Skip to content

New Publication … My Sister’s Art!

reluctant-to-let-go

I couldn’t be more proud and delighted to announce that my sister, Deb Farrell, is the featured artist in the latest issue of Longridge Review. As is custom, a Q&A with the artist accompanies the work, but as is not custom, little sister got to ask the questions. Editor-in-Chief Elizabeth Damewood Gaucher elegantly and aptly paired Deb’s pieces with the essays published this month. I’m also shining a spotlight here on Victoria Waddle’s “A Bowl Full of Jelly,” which undid me without me realizing it. Please do take a look and a read. Deb, as it happens, is driving up here tomorrow and will help my five-year-old son create something for the Thanksgiving table. He has no idea how lucky he is, but I do. Happy Thanksgiving!

This Week in College Writing

Each semester at this time, I read drafts of personal narratives by education students. The assignment asks them to dig into formative educational experiences that may have led to their decision to become a teacher. Aside from all the hallmarks of good writing—clarity, coherence, organization, detail, and more—I want them to consider what it felt like to be on the lightweight end of the inherent power imbalance between teacher and student, coach and player, tutor and tutee, guidance counselor and college applicant, drama director and student actor, camp counselor and camper. And each semester, it’s the same old thing: Shivers. Sharp breaths. Scrawling “sheesh” and “lovely” in green. Seeing each at a rare moment, when the child-turning-adult considers simultaneously the child from a tiny time ago and the adult who will connect with children like her a tiny time ago. Same old hope for these students’ future students.

The Most Natural Thing in the World

I was visiting my twin sons’ school today, sitting in the hall just outside the preschool office, when they walked by. J & R were holding hands on one side of a teacher. On her other side, she held the hand of a fellow three-year-old, a boy I hadn’t met before, no doubt a new classmate of one of my sons. My sons broke free to give me hugs and kisses. R said, “I love you, Mommy!” Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the other boy, the boy I’ve never met, looked me right in the eye and said, “I love you, Mommy.” Was he confused? Or was he copying the speech of my son, as three-year-olds do? An hour later, I would come to believe he was, in fact, doing the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t his mother. In that moment, in a big school, this little boy saw a mother, and it spilled right out of him, the I love you, Mommy he’d likely been holding onto all morning through playground and snack, circle and books. In the hallway, I didn’t hesitate. “I love you, too,” I said to the boy, sealing our first meeting. Then all three boys waved and waved (peeking behind to make sure I was waving back) as they walked the rest of the hallway, which was, thankfully, quite long.Processed with Rookie Cam

New Print Publication: Santa Fe Literary Review

Processed with Rookie Cam

Tacked above her kitchen sink, my mother kept a list of our names: daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren. She titled it: “Happiness is…” When she died, I got the list, since my twin sons were the most recent addition. It’s in my new house above my kitchen sink. Though I have it in a protective plastic frame, it’s fading. What used to be black ball-point is barely pale fern. Maybe moonshine. I think about retracing my mother’s letters, but I keep putting it off. I’d also taken one of her lipsticks, but when I tried it on, the sudden flood of rose made me so uneasy I had to throw out the tube.

In “Happiness,” published in this year’s Santa Fe Literary Review, I consider what happiness was to my mother, and what it might have been before she had her list of names, when she was a traveler. Kate McCahill (a fearless traveler—check out her new book, Patagonian Road, here), is SFLR‘s faculty advisor and a lovely classmate of mine from VCFA. I’m lucky to share this issue with another VCFA comrade, Emily Brisse, whose story “Confluence” brings rising floodwaters to eerie life.

FullSizeRender

Beauty shot of SFLR, with its vast and inviting western sky, taken on a very New England stone wall under the peach tree by our post-and-rail fence. My mother would have loved our new yard, and more, she would have loved that one of her listed loves, my eldest son, got so excited planting bulbs along the fence he is planning to ask Santa for gardening tools. We have all fall and winter to prepare for spring’s punch of gold happiness.

Salon Esse: A Retrospective

It really was ten years ago this summer I attended Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and returned to NYC with the idea for a writing salon. No critical feedback, no suggestions. Just read new work to each other on a monthly Friday night. We were compelled to write, but not anxious about having that raw work torn apart. We were inspired by each other’s literary sallies. We listened to non-verbal reactions and made notes for revision. We learned to keep our readings to under 1,000 words for the sake of getting sleep. We crossed genre. We met on rooftops and in gardens in midsummer. We wrote about each other. We hugged a lot. And we always brought something for the table. Eat, drink, listen.

Our first gatherings were on my couches, and soon they spread to the couches of other members around the city. So many members joined and then left, while some are in their tenth year. So many children have been born to members (most of them boys!). Other salons have even popped up around the country, founded by former members and interested friends. And so so so many pieces have been read, there’s no way no to count, though during my tenure I tried.

I left after year eight to move to the sticks. Salon, beautifully, goes on and on. A measure of how a simple literary exercise needs nothing more to be sustainable than love of words and kindness toward each other.

Dana Perry, one of Salon’s keepers, is taking us public next week for a ten-year celebration. I’m working on a new piece, and as with Salon many times before, the imminent gathering compels me to write, to eke out time readying this new piece enough for a reading with my friends, to have the very first show of it as a somewhat shaped thing be for Salon.

20638812_10100440601258790_4396079792475642314_n

New Online Publication: ink&coda

One of the many ways I tried to excavate my lost childhood memory is music—specifically, playing my childhood piano. I got the idea to write about it while talking with my mentor Diane Lefer at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Actually, I told her what kind of memory hunting I was doing on the piano, and she said, “Write about it!” I did, and after many versions—the last of which my generous friend Jen Bowen Hicks read and nursed and even named—“Each Measure an Echo” appears in ink&coda. The journal publishes both music and prose. Take a listen. I’m particularly into Osnat Netzer’s “Pillars” as it features the kind of keyboard finger work I could only dream about, even, I believe, if I could afford hundreds of hours of lessons. (Just after the three-minute mark, piano gives sax a break, and sings.) A bittersweet publication: this is ink&coda’s final issue!

House

House1.jpg

We bought a house. Twenty-two years after moving out of my mother’s house (which means 22 years after living in a house at all, which also means 22 years since meeting my husband), we have, together, bought a house. Exactly 75 miles west (as the crows flies) from my childhood home, and 41 miles northeast of J’s. Just 10 miles upriver from our sparkling Connecticut coast. A house.

Stream3.jpg

A house! With its quirks, needs, gifts. Features that surprise each time we unload a few boxes. The same way I’ve often studied the human body, I now study oil, propane, HVAC, electric, septic, well, water treatment, vapor shield, ventilation, insulation, filters, and floors. I study the pumping, flowing, buzzing, angles, and light that make a house—that make our house. I love our sliding barn door, our fireplace, our chimney that climbs through S.’s new room. Our half-octagon dining room and our bright red door. I love that the flora and fauna echo my mother’s yard completely. I love meeting the longtime residents: wisteria, allium, lilac, hosta, catmint, chipmunks, house crickets, chickadees, and at least one woodpecker who, so far, has signaled only with sound.

Stream2.jpg

We’re no longer hermit crabs, though I may be growing into a hermit in a house in a valley in the woods. A house in a small town that’s building a bee highway. A house nestled into an eastern slope by a brook, which feeds a river that runs by my sister’s place before supplying the Sound. Land that climbs the western hill and ends in giant granite ledges. A bowed wooden bridge that has our little boys say, “We’re standing on top of the stream!” A house where we can leave muddy boots by the firewood. Because it’s a house that comes with mud and firewood. Because it’s a house!

House4.jpg