my grandfather brought me in from his garden with red juice dripping from my small pudgy chin. My mother was appalled. “You didn’t feed that baby strawberries did you?” “No. No, of course not.” But of course he had. And I’ve loved strawberries ever since.

As I grew a bit older, I discovered what would become my favorite picture book—The Poky Little Puppy. I enjoyed it because the puppies were such rascals. They misbehaved and disobeyed and got scolded. As a small child surrounded by adults, I too often got scolded, so those puppies were my friends. In one of their romps into the wide, wide world, the poky little puppy puts his nose down into the green grass and discovers a red, ripe strawberry. Their mother makes strawberry shortcake for dessert. Yum.

Fast forward many years and I became a mom myself with two rascally daughters. I must have passed along the love of strawberries, because my older daughter loved them. But my younger daughter simply vacuumed them up, not stopping to pull off the leaves. She just gobbled them, leaves, stem, fruit and all, not stopping until every berry disappeared. If we wanted to have any for guests, we had to hide them.

Now, I’m a grandmother and again, the grandchildren mostly love strawberries. The youngest one however, has even more in common with Grandma Kathy. Last summer I began sharing The Poky Little Puppy with her and for a spell it became her favorite book. At not quite two, she could recite the story by heart and turn the pages at the right times. That summer too, we prowled my back garden and there, in the green grass and between some of my flowers, wild strawberry plants were growing with those red, ripe strawberries, warm and sweet from the sun. The wild berries are tiny, no bigger than the tip of a pinkie finger. We picked them and ate them right off the stems. When they were gone, she begged for more, but we’d eaten them all.

“That’s all,” her mother said. And little E began to cry. Later when days passed and more berries ripened, my daughter used naptime to collect small cups of strawberries and wild blackberries for the family. Of course the little one gobbled hers up right away. Then she carried a cup inside for her daddy, but once she’d showed him the berries, she ate his too. Nice to know this berry trait is moving along strongly through the family.

Now it’s spring again and the world is greening again. Just the other day little E visited the park across from her house in New York. She bent down and quoted from the book, the part about there in the green grass was a red ripe strawberry. But no, not in a busy New York playground/park. Wishful thinking on her part.

But in a few weeks, when the sun shines bright enough and the days are warm enough, there in the green grass, we’ll find more red ripe strawberries. Like the poky little puppy, maybe we’ll have strawberry shortcake for dessert. And during naptime, or when our visit is over, this Grandma will sit with her computer and mess about with words and sentences, building a new story or two. I’ll also read and read. Books and berries. The perfect way to spend a summer. Don’t you agree?

Princess Thoughts

My first Prince was really a King. I was six years old, a first grader. Small town Ohio loves its football, so Homecoming was a major celebration. In the usual way of things, there was a Homecoming Queen and King, both seniors, with attendants from all the other high school classes. And then there was me, in full fancy dress—with a green shiny pillow to match my long green shiny dress—and I got to carry the Queen’s crown.

I was probably cute enough, but I’m sure I was chosen because my father was something of a town celebrity—the young, fun pastor who had a good rapport with the kids. He and my mother would be chaperones for the Senior Trip later that year—so they were surely better known than I was. But for me, this was a major Princess event. Long dress, a parade. And of course I was completely in love with the King. In my little girl mind, he was my King. I wasn’t simply the crown bearer, but the Queen herself. Royalty. Ruler of the Known Universe. I somehow simply erased the real Queen from my mind.

All of this comes to mind as we watch and enjoy the spectacle of a royal wedding. A real Prince and a real Princess—with plenty of smiles and it seems, a sense of humor. In this country, we’ve mostly left royalty behind, unless you count rock stars and sports heroes. But we do enjoy that Prince and Princess moment. Long dresses. Crowns. Fancy coaches. And a moment to dream, imagine, remember, the royal moments of our own.

