Fashion Fast

Balenciaga. Prada. Dior. Burberry. Alexander McQueen. YSL. Gucci. Chanel. So much money! So many followers. Why?

I have never been able to understand it, though as a theater person, I should. Fashion shows are a theatrical experience, but never quite get there, from my point of view. They offer all the cliches of theater without the substance--nothing you go home with is more than what you came with, and even what you came with can diminish after a fashion show. (Confidence, anyone)?

In a world where women are meant to look like boys, (and I do mean little boys), what is the point?

Okay, backing up a little here and trying to be less incendiary -- I admit to liking Alexander McQueen. Ridiculously expensive, yes, but at least the clothes I see are for women, even those with curves. As someone who grew up in a land where thin was always in, there was nothing I could ever do -- being a women with curves -- that would be remotely fashionable.

And yet, as they say in the movies (or somewhere) - fashion is supposed to be fun, right? Can anything that takes itself so damnably seriously ever be fun? I don't know. I had a few years where I was head-over-heels in love with Norma Kamali, mainly because her clothes actually fit me and I looked good in them. And of course, my (now departed) mother would pay for said clothes, if I asked enough. 

Last week, I read about the Balenciaga shows and looked at the article's pictures, SMH. I just don't get how any women could believe anything in that collection would look good on her. Unless she was a 14 year old boy, and then I suppose some of it would? But would that be worth the price tag?

Why are women expected to buy and wear expensive clothes? I thought the gown I bought for my son and daughter-in-law's wedding was expensive, and it was $350. Imagine two more zeros on there and we're approaching fashion-show style.

My favorite outfit growing up was jeans, a leotard, and big, hoopy earrings - the favorite outfit of my leading character in The Beat on Ruby's Street. Long black dresses or skirts and leotards work too, and I still like them. What I decided lately is that what women really need as they're growing up is to learn how to walk and talk.

By walk I don't mean the struts we see in fashion shows. I mean walking into a room with what actors and directors call presence--signifying you are someone, mainly because you believe you are.

By talking, I mean using your voice in a way that conveys expressiveness and warmth.

Walking and talking this way don't compromise your individuality. They help you own it.

That's
my diatribe this week, even though -- God help me - I still like Alexander McQueen. And though I'm not in love with Balenciaga, I have to admit - it's an extremely cool name.

Photo by  Amanda Vick on Unsplash

Poet's Month

Did you know April is National Poetry Month? I had no idea when I started my Beat Street series with The Beat on Ruby's Street. 

In the book, Ruby is turning 12 on April 12 (her golden birthday). Her main ambition, though she doesn't quite know it yet, is to become a poet, and one of the things Ruby likes best is making up poetry.

Growing up in Greenwich Village, New York in the 1950s, Ruby is mostly aware of the Beat Generation poets around her, and that's the kind of poetry she tends to write. In order to write Ruby's poems, I had to read a lot of Beat poets, and then reimagine them so they were believably being written by an eleven-year-old on the cusp of turning twelve.

It was really one of the most fun assignments I'd ever given myself. 

"Sweet fleet beat of the street

Rising heat

From the white of the sidewalk

And the conga sound of the 

Bonga bonga bongos

BEAT BEAT BEAT

"Every spring

They sprout like toadstools 

In the key of heat."

In fact, I was remembering how people all over the streets in Brooklyn (where I used to live) pulled out their instruments (including congas) every spring and that's how you'd know winter was over.  I can't believe things would have changed all that much from Ruby's time in 1958. I think musicians need to play and the street acoustics can be so perfect when it gets warmer.

Writing Ruby's poetry has made me think about all sorts of poets through the ages and wanting to listen and quote more poetry, too. Yesterday I posted a photo of a goose standing on the edge of a lake around here and it made me think of Walt Whitman's poem:

"The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,

Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find."

Just two lines that speak volumes about wanting more out of life than you ever received. Which makes it a perfect poem for Now, Voyager-- a spectacular Bette Davis film? (Do not ask me who she was, please. Just google her).

These are just two poems I wanted to celebrate in April. I'll try to think of a few more next week! Now it's your turn to send me some.

Schoolish Thoughts

Did you like school? I don't mean liking college or grad school, I mean elementary-middle-high school, or as I used to call it, School school. 

Elementary school for me was a day school for Jewish children, and I think there was a lot about I liked. I made one spectacular friend there, and still know her, so in that sense it was more than worth it--plus I learned Hebrew and could speak it fluently (though sadly, not any more).

Middle school went badly for me when I switched to a public school and encountered complete culture shock. Fortunately I found one friend in eighth grade who saved the experience for me. 

High school turned out better as I started trying out and winning leading roles in plays, and hung around with the theater kids. I did well in English-based subjects, but struggled with math and science. I got through algebra, geometry and chemistry because the teachers knew how to make their subjects understandable. My calculus teacher in junior year tried to explain things to me, but I didn't get anything she was saying.

