Dispatch from Salt Lake City -- Kelly

Some random musings from the cross-country drive:

• What do you do when you pull out of your driveway to log 2200 miles, turn on your radio, and get NOTHING? That means no NPR, no random Tejano, no books on iPod. You decide to be in the moment, as deep introspection interferes with driving acuity.

• The taste of fear: being in the middle of the pack of cars and trucks driving 85 mph on I-25, even when it’s down to one lane.

• Even though the amber waves of grain have been harvested to frankly unattractive stubble, the purple mountains’ majesty is out in full force, last lingerings of snow on top.

• Breathtaking? Two huge thunderstorm cells outlining a clear alley when you turn west into Wyoming. Alas, the alley did not stay clear; a truly horrendous thunderstorm (and, as a Texan, I’ve seen my share) with an active lightning display, followed by pea-soup fog on a twisty bit of I-80, makes the last room at the overpriced Best Western look mighty good indeed.

• Little America is still scary.

• The Hotel Monaco Salt Lake City is featuring white sangria in its fabled Wine Hour. Yum.

Books that changed me -- Kerry

I just finished reading "Thirteen Books That Changed America" by Jay Parini.

Books I don't really think about much, but am now more than ever aware of how they influenced readers in their time.

"Of Plymouth Plantation" through the "Feminine Mystique" along with such classics as "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and "Hucklerry Finn" are eloquently summarized (without having to read the cliff notes!) by the author.

I realized how many books have also influenced me in my life.

Anyone remember how cool the real Nancy Drew was? Or the first time you read "Are you there God it's Me Margaret" by Judy Blume?

Years after my juvenile forays into life shattering literature I plunged voraciously into a whole lot of a little of everything, "Ya Ya Sisters," by Rebecca Wells. "Living with Uncertainty," by Pema Chodron - they all changed me.

There are countless others. What about you?

Happy Father's Day! -- Jennie

Here's me and the best poppa in the world in Tahoe last week:

Trip Prep

I began, today, the ritual Sorting of the Clothes.

First stop? Melange Mountain, the stratified heap of miscellany in my dressing area. I recovered a few missing items, uncovered two forgotten purchases, and discovered many things that Simply Will No Longer Do.

Next stop? The Oregon Pile, where I re-heap the clothes I may need for my trip, including long sleeved items and light jackets that make me sweat on sight, even in my air conditioned rooms.

Final Stop? Laundry Junction, where I de-dirt the delicates and soap the sturdy.

Actual packing begins Sunday!

Working Writer-Marcia

Today was a business day. Always fun in writing land. I sent something off to This American Life--It could take six months to hear. I sent something off to O magazine, and drafted a query for Parenting.

It's fun to act like a real writer.

I've been working on my chicken story and hope to post it here later, but Daniel made the Allstar team, for 9-10 boys so, I'm off to the baseball diamonds.

Silence begins...NOW!

In a few minutes I'm heading out to the Moody cabin for some high-level hermitry. Between this evening when I arrive and Monday afternoon when I leave, I'll finish my revision of Book One, get to the halfway point of Book Two, and possibly dabble in a WIP I've got going on the sidelines.

No TV, no intewebz, no children, no laundry.

No problem!

Ding Dong Deconstruction circa 1969--Marcia

My mother hides the Ding Dongs at the back of the fridge so my brothers can have one when they get home from basketball practice or smoking doobies on their surfboards. Only she doesn't know about the doobies part. All I can think about are those Ding Dongs. If I try to sneak a Pecan Sandie my mother can hear the wrapping, If I try to sneak one of my dad's weird Tiger's Milk bars she can heart hat too. Ding Dongs are the perfect food. Packed so tight they are soundless tinfoil hockey pucks. If I can get my hand inside the white cardboard box and back out again without making a whumping noise my mom won't know. She's very busy. There is a lot to vacuum here.

I usually wear a polyester skirt with an elastic waist band and polyester shorts underneath. Girls are not allowed to wear pants to school, but we can't swing on the monkey bars unless we have petit pants or shorts on. Petit pants are really pretty underwear that look like shorts. Caroline Krupp has a pair that are swirly like a melted creamsicle . . . pink, purple, and yellow with a lace edge. My mother will not let me have any of those. This might be a good idea since the monkey bars are close to the boardwalk and any old person walking along the beach can see your petit pants, so I don't beg too much.

I also am not allowed to have a tutu, plastic high heels from Market Basket that have yellow fluffy feathers on them, or Ken dolls. My father did let my mother get my sister and I Barbies.

If it's a day when Jim Grey spits at me at the bus stop, or Chrissy Mac Niece throws dried dog poo on my new turtleneck, or no matter what Miss Hilton in her GoGo boots tells me I can't come up with the right numbers for 24 plus 36, I can't wait to get off the bus and stuff a Ding Dong in my favorite pair of stretchy shorts (red with polka dots--Sears Chubbies) and head to the guest bathroom at the back of the house by the garage.

Cold Ding Dongs are no good. If you can hear your mother calling you, or know your big brothers are about to come storming down the hall banging on the door and rattling the knob then eat it fast. There is no place to really hide a Ding Dong. They'll find it. But the best way to have a Ding Dong is to warm it up a little.

This requires a little extra time. If you don't want to eat cold hard chocolate and dry cake that doesn't taste cakey you have to pretend you're going Number 2. Hold the Ding Dong like a little bird up close to you, but not for too long or it gets ruined and all the coating melts on to the inside of the foil. Maybe count to whatever 24 plus 36 is.

