Nebraska Notes - #5 Leaving

The eight days of lectures, writing assignments, evaluations, and readings of poetry, prose and a blue harmonica concert one rainy evening have filled my jellied brain to overflowing. It’s time to put it all to work back home in my garage office refuge, my silent place to fill pages or, at least to appear to fill pages while my dogs nap until they decide it is time for me to pay attention to them. Isn’t that why us humans exist—to pet, feed and walk these creatures we anthropomorphize?

My journey home started Saturday morning with the van which picked me up four minutes early despite the fact that it first whizzed by me while I sat at the entrance to the dorm building. I was engrossed in one of the memoir books I acquired during my stay.

The fifty some miles of space between Lincoln and Omaha (from which my plane will fly me back to Memphis), is split by the ribbon Interstate 80. It’s a lush space this morning as the sun ray’s beat down upon the verdant rolling fields of corn and soybeans.

It’s an ideal time to travel here because the spring storms bring unrepentant rains that pelt the seeded black dirt fields and tornado producing storms rip through the homes and hearts of this state’s inhabitants. Then the winter winds rip across these plains through the grayness of winter dumping snow and sleet upon the plowed under fields littered with harvest remains. This short time, the time in between these extremes, is the green time, the Willa Cather time, the time to be in Nebraska. The horizon is a sharp blue, dotted with puffy and whiskered clouds that spread across the miles of farm land. The sun is cool in the morning and in the evening, but can be piercing hot at its height in the day. It is not a heat that makes you closet yourself indoors. Rather, it is a dry heat, cooled by shade tree that beckons you to be there with it, outside to become part of its being. It is magnificent and as I travel through this space this morning at this time of year, I feel the attachment its people have to Nebraska and its passion for outdoor college baseball and football, both played in expansive open air stadiums.

I arrive at the airport, check my bag with a chatty airline customer service representative and navigate safely through the TSA security center in time to get in line for a desperately needed dark roast coffee to awaken my brain cells that were numbed by a restless night’s sleep. I’m lucky, I say to myself. The line is short. Ahead of me is only one man—in his 60’s most likely, baggy khaki shorts, wrinkled ochre polo shirt and white sensible Velcro-closing walking shoes and socks. He asks for the largest cup possible. He frowns and complains to the cashier about the size of the cup she offers, but smiles and gives her a jolly “I’ll take it” when she promises that he is welcome to all the free refills he can drink. Satisfied with her promise, he dumps a pile of nickels, dimes and pennies from a stained and worn athletic sock which he has placed on the counter. Stooped, looking intently over his glasses, he determinedly counts out the $1.93 “Let see here, 10, 20, 30….and 1, 2, 3. There you are young lady,” he says to the woman as he pushes the coins across the counter. He then scoops up the remaining coins, returning them to his sock, which he carries away along with his paper coffee cup.



I quickly give the woman who has apologized for this man’s behavior with her eyes two one dollar bills for my sacred paper coffee cup. I, the more traditional traveler, use my wallet, and not my sock to hold my money. I wonder what this man would do in a NYC deli. His waiter would have a memorable story to take to her acting class that evening.

Nebraska Notes #4 Homework

My manuscript consultation today with a NY agent went well. She liked my my writing (clear, easy to follow and visual) and the story (women's lit, adventure, action based). My first chapter needs rewriting -- more story through action and dialogue just like the rest of the work. I agreed. the great news is she wants to read it again and will consider it for her list. I'm thrilled!

It's a small agency in New York, woman owned, who are well respected This agent has only four years in the agent business so she has the energy and commitment to work with a debut author (someone she can develop through multiple books) -- women's commercial and literary fiction is one of her areas of specialty.

I'm exhausted from listening and learning and have homework tonight. Harley Jane Kozak (http://www.harleyjanekozak.com/home.html) is fabulous as a commerical writing teacher. we'll be reading out loud tomorrow. that should be very interesting. My 10 classmates are great, one man in particular -- is a Costa Rican mathematician and physicist loiving in Atlanta who writes poetry in Spanish and wants to move into writing fiction in English. He even looks the role!!

Learning a bunch about format and structure. It'll should my writing so much easier.
More later in the week.

Nebraska Notes #3 - A refreshing first day

With 12 other writers of various ages, genre interests and skills, I spent the first day of a two day workshop with a New York City based publicist and agent totally absorbed in their real world lessons. It was refreshing and delightful to learn that my years of doing business have prepared me for writing engaging query letters and elevator speeches. An old dog like myself (and many of the other participants I'm pleased to say) can modify old tricks to work in new environments!

The leisurely pace of the sessions leave plenty of time for reflection and talk. I woke early, bursted in the crisp morning air, and quietly sipped coffee while scanning the local newspaper.

It was fun. It was exciting talking about my work and listening to what others are doing, along with their struggles and successes. It's amazing how many writer's don't know how to write a short business letter. And, most importantly, it was hopeful, as the agent requested privately after the the session for me to send her the first three chapters of my book as soon as possible. Lesson learned: Speaking up pays off!

My suitemate tonight is a delightful woman, Kathy, from Omaha. Over steaks and libations we shared our life stories and enjoyed a walk in the breezy evening air. Between her stories of husband, career and two kids and my "retirement" turmoil in Memphis, we laughed are way through the evening. Conclusion: Women should rule the world!

Nebraska Notes #2 First Impressions

It's warm, but dry and breezy out here in the prairie plains. I sit in my dorm room looking out the window watching young men play soccer on lush green fields--the Vine Street Fields--as the setting sun casts long shadows. I am literally back in school which appears much improved since I last time I had a dorm room from fall of 1965 through spring 1967. It's a shared suite, not a shared room. It's carpeted with a living room, full kitchen, four bedrooms, two bathrooms and two wash stands. I'll have two other suite mates by Sunday night. It's the poor man's version of the Embassy Suites--tidy, clean with pleasant front desk folks, but rooms are sans the TV, radio, hangers, hair dryer, kitchen dishes and cute bath and shower samples. A monk would consider it quite acceptable and so do I as I wanted to be somewhere with few distractions. (You all who know me can get up off the floor after fainting!)