I'm thinking about all this because it's vacation time and kids are supposed to be home for a week. I always used to experience vacations as freedom--which makes me wonder if kids feel the same today. I do love hearing from parents who say their kids really like going to school.

I don't know how schools are teaching math and science these days, and I'm glad more girls are doing better with it. I feel like I missed that boat entirely, and just being able to fulfill a recipe or balance my checkbook is a pretty wondrous accomplishment. (New math went in and out of my head like a rocket).

At this point, I can't help wishing I'd had more attention from science and math teachers, but of course there wasn't time or funds for that. When my son was in first and second grade, he was able to get individual help in reading, and I have to say that really helped him understand what he was reading. 

I know many communities need much more money than they have for schools, and the pandemic was horrible for a lot of kids who need a classroom setting. I don't know what to do about any of this, but I do hope more kids are happy with their schools this year, and getting the help they need and deserve.

Because school lasts a long time, you know? And you only get one chance to go through it.

Photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash

Fearless Mom: A Passover Backstory

This week's news: my article about how to make a Passover maror with plenty of kick and punch was published in Unpacked this week, and you can read it here.

What I don't share in the article is the backstory about that maror, a.k.a. horseradish sauce, which sits on seder plates throughout the world as Passover begins.

This story starts with my mom (and my dad a little bit, too). I grew up watching them make maror every spring, a few days before the holiday in the basement of our home. I think they were in the basement because they could open the patio door and not disturb the main floor of our house with too many fumes.

My father reported that he could barely stand it, but my mom would have said no such thing. First, an explanation of what maror is and does. It is supposed to symbolize the bitterness of slavery and the tears shed by captive Jews as they toiled involuntarily for their "masters" in Egypt. And yes, maror literally means bitter herbs.

You make maror with horseradish root and today, we typically use a food processor. My mother and father used a food grinder, and I have no idea how they survived. Most online sources tell you that even with a food processor you should turn your face away when opening the lid, and make sure to open lots of windows or doors while making this dish. Many people wear goggles. 

But not my mom. When it came to maror, she was fearless. I think in fact she was maror, and maror was her. She was unwavering, larger than life, and no bitter herb was ever going to get the better of her. When she brought her maror to her brother's house for our yearly seder, my cousin Stewie couldn't get enough. The only maror he would eat was my mother's, and I think she made it stronger every year just to please him.

As strong as it was, I have to say, it was still delicious, though you had to be sure to eat it with as big of a helping as you could find of fish, brisket or whatever you had available. Mostly, the horseradish is eaten with something called gefilte fish, which my husband won't touch but which is a staple at Passover. It is made up of poachaed, ground fish such as carp, whitefish or pike and since it is fairly bland, it seems to pair well with maror. 

I think Passover allowed my mother to come into her own in ways that didn't happen the rest of the year. She wore bright red lipstick (every day) and red was her favorite color. I think she made her maror with beets because of it.

Mom wasn't someone you would get by easily if you told her a lie (she always knew it, anyway). She could be incredibly supportive and insightful, and she loved Broadway shows, which sowed the seeds for me as an actor and playwright. But if you crossed her, God help you. 

At the same time, I miss how smart she was about people and life and how determined she was about going after what she wanted. She taught me that persistence, and I'm so grateful she did.

That's why the recipe in this article is dedicated to you, Mom. I hope you get to celebrate Passover wherever you are. I hope they let you make maror -- and the malachim (angels) line up for a taste because everyone at your table is raving about it.

Maror Photo via Unpacked from Wikipedia Commons

Mom photo from Zark family collection

Awards: What They Do (and Don't) Mean for Creative Artists

MIA in action last week - as I scurried out of town to boycott the snowstorm. When my husband and I landed in Sarasota to celebrate his birthday, I discovered a surprise: my book Crooked Lines: A Single Mom's Jewish Journey was a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Awards competition.

What does that mean? During the past few years, I've received a number of book awards and am very honored to say so. 

I feel lucky and blessed to have received The Wishing Shelf Award for The Beat on Ruby's Street and the Firebird Award in the Parenting and Family category for Crooked Lines. 

My play A Body of Water was also chosen by the National Foundation for Jewish Culture on the 350th anniversary of Jewish life in America as a play that "breaks new ground."

It's important to note here that while awards recognize the blood and sweat authors and playwrights put into our books and plays, they don't necessarily translate into sales or increased audience size. What they do mean is that certain designated readers who put the time into reading large numbers of books or scripts are choosing your book as one of the best. That, to me, is worth celebrating.

So, to all the other (many) award winners out there, congratulations--for shutting yourself into dark rooms and bright days, for paying attention to the world around you and for spending hours at your computers, trying to get the words right.

Of course, writing is it's own reward and all that -- but how wonderful it is to be recognized. Thank you, awarding organizations and readers, for making that happen, too.

Choosing Your Genre-- or Does it Choose You?

