How the Ocean Trapped Me

This year for the holiday, my family decided it would be best to rent a beach house in order to accommodate everyone with their own bedroom -- such is the way of everyone being an adult and picky. It was a good idea. It was my idea. And we quickly zeroed in on Dauphin Island as the perfect destination. Not only that, but we narrowed our search down even further to a house at the far western tip of that island where nothing but shrubs and grass grow and all is sand and water.

(I'm not being dramatic. That's all totally serious and true.)

Background: Dauphin Island is a barrier island off the coast of Mobile, Alabama. It's not too far from our home in Gulfport, Mississippi, nor is it very large. As islands go, it's barely there (6 square miles!), but it's historically significant as being a few hundred yards from Admiral Farragut when he spoke the words, "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" during the battle of Mobile Bay in the Civil War.

Well, renting houses online is an exciting thing. Websites and photos give you a general idea of the place you're about to spend quality time in, but you can never really know what it'll be like until you're pulling your car onto a sand-and-pebble driveway in front of a up-on-stilts-house while the ocean laps at the shore just feet away. There's just no real substitute for stepping out onto damp sand and looking South to the Gulf of Mexico, then North to Mobile bay - both close enough to splash. No real way to prepare for what it might mean should a storm roll in while you're living in this up-on-stilts-house on an island with one road down the center...

As you've probably guessed, this is exactly what happened. On Christmas day, winter storm Euclid tore across the country and in the south, he called to the seas. "Rise up! Rise up!" He cried. "Higher! Louder! Steal that driveway! SHAKE THAT HOUSE!"

It was insane. The house shook every time the waves crashed against the stilts (a-ha! this is why they're on stilts!), which might have been lulling had I not been wondering just how deep those stilts were buried in the earth. I hoped they were all in the bedrock, but suspected not. By 10:00pm, the ocean had swallowed the bottom step leading to the driveway, turning the sand to muck, and the waves were nearing the road.

That's about when we stopped looking. We were in it for the long haul no matter how high the seas got. The tornado warnings kept going, but houses on stilts HAVE NO BASEMENTS. So we decided to get some sleep, and hope for the best.

Obviously, I'm still here, but the next morning was...interesting. I've captured some of the aftermath for you...

Thanks to the realtor, we had enough warning to move our cars across the street, otherwise, my trusty vehicle might still be in Alabama...or on its way to Costa Rica.

We were stuck for two days and just as the water receded enough to get our cars back in the driveway, another storm rolled in and it started all over again.

Hope your holiday was a little less eventful and ten times more safe than mine.

(All that said, I would totally stay in a up-on-stilts-house again. Just....in May or June.)

The Canyon via Junipers

The problem with the Grand Canyon is that it doesn't look real. And unless you have some wicked fancy macro lens, your camera isn't going to help with that. It didn't take very long for me to realize that all my photos of the canyon were going to look exactly the same. Same rocks. Different angle. Each looking like a romantic painting of a striking landscape.

So! I turned to the local abundance of juniper trees for assistance. They make marvelous models, it turns out. They're so emotive, so friendly, so shockingly versatile, which is how I ended up with a series I'm calling, Juniper in Repose at the Grand Canyon.

First up, the model I like to imagine crept upon the canyon in the dead of night, then awoke to discover how close it had come to falling in, Juniper Startled:

Second, Juniper in Awe:

Third, the Juniper who wished to be a Condor:

Fourth, the Giving Juniper + Tessa:

And finally, Yesterday's Juniper (taken 1,000 feet down in the canyon wall):

There you have it: the Grand Canyon via the life and times of a juniper tree.

The trip of trains and canyons

For years and years, we’ve been talking about making a trip to the Southwestern US to see the Grand Canyon. Partly because Tessa loves the region and partly because I’d never been. So, we decided it was high time we made good on this particular item on the Someday List. We bought train tickets (because what’s an adventure without trains?), booked a package via the Grand Canyon Railway, and took off.