DECEMBRRRRR

Three days in, and December has tromped on the last of my flowers and spread its chill everywhere, including a thin crust of snow that crunches underfoot. It reminds me of two old nursery rhymes I rediscovered in a museum in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island this summer, in a display of weather-related collages. Both rhymes are English and quite old.

The first, is usually titled either The North Wind Doth Blow or The Robin:

The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

Whether the Weather is more of a tongue-twister but also fun:

Whether the weather be fine,
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold,
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not!

School Shoes

I’ve been neglecting the blog for a couple of months, so am trying to make up for it. Please pretend this is being entered in September. If it helps with the pretending, you might like to know I was thinking and talking about this idea in September. Just didn’t get to write it down. A recently graduated student commented on how odd it seemed not to be starting school in September—for the first time since early childhood. I could connect with that sensation. For a few Septembers, due to family events or job changes I too hadn’t started school and as a result felt myself adrift. No new outfits, no new school shoes. It felt way too weird, so I decided to go ahead and get the new school shoes anyway. I’d wear them out with friends or to a restaurant or a concert. So while classes didn’t always start, I was prepared, refreshed and ready for whatever might come my way when the (school) year got off to its official start. I finally did have lunch with two of these recent graduates. We all wore fun shoes or boots…so the fall is officially a success.

Ruby Slippers

A week in Kansas and no ruby slippers—no tornados either, so I guess I didn’t need the slippers. The trip was intense—fifteen events with children and the state is large. Many miles between locations. My assignment on this trip was to promote early literacy through the Kansas Reads to Preschoolers program. I was fortunate to have UP DOWN & AROUND chosen as the 2010 book and during the week I was there they hoped to share the story with more than 100,000 children across the state. I probably read (and sang) with about 1000 little ones. Kansas has been kind to me and my writing since the very start. My first book, Family Tree, was nominated for a William Allen White readers’ choice award when it first came out. Highlights of this trip? Staying at the Boot Hill B & B in the Annie Oakley suite. (When I was small I wanted to be Annie Oakley.) And staying in a B & B constructed from an 1800s barn. I particularly enjoyed the little girl who, when I talked about good eating and growing big, said, “I’m not big, I’m widdew.” Or the boy who saw the book cover and kept saying, “That’s a punkin patch. That’s a punkin patch.” Or especially my visit with two former students, now married, and meeting the first Chatham MFA baby, little Liam. A lovely, huggable, lapful. A great trip all around, Toto.

A Whale of a Trip

One of the absolute joys of the teaching life is having the opportunity to learn and grow along with one's students. Sometimes it is a small moment — a new book discovered or a new way of seeing an old favorite. Traveling through Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island with a group of graduate students is no small moment — it is an explosion of sensation as rich and nurturing as the krill that flourish in these marshes and estuaries. We sing everywhere — in the van, on boats, as we walk the beach or city sidewalks. Our laughing muscles hurt and yet the writing that is shared is thoughtful, profound, moving.

Which is the best moment? Seeing the glacier-scored rocks at Peggy’s cove, or hearing the story of Peggy—a child pulled from the wreckage of a downed schooner? Or seeing the graves of Titanic victims—some unnamed—who were not rescued in time?

I feel dwarfed by the work of Alexander Graham Bell—and then awed by the bald eagle, Alex, who circles our boat near this wise man’s Cape Breton home. To say nothing of seeing (in just two days) two moose and more whales than I can count.

The sea is all around us here—it salts my skin, sings me to sleep at night, carries me back in time to my childhood on the beach. So is this the best? High on the list, a moonlight paddle across a glassy lake then spending the night in a tipi on the shore.

And through it all—day by day—watching these lovely people stretch, grow, explore, take risks. There is no one best moment, for there are so many brilliant ones. Instead, for me, the mix of writing and teaching is simply the best life.