To get to this cornhusker place of learning (University of Nebraska), I flew into Omaha then took a transport van to Lincoln. There's 50 miles of rolling hills and farms between the two cities. The van driver, a retired high school teacher from this area, explained that although they did not get the floods like Iowa did this last week, they did get a raft of tornadoes, some of which came right down interstate route 80 (the road we were on). That helped me remember why I left the mid-west.

The van arrived too late for me to catch dinner at the commissary (I'm on a dirt cheap meal plan) so I donned my sneaks and walked the six blocks to down town for something to eat. It's amazing how many bars can fit in a couple of city blocks. Guess the no alcohol on campus rule has something to do with it. My choice was a bar that served a thousand kinds of beer and quite passable pizza. My white "Northern" with onion and sausage was thin crusted and crisp, but not burnt. The sausage did resemble "small bite" dog food pellets, but was fennel seasoned just the way I like it. Two slices and my summer cocktail of vodka and tonic soothed my growling tummy.

It's time to settle in for the night. I've got my iPod and iMotion station, Internet NPR set up for morning, and my Timex stop watch for an alarm clock. Just need to plug in my cell phone to get it charged up and turn off the lap top. AHHHHH, nothing like bare bones living!

Survival Scribblings #1 - 84 Steps

I've been under the command of a personal trainer for two months now. I've been a good girl, following her orders, and she has let me live numerous times when I whined or resisted, so I'm starting to see progress. This 60-something body is beginning to resemble the 40-something body I remember nostalgically. I'm actually stronger and the fat around my middle has almost been replaced with decent ab muscle. I'm encouraged sufficiently to start watching what I eat and drink, so maybe, just maybe, I'll loose the five pounds I've been failing to loose for four years.

You'd think that twice the week "attack the fat and build the muscle" routine would be enough, but, in my effort to achieve perfection, I asked myself why not do more? The answer is simple, I can't afford more of her time, so she suggested a supplement--burst training.

Instead of running in 100 degree heat for a 30 to 60 minutes (how boring is that!?) , I've found bursting to be a quick and clean way to physical agony. The idea is to increase my metabolism by exercising in short intervals (20 – 60 seconds) at a high intensity to create a demand for oxygen. After five rounds of bursts and equal rests, I am still conscious and pleased that my body will repay that debt of oxygen by burning extra calories throughout the day.

Before I could start my bursts, I did what every serious exerciser does--I bought a new toy to help me. It's an old fashioned, big as your hand, Timex stop watch. I love it. Three times a week on the days when I don't have my training class, I burst up the 84 steps from the river park to our bluff (I actually do live on "the bluffs" of Memphis; in fact, Memphis is called "Bluff City" just as Baltimore is called "Charm City", but that's digression). Each step is a block of unforgiving blue and gray speckled granite that is just the perfect riser height to cause me to fall all over myself with too many little racing steps. The alternative is to lope up them two at a time, sending stabbing "burn" pains up my now meaty thighs. My solution is to create a dance of some loping and some race stepping. Just call me the exercise choreographer!

When I first bursted it took 33-35 seconds to ascend those 84 and almost two minutes to recover as I stumbled down them clutching the railing for dear life. After two weeks, I now proudly tell you that I complete each burst in 28-31 seconds and only take a minute to recover as I skip down the stairs without the clutching the railing (well, almost). I consider that progress. However, by the end of five burst rounds, I still make funny noises as I try to recover my sanity. John and the dogs sit on a park bench at the top of the stairs cheering me on and wondering when I will come to my senses.

Nebraska Notes - Preparation

This week I'm preparing for my first writer's conference: The Nebraska Summer Writer's Conference. It starts with two days of panels and lectures on the publishing business and then morphs into five days of the writing workshop "Dostoevsky It Ain't". Sometime during the week I also get an agent consultation on my book.

I've got home work to finish before I fly out Friday. The agent consultation required me to send the first five pages and a two page synopsis. Being a person of many words, I used 10 point type and narrow margins, but I got it done and sent it off several weeks ago. For the writing workshop, I was told to select a favorite book from my "genre", reread it and write a chapter by chapter summary. I have no idea what my genre is yet, except to say I like writing about women, relationships and their associated adventures. (A murder writer I'm not--at least not yet). I chose The Hours by Michael Cunningham. The stories of three women from three eras (1920's, 1950's, and 1990's) are interwoven through books and relationships using language that leaves me breathless every time I read this short book. I could never bring myself to watch the film as it would be impossible to capture the warp of his words. The workshop instructor also wants me to bring five pages of "something" I'm working on (copies for everyone in the class as well). I was going to bring something from my new effort, but may fall back on On the Hook. Can't decide.

I'm intimidated that other writers will critique my work next week. Never in my life have I dealt well with negative evaluations as I always wanted to please the authorities and be perfect (remnants from a controlling father just don't let go easily). Luckily, the class will have only five or six other students. These peers will be younger than my daughter, no doubt--everyone seems to be younger now days (sigh). But age doesn't stop feelings of incompetency and pure fright from living in my brain. If I didn't know better, I think I'm that gangly seven-year-old kid from Alabama about to start first grade up north in 1953. I'm all dressed up in my new school togs, but ready to throw-up if anybody laughs at me because I talk funny. My worst fear is that these writers and would be writers dismiss my work as the drivel of a wrinkling retired business careerist who, in their opinion, should leave writing to young, brilliant English majors. Holly Myers saved me in first grade when she took my hand during a tough game of "Hill Dill". Who will save me next week?

I remain hopeful that I will survive this seven day reality show. Feedback on On the Hook from my second round readers has been positive, so maybe there is a writing future for me.

Resurrection

Just when you thought I had shut my mouth, here I am spouting off again. Why? you may ask. I don't know for sure, but I'm amazed to say that several readers said they actually miss my musings. (It's wonderful to have groupies!) I also finished the umpteenth rewrite of my first novel, now titled On the Hook (Thanks to my Memphis friend, Elizabeth, for the pithy title). My readers thought the old title, Dream Maker, made the book sound too much like a romance novel, which this book is definitely not. With a little or a lot (depending upon your point of view) grammar editing, spelling corrections, and tweaks to the plot based on feedback from my "draft" readers (Bless their tired eyes), I think it's ready for publishing. Now the search for an agent begins. I'm going to learn all about how to do that and more about writing at my first writer's conference from June 14th through June 21st. (Look for blog entries labeled "Nebraska Notes".)