 A very special present came in October and I'm excited to share it with you. Crooked Lines: A Single Mom's Jewish Journey won the Firebird Award in the Parenting/Family Category.

One of the interesting things about the Firebird Award (and there are many) is that they give you a spot on Speak Up Talk Radio, to share tips with other authors. You can hear my quick tips on how authors might choose a genre (and how the genre really chooses us) at https://www.spreaker.com/show/the-boombangomgwow-podcast

I'm also pasting the text here in case you're not in the mood to listen. :)

Author Tips Podcast 

Hi, everyone, I’m Jenna Zark, author of Crooked Lines: A Single Mom’s Jewish Journey. Today I want to talk about how to figure out which genre your book belongs to. When I started writing my first book some years ago I thought the only thing I would know how to do was fiction. I never thought about writing anything that connected to my spiritual journey or life.

Then someone in my community started a blog about Jewish life and asked if I wanted to participate. I didn’t know if I would have anything to contribute, but found to my surprise that I did, and that people were reading it and commenting much more than they had with my previous fiction.

If you have something to say, no matter whether it’s via fiction or a biographical nonfiction story, or anything else for that matter—think about why you want to write first, and the genre will choose you before you finish your book. Every story is really suited to its own genre, and books are really about sharing what’s most important to you.

In my own case, I wanted to let people know how I got through some really tough times by learning about the holidays and rituals in my heritage. That meant I needed to explore those holidays and rituals from a non-fiction standpoint. If I wanted to create characters, I would have moved to fiction—but the focus of my book was holidays and how they affected me personally.

So if you have a story to tell, pay attention to it and figure out what you want to say first. Then look at the possibilities—and let the genre find you. To learn more about my book, visit jennazark.com and go to the Crooked Lines page. Thanks for listening today!

*****

More on the Firebird Awards:

October 21, 2022

Speak Up Talk Radio announced the winners of the recent FIREBIRD BOOK AWARDS contest. 

One of the winning entries was from Twin Cities author Jenna Zark, whose book Crooked Lines: A Single Mom’s Jewish Journey won in the Parenting/Family category.

Authors and publishers from around the world submitted their work to the International Firebird Book Awards. Two judges from a select panel of 25 judges read each book in its entirety, and independently score each entry. All judges commit to a set of standardized criteria that evaluates the quality of the writing as well as production aspects. Only entries with the highest of scores are awarded the coveted Firebird.

Patricia J. Rullo, founder of the Firebird Book Awards, says, “the Firebird Book Awards adds a charitable twist that allows the author’s entry fee to be tax-deductible. In return, we personally make and send handmade fun and colorful pillowcases to women and children in homeless shelters via Enchanted Makeovers, a 501(c)3 tax-exempt organization. I

n this way, authors get notoriety for their work while helping to transform homeless shelters into bright and happy homes. It is a rewarding venture for everyone.”Pat adds, “this quarter we also sent many large boxes of children’s books to the shelters. The children appreciate falling asleep on our pretty pillowcases while reading happy bedtime stories.”

The Firebird Book Award judging panel grew again this quarter and includes a diverse group who represent a cross section of ages, cultural heritage, race, religion, gender, and experience.  At Speak Up Talk Radio, our mission is to offer authors and others a welcome place to promote themselves and their books via book awards,  podcast awards, radio interviews, audiobook production, voiceover marketing tools, and podcasting services, including our BOOMBANGOHMYGOSHWOW podcast where authors share short but helpful tips with fellow authors.”

The Firebird Book Awards run quarterly contests so authors can receive recognition on a timely basis. Authors from all genres, mainstream, independent, and self-published are welcome. For additional winning authors, titles, and entry information:

https://www.speakuptalkradio.com

White Knuckles Welcome

 

Confession: I have never been good with cars. I know Americans are supposed to be all n love with the road--and in fact, I am. At the same time, my driving skills aren't just awful. They're -- how to say this? Nonexistent, pretty much.

I learned to drive at 16 in the suburbs of New Jersey. I went on the expressway with my dad and mom and sister (who was the nicest). But when I got to college in Boston, I didn't need a car and didn't miss one; I took trains everywhere and buses if I had to leave the city to visit my boyfriend in New Hampshire. Or, I rode along with other friends.

After graduating college, I stayed in Boston a few years and then moved to New York City, where again, a car wasn't needed. In my thirties, I had to move to the Midwest when my then-husband got a job near Chicago and then in St. Paul.

That's when the trouble started. I needed a car to get practically anywhere. I hit poles, posts, curbs and walls. Other cars hit me and practically anyone behind me winds up passing me because I go so much slower (especially in winter). Oh yeah, and I get lost easily. And I mean really lost.

The truth is, I don't like to drive. I'd rather do almost anything else, but I don't have much choice because I work across town and I'm not about to bike there in winter. Biking is great and I'd love to do more of it, but I don't have the time at this point to get where I'm going and meet the deadlines I need to meet.