Neither of us has traveled extensively by train in the US, so this was an incredible way to spend 4 and a half days. The trip ended up being as much about the train as it was about the canyon. Let me just break it down by hours because I suspect it will be impressive.

Hours spent on the Southwestern Chief (to/from Williams, AZ): 52
Hours spent on the Grand Canyon Railway (to/from the park): 5
Hours in the park, doing parkly things: 28
Hours in Williams (mostly sleeping and watching outlaw re-enactors): 21
Total trip hours: 106

My take-away? Train travel is beautiful and slow. Perfect for two writers searching for inspiration, but maybe not for obsessive clock-watchers.

We had perfect weather and even though I had my laptop handy, I had a very difficult time prying my eyes away from the changing landscape. We went from the plains, to mountains, to desert – gold to green to rust red.

As a bonus, my bed came with a handy harness that strapped into the ceiling to keep Natalie from falling to the ground in a graceless splat. I felt like an astronaut.

And then there was the canyon. Whoa, that canyon! It wasn’t what I was expecting. I think in my mind, the Grand Canyon was in a barren landscape like Tatooine, with a vicious, toothy maw in the bottom.

But, it is not.

In fact, there was an entire forest around the Southern Rim and shrubs grow all the way down to the bottom of the canyon. Pines that smell like vanilla, and shrubs that look like they’ll cut you if you stray too close.

In any case, the canyon brought out one of the key differences between Tessa and me, and it has something to do with self-preservation.

Bonus points if you can tell me which of the women in this picture is representative of me. HINT: I’m the Sagittarius.

I really wanted to hike down into the canyon and if I’d planned more time and packed better hiking clothes, I’d have hiked all the way to Phantom Ranch to stay the night all the way down at the bottom. As it was, though, we had time to hike down the 1.5 mile trail and back up again. 

This is the point at which the Grand Canyon pulls one over on those of us used to mountains and hills and other things that go up. The canyon trails suck you in. They look easy. They look fun. You’re cruising downhill and looking at the world rising up around you. You’re excited to see what’s ahead, what’s through that next nifty looking tunnel, what’s around that next switchback.

It’s all exciting and wonderful and EASY.

But then, it’s time to go back up. And that’s when things get painful. Not only is the uphill climb interminable and hard, but you’ve already seen the view from the top. THERE IS NOTHING NEW AHEAD OF YOU. It’s not like a mountain hike, where you’ve got the view AND the downhill trek to look forward to. No. It’s all pain and sweat just to get back to the vantage point you’ve already seen. It’s insult to injury, I tell ya, and it’s only by the sheer desire to survive that you reach the top again. 

The Grand Canyon has a dark sense of humor.

But I don’t regret making the hike. What’s a victory without a little pain?

Concerning Puffy Clouds and Kansas

****Interrupting this post before it's even begun to shamelessly promote the short story I posted this week on Tangled Fiction. It's a little on the experimental side of things for me in that it is vaguely SciFi (which, I should note, I LOVE to read, but rarely write). You can read SECOND STAR RUN by clicking........here.****

This weekend, my dad came up for a visit, which was perfect because autumn in Kansas is nothing like autumn in Mississippi and I was ten kinds of excited to get to show off my town in all it's autumnal glory. Our first thought was to take him out to the Konza prairie. This isn't right in our backyard, but it's worth the hour long westward drive because the fields are rolling and all shades of rusty gold and brown. There were going to be buffalo and tallgrasses and puffy clouds the likes of which my dad had never seen. It was going to be grand. He was going to fall into unexpected love with Kansas; which, I might argue, is how everyone who wasn't born here comes to love Kansas - suddenly and with quiet passion.

But then we discovered that KSU was playing MSU at KSU.