I've also started working with a fitness trainer to get rid of my writer's lumps. Seems like sitting in a chair is not conducive to a fit body. Twice a week I submit myself to torture with weights, medicine balls, and exercises that would make a weaker woman faint. (Look for blog entries labeled "Survival Scribblings".)

You might notice that the blog template has changed. Like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, changing the format gives me a new perspective on a dire situation (see photo). I don't know about you, but my eyes glazed over at seeing the same washed-out tan and potato brown of the old template. I felt washed out as well. Now, the new hues of blue remind me of the the Chesapeake Bay. I also think they're perky and you know I prefer perky.

Speaking of navigable water -- I've unearthed a sailing club (The Memphis Sail and Power Squadron). I can't believe there are mariners in a city whose closest rag hauling locations are four and five hours away...and these lakes are notorious for squirrelly winds. Stink potters can navigate the local rivers, including the nine knot current Mississippi if they have powerful enough engines to go upstream after breezing their way downstream. I'm having lunch with one of the "officers" of the squadron next Monday to see what they're all about (Look for blog entries labeled "Land Locked Sailors".

Anyway, I'm back and writing. I've started a second book. This writing thing is catching. Maybe I should get vaccinated.

Living in Limbo, my last entry

I've been writing this blog for a year, ranting, raving and relishing in reporting from Memphis. Now, as our second Memphis in May celebration approaches, John and I find ourselves in an ambiguous time - waiting for events to unfold so we can return, like prodigal children, to the east coast we foolishly abandoned in our grand mid-south experiment, after having rooted ourselves so well in Baltimore. John leaped at the chance to work in private industry for the first time, only to be disappointed for the job does not live up to its promise. I encouraged the move as I was anxious for change, bored with my consulting work and finished with endless travel to dying industrial cities. Now, struggling in my attempt to write, I, once again, wrestle my constant demons--internal confidence and identity as I scratch to uncover buried creativity and voice.

Writing is an endless cycle of change. I'm laboring on my fifth draft, attempting to craft the words that bring its characters and story into brilliant focus to captivate its readers. I accepted the criticism of my draft readers, understanding clearly that I have more work to do. Now, I'm consumed by it, throwing aside all other activities, including this blog. I must have it ready for a writer's conference in June where I'm having the 300 plus pages evaluated by an agent. With that feedback, I'll revise again and hopefully begin the long search for a publisher. I've also started a second book. The writing life is settling into my bones.

The story is founded in sailing and writing about sailing makes me yearn, once again, for the sailing life. When I think of where I was most at peace over the years, it's always been on the water in a boat being cradled by the currents and winds. It's the only activity I've ever been passionate about, besides my work. I'm committed to return to the Bay and to sailing, perhaps as an instructor or working in the sailing industry. My plan is to become a certified instructor, then see what the muses have in store for me. John's willing and excited to be my sailing partner, but he will take lessons from someone else and ensure our 16 year relationship endures.

But when will we return? The Memphis house languishes on the real estate market which is down 38% from last year in our city. In the four months it has been listed, only two showings occurred. We've painted, mended, cleaned and decluttered, but to no avail. We should not move until it is sold, unless John can secure a job back east after he finishes in 18 month relocation commitment to FedEx (July 2nd). Even then, it is risky financially to leave it empty.

So we are living in this time of limbo - neither here nor there, waiting.

Waiting time

Monday afternoon, I leapt over the fence, so to speak. I typed my last words and closed the file on the fourth draft of my first novel, Bahamian Dream. Actually I consider it the first readable draft. For anyone who knows my dyslexic ways, it took a lot more than four tries for me to write in whole, intelligible sentences. After having Kinko's copy and bind six copies, I fedexed (can you imagine a company name being a verb?) five of them off to my readers in Illinois, Utah and Florida. I took the sixth into my shaking hands and delivered it personally to the doorstep of my neighbor. My stomach is still churning.

I've never opened myself up to criticism like this. My book has been a labor of love, right down to the headaches, backaches and unforgivable stomach cramps. I'm bracing for a deluge of negative comment because I told everyone to be brutally honest. It's like creating a torture chamber, then asking people to apply it to you, personally and often. Is it a page turner? What needs to be changed? What doesn't make sense? etc., etc. etc. With their feedback, I hope to put enough polish on the some 85,000 words to send a literary agent or publisher into blithering spasms of delight.

The waiting puts me in a strange place. There is literally nothing to do for a while. I keep busy researching the publishing business. I've signed up for the Nebraska Writer's Conference sponsored by the University of Nebraska - Lincoln (another garden spot) in June. I've even been so bold as to look for writing jobs on the Internet. The problem is that I don't want to put myself into a full time position, because, hold your breath, I'm going to start a second book and maybe a third. One is about a mother-daughter relationship and the other about a disastrous class reunion. I think I like writing, because there's a product at the end of the work -- a manuscript.

So far, my biggest problem with writing, is not the lack of income (although, I certainly could use some in this falling market), but with sitting all the time. The middle of my body has reached a crisis stage regarding its mid-drift flab content, even though my weight has been pretty steady since before I began this literary journey. I now understand why the middle of our bodies is called the mid-drift. Fat seems to drift to it, if left unattended. The answer I fear is a personal trainer, someone I pay to drag me out of the house and make me sweat, moan and groan to get my mid-drift undrifted.

Barbecue Review

My sister, Elaine, has been know to drive cross country to Kansas or Alabama or wherever to taste test and then bring home the best barbecue (BBQ) by the cooler full. So, it was natural that on her visit last week to Memphis, her top priority, next to visiting Graceland, was to survey first hand three reputed BBQ joints in Memphis -- Interstate, Rendezvous, and Corky's -- to determine which was worthy of her personal approval and a second visit someday (assuming her sister does not vacate Memphis in the near future). Only the Interstate is African American owned. Their websites are full of information, so here you'll read just our personal biased experiences and recommendations.

First, some facts. These are not the only three BBQ restaurants in Memphis. There are numerous others sprinkled about town which deserve my sister's attention, but with so many joints and so little time, we decided to concentrate on the best known ones.

