Lifescapes

Sunrise in the Sangres

Sunrise in the Sangres, always an astonishment in the morning, no matter how often I see it. Outdoors, it is crisp, chilly, with a light dusting of frost on the trees and grasses,air so clean you want to breathe it in and hold it forever, sky so blue it makes me want to shout. I remember a line from Barbara Kingsolver's essay, "Seeing Scarlet," about her journey to Costa Rico to see the endangered scarlet macaw: "El que quiera azul celeste, que le cueste," the Costa Ricans say--"If you want the blue sky, the price is high." Yes. Watching the polarized, politicized dithery debate over cap/trade and noticing that there won't be a formal agreement in Copenhagen next month, I've reached the conclusion that the price for blue sky--for lessening the impacts of global warming, for preserving the planet for future generations--is too high for policy-makers and corporations. So I breathe deeply, shout out at the blue sky, and treasure this day.

The dogs and I arrived on Thursday, after a comfortable 11-hour drive. This pair, Toro and Molly Mcquire, are easy travelers and sleep the whole trip, except for three pre-planned doggie breaks for leg-stretching and necessary business. Friday was a day of getting reacquainted with the house, a little more challenging because I skipped my summer break in favor of getting a book done and trying to keep the garden alive during our drought. Bill was here last summer, though, and things have been moved around. But those are little problem, easily solved. Checked the fridge, pantry, and made a grocery list for Bill, who had an errand in Las Vegas (25 mi) and had to go anyway. Set up the computer, got online (dialup, and very slow). Ordinary chores, but beyond every window, the vividness of the bluest sky I've ever seen.

Last night: a potluck dinner in the community center, large crowd, lots of good food prepared by good cooks. Nice to see everyone again, mostly old friends who live here year-round, since the summer people have already left. Not many come for the winter, but snow is a huge enticement for me. Hoping for lots of it while I'm here.

Next Week: Peggy and I are working via email on lots of Stories From the Heart conference details. (A reminder: early registration closes Dec. 15.) I'm also starting on the first chapters of Mourning Gloria, the next writing project (China #19), and working out the backstory, which wants to get complicated, in spite of my KISS efforts. Reading Ann Heller's new biography of Ayn Rand (utterly fascinating), layered with chapters of the new biography of Molly Ivins. (Thanks, Trilla, for the tip.) So interesting to read these two biographies together: two strong-willed, brilliant women writers, very different but with some unexpectedly similar views about the power of the individual in society. Both biographies very well done. Oh, yes, I'm happily knitting. Socks. Of course. And contemplating doing a quilt while I'm here.

Reading note, from Kingsolver's "Seeing Scarlet" in Small Wonder. Kingsolver and her husband have reached the remote tropical coast where the endangered macaws live in the freedom of their endangered jungle habitat. "All afternoon we walked crook-necked and openmouthed with awe. If these creatures are doomed, they don't act that way: El que quiera azul celeste, que le cueste, but who could buy or possess such avian magnificence against the blue sky? We stopped counting at fifty. We'd have settled for just one--that was what we thought we had come for--but we stayed through the change of tide and nearly till sunset because of the way they perched and foraged and spoke among themselves, without a care for a human's expectations. What held us ther was the show of pure, defiant survival: this audacious thing with feathers, this hope.
 

Lantana: In bloom this week

One of our prettiest natives: Lantana horrida. "Horrid"because of its strong scent, the toxicity of its blue-black berries, the thorny prickles on its stems, and the rash it can produce on your bare arms.

But no matter. The blossoms are so beautiful, the bees love them so, and the plants are so bravely defiant of drought that I grow it anyway. The domesticated, "improved" varieties sold in nurseries are calmer and less authoritative than the natives, and that's what most people grow. But I have mostly the wild ones, descended from a wild mama plant I dug up in the pasture a decade ago, to keep the sheep safe. I love these plants and respect and admire them for their toughness and tenacity. They survived the drought better than anything else here at Meadow Knoll.

Somebody wrote to ask about pecans. None this year, I'm sorry to say. The trees produce in an on-off cycle, every other year. In 2007, we had a huge crop, over 200 pounds. If 2009 had been a "normal" rainfall year, we would be harvesting nuts right now. It wasn't, and we're not. We're hoping that 2011 will bring enough rain to produce a crop. In the meantime, we're still eating pecans from the 2007 harvest, saved in the freezer. We had a pecan pie a few days ago--delicious. (Scroll down to the bottom for the recipe, if it doesn't pop up for you.) While I ate it, I thought about the trees and the work Bill put into watering and caring for them and the big job of harvesting the nuts. All well worth it.

Early last week, I finished up the copyedited MS of An Extraordinary Year and delivered it to Lynne, the managing editor at UTexPress. The rest of the week: living like an ordinary person, cleaning house, doing laundry, picking the last of the beans and peas and digging the potatoes in the garden, running a few errands, baking a pie. Felt good to get away from the writing work for a while.

But not for long. Next project on the desk: Mourning Gloria, the title of the 19th China Bayles book, which I need to start in the next few weeks. This title has been on my possible-titles list since about 1996 or so, but it went to the bottom of the list when Joyce Christmas used it in 1999. Joyce's book is out of print now, and after getting my editor's approval, I've decided it's my turn to use the title. (Book titles can't be copyrighted, in case you're wondering about that.) I'm at the point now of thinking about characters and plot, just letting a lot of stuff mix and mingle, wondering what it would happen if China and Ruby opened a farmers' market on their block, if Sheila and Blackie got married, if the shops got broken into--well, anyway. There's room for you in the book, but you'll need to enter our Cameo Characters raffle. Do it now, okay? before you forget. Proceeds go to the Story Circle Network.