Here is a poem I wrote while on the trip —

yellow

yellow bathtub in peaty brown water

currents, wind whip up

waves smack the boat bottom

a drumbeat tattoo

in my ears I am an ocean-going tug —

a pilot boat

a zodiac bounding from froth to froth

in truth I am a small woman

on a small plastic boat

upon a small placid lake

but the moment is infinite

Dog Dog Teeth

I’ve been spending several weeks in the country, digging in the garden and reading fun books. A lot of the time, I’m by myself, talking back to the birds who chirp down or grumbling at the bunnies who love to eat my Echinacea plants. Then people arrive on the scene, often in goodly numbers and it’s party time.

My most recent party time included a week-long visit with my daughter and her 21-month-old daughter, pictured above painting au natural. Little E is bursting into speech, abbreviating the language into bits and nibbles that convey her meanings with both joy and humor. And while she chats all the time, she mostly uses one or two word phrases—not yet full sentences. When she latches on to a new word, it becomes the word of the day and gets endless repeats. One day the word was Ma-Ma, her word for me. I slurped up all those lovely syllables and rewarded her with hugs and snuggles. Another day the word was fluffy, for she woke with wild hair, curling every which way and I said she was fluffy. So that day everything became fluffy.

My favorite of her expressions however takes a little explaining. Her mother has a delightful sense of humor and whimsy. The little one is in love with dogs, and so as her canine teeth are about to erupt from her gums, Mom explains that those are her dog teeth. My daughter is sure the baby will enjoy those teeth in particular because it will connect somehow with her doggy friends. Little E makes the phrase unique, for they are not canines, nor dog teeth, but dog-dog teeth. A three word phrase that always comes with a smile.

I drove them home and returned yesterday, again solitary, talking to the birds and bunnies. I spent the first half day feeling lonely and pathetic so I wallowed in it and did chores and put away bunches of toys. But this morning dawned crisp, cool and sunny and the garden beckoned. As I dug and transplanted and pruned, I kept seeing her covered in paint and hearing that chirpy little-girl voice in my ear, giggling Ma-Ma, fluffy and dog-dog teeth. I’m not sure if or when my grown-up vocabulary will return…

Birthdays and Baby Feet

Last weekend I participated in a birthday celebration--the Pennsylvania One Book (Every Young Child) was celebrating its fifth birthday, with a gathering of the authors or illustrators of all five books. What a delight! I've often felt that I live a privileged life--the people I get to hang out with much of the time are readers and writers, librarians and teachers, children, and gardeners.

The One Book creators were no exception. Folks who grow, nurture and support--whether children or plants--are generally kind, helpful, cheery, easy to be with. This crew included a number of illustrators and it was much fun to hear about their work and process, which is different in many ways from mine. I play with words; they play with images. I listen for the ways the sounds fit together; they explore color and line and shape. Together, although from our separate desks most often, we work to create a seamless and beautiful story. Cooperation at a distance.

I also met a fledgling writer last week. While visiting a school and presenting an assembly, I modeled some activities around using the five senses, then invited the children to explore their shirts with just their fingertips. I heard comments such as soft, very soft, a little scratchy. Then from the first grade rows, a little boy said, in a clear, loud voice: "my shirt is soft as baby feet." This boy is already a wordsmith--he makes images that sing. And he's only six or seven. It makes me wonder what tales he'll be spinning when he gets bigger...

Heroes

When I’m out visiting schools, as I have been frequently this spring, children often ask who are my heroes. I think teachers ask them that question, frequently, and when they have a captive adult they like to turn the tables, toss it back. I find the question difficult to answer. At first I consider famous people—George Washington or Mother Theresa. But they’re too far away in time or space to be quite real for me. So my mind turns to folks closer at hand.

Living in Pittsburgh, it would be natural to select a sports hero. We have many to choose from. But although I enjoy sports, I don’t tend to lionize athletes. Or politicians or movie stars. Fame and glitz aren’t high on my list. Instead, I try to think, who has made a difference? Who has done something that really matters?

Joan Friedberg and Betty Siegal are two smart women with a good idea. And the energy to carry that idea into action. It’s a simple idea, really. If you start connecting children with books from the earliest months and years of life, they will grow up strong and healthy. Joan and Betty are the organizers of Pittsburgh's premier Early Childhood Literacy organization, Beginning with Books. These women are real heroes—their good idea has impacted and improved the lives of hundreds of children and families all over western Pennsylvania.