And I cried because that meant insurmountable traffic and no buffalo.*

So instead, we decided to take dad somewhere closer to home: The Haskell/Wakarusa/Baker/Lawrence Wetlands (why, yes, there is controversy over what they're called...). I'd been there before, but in the dead heat of summer when the boardwalk could burn the rubber from your shoes and you could barely breathe for the butterflies.** Dad thought it sounded great so away we went!

Only to discover the wetlands aren't so wet in autumn time. In fact, they look no a little bit like the prairie I intended to take him to in the first place. WIN! A beautiful, puffy-clouded win.

Of course, I forgot my fancy camera, so all of my photos were taken on my fancy phone instead. So, I apologize for the photo spam, but I would like to share with you a few of the reasons I love Kansas a la photo essay.

REASON #1
Puffy clouds and cattails



REASON #2
I don't think you know what I mean when I say TALLgrasses
(PS - This is where the water is supposed to be.)



REASON #3
SWAMPS! Seriously, Kansas has all the things!



REASON #4
Labyrinth was filmed here.***



REASON #5
Humor.



*This was an exaggeration.
**So was this.
***.....yeah, this, too.

Disney on Proper Hygiene and Fear

And so for the fifth time in my life, I went to Disney World. This is the sort of thing that makes me want to get all Susan Cooper-y and say in a boomy voice, "And then there were five." (Sooooo many bonus points if you take my meaning).

Disney with the Gratton's is always a lesson in strategy and quick crowd navigation. By now, I expect the plan to be laid out in beautiful detail days before we set foot in the park. This time was no different, but this time there were apps and the potential to reach maximum fun capacity was high. Tessa has already posted the play by play, so I think I'm going to talk about how Disney can still make me feel like a little kid and also about bathrooms.

Yes, bathrooms.

But let's start with feeling like I'm ten or twelve years old when I look up at the amazing display of fireworks (choreographed with music) and see hearts and Mickey's and REAL MAGIC in the sky. Or when, during one of their many 3D adventures, the seats/floor/air does something I didn't expect and I'm *actually* surprised. Or when my entire family breaks down in laughter over a shared joke and everyone is so, so happy. Or when I'm in line for Space Mountain and my legs are weak even though I know what's coming.

Space Mountain is really what does it to me. Every single time I get in that line, I remember the first time I rode it and how I begged my parents to take me. I remember feeling like I was finally old enough, wise enough, mature enough to be able to handle it and how I boasted it would be no big deal.

I remember being wrong. So very wrong. I remember being Scared To Death, but riding it again right away because my dad saw that there was no line and wanted to go again. He was probably just excited to finally have a chance to ride the thing. I couldn't back out and my legs were nothing but jello as we climbed back through the tunnels to the cars.

And that's what happens to me TO THIS DAY. I get in line for Space Mountain and I'm a bundle of irrational nerves. I sort of love that. It makes the ride thrilling every time I do it.

Usually, I can't do much other than hold on to the safety bar (seriously, SM is the only coaster on which I WILL NOT raise my hands) and hold my breath until it's over. By the third time (maybe?) I was feeling slightly more confident and when we were moving through the first tunnel before they shoot you into space I snapped a picture.

It's blurry because my hands were shaking with FEAR. Also, Tessa was yelling at me to put my phone away. I'll admit it wasn't the smartest thing to do on a roller coaster, but I think that photo was worth the risk.

But now let's talk about bathrooms. Why? Because there we found two remarkable things about them.

First, let's go with Disney, who cares so much about proper amusement park hygiene that they post signs in every single bathroom reminding you the steps required for washing your hands as though the process is as elusive as that for the three seashells. . .

Just in case you can't see in the photo, I'll repeat:

STEP ONE - Wet hands and apply soap.

STEP TWO - Scrub hands and rinse.

STEP THREE - Dry hands thoroughly using paper towels.

STEP FOUR - Re-read steps 1 through 3 to make sure you haven't missed one. All steps are crucial!

STEP FIVE - Take a picture and spread the word. Clean hands are happy hands!