Hold your breath and sit very still. The foil is very smooth on top, but folded like tiny sails all around and whirling like going down a drain at the bottom so it can close together and not show any Ding Dong. Listen make sure no one's coming. It makes a little noise if you don't pick it apart very carefully with thumb and pointer. Open it really slow so there's not even a little bit of crinkling noise. The chocolate coating will be just right, not too soft, and not too cold where it breaks off in chunks and tastes like candle wax after Sunday dinner.

You want to peel all the just-right chocolate off with your teeth, and then eat the cakey cake, sponge-y and hole-y, but not as good as birthday cake. Birthday cake is my favorite. I eat the cake first and the frosting last.

It always seems like there will be a whole bunch of white, pure-white, whiter-than Crest-white blop of cream in the middle. Then you get to the middle and it's only the size of a gumball-machine gumball. It's kind of a gyp. Still, if you can tell your Mom is upstairs sorting laundry or changing all the sheets you have time to eat around the Ding Dong until all that's left is just a fat-pea blop of cream covered in brown cake crumbs. Then you pop it in your mouth. It is quiet and the best part of coming home after school.

Did the front door just open? Can you hear your giant brothers throwing back packs and shouting? Can you hear Mom headed to the kitchen to start peeling carrots and turn on the stove? Sometimes this makes my heart go fast and my face get prickly.

Ding Dong tinfoil is so thin, wipe out all the wrinkles and press it flat against your leg and it's like a Barbie space blanket. Stephanie Brown had a space blanket for Silly Skilly Days, our sleepover Girl Scout camp at Rancho Santiago. It sounded like someone was digging in garbage at a fourth of July picnic every time she rolled over. Sometime I'll tell you about Space Sticks and Tang.

It's nice to try to rub the wrinkles our of the wrapper for awhile. Pick off any crumbs with a wet fingertip, and make up things you could do with that perfect square if you could leave the bathroom with it.. But you have to get rid of it.

It's the only bad thing about stealing Ding Dongs.

If you put it in your pants you could forget and it could fall out, or your brother or Chrissy Mac Niece could chase you and it could fall out. And then they'd make fun of you until you were grown up. Or even after.

You could eat it, it's really thin. But that would ruin everything. I roll it up as tight as it can get. Squinch it down to the same size as the blop of cream in the middle of the Ding Dong and then bury it in the pale plastic garbage can under the bathroom sink. Don't let any of the foil press against the edge of the can or it will show. Careful of gooey tissues, they're gross.

Then you should probably go to the bathroom, or at least rattle the toilet paper roll and flush to make it sound real. Then straighten out your stretchy skirt and shorts, open the door, and pretend like nothing happened.

And that's how you steal a Ding Dong.

Commiserate -- Kerry

"I'd like to have the perfect twin. One that walks out, when I walk in. I'd like to catch that big brass ring. I want everything, everything," Barbara Streisand/ A Star is Born, 1979.
-listened to on a vinyl 78 lp record player by a twelve-year old girl ready to change the world.

"Hey little Mama you're a class all you own," Chris Brown/With You/2009,
-listened to on an ipod portable speaker by the twelve-year old daughter of the aforementioned twelve-year old girl.

I suppose there comes a time in every parents time in the Western Hemisphere, or at least the west coast hemisphere, when we remember with crystal clear clarity being in fifth grade and what it felt like as we observe our children undergo the same experience.

Claire graduated from fifth grade this week. She was hacked off she had to wear a bra (ditto her mother) but even more miffed that she had to still go to bed at 8:30, because Lord knows she was old enough to rule her own life, thank you very much.

She blared music from her room.

I stood outside her doorway and debated my options. Should I play the hardcore mommy card and tell her it was time for bed or should I confess that I remember what all this growth felt like?

My journey with hypnotherapy came to light. According to a basic caveat in the art of hypnosis, we are all arrested children and communicate often as such.

So from one twelve year-old to another, I went in, curled up on her bed, and started to commiserate.

Faith, Hope, and Blueberries -- Jennie

I'm a day or two away from sending my revision back to an editor. I love the suggestions he had given me, even if they were pretty tough to pull off.

Here's what got me through shrinking 55,000 words down to 40K, while flushing out characters and motivation, backstory and arc:

* faith. That what he told me to do was brilliant.
* hope. That I did what I was supposed to do. That he'll like it.
* blueberries.
* long walks.
* yoga.
* days when I didn't work but when the kids were in school.
* a serious love of my character.
* a planned week in Tahoe, following re-submission.

All that. Plus some serious caffeine.

Let Evening Come -- Kelly

My mother died a week ago tonight, and her memorial service was today.

I thought I'd share the poem I read, since I obviously haven't been doing any writing.

Let Evening Come (by Jane Kenyon)

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the crickets take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Outdoor School/Indoor Mom -- Kerry

Along the lines of Jennie's post, I am cramming two field trips, laundry and a girl scout outing into my already busy week without my husband or oldest child who are attending outdoor school.

While there is a bit more silence around the house, fewer bodies and more general independence on my part (first in line at the computer and the bathroom all to myself), there is also a chasm.
I find myself drifting into it as I do all the dishes after dinner sans aformentioned husband and dilligent eldest child, reading and tucking the kids into bed, and folding laundry; all tasks my husband and I have shared in tandem almost rhythmically for the last ten years.

In the morning, I ponder the idea of feeding the chickens and walking the dog, after I dress the five year-old and cook a hot breakfast for she and the eight year-old. Then I'll go to the barn, price tag about fifty items and push a whole room full of furniture around.

All my choices, but still, I am exhausted even thinking about them.

Alright, I give, I am not the woman from the 1970's Angelie perfume commercial who sang,
"I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never never let you forget you're a man," that has been seared into my psyche along with the theme song from Batman and the names of the Mod Squad.

Honestly, who is that woman anyway?