I have been notified that I am to receive the second annual Friedberg Siegal Champion of Literacy Award. To receive an award named after Joan and Betty is, in the words of my granddaughter, awesome. In my own words, it is humbling as well. I will have to do some serious stretching to measure up.

Breaking Records

And just when I was complaining about January, February hit. In Pittsburgh, we're inches away from breaking all records for the snowiest month since they started keeping track. This photo shows my street after only the first two days. That was about 21 inches, 13 days ago. We're at 38 inches today and it shows no sign of stopping or melting. Around town, electricity has been iffy, traffic has snarled into gridlock, roofs are collapsing. Down the street, a water pipe burst this morning. We haven't seen a snowplow on the street yet and probably won't. But we have seen folks on cross-country skis, and grrr. My skis are in Massachusetts as are the brand new snowshoes. Excellent timing.

In fact, it has been an excellent time. Hot soup with neighbors after shoveling, walks to the nearby market for supplies, hiking to campus for meetings with students, walking out at night to a nearby restaurant for an Italian dinner, all beautiful on foot. I didn't touch my car for 11 days and I really didn't miss it. Without all the usual distractions of outings and meetings and classes did cabin fever set in? Sure, a little bit. But there's a quick remedy for that--piling on the snow gear and going outside to enjoy the crisp cold air, the sculptural trees, the odd piles of snow on roofs.

For a writer, such a spell of quiet isolation is golden. When working forward in a manuscript, I try to compose one new chapter a day. Most days, I succeed. But during the past several days, I've averaged two chapters per day, occasionally more. I've also helped a writer friend (within walking distance) complete final edits on a manuscript and given feedback to others more distant via email. It is easy to let distractions rule one's life and when they disappear for a while, the day seems to grow extra hours. This is not to say I won't welcome tomorrow's meeting with colleagues at the university, for I will. You can spend only so much time in conversation with the made-up people in your fiction before turning loopy. Balance is all. And warm boots...

Snow and Chocolate

Twenty-ten. Late last December I yearned for the new year and without realizing it, was also waiting for a new decade. Then it arrived. We ushered in twenty-ten with family in New England. Playing games by the fireside. Enjoying our youngest grandbaby. A few moments before midnight, our daughter remarked that oops, nobody had thought to bring funny glasses or party hats. This set us off in a flurry of catching up. With five minutes to go, she created strange additions (from a child's puzzle) to her glasses frames while I grabbed a pile of newspapers and began folding. I should have sent someone off for the masking tape, but no time, no time. When the year turned over, it found us with semi-folded newspapers on our heads and riotous laughter shaking our bodies. To the onlooker, surely these people were missing a few essential nuts and bolts.

We returned home to Pittsburgh with a warning about lake effect snow, which caused us to travel a more southerly route. Once home, it snowed and snowed and snowed. Every day for thirteen straight days, snow fell in Western Pennsylvania. We never got a big pile, just an inch or so. I'd wake up to covered walkways and grab the broom, but by afternoon, I needed to sweep again. Somehow, this gradual, grey, small flurry and flake storm accumulated to more than a foot on the patio table. Creeping, sneaky.

There was nothing slow or gradual about what came next in this new year. Haiti was shaken, broken, devastated. In seconds the built landscape flattened, burying homes, roads, and most tragically thousands of people. The actual numbers are not known, will never be known. And that uncertainty must haunt the survivors. Did friends, family, neighbors, children survive? And if they died, where, how, how painfully? Will supplies ever arrive? Will I have a roof before the rains come? Will aid come in time to help heal the wounded? How many more will die? In the midst of such enormous disaster, we in Pittsburgh witnessed a small miracle--the evacuation of 54 orphaned children, already in process of joining new families when the quake struck. From farther away we read of survivors rescued after more than a week of entrapment. Tiny flickers and flares of hope amidst the ruins.