O_O

So when it comes to bathrooms, I have to say that Hogsmeade wins. Hands down. Because this was their ladies room sign:


I mean, how awesome is that?

I was probably too thrilled when I noticed this sign. I can pretty much guarantee I was the only person photographing the public conveniences in Hogsmeade. At least on that day. ;)

And finally, my favorite picture from this trip, taken on the last day in the Magic Kingdom at just the right moment to capture some Mickey Magic.

Better than a bear trap?

In the next few weeks, I'll be going to Alaska for a week. It's not a vacation, but a business trip, which might not sound all that exciting, but a business trip with scientists and researchers is rarely dull.

When we asked what we should pack for a trip to Alaska in March, we were given a single item and it wasn't one that any of us was expecting to hear.  I mean, if you're going to Alaska and there is ONE thing that's essential for your survival, I'm thinking reflective blanket, a bear trap or maybe a grappling hook. I wasn't expecting rubber boots.

How can rubber boots be the Most Essential Thing I will need? I was under the rather strong assumption that Alaska is not a swamp or even a wetland. It's not below sea level, right? But when we asked for any other packing guide, we were given a stoic shake of the head and, again, the words: rubber boots.

So, I'm thinking this is pretty serious and I do NOT want to get to Alaska without the crucial piece of my wardrobe, but searching rubber boots on Google is about as useful as searching for comfortable bras. It's just not helpful.

Do I go for the standard, reliable rubber boot?



Something more fun and artsy?



Something trendy?



Or something totally industrial and uninteresting?



I just don't know. And I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. Like this ->  O_O

It totally depends on what the purpose is. Are these for safety and comfort? Or is this a fashion thing to keep us from sticking out like the big Kansan thumbs?

Do you wear rubber boots? Any insight to share with me? I'm listening.

Also, and unrelatedly, you can check out a short story by moi on Tangled Fiction today.  Every forth week we're each posting single-authored shorts to change things up a bit. Today, mine is Butterfly Girl.

A disjointed post of seemingly random things

First of all, there is a spaceship in the office below me. A veritable 1950's style spaceship complete with it's own 1950's style ringtonemusic that has been looping for 15 solid minutes. It is driving me c.r.a.z.y.

o_O

At first, I thought it was somewhere in the bottom of my purse, but soon discovered that the sound is coming up through the vent in the floor and straight into my brain.

I need tinfoil. Obviously.

Or a lock pick. Or a hammer. I'd settle for a hammer. Anything to save me from Plan 9 From Outer-Space!

*ahem*

And in other, totally unrelated news, I have two things to share.  The first is that Tessa Gratton  is giving away a copy of BLOOD MAGIC along with a few other upcoming releases, THE DARK AND HOLLOW PLACES (for a dose of zombie love) and WITHER (for some sweet, dystopian sugar in your coffee). Go! Enter! Read! You can also watch her read the complete first chapter in character. You don't want to miss it.

The second is that I totally fail at fire building and now there is proof. But what didn't make it in to this video was the moment I breathed fire.

Twice.



Aaaaaand the spaceship is still going. One of us will not survive this day . . .

The Cello Project - December Edition

Finally, finally, finally! Ta-da!

 

As I said, I'm having a little contest with the dual goals of encouraging everyone kicking off the new year by activating creative powers, and doing something uniquely significant to the cello project. Though the Hairy Coo did a fabulous job of modeling one of the prizes, I'm posting pics of the two bracelets I'll be giving away for sure. 

Enter the Disclaimer!
I am not, nor have I ever been, a jeweler. I am a tinker and an optimistic one at that, so last night I chopped up two of my cello strings and made two bracelets.  I'm naming them after the strings they once were.

Bracelet in the Key of A...made first with nothing but the steal of the string.  This one is very flexible.


And Bracelet in the Key of C....made using the very end of the string to change things up a bit.  This one is less flexible due to girth of the string.