I thought I was doing pretty well with the car, (an uneasy truce)? Then, at the dentist office, I hit the curb and horrible squealy noises erupted. Not only were the brake pads in need of changing; by hitting the curb the way I did, I broke the stabilizer bar links. Repair cost for breaks and bar links: $700 that I don't have.

Inflation and cars don't mix. Gas is expensive enough, but do the slightest thing to your car and you'll be sorry for months, if not years.

I'd love to go back east and stop driving altogether, but it's so much more expensive than it was when I left I'm afraid to even look at the prices.

Leaving me pretty much stuck where I am, with my Nissan trundling along on city roads, and me afraid to drive it. Maybe I need a compromise. Moped? Think I could handle that?
Not really. But it makes me feel better to pretend.

How do you get around, if you are in a car city? I'd love to hear your thoughts--especially if you like driving as much (I mean as litle) as I do. White knuckle driver? 

Welcome.

Photo by Alex Chernenko on Unsplash

Start of the Story

It wasn't like Dorothy, dancing down the yellow brick road to Oz. In fact, it was anything but a fairy tale. Crooked Lines: a Single Mom's Journey began with a divorce and the overwhelming feeling of being alone.

It began with a friendship, two souls tossed overboard and trying to survive.

It began with a young son, who was depending on me to soldier through. And a raft of Jewish holidays that I'd always celebrated with family, and now had to navigate alone.

If you are divorced, you know what I'm talking about.

If you are a single parent; losing your own parents to Alzheimer's and eventually death--

You understand.

Or maybe you just know someone going through this and want to be there for a friend.

I can only say those curve balls keep coming. But friends and rituals and holidays can give us insights that help us deal with them.

I can also say that sometimes, when you least expect it, better things come your way. It could be something cool with your career; or a new relationship that brings it's own transitions to navigate.

What I discovered is what a friend told me: God paints in crooked lines to lead us to the people we are meant to meet.

You can meet that friend (and a lot of others) in this story, as of September 5.

First Prize, Earn Prize and In-Between: Competition and Kids

When my son was about four, every kid in the 5K race where I worked got a first prize, which seemed cute but worrisome to me. If we want our kids to earn what they get, and we tell them they all won first prize when clearly they didn't, what exactly are we telling them?

Trying to say this at the time was not a good idea, and didn't get me anywhere. I do remember the day my son actually won a race, when the other boys in said race were making fun of him for being slow.

It was a hot, hot, hot day and a small race with a small neighborhood track team. After half a day of half-hearted running, my son suddenly decided he'd had enough of the other kids' teasing. He gathered whatever was left of his strength and pushed through the heat, like a small racehorse gaining on the other boys and then jumping over the finish line.

I couldn't help being really proud of him then. And I could see what it meant to him to win.

I am not someone who loves competition--and there are often days I want to see everyone winning that first prize. But there are others when I want to stand out, not for being special, but for the work I do or try to do and the work I hope to pass on.

So when a play is produced or a book is published or I win an award or a grant, I want to celebrate, just a little. Not to take anything away from anyone else's work, but to acknowledge I earned the right to be recognized for mine.

And when your kid earns a prize or a award or recognition for whatever he/she does, I think it's OK to applaud and jump up and down screaming!

Just like they'd do for you.

Articles on this:

Why Competition is Good for Kids (and How to Keep it That Way)

Pros and Cons of Competition Among Kids and Teens

6 Ways to Encourage Healthy Competition in Kids

Kid's Race Photo:  MoBikeFed

Hip Shoot

 I try to be sunny when I write my blogs - whether or not that's a good thing, I don't know. At the moment I'm feeling more like I'm in a swamp, and the best thing I can think of is to write about it--more or less.

Have you ever been wrongly accused of something you didn't do? Sometimes that happens to our kids. Do we believe them? Check out what's happening with them?

I hope so. 

When your son or daughter is accused of something, the worst thing you can do, IMHO, is to jump on the accusing bandwagon without finding out what's going on. To me, that means talking with your son/daughter and asking for their version of events. What they say will usually tell you everything you want to know.

When possible, if you can find a witness or some other evidence of whatever it is that's supposed to have happened, that's another important way to get to the truth.

Was I a perfect mom in this regard? No. But I do remember at least one situation when I asked my son "what happened?" And he told me, which helped both us solve the situation.

Why are so many people shooting from the hip when they hear something about their kids--or for that matter, other family members?

All I know is it's business as usual for too many of us.

Today a family member accused me of something that was blatantly untrue, and took the word of someone else without even bothering to ask me about it.

I can't go into details for privacy's sake, but I know the accusation has no basis in reality. And it hurts that a family member would take someone else's word over mine.

So if someone's saying your kid did something wrong, dig deeper. Check it out and ask again, because you owe that to your child.

If someone says you did something wrong, make sure the person who brings this up to dig deeper and show them any evidence you have that proves them wrong.

You owe that to yourself, too.

Evil photo: Eric

Crooked Lines: Leading Us to the People We're Meant to Meet

 

When you part company with the life you’ve been living and have to start a new one, what do you do?