It felt odd, then, to travel to Hershey PA for a weekend library event. To visit Chocolate City, where they give you a candy bar as you check into your hotel, while in the Caribbean, people were desperate for food and water. Odd to spend an hour watching our two small grandsons splash in a large indoor swimming pool while some people can't find a drop of clean water. Odder still to sit in that hotel lobby and watch 60 beauty queens from all over Pennsylvania vie for the title of Miss Grange of Pennsylvania. Lovely girls, in beautiful dresses with proud parents and grandparents cheering them on. While in Haiti, families mourn their losses, scramble for a shirt, for shoes. And yet this too is a flicker of hope--a promise that young people will continue to grow and survive despite the challenges that surround them.

As we reach our hands into our pockets to aid and support the thousands in crisis, those same hands can applaud the proud moments of strong young women in triumph. Our hands, our hearts, these are versatile tools--and it is our task to use them well, to stretch and grow them and use them in all sorts of ways--to dry tears, to fan flickers of hope into flame, to sweep snow, to unwrap chocolate.

Fast Away …

It is officially winter. As I look out the windows, the first snow of the season lingers. It clings to tree branches, covers roofs, frosts the fence tops. It makes me wonder if the clouds and sky conspired to wash away the grime and prepare for a new year. Familiar words float into mind—fast away the old year passes…

Some years, I’m not ready to say goodbye to the old year, whether because I’m feeling too rushed, or I sense that life in general is passing by too quickly. Some years, I want the nearly-ended year to linger like this snow has, to stay with me awhile longer.

This year, I’m celebrating. Fast away? Yes. Please. Fa, la. While 2009 has had some lovely moments, it’s also been extremely challenging. So I’d like a fresh, new year, please. Clean and unspoiled like a snow-covered meadow. This year has required of me one, very difficult task: learning patience. And patience is not one of my natural assets.

I’ve experienced some eye trouble—retinal bleeding. The cause is known and not particularly dangerous in my case but the effects have been difficult. Most particularly, I have not been able to see with my left eye since August. Slowly, very slowly, the blood begins to clear and peeps of the world sneak through. Therefore the patience… In the meantime, I’ve had to adjust to a narrowed view of the world and have had to learn how not to bump into things.
Because I’m a writer, when I struggle with something, I often put words down, to try to understand, or if not understand, then simply dump out the frustration. Here’s a poem I wrote when the trouble first began.

So as the old year passes, here are my resolutions: hail the new, fresh beginnings, more snow. Look out at the world in wonder, both eyes wide. Exercise patience. Write more poems. Cheers for 2010.

one-eyed cat

one-eyed cat prowls the backyard

tawny—marmalade you might say

if you didn’t look closely—

but she is no creature

of orange rind and sugar

no sweet, sticky syrup

orange but rough

the ruined eye

hides behind diagonal scars

k

she’s torn one ear

same fight or another?

I presume multiple fights

multiple scars hidden

beneath fur

I know when she’s visited

trail of feathers, emptied eggshells

uneaten yellow feet

I watch her move—slinking, shadowy—

until she pounces—

feline grace on all four paws

extra balance in the gift of a tail

k

last Sunday I had eye surgeries

with cryo and laser and I am now that

one-eyed cat

I stumble, stagger in my own shadows

want it back—feline grace

four sure certain paws

the gift of a tail

Refreshed!

I have a new website! Hooray! Please visit and check it out, especially the surprises andwhat's new pages. Lots of news.

www.katherineayres.com

And speaking of news... what's it like to see yourself in the newspaper? One of my local papers, The Pittsburgh Tribune Review, interviewed me and ran a full page in their magazine section, complete with pictures. Answering all the questions took a while, but some were really easy--at least half the questions seemed to have something to do with TV shows and I don't watch TV, so just kept replying nope, nope, nope. If you want to see what said yes to, check it out. Here's the link: http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/pittsburghtrib/ae/books/s_652703.html