Leave a link to your qualifying post in a comment below.  Also, if you are embarking on a year long creative project of your own, leave me a link in the comments.  I'll be putting together a collection for a post at the end of January because blog projects are more fun in company.  Help me pimp your project!

And it occurs to me that I should have a deadline for this contest, so lets say one week - end of the day on Wednesday, January 19th.  Winners will be announced on Thursday.

And again, thank you, everyone, for making this such a fun project!  <3

197 Days

This is a post about resolutions (sort of) and motivation (mostly).

This year, I found a name for a condition that has irritated me for something like fifteen long years. I'm not talking about my inability to be calm in a dirty room, or my fear of jellyfish. I'm talking about cholinergic urticaria.

In short, I'm allergic to my own sweat.

My. Own. Sweat. O_O

Here's how it goes: I go on vacation or traveling for whatever reason and stop my daily exercise routine, stripping my body of all the natural steroids and antihistamines it builds up when I do things like run. I come back and am painfully aware that these things are missing. I eye my running shoes for a few days and so does Grendel and when I finally convince myself there's no way around it, I go running for the short ten minutes it takes for my body to become a bee hive of itchy pain and despair. Rinse. Repeat x 3, or until the itching subsides.

It's horrible. I'm not gonna lie. It's like jumping into a hot tub of pink insulation or giving yourself chicken pocks and trying not to scratch. And it's a great reason not to bother with anything that looks even remotely like calisthenics.

But it's a horrible excuse. 

I love running and I love being in shape. Zombie apocalypse aside, I love feeling comfortable in my own skin and knowing that I can run a few miles without getting winded or injured. It's important to me, but sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world. I've just come home from a very long trip to visit the family in Mississippi and while I was there, I got sick. Not a little sick. A lot sick, and even though I had all sorts of fitness-related intentions, the exercise didn't happen. In this case, the reason was a good excuse, but it lead to the same hurdle and the same process of getting psyched for the inevitable.

Now, I'm home and I'm on day 4 of the ITCH! PAIN! and SUFFERING! routine and I got to thinking about all of the conversations I've seen about resolutions and the new year.

To resolve or not to resolve? That is the question!

I think it's great that we have a time, a cultural pause point for people to stop and take stock of what's in the pantry. It's a good time to get rid of the canned goods that expired in 2007 and figure out if you like what you've been eating or if it's time to add more legumes to the mix. It also seems to be a time when people open up their garages and basements and attics and rediscover all the things they said they were going to do last year and never did for one reasonor another. It's disheartening and I see a lot of door slamming on the whole idea of resolutions happening because of precedent.

So here's the thing: resolutions aren't magic.

And here's the other thing: we change when we want to.

In 2010, one of my resolutions was to play my cello once a week. Over the course of this year, I ran up against twenty-six thousand reasons not to practice. For starters, having a full-time job, writing two novels, and traveling 44 days that year. Which left me with 321 days in which to practice, most of them work days. But all of my reasons felt like really shitty excuses and I found ways to make room for my cello even when it was easier not to.

The results! Of the 321 viable cello days in 2010, I practiced on 197 of them. I'm going to say it again because the number is pleasing to mine eye: 197 days for an average practice time of 30 minutes. That's 98.5 hours! My final video is in progress and forthcoming.

None of it happened because it was in a list of resolutions I posted last year. It happened because I wanted it to.

If you're making resolutions, I wish you wild and unabashed success pursuing the changes you want. And if you don't do resolutions, I wish you the same.

For myself, I want to keep doing more of the same in 2011 with a few changes that I'm not ready to speak aloud. 

Cheers, Everyone. And Happy 2011!

Friday Fribbles

My ancestry is pretty much a European hodge-podge of genetic stuff.  The family tree has branches from Italy, Scotland, Ukraine, England, and Slovakia.  But thanks to Maggie's recent trip, she's discovered that there is also a branch from Hungary.  The seriously cranky branch, specifically, and where my pout undoubtedly hails from.  See the proof she brought me...