I hadn't expected to be divorced. I hadn't chosen to be a single mom--but when my son was three, that's exactly what happened. And I was completely unprepared.

I had moved from the East Coast to the Twin Cities because of my former husband's job as a cantor at a synagogue. Most of the people I knew were from that synagogue. When I moved with my son to the lower half of a duplex in another neighborhood, I was terrified.

I had been lucky to find a part-time job and apartment. But the idea of starting over troubled my sleep and woke me up in the middle of the night. 

I had no idea how I was going to give my son a Jewish heritage from my own perspective--or even know what that perspective was. I also didn't know how to be a "co-parent" with someone I wasn't married to anymore.

The People We're Meant to Meet

And yet, and yet. There is a saying that God paints in crooked lines when leading us to the people we were meant to meet. That’s the focus of my new book Crooked Lines: A Single Mom's Jewish Journey.

I wrote it because I know there are a lot of single moms out there who feel "less than" others: married couples or big families who seem to have everything figured out.

I wrote it because I wanted those single parents, including dads, to know they're not alone.

And because I learned divorce doesn't mean the end of the world, and in fact, can teach you a lot about yourself--and make your future relationships stronger.

I wrote it because I know there are a lot of people who fall in love with someone of a different religious background. I wanted readers to know you can hold on to your heritage and pass it on to your kids with a supportive spouse and faith community. 

I also wrote the book for people whose parents' health may be declining, as mine were. All these transitions are seen through the lens of Jewish holidays and rituals, though readers of all faiths (and none) have told me the stories resonate. That was my intention from the very first word I wrote.

TC Jewfolk Connection

Which reminds me: many chapters in Crooked Lines appeared originally as essays in the online magazine TC Jewfolk, at the suggestion of Founder Leora Maccabee. It was her belief in me and my writing that became the seed for this book--and I will be eternally grateful for that.

I will share more with you soon--and will also be asking your advice on the cover design. Right now, this picture is one of the ideas--so feel free to let me know what you think! As always, I love to hear from you.

Middle School Memories I'd Love to Forget

 

I walked into my seventh grade class wearing glasses and a dress I do not remember. It felt like everyone was staring at me and I think most kids probably were because I was new and had come from another school. I may as well have come from the moon, for all the difference between them.

My elementary school between first and sixth grades was a yeshivah, a Jewish private school in Paterson, New Jersey. Half the day was devoted to Hebrew subjects; the other half to English, and by age nine I was fluent in Hebrew. The emphasis was much more religious, though of course we weren't angels; but we did learn to think seriously about the Big Stuff, whether it was about God, the whole Right/Wrong thing, laws and Torah Law and the Holocaust.

Seventh grade in Englewood Cliffs revolved around the clothes you wore, where you bought them, what boy liked you that week, what sports you could play well and that mystical state of popularity some kids achieve effortlessly and others not at all.

In other words, a kind of Hell for someone who came from a Yeshivah. Most of the girls in my class took special delight in tormenting the unpopular kids or nerds. I remember someone yelling at me because I didn't want to volunteer my mother to pick up pizza for a class party early in the morning.

What I couldn't explain was that my mother was depressed and getting her up early was a perilous gesture, doomed to fail. Instead, I hung my head and listened to her rant--and that lasted at least half an hour in the middle of class while the teacher was off somewhere.

One thing I did when I grew up was to invent a twelve year old (growing up in an earlier era in the 1950s) in the midst of the Beat Generation. Ruby TaBeata is an outsider in every way its possible to be. She hates going to school with all the conventional conformers around her--and I did too.

I thought of this today while reading about the show Pen15, which I haven't seen yet. I did love Glee for those same themes, though the outcasts could sing better than most pop stars. What's most interesting when I look back on seventh grade--the worst year of my school experience--is what a friend said about them.

"What happens to the kids who are super popular in junior high and high school?" she asked. "A lot of them stay there in their minds, trying to relive old times when somebody thought they were something."

I don't remember any popular kids who wound up doing anything amazing, which doesn't mean they didn't but-- you know? Maybe it (mostly) does.

Some reading about navigating middle school is here:

How to Bully-Proof Your Middle-School Daughter

How to Help Your Child Avoid Drama in Middle School

Why is Middle School So Hard for So Many People?

Middle-schoolers photo  USAG Humphreys

Pushcart City

Food trucks, pushcarts, whatever you call them,  are a lot more popular now than before the pandemic hit. But my remembrance of them was long before we had gourmet foods to choose from on street corners. And December carries my earliest memories of push carts.

As I child, I knew one thing about the city of Manhattan: it was unmistakably itself. The first thing I noticed once my parents parked their car and we all got out was the smell. Chestnuts, hot dogs, pretzels--these were the foods that entered my nostrils immediately. These three treats seemed to be on every street corner, and you couldn't get away from them. 