The Rendezvous is conveniently located in an alley next to the Holiday Inn and across the street from the Peabody Hotel. You have to walk past the dumpsters to get into the front door. It caters to hundreds of tourists every evening along with a few locals who have ventured downtown for a ball game. Eating is downstairs and waiting is upstairs in an old bank building. The decor is aging franchise (aka Friday's), but service is swift and friendly by an army of well organized waiters (men mostly), food runners and bus boys. Everything is served on paper plates with plastic utensils.

Interstate is located where no tourist would dare tread -- about four miles directly south of downtown on Third St. in South Memphis, just north of Interstate 55/240. It's what I call an interesting neighborhood, but it doesn't stop Memphians of all races and ages from stopping by to eat the BBQ. The decor is over-sized diner with plastic tablecloths and flowers, steel bars on the doors, old Neely family pictures on a yellow wall in desperate need of a paint job and a smokey aroma drifting lazily from the kitchen. Plates are 1960's vintage tri-sectioned beige Melmac and silverware cheap but not plastic. They have a greeter, four or five waitresses and a cashier, a wee, thin, old lady, who must be a Neely. Service is friendly, if not a little lay back at times, but then, there is always time, right?

Corky's has multiple locations so we went to the one located near where we were shopping in Wolfchase near Germantown. I've been to the one in town and report that it's about the same decor -- a standardized, franchised look with red and white checkered plastic table clothes. We thought we were in Ruby Tuesday's or Friday's. I'd classify it as an Olive Garden BBQ. Even the waitress introduced herself, "Welcome, I'm Emily and I'll be your server today." At the other two places the words were simple, "Hi. What you want to drink?" and "You ready to order? If so, what do you want?"

Now, second, the important part, the food -- ribs, pulled pork, slaw and bakes beans -- the basic menu of any BBQ joint. All the restaurants offered more choices, but these were on all the menus. My sister and I prefer dry ribs and pork so we didn't taste any of the BBQ sauces which may be very, very important to some folks. Oh well...just live with it!

Interstate wins our vote as the best BBQ joint overall. It's servings were large enough to order a "to go" box early. The beans (as reported by Elaine who does not like spicy food) rival those in Kansas City and the slaw is lip smacking tangy without being overly spicy. Rendezvous slaw is a distinctively spicy concoction and the are beans decent, but neither screamed at us, "Eat me! Wipe of the last little bit up with a roll!" like those at the Interstate. Corky's beans and slaw were tasteless, which must make them a hit with kids and suburban soccer moms. The same can be said for the pulled pork. Interstate pulled pork had a deep smokey flavor and was chopped to perfection. No sauce was needed to make it flavorful. Corky's was randomly chopped roast pork anyone could roast right in her own oven. We didn't have the pork at Rendezvous as we made the mistake of ordering full slabs for each of us.

For the ribs, it was a split decision. I preferred the Rendezvous ribs because they were lean and roasted in a tangy vinegar sauce and dry rub. It gives them a bit of a "bite". Elaine said I liked them best because that's how Dad BBQ'd. Corky's were mild, but not tasteless. Elaine preferred them over the Rendezvous, but postulated that the dry rub was added just before serving. I rejected them as nondescript. Lastly, we agreed that the ribs at Interstate were the most luscious -- big, meaty and fall off the bone mouth watering tender -- even though we couldn't discern a bit of dry rub, but rather that deep smokey flavor.

So, if you like BBQ and want it Memphis style, we suggest you visit Interstate to enjoy the home boy atmosphere and flavorful sides and BBQ. Then, sneak out to the Rendezvous for a carry out order of the their vinegary pit BBQ ribs to bring home. Make your own favorite mixed green salad and have a picnic in front of the TV watching the NCAA final four championship.

Dragged by the Dogs

According to the National Weather Service the Mississippi River should reach flood level (34ft) on March 24th and crest on March 26th at just under 36 feet. What does this have to do with being dragged by dogs, you may ask?

The incident started when John emailed on Wednesday (March 19) because a flood watch had been issued. Then, soon after, he called seeking first hand views of the river. Dutifully, I hooked my boys into their leashes and headed out in the cold wind and rain for a look. I hadn't changed so I was dressed in my good jeans, heels and black suede & leather jacket. We walked across the bridge that connects our community to the south end of Tom Lee Park and saw that the muddy brown waters had already spread into the fields that line the Arkansas side of the river across from Memphis.

Since it was also time for their late afternoon walk, I persisted with the boys toward Martyrs Park, about a quarter of a mile away. We walk the path at least once a day. But, Fred is a smart dog and has learned that wet weather makes him cold from the paws up so he was not being particularly cooperative. Joe-Joe, as always, was enthusiastic. He's too stupid to mind the weather. He survives on his good looks and perky personality.

We were approaching the park monument when I spied a red fox sneaking up on the bluff edge to retrieve the food left him daily by an old man in our neighborhood. (I won't comment on I what I think of feeding wild animals). So, knowing that the boys would want a chase and I could not let them do that, I quickly turned them around to head home with promises of treats and warm towels.

We were doing well on our way back (meaning both dogs pooped and peed), when up the path I spy another neighbor walking her energetic Airedale and gray wolf, each weighing close to 100 pounds. Yes, I said "wolf" as in real wild wolf. She adopted him as a rescue animal. My dogs go bonkers over that wolf, wanting to tear her to shreds. Fifty pound Fred gets vicious and 22 pound Joe-Joe makes noises, believing he's a Rottweiler. When faced with Fred and Joe-Joe in previous encounters, the wolf just sat and started howling at the sky, lamenting his predicament.

Again, I moved quickly to made both dogs sit as far away from the path as possible without falling over the edge and rolling down the bluff into the river. I squatted and held a harness in each hand. I said soothing commands like "Stay. Yes. Good dogs. Stay." In previous encounters, all that worked pretty well.

But this time, Joe-Joe began to shudder uncontrollably. Fred sensed he had a pal for an attack. Suddenly both dogs ran at the wolf, dragging me behind them. I held onto their harnesses, yelling for them to "stay". My words were useless. I was spread-eagle on the ground holding onto 75 pounds of canine terror. If either broke loose, blood could flow. They pulled me ten feet over the muddy ground, before I regained control and pulled them back. My neighbor quickly passed, Airedale jumping and wolf howling. From my prone position, face in mud, I saw her shake her head. I was sure she thought I was an idiot for using harnesses and not neck collars to control my ill mannered, crazed little dogs.