Winter break. I'm taking a few weeks off and heading for New Mexico with the dogs--hoping to get away on Wednesday or Thursday. Bill and the cat will join me there for a couple of weeks, then he'll be back here. We don't like to leave the livestock alone very long without adult supervision. :) I'll be back after the new year, with Mourning Gloria already begun, I hope. It's due at the end of March. Maybe the next blog post will feature a photo of the mountains!

Reading note. Be careless, reckless! Be a lion! Be a pirate! when you write.--Brenda Ueland

Copper canyon daisy: In bloom this week

Delightful Tagetes lemmonii, or Copper canyon daisy--a tumble of bright marigold-like blossoms in the fall, a strong scent that's unforgettable but hard to describe: fruity, woodsey, minty, lemony. This southwestern native perennial bravely endured the drought without a drop of extra water and is heaped with blossoms this week. I love it. Want more of it, so will dig and divide early next spring.

More El Nino news from the climate-change folks: the current mild event is strengthening, the water temperatures in the central tropical Pacific are soaring much faster than expected. Which means hotter temperatures around the globe but (paradoxically) a cooler, wetter winter for us. So far, our autumn has been simply splendid. Next spring's wildflowers are putting up their leaves and pushing down their roots, so if you were thinking of making a wildflower trip to Texas next April, do put it on your calendar. 2010 is likely to be a make-up year, when the ungerminated seed that's been in the ground during the drought wakes up and blooms like crazy. But El Nino also fosters exaggerated weather events in Texas: tornadoes in November, torrential rainfalls, winter icestorms. Cool and wet is good. Wild and stormy, not so much.

This weekend, I'm reading the copyedited manuscript of An Extraordinary Year of Ordinary Days, the journal/book I wrote in 2008, which will be published next year by the University of Texas Press. Feeling deeply grateful to Sally, a very fine copyeditor, who reads with careful attention, checks the facts, corrects the errors. And this, on top of the readings and comments by Theresa and Lynne, as well as two anonymous jurors who offered extensive comments. Truly: takes a village--and lots of time--to make a book. And a book, thoroughly vetted and checked and re-checked, is truly different from much of the stuff that's thrown up so quickly on the Web.

Reading note: When writers die, they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.--Jorge Luis Borges

Ripple Run: Drought notes 10

 
 The rain is returning, at last--over eight inches for September, five for October. This is a photo of Ripple Run, which in previous years has been lined with ferns and bog-loving plants. The plants are gone now (maybe they'll be back in the spring?) but Ripple Run is flowing again, happily and musically. The water is still brown with oak-leaf tannins but the silt and mud have settled out. Sheer delight. It's been cool but not chilly and no frost predicted: the grass is spring-green and lush. We moved the cows onto the pasture we've been saving for their winter feed, and they're eating full-time, delighted with a green menu, after lean rations this summer. Amazing to me: the quick recovery of the native grasses. The turkey-foot bluestem is fruiting just now, and the seed heads are heavy and ripe. A beautiful sight--and if there are decent rains this winter, a promise of future bounty.

A hugely busy week last week, beginning with a talk to the University of Texas Press Advisory Council, then book talks with author/naturalist Susan Tweit at Texas State University in San Marcos and Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, the Texas Book Festival on Sunday, and a Story Circle Be Our Guest program with Susan last night. Saw so many old friends, met some ones, and enjoyed every minute of it. All of these author appearances are connected with the publication of Together, Alone, my new memoir. There are two more events in the next two weeks: Wimberley library on Saturday 11/7 and Mason library on Sunday 11/15. After that, I'm taking some time off. Bill and I are going to New Mexico, and to Colorado for Thanksgiving with daughter Robin and her family (including, of course, the newest member, Jasper!).

This week, I've written a guest post at womensmemoirs.com, about using your journal as a means of documenting your life and as a "research document" for a memoir. Please check it out and leave your questions in the comment section. The questions will be the basis of an interview that will take place on Friday. It'll be available via the magic of podcast. Thanks to Kendra Bonnett and Matilda Butler for inviting me to participate. They do a wonderful job with that website, and offer a very helpful service to women who are writing about their lives.

And here's something new for you: the Darling Dahlias website! Peggy and I have been working on it in our spare time (what's that??) with help from accomplished flower artist Peggy Turchette. It's still early days yet, but people have been asking about the series (not due to be published for another nine months), and I wanted you to have something to look at in the meantime. Over the next few months, we'll be posting some additional material, so bookmark it and drop back in from time to time to see what we've been up to.

Reading note. I think with a kind of awe that no human being has ever made a permanent home on this particular spot on the globe--Bill and I are the first. But that doesn't mean that this place has no history, or that the land has not been used and changed by humans. Its unimaginably long past is written in layers of limestone rock, in tree rings, in th e arrow points chipped by Indians passing through, in rusty cowbells and the marks of wagon wheels on rock. Everything has a tongue. Everything speaks. To hear it, I have to be patient, and still, and silent.--Together, Alone: A Memoir of Marriage and Place.