I almost always begged for one of them, and typically we got pretzels because my mom thought hot dogs weren't good for us. When I got older, I pleaded for chestnuts and loved how warm they felt in my hand. Later still, I was fine with coffee and liked walking with it down long avenues in the winter cold.

Today in Manhattan, the food truck food is way more advanced and flavorful. But there's something about those early childhood memories that won't let go and wants to return to the days when hot dogs, chestnuts and pretzels meant New York City to me. 

It may have also been the feeling that my parents, just by virtue of being mine, could help me navigate the vast, cavernous, anonymous streets of New York. That we would be seeing relatives who loved us, friends who would throw open their doors, movies on giant screens and plays that would lure me into wanting to jump on stage alongside the actors. 

New York was my first introduction to the excitement the world could offer. It started with the push cart smells, which quickly gave way to more interesting possibilities: Broadway, the Rainbow Room, comedy clubs, cafes, the Bitter End where Dylan played, the Village Gate, highrise apartments, fancy restaurants, cabarets, singers, the Rockettes, Central Park and Rockefeller Center. 

New York was, and still is, the place where everything is possible.

I'm not there this year, but the next time I go in December I'm going to hunt down some chestnuts and eat them on a street corner. Just for remembrance sake--and for the little girl whose eyes widened every time she stepped out of a car, bus or subway onto a Manhattan street. 

Still wide eyed. Just not showing it.

Push cart vendor: Dan de Luca

Water Tower Wonder

I don't know if you figured this out about me yet, but I am a walker. NOT a TWD kind of walker, but an every day, three-season walker who tries for one-two miles a day and also tries to get out once in a while during winter, too.

I'm usually lost in thought or looking around at the scenery, but something that occurred to me today (walking) was that almost every place I go has a water tower, and I never pay attention to them beyond a glance here and there.

Yet, they're really, really important. Aren't they? 

I decided to go home and read about them -- and guess what? Water towers don't actually store water for the towns and cities that build them. You would think they would, holding between tens of thousands to millions of gallons of water. 

The main function of a water tower is to pressurize water for distribution. It's elevated high up over the pipes that distribute it to make sure the hydrostatic pressure, driven by gravity, forces the water down and through the system. That allows people in nearby buildings or the community to find stable water pressure when they open faucets, wash clothes, or use water in other ways.

The design allows for centralization of pumping and pressurizing. It lowers the number of pumping stations needed in the surrounding areas where the water tower is located. It also allows water utility companies to pump water during off-peak energy times, which saves money.

Who pays for water towers? They're publicly owned, so we do. And after finding out how important they are, I'm glad I researched them, but now I'll probably stop thinking about them. Which is a good thing, because if I had to keep thinking about them, it would probably be for a not-so-great reason. I say this because before the pandemic, I never used to think about toilet paper or grocery shortages either.

So, today's civics lesson, for those of you who still know what civics is (or even still have civics class in high school) is, that stuff you take for granted all around you is actually doing something that you couldn't live without. 

Or if you did, you'd be a zombie in TWD. 

Learn more about water towers here.

Water tower photo: Dave Wright

Missing Trains

It used to be I never thought twice about train travel. I did take trains on a trip to Europe in college and loved them, but it seems like Americans really don't do trains the way they do in other countries. I wish we could rethink that and hope we do.

First, it saves a lot of jet fuel and would slow down the mess we're making. Second, if planes are supposed to be about saving us time, but are they really? You're supposed to arrive 2 hours or at least 1.5 hours before a flight. There are often delays taking off and landing. Then you wait for baggage. Right?

So a three hour flight ends up taking five to six hours (and then you have to get a ride to wherever you're going. Then, if your flight gets canceled, you may have to wait until the next day to get another.

Yes, trains still take longer, but at least, you know you'll get there without too much craziness. So a trip from Chicago to New York would be 21 hours. But if you got a sleeper car, and were traveling with friends or husband/wife/partner, it could be fun, right? 

I know most of us don't travel by train because we want to spend as much time as possible with friends and family. I really wish there were trains like the Bullet train in Japan here, but instead we keep pouring money into the airlines, which continue to stress us out (sometimes majorly).

And has there ever been a romantic movie scene on a plane? Yet, all the old movies have incredible scenes on trains. One of my favorites was The Lady Vanishes, which I saw at a vintage movie theater in Boston. The Darjeeling Limited was a more recent movie set on a train that made you want to ride one. Before Sunrise has a great train scene; and I've got a couple of train chapters in book 2 of Fool's Errand and am writing one in book three of the Beat Street series.

On the other hand, what movies really make you want to travel on a plane? 

I also have another link to trains through my husband, whose family played an instrumental role in U. S. railroads. His great grandfather Ralph Budd was the youngest railroad president in the country and the president of the Great Northern Railway. He spurred the building of the Cascade Tunnel in Washington, a project that cost $25 million and eliminated an earlier summit tunnel under the Cascade Range and a rugged alignment through an avalanche-prone area. Nearly 8 miles long,  the Great Northern's New Cascade Tunnel remains the longest railroad tunnel in the United States.