I was embarrassed, of course, and covered in mud. My hands were bruised, sharp pains radiated from the left side of my rib cage (Fred's side) and my arms dangled on the ground. Now that the wolf was gone, my two hellions turned around to look at me, sensed my frustrating anger and sweetly sat as if nothing has happened. Fred laid down at the point of my finger for he knew he was in trouble. Fred said, looking up at me pathetically, "Mom, I'm really, really sorry. It was all Joe-Joe's fault. He got me all excited. I couldn't do anything about it. It was my instincts working." Joe-Joe, on the other hand, said, "Hey Mom. Wasn't that just the best fun! Can we do it again? Can we do it again?" What is it about kids and dogs?

I was close to throwing both of them in the churning river, but I pulled myself together, retrieved my shoe, and gave them a strong reprimand. I refused to talk to either of them the rest of the night and they kept low profiles just to be nice. The next day I took off their harnesses and started hooking the leashes to their neck collars. They'll get a smart jerk that will flip them over if they try that again. And, yes, I'm searching for a trainer as I write.

Memphis Blizzard

On Friday night, March 7, exactly one year and one day since the moving van delivered us to Memphis, we caught our first, and hopefully only, snow storm. It began as a light dusting around the city at 2PM. By the time we walked the dogs at 11PM, it was snowing sideways with more than two inches on the ground. Snow swirled around the dogs as they attempted to take a last dump. John moaned as I had given away his heavy winter parka last spring when the heat hit 80% in April. How was I to know that it might actually get wintry here?

The morning brought sunshine, glistening scenery and crispy air. Pink tulip tree blossom petals peeped through their snow covers. Icey sidewalks crunched beneath our feet as I walked the dogs . We moved onto the grass to keep our footing as we walked along the path by the Mississippi River.

Joe-Joe had never seen snow before so he was confused by the white stuff. He couldn't decide whether to pee on it or eat it, so he did both. Fred jumped for joy, remembering Baltimore winters. I let him off the leash in the boulevard promenade to run in circles and roll in the fluffy stuff. Joe-Joe seriously questioned his sanity.

We had prepared ourselves for the worst by renting a half dozen movies. We actually got through three of them by Sunday afternoon -- Michael Clayton, American Gangster and Waitress. All worthy of a snow in camp.

John got his cooking itch from being trapped by the snow. We shopped for his favorite fixings. He made pizza, dough and all from scratch, Saturday afternoon. It was cold outside, but most of the snow had melted in our little patio between the garage and the back of the house by late afternoon. John easily fired up the wood charcoal grill. The product was yummy, as always.

The new week has brought us Spring. It'll reach 60 degrees today with small increases throughout the week. J and I will venture into the city for manicure, pedicure (me) and massage (her) this afternoon. We plan to visit the Zoo and the Dixon Gallery and Gardens later in the week as the the planet warms. Hopefully, some of the spring flowers will be out by the end of the week. Before the snow, we had crocuses, daffodils, hyacinths as well as the tulip tree blossoms in our neighborhood.

The End of Pigeon Season

Spring approaches, bringing an end to pigeon season on the Bluffs here south of downtown. All winter our community is harassed by hundreds of these stupid critters who, we surmise, find this area a most convivial winter encampment. They line the roof tops during the day, their pin heads poking up into the air. At night, they move to the trees. Each morning there are puddles of pigeon droppings on the side walks, bushes and lawns. Noise, like dogs barking, send them into the sky in an eerie flapping, gray mass. Think visions of Hitchcock's "The Birds" and you have the idea. Our dogs go crazy, barking more, adding to the chaos.

In January, we started to encounter wounded and dead pigeons on our dog walks. What was happening? Was it some disease? Our neighbor had the answer -- hawks, pigeons natural enemy. With so many in one place, the local hawks found it literally, a buffet delight. Every day five or six newly dead or nearly dead pigeons appeared in the grass and on the side walk. Some were partially eaten. Others were just downed. It was great sport for the hawks. The grounds maintenance crew had to switch from gathering leaves to gathering dead pigeons. Not a pretty picture.

With the pigeon crisis at an end, John and I are both relieved and looking forward to sprucing up the outside of the house. But before we could get started, we find ourselves grounded this week, flat on our backs, shot down by a nasty sinus and chest flu -- hacking, wheezing, aching, fever, afraid you are going to live flu. With both of us in misery, the dogs are grateful that John drags himself out of bed to get them walked. Never to loose an opportunity to snuggle, they are sleeping on the beds all the time, knowing we are too sick to protest. John took up residency in the guest room. I stayed in our bed. Good drugs, sleep, chicken soup, and luck are bringing up back to life. Hopefully, we are now ready for spring -- no pigeons and no flu.

Sobering Weather

John had texted and then called about 6 PM from Pittsburgh to tell me about approaching weather. He knew I'd have my head in the computer writing and not be listening to weather reports, something I ignore with great seriousness. As oft happens, I declared him a worry wart, saying we'd be fine. But, then two minutes later, I looked up from my screen to see rain pouring down and hear thunder in the distance. My two ten pound my Japanese gong bells rang loudly despite being protected on the patio with two eight foot brick walls.

It was time to shut down the computer, leave the office and retreat into the sturdy house to watch the TV. All the local channels had shut down normal programming and gone to full time weather reporting with large and colorful radar displays with guys in white shirts, ties and gray suits telling us what it all meant. Large batches of green mean rain, get your umbrella out. Yellow means heavier rain with winds. Red means oh, my God it's raining sideways. Hot pink means head for the shelter. And, a small green icon in the middle of a big hook of red within a bowl of green means TORNADO. The weather came from the south and south west in Arkansas (I new there was a reason for that sad state) and inched its way into Mississippi and Tennessee. I watched it all jerkily shift across my screen for several hours. It's kind of like watching your life pass in front of you while you eat your dinner -- an out of body experience.

Fred and Joe-Joe sat with me on the couch, keeping me snug. I looked up about 8:30 to find the rain had stopped. Even though it was early, I opened to the door to take the boys on their last walk of the day. We were confronted with a gusty swirling winds and 70 degree humid temperatures. So, with heads bend into the wind we walked, they pooped, I swooped it all up with my best single hand reverse plastic bag scoop pitch and we headed for home.

