Pen and Palette: (Authors') Dutch Lunch in Nashville

A great blog about a very special lunch I was lucky enough to attend yesterday - what a fabulous time with some talented people!

Pen and Palette: (Authors') Dutch Lunch in Nashville

On Mayhem: Roses of Auvillar, a poem

Auvillar, France is smothered in roses. They are everywhere, which for someone who adores flowers as much as I do is heavenly. The scent, the sudden bursts of multi-faceted color, and the silk of their petals against my skin like a kiss.

While sifting through some writing materials last night I found a notepad used to jot down images, thoughts, and sensory input as prescribed by our poetry workshop leader, Marilyn Kallet.

The following poem were scribbled hastily, and I suspect while walking uphill back into Auvillar Old Town.

Crushed rose petals
On cobblestones worn
by parading pilgrim feet
sun no shade
Sunday afternoon, late, in Auvillar

On Media: A book review of Dying Light by D. Scott Meek

Let’s face it: you can’t swing a bat without hitting a book about vampires these days.

They’re everywhere – vampires glittering and sulking, staking and loving and enduring their forever lives. But in Dying Light by D. Scott Meek, vampires are doing something quite original and captivating: they are living among us humans side by side, working, healing, moving day by day in a future that is bleak and uncertain.

Meek’s vampires – a lot cursed by a viral epidemic that swept the Earth centuries before – walk among mortals blue-eyed and stealthy, working side by side in hospitals and offices in what was once the nation’s Capital and is now a den of corruption and rubble from wars of the distant past.

Meek’s writing style is immediately accessible, his characters sympathetic and interesting – especially the vampires, who are more fleshed out here than the mortals. These are vampires to take notice of, full of rage and loneliness and sadness and sexual deviancy. Their blues aren’t the only way they stand out in a crowd.

And such as in other vampire tales in Dying Light there is a battle, but it, again, is not your typical blood-thirsty war – it doesn’t suck. This psychological thriller - this puzzle of who is really on who’s side, who wants to change and who wants to die - is more of a puzzle to unravel slowly (and flip back pages to search, hungrily, for clues) and follow to its