Ralph's son John M. Budd was actually a member of the crew that built the tunnel, and became the CEO of the Burlington Northern Railroad. I didn't know this when my husband and I first met, but I always thought it was cool and loved the connection his family has to trains.

One day, I hope it's easier and cheaper and speedier to travel on them again--especially for families who want to show their kids what it's like to experience the country's scenery from the windows of a moving train. And if it happens really soon, (like tomorrow)?

I wouldn't mind at all.

Train photo:  foundin_a_attic

One eighteen in Portland. What?

 

I can't believe what I'm reading. One hundred eighteen degrees in Washington this week--in a state where summer means 85 degrees at the most?

Ever since I can remember, summer has been my favorite season. I was born in August and while every other season has it's moments, summer has always been perfect to me. The thought of tank tops, ice cream, walking on the beach, light skies until 9:30 at night and swimming lift my spirits like nothing else can.

But the idea of sweltering, unending humidity and heat? Not so much. Yet I read this morning it's supposed to be 118 degrees in Portland Oregon this week, while Seattle temperatures are supposed to be in the hundreds, too.

There's an old Twilight Zone episode about a time when the sun is getting hotter and hotter and baking the streets of New York. I remember seeing it and thinking, yes, it's scary but it's science fiction. Now that fiction appears to be much too real.

Every year, we hear more and more about fires, hurricanes, tornados and even blizzards causing terrible destruction. I know there are big changes needed through regulations and such, but what about on the ground level? There are things we can do every day that can have an impact on our environment.

I am making conscious decisions to drive less and have been recycling more for a long time. Is it enough? No, but is it something? I hope so, especially if more and more of us start doing it.
I don't know what more I can say at this point, except to say I really want summer to remain my favorite season. I'm pasting a few ideas here, so our kids can enjoy their summers too.

50 Simple Ways to Make Your Life Greener 
How to be More Eco-Friendly in Everyday Life
Ten Easy Ways to Live a More Eco-Friendly Lifestyle

Hot Sun photo: jetsandzeppelins

New Kid Blues

Does the thought of moving thrill or scare you? Both? My husband says our last move nearly killed us and he's right. Imagine moving as a kid and you can multiply that feeling by a thousand.

When I was twelve I had to change schools and it was one of the most traumatic things I ever did. I had been at my old school since I was six and now everyone stared when I entered the room and it was obvious I was a fish out of water.

We hadn't moved, but changing schools put me in the same position, and it was not a ride I welcomed. People were friendly at first and then one of the most popular girls wanted me to share answers with her on a math test. Little did she know how bad I was at math.

I ended up sharing answers with her, because I wanted her to like me very badly. We both ended up getting caught and having to dig our way out of things. That may or may not have been the start of her turning on me; middle school kids don't need a lot of reasons to be ugly. But not long after the math fiasco, this girl her friends decided I was their enemy. The year was pretty much a disaster. Everything I did or said was wrong, and I could barely go to school without cringing. 

The only good thing that happened was halfway through the year, the teacher left to have a baby and a new teacher arrived. She sought me out to tell me how much she loved my writing, which gave me a tiny ray of hope that one day I'd meet other people who felt the same way.

Eighth grade was somewhat easier as I got into a class with different kids who were no where near as venomous. And leaving school for ninth grade was one of the happiest days of my life. The high school I chose was diverse and much more interesting than the insulated middle school environment I was trapped in. I moved on and never looked back.

Now, though, I am trying to figure out if there was anything my parents could have done to make the transition to a new school easier. It was pretty much sink or swim when I was the "new kid" - and I can't help but wonder if things have changed.

Is there a way to make your kid feel better about a new school or neighborhood when your family moves? Can you give them advice that is more than a cliche about "being themselves?" Artists tend to be outsiders anyway. How do you square that?

In writing The Beat on Ruby's Street and Fool's Errand, I had to climb inside the mind of a twelve-year-old outsider. I think the main character Ruby is struggling with a lot of the same issues I did, plus a few more. She finds solace in art and so do I-- but there has to be a better way to help kinds through transitions like moving. 

Here's a few ideas I hope will help:

Moving: Helping Children Cope

How to Help Kids Cope with Moving

Helping your child when they are changing schools

New school photo: mrmeganzoe

Cartoon World

I haven't watched cartoons in a very long time, though my husband still does on Sunday mornings. He says it takes him to another world where (as one character says in The Twilight Zone movie) "anything can happen."

My son used to love watching cartoons on weekend mornings, and though I remember getting up with him I don't remember the cartoons themselves. As he got older we watched a few together--The Simpsons, Family Guy and the PBS cartoons like The Magic School Bus.

Otherwise, beyond my own childhood, I was never really a cartoon person. 

I've heard a lot about BoJack Horseman and want to watch that one day, but haven't got around to it. One of my favorite movies for a long time was Roger Rabbit--though I don't know how to categorize that, exactly. I loved The Corpse Bride too.