I wasn't worried about the storms until, on the way back, my next door neighbor comes walking toward me yelling through the wind, "This is going to be the real thing." Then he dashes to his big Suburban to move it out from under a tree. Hummm, should I move our cars? But to where? We have no garage since I insisted on building an office out of it. I opted to check that they were not under trees. They weren't. They were between trees.

I spent the rest of the evening watching the TV screen show me where the tornados might be. The dogs slept the sleep of the innocent. At 9:30 I looked out the front windows to see it raining sideways. The winds must have exceeded 30 or 40 miles/hour. For a minute my heart skipped some beats and I considered taking myself and the dogs into the guest bathroom (only place on the first floor without windows). I worried how I was going to get the dogs to kneel, put their heads between their legs and raise their front paws over their heads and wrap them around their ears to protect themselves from flying debris.

By 10 PM, however, it was clear that what our realtor told us was true -- downtown Memphis doesn't gets tornados. They go around. Maybe it's the bluffs or the river or a combination. Those storms scooted around downtown Memphis as if the area were a military nuclear test range with a big "Keep off" sign glowing up into the sky. Tornados were sited all around the suburbs and more rural areas. The closest to us was about 12 miles from the house -- north east of the airport at the Hickory Hill Mall and to the north east of the city. Both property and lives were lost. The chaos is all over the papers in living color for past two days. Pictures of a line of semi trailers blown over onto their sides and a row of light poles snapped off at fix feet above the ground would be artistic if the cause weren't so deadly.

Life outside this city can be a very scary place in the mid-south.

Beach Head Plan

With the east coast holiday vacation at an end, John and I returned to Memphis on January 2. We learned just how much we miss our friends, family and the Chesapeake Bay. The next day, with our dogs sitting at attention sensing a change in the atmosphere, we discussed if and how we should move back east. John tied me to a dining room chair to keep me from jumping for joy. It was supposed to be a logical and rational discussion.

As the blog so blatantly reveals, my boredom and resistance to domestic life started as the core of my discontent with Memphis. But, this alone is not a sufficient reason to run away from Memphis. After all, I could, with time and sufficient beating, get used to the heat, and, maybe, after several years could develop friendships and activities to engage me. Or, I could go crazy, but we won't go there. John reasoned that a move must be based on going toward, not running away from a situation. I agreed by shaking my head. He threatened to put a gag in my mouth if I didn't lower my voice.

Our house in Memphis, as Goldilocks might say, is "just right" now that we've finished the renovations, small repairs, and painting. But, homes are more than places to stash stuff and sleep, and this house is only that, not a center for our social lives. Although the fireplace in the bedroom comes close to Nirvana on cold nights.

From a work perspective, John likes his work well enough and it's easy for him, but the promised international travel has turned out to be Ottawa, Canada, not Europe, Asia and South America as was proffered. That means a major reason for me not working and for John coming out of retirement - world travel - has vanished. The fine print in his relocation contract dictates that he must work until July 1. After that, he's free to say "good-by" and without a substantial bonus, raise and/or promotion that might make him reluctant to leave, he'll go as soon as he can. A flat year is projected so good times at work are not expected. Most of all, he misses cooking. He regularly reads his cookbooks and muses at what he could conjure up if he had the time.

I'm adjusting to the writing life, and I am pleased not to be traveling for work; but as a gregarious "A" type, I miss the creative interaction of other like-minded and challenging people. My domestic chores are tedious. Cooking makes me yawn. My work with a non-profit is free consulting with cranky clients. The writing progresses and "the book" will be completed before spring when it's time for the excruciating pain of the publisher hunt. What then?

The dogs, when asked if they wanted to stay in Memphis, had no firm opinion. Fred yawned and Joe-Joe rolled over for a scratch on the tummy. They're willing to move anywhere as long as they get two squares and three walks a day and a cozy chair or couch to sleep on at night.

We added it all up and formulated our decision to get ourselves replanted before the end of the year. We immediately called a local realtor recommended by our ex-realtor Judith and put the house up for sale. It could take several months to a year to sell.

We thought about where we'd been happiest. Although living in Baltimore with our fun neighbors was exceptional, we chose Arlington, VA, specifically Crystal City. John and Fred took a pass on they're once daily chase after Baltimore's fat alley rats and drugged hoodlums. And, I don't ever want to do battle with plaster dust of 100 year old houses again. Crystal City's location above the metro, stores and grocery, closeness to DC theatres and museums, proximity to the Mt. Vernon bike trail, and Arlington's stellar reputation for decent city government swayed us. After looking at apartments and condos, we chose to rent rather than buy even with depressed prices and a large selection currently available. We found the perfect spot to rent when the time comes-- Crystal House -- 1800 sq feet, luxury building and dog friendly, so the boys will be with us and happy. We'll be there a year, maybe two, then make a purchase decision.

Before we rent that apartment, I must once again become gainfully employed. With a job in hand I will establish an Arlington beach head. John will follow when the Memphis abode sells and he's done working. Then, we'll move into the big apartment. To that end, I'm interviewing as I write. With the help of my friends Susan and Jon, I may have a job by spring. When that happens, my friend J, the dogs and I will drive back to Arlington where I'll rent a furnished studio or one bedroom on a short term lease. We'll save our nickels and get reacquainted with the area until John can join us. Until then he'll fly in a couple of times a month to visit the beach head.

What did we learn from our Memphis experience? First, we did not make a bad decision in coming to Memphis. It's been an interesting cultural adventure into the guts of the country. John fulfilled his dream to work in private industry. We made the mistake of assuming we'd love it, not just be able to tolerate it. And, with that, comes our second mistake -- we bought a house in a market where home sales move at a snail's pace. We didn't test the waters first; we dove in head first. How typically us! Silly us! With our plan defined, John untied me.