It's only slightly disturbing.  Of course, I love her dress and I'm keen on the idea of having family ties to the artist, Munkacsy Mihaly.  I'm also keen on the idea that one day soon I'll meet The Doctor and have an adventure (carrying buckets?) in 19th century Hungary.

And in other Friday news, we've got two full stories up on Tangled Fiction for December and I can't decide which I like better.  Check out BETHLEHEM for some post-apocalypic holiday spirit and I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU for something of a serious creepfest!  

I am different today than I was before

I've had long hair since I was born.* It hasn't always been touch my waist long, but always long enough to pull into a ponytail and more often than not, long enough to get caught in car doors and pick up stray animals. But about two weeks ago, I decided to try something different.

The need for change sort of sprang out of nowhere. I was walking along one day, perfectly content with the long locks, when inspiration attacked and the decision to cut was made. And just like that, I was done with the long hair.

Yesterday, it was as almost as long as it's even been with high school being the only time it ever got close to my hips. It was this long:

And then it was shorter and brighter...

I expected there to be more emotion involved with the snipping of 10 - 12 inches, but there wasn't. It was gone and I was chatting merrily along. My stylist set the first chunk of hair right in my lap and I just kept talking until Tessa stopped me with, "Do you realize what is happening right now?!"

It was a clear sign that it was high time for a change. And boy, oh, boy it is one....


Ta-da!

*Suspension of disbelief required here.

Lessons from the Rooftop

Sunday afternoon I got stuck on my roof.

It was one of those moments when I realized just how much like my father I am and also, how resourceful.

Here's how it happened. It was a beautiful day and my gutters were overflowing with bright autumn leaves. So, while Tessa Gratton was ensconced on the sofa writing like made with earbuds shoved into her head, I grabbed the ladder and headed around to the back of the house. (This would be the farthest point from her because I had some idea of what I was preparing to do and that she wouldn't approve). I picked a sturdy spot on the new deck and set the 6' ladder to stun.

There were warning signs, of course. First, there was the fact that I was alone and the neighborhood was eerily quiet. And then there was the bright green covering on the very top of the ladder imprinted with the words: NOT A STEP. And there was the precarious tipping of the ladder as I used the not a step to leverage myself onto the roof.

But they felt more like suggestions. I was full of my CAN DO attitude and just like that, I was on the roof.

It was when it came time for getting off of the roof that I started to doubt myself. The ladder was useless and I realized that the NOT A STEP wasn't joking. If I tried it, the not a step itself would wrap itself around my calf and fling me to the ground somewhere in my neighbor's back yard.

So there I was, trapped on my roof with the only person around happily plugging away at her novel with earbuds in.

Grendel was with me, but all he did was bark incessantly, "Jump! Jump! Jump! Jumpjumpjump!"

I considered it, but breaking my ankle on my brand new deck seemed too cliche. I eyed the limbs of the Maple tree and imagined swinging my way to the trunk, but I've seen too many America's Funniest Videos for that. So, I sat and listened to my quite neighborhood and pondered.

I didn't panic. And I think it was because I knew I would get down, it was just a question of how much getting down was going to hurt. It's probably also because this sort of situation isn't atypical for me. I don't know when it started (in utero?), but I do seem to have a fierce love for high pressure situations.

Other rooftops I'm stuck on at them moment include the recently ramped up schedule of Tangled Fiction, the final months of the Cello Project, polishing the wip for submission, 2 thousand Scorpio birthdays (seriously, I am surrounded by them), and the day job I love.

I think I actually missed the green no step several months ago.

But what I've learned is that if I were to pay attention to all of those warning signs, not only would I miss a spectacular view, I would have missed out on doing all of these new things.

I would still be on the ground wondering.

So, you might be wondering how I eventually got back down to the ground. I think I'm not going to tell you. I think I'll just say that I didn't jump and I didn't use the Maple tree and I didn't call for Tess. I used my wits, I trusted my strength, and it didn't hurt a bit.