While the names of cartoons have changed, I think the ones aimed at kids pretty much follow the same pattern. Like my husband says, anything can happen. A set of dishes can begin to sing; dinosaurs and astronauts can live in the same spaceship; a thin, small man can eat a can of spinach and become the strongest man in the world, and mice can outsmart cats every time. And when Alice falls down the rabbit hole and has a thousand surreal adventures, we know somehow, some way, she will come back to her life and family.

Mostly, the good guys win in cartoons, which is another reason I think we like them. With our grownup lives so precarious and unreliable, I think we are looking for both the stability and magic cartoons offer. I probably get some of that in the horror movies I watch (almost weekly). My husband doesn't understand how I can watch some of them--and I tend to feel that way about his cartoons. But someone's figured out how to cater to both our needs--and the needs of most of us--through these very particular kinds of storytelling.

Do you or your kids have a favorite cartoon? Do you get up with them to watch on weekend mornings? Do you disagree over what to watch and if so, who wins? Are there cartoons you won't let your kids watch, and if so, why? (I didn't like the Power Rangers and as I remember, we didn't watch that one).

Whatever you think of cartoons, I hope you find the ones you like best--and most of all, once you find them, that you share them with your kids. For more on cartoons, try these articles:

What Cartoons Can Teach Our Kids

Best Cartoons for Kids to Watch Now (2020)

9 Best Educational Cartoons for Toddlers

Child watching cartoons photo: Tazrian Khan

What Do Children See?

 What do children see?

Of course, they see what's around them. But as every good reader of Alice in Wonderland knows, they see what's not around them, too. 

There is an inner life and an outer life, and they (magnificently) know it by the time they are five (if not before).

That's why they can take imaginary journeys so easily with storytellers and why writers like Isaac Bashevis Singer love writing for children so much. You don't have to explain the magic -- they know it's there and don't worry about how it got there.

What do children see?

The dark, the monsters, the anger the adults in their lives are always trying to hide from them. They see their parents yelling and exasperated. They see us at our best and at our worst.

What do they learn?

They learn whether what we are saying is true or a lie. They may not learn it right away but they all do, eventually. They learn what pleases us and if they love us or even want to love us, they learn how to do whatever it is that makes us pleased.

They learn about what they need to do to survive and some learn how to be successful and others to risk everything, including failure, and others learn to fail because it is expected of them. 

What do children want?

They want what everyone wants -- love, shelter, kindness, success, great success, great love, romance, adventure, fearlessness.

They learn there is a vast ocean of difference for most of them between what they want and what they can get.

They learn how to avoid danger if they grew up dangerously, or is someone was hitting or abusing them.

They learn how to find reserves of strength and how to use whatever they have to find whatever it is they are looking for.

What do children do?

Everything they see and learn goes into what they do.

What do children see? Learn? Want?

Everything.

We must remember.

Everything.

Pouting girl photo: greg westfall

The Subject is Geography

When I was in elementary school, geography was almost as boring as math (though in fact, nothing really came close to math for being boring). 

Now, I wish I had the time to study geography every day. Working on a book set in San Francisco makes me wish I had a clearer idea of the terrain in North Beach. In fact, every story I write is rooted in geography--and I think every story ever written does, too, even when it's set entirely in someone's head.

Because every story has it's own surroundings. Miners in West Virginia, North Dakota or Texas are going to see very different land and encounter very different looking country than say, college students in Manhattan. We are all shaped by the places we live and see every day. 

My drive to work in January is going to look very different than your walk in Florida from your home to a nearby golf course, or from the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco to an apartment near the Coit Tower. 

We all know there's a vast difference between waking up in a slum or waking up in a penthouse on Park Avenue in New York City. Sitting by a fire sipping hot chocolate during a Minnesota winter is a whole lot different than trying to navigate through a storm in South Carolina. 

Every day, the places we live or visit or run away from find their way into us. Eventually, the places we grow up in or live in for most of our lives come to define us--not the other way around.

That's why the writer's job is to get really familiar with the geography of his or her story and to live there if at all possible. If not, you have to at least visit and walk around--though living somewhere gives you a much better vantage point.

Besides placing ourselves in a certain place, we also need familiarity with the time in which we're writing. The dust bowl period would have shaped people very differently than the people living in the same places where the dust bowl happened today. (Hopefully, climate change won't cause another dust bowl).

I think all of our physical surroundings are changing and that is going to change our stories too-- plus the stories we tell our children. In the last few years, we've seen more, hotter fires, more floods, tornados and earthquakes.

Geography still isn't done shaping us.

The thing we have to remember, though, is we can also be in charge of how the geography around us looks and works. To me, that means this moment is very precious in getting geography right. That means not politicizing the setting you live in and figuring out how to keep it alive so you can live well in it. That's why I think geography's essential (and the opposite of boring). Not only to my stories, but to us all.