A Christmas Story

“Where do you live this year?” Santa asked John and Dorine as he checked his address book. He’d remembered having to change their address frequently.
“Memphis,” we replied.
“What? I can’t believe it? Have you been bad this year?” Santa chuckled.
“No, Santa, we’ve been good. John got a job with FedEx he couldn’t refuse,” said Dorine.
“Are you still consulting, Dorine?” questioned Santa as he erased “Baltimore” from his address book.
“No. I’m retired. I renovated our Memphis townhouse and now I write,” Dorine explained.
“What are you writing?” Santa asked Dorine. He was very curious.
“I’m writing a novel based on my sailing adventure 20 years ago. I also keep a blog about our Memphis experience,” Dorine said.
“But it’s not easy for her. She howls and whines a bit.” John interrupted.
“She doesn’t like writing?” asked Santa, frowning.
“No, Memphis; it’s a bucket of cold water; a shock to her system,” John explained.
“But she was so excited at the beginning,” pondered Santa.
“She’s always excited at the beginning,” John sighed.
“Is there anything you like about Memphis?” Santa asked, turning to Dorine.
“The humid near ever-lasting summer -- it’s good for my skin,” said Dorine sarcastically. “But, I do like being the volunteer webmaster for The International Children’s Heart Foundation. Its web address is www.babyheart.com.”
“What are you doing to help her adjust to this change in life?” Santa asked John with great seriousness.
“I got her a second dog named Joe-Joe. He’s a feisty Cocker Spaniel. He and Fred provide her with inspiration and structure to her day,” replied John with a grin.
“If you could have anything for Christmas, what would it be?” Santa asked.
“That’s easy,” said John, “I’d retire and Dorine would go back to work. I like to cook more than Dorine does and she never irons the sheets. We’d move back east. I’d get a wood fired brick oven and make pizza all day!”
“But remember Santa, I’d like my book to get published, if and when I finish,” interrupted Dorine.
“Ok, I’ve got the wish list. Now, when will you move?” asked Santa.
“As soon as the housing market comes back from the dead, so I guess we’ll be here for a few more years,” John surmised.
“Well, what are you doing until then?” asked Santa as he penciled “Memphis” into his address book.
“We’re begging our friends and relatives to visit!”

The winter of my discontent

This weather has caught us off guard this December as I gave away most of our winter coats in the heat of the summer in anticipation of 40's to 50's degree winter temperatures. Needless to say this was a wrong move on my part. It's a particularly cold season in Memphis this year.

Although there is no snow yet, the wind and rain are abundant. Masses of blown leaves have fallen to create a brown slippery surface on sidewalks and roads. Yesterday, it rained all day making the air biting cold. John and I negotiated which of us was doomed to walk the dogs in the morning as the rain poured. John caved to my whining so he donned his sweats, wrapped up in scarf, hoodlum hat and semi-heavy jacket and took the boys out. None of them liked getting wet. Fred was so against it that he refused to poop. The three of them scooted back to the house where it took ten minutes to dry off the little beasts. We all stayed close to the fire for the rest of the day.

But, when the sky clears as it has this morning, the air is clear and the wind crisp, its a perfect setting for a walk. With some urging (e.g., Get your lazy butt off the couch, my love!), John joined me this morning for a long walk with the dogs on the river in Lee Park. It was invigorating. In fifty minutes, we returned energized and refreshed ready to face a Sunday afternoon of small chores and last minute planning for our long awaited trip to the east coast for the holidays.

Like the disappointing weather, my opinion of Memphis was confirmed this morning and continues on its downward trend. The Commercial Appeal's editor, Chris Peck, who's only been in the city for five years, summed up the Memphis character well in an article titled, "Getting to know you, Memphis". He reports that he's been "let in just a little" because of his role as editor of the 167 year old paper, but still is not considered a "local" yet. Three images describe Memphis from his perspective. I agree with him heartily.

• First, the city is living in the past. The civil war is not over for Memphians, black or white. Many whites are of their proud southern heritage that focuses on the fact that Memphis was once a Union-occupied city. Many blacks still believe they are slaves. Underneath every one's pleasantries of "Yes, Ma'am", "Good morning" and waving, the citizenry seethes with hate and distrust.
• Second, there is a strange tension between between the Beale Street soul and blues music and sin scene and what he calls the "Bellevue Baptist" set that praises God on Sunday but allows Memphis to continue as one of the nation's most corrupt civic environments. Blacks used to complain about the Crump regime of control and corruption. Now, with its first black mayor, Herrrington, winning his fifth four year term, its the whites turn to constantly complain.
• That points up the third, and last outstanding trait about Memphis. Memphis is "stuck on race". It is a divided city where race is made "the issue" at the smallest challenge to a poltican's behavior. It is the contention always touted as the problem. The recent dispute about the National Civil Rights Museum, its board make-up and mission made me think I was still living in the 1960's.

I yearn to live in a place that has gotten beyond these character traits. Not that any city is pure or free from its past, corruption or racism, but there are places that have left these issues behind and moved forward, using them as lessons of what not to do. I remember living in Arlington, VA which looks forward with a 25 year plan that is carried out methodically, includes everyone, where public schools are top rated and integrated, and new comers are welcome no matter who is in charge. How I miss those character traits!

What I do with my time

I find procrastination difficult, if not impossible. If I talk about doing something, then I find myself having to do it, If I don't, I feel incredibly guilty. The result? I am seldom standing still.

On moving to Memphis, I first talked about renovating our Memphis townhouse. Before next week has come and gone, it will be completely repainted inside, re-carpeted, re-constructed and ready for the Holidays. I'm proud that I haven't done it all myself. I couldn't as I did serious damage to my right rotator cuff when I painted the bathrooms and guest bedrooms by myself. (No reaching above my shoulder -- doctor's orders and maybe there will be surgery in the spring if my physical therapy fails to bring relief).

Rich, our handy man, is my Elton. I'm his Murphy. He made the yellow walls, red kitchen ceiling, and scuffed woodwork disappear; installed new ceiling fans; and replaced all our 90's brassy door handles with new oiled bronze ones. My contractor transformed our garage into a cozy hide-away office with built-in drawers and files for me and a storage space complete with a wine cooler for John; rebuilt the pergola between the garage and house ridding us of dastardly carpenter bees who made it rain sawdust everyday; laid in soothing white stones to get rid of the weeds and overgrown plants; and, for his final act, knocked out two closets, and gutted our master bath to create an oasis complete with a double size river rock shower, tiled floor, copper vessel sinks and wood cabinetry. My Internet shopping for said items saved us over $5,000. I am my mother's daughter. The house is now ready to sell or settle into for the long haul. You guess which it will be!

I've talked about writing. So, what are you writing, friends and family asked? First, there's the blog which you are reading. It's my way of connecting with the world; it's my therapy. Coming to a very strange city, quitting work and taking up the solitary avocation of writing was not my brightest move. But the blog is not my only writing.

When I was 40 and married to the sailor Jim we traveled down the inter-coastal waterway to cruise the Bahamas for six months. At the time there were no cell phones, email or uTube to report our experiences to everyone so I wrote letters. Those letters, which were written on my first PC on the boat, are the basis for my writing. It's twenty years later and time to write that novel I promised myself I would do. I always thought that I would finally be "mature enough" to have the intellectual insight to pull it all together.

Boy, what at surprise I'm having! It hasn't been easy, to say the least. There's my error filled and disjointing writing to contend with, but, more difficult, is the emotional roller coaster I'm riding again. The working title is "Mystery Woman". The protagonist is a woman named Janie. It's her story. Is it like mine? Yes, but not exactly. Will her adventure end like mine? I just don't know yet. Are names changed to protect the guilty? Absolutely!

When will I be done? When I'm done. I'm about half way through the first (or should I say second as the letters are my first) draft. Do I have a publisher or an agent? No, I won't even consider it until I'm satisfied it is worthy of publication and at least two others agree.

Does all this take up all my time? No, I play a lot of electronic solitaire, am webmaster for an nonprofit here in Memphis, and take long walks with my dogs, Fred and Joe-Joe. Do I miss work? Yes, I'm afraid I still do, but, at least, I don't feel guilty about not working any more (i.e., It's a small blessing). Maybe, with practice, I can actually become comfortable with this skin. Stay tuned.

Thanksgiving 2007

We normally host a good sized dinner party for friends and family at Thanksgiving. We make it a big celebration with the food, table and wine. But this year we found ourselves alone in Memphis with only the dogs to keep us company. It was an eerie feeling, unaccustomed as we are to holiday solitude. So, we decided to create our own day and fill it with all that makes us happy.

The day began at 8AM with a long walk with the dogs. We treated them to a special city walk complete with new smells, sounds and views. But every neighborhood store was buttoned tight, even John's beloved coffee shop, so we circled our way back to the river, walking against a wind with a tinge of Chicago bluster as it stormed across the river from Arkansas.

Once home, we turned on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, toasted the day with home brewed coffee and prepared eggs and toast. As we ate, we reviewed the menu and eagerly looked forward to undertaking dinner preparations.

Our turkey was a little sucker, only 10.8 pounds. We stuffed her with spicy sausage dressing. A seasoning crisis was averted John combined fresh rosemary, dried sage, garlic, salt and pepper to coat the bird and combine with the white wine and butter basting sauce. Later, I made a rich gravy from the roasting drippings.

Thanksgiving should fill the house with succulent smells. For the sweet, we baked a pumpkin pie. Betty Crocker supplied the ready made pie crust and Libby's the pumpkin pie filling. I stirred in the eggs and milk. The smell was right, as if I'd make it from scratch. We topped it off with the whipped cream I made from scratch. Perfecto!

As we watched football with a blaze in the fireplace, Presecco in our glasses, the Andrews traditional shrimp cocktail to nibble, and the dogs at our feet, the house was filled with the aroma of roasting turkey and cooling pie.

John and I were thankful for having this Thanksgiving. For 15 years we've been madly in love and best friends. Our health is holding even though my shoulder may see surgery next year. We're financially sound and have a goodly number of friends across the country. Our children are talking to us.

As we ate, Bob, the husband of Dottie, one of my close highschool Chicago girlfriends, collapsed and never regained consciousness after his Thanksgiving dinner. He was 61, six months older than me. Be thankful. All else doesn't matter, does it?

What Planet is this?

Every morning, after walking the dogs, I sit down to peruse the local paper, the Commercial Appeal. I need my daily dose of political shenanigans and corruption. The only difference between today's local politics and that of the twenty years ago is that the majority of the politicians are black instead of white. Now, I'm pretty used to interesting politics as I've experienced the wonders of the Chicago Daily Dynasty, the New Jersey Mafia Majesty and the Marion Barry Boondoggles, but this morning I really had to question whether Memphis is on the same planet as other cities.

Our mayor just won his fifth term in office after 16 years at the helm. So, we know he's surrounded himself and given business to his good "friends". It's part of the perks of office, right? Just ask anyone who grew up here. It seems one of his friends won a technology contract to provide computer services to the city when his company had no experience in the industry. Putting that small flaw aside, it seems that this dude didn't bother to pay one of his subcontractors for about $80,000 worth of work completed for the city. Rather than pay the poor guy, this friend of the mayor's says he doesn't owe the guy and when asked about it (the guy has sued) by the press, he lashes out saying he's only news because he's black. Well, duh, most of the city contractors and employees are black as well as 60% of our population. It's just a fact. It's like you can be incompetent as long as you are black. Maybe that's why Memphis is ranked the 8th most dangerous city in the US.

But let me be fair, it isn't just politics and race that makes me question where I live. On November 15th, the article "Topic too hot for WKNO/ Show on intelligent design didn't air here", PBS NOVA broadcast the highly regarded show "Judgement Day: Intelligent Design on Trial" nationally. This trial clearly and completely put the intelligent design argument to bed and suffocated it with a pillow full of evidence. But, our local station, WKNO chose not to broadcast it on its network channel 10. When asked why not, the response was something to the effect that "we don't want to offend any of our viewers who may disagree with the outcome of the trial." What? That's like saying we won't write about the Holocaust because some people may not believe it happened, despite the evidence.

I can't stop there. It's too special living here. On November 13th, the front page article "Out of the Ordinary/Nail dispatches raccoon" reported that a teacher, in the state just two miles south of my house, was scheduled to teach his biology students how to skin a raccoon. But the farmer brought in the raccoon alive, rather than dead, to the class. The teacher, a right thinking guy, took the raccoon "out back" and killed it with a nail to the head. Then, he hauled it into class and proceeded with the skinning. How many kids really need to know how to skin a raccoon? How many need this as part of their biology curriculum? Is this what tax dollars go for in the name of education? No wonder Mississippi is ranked at the bottom of the pile academically.

Memphis is a very strange place, ladies and gentlemen. GET ME OUT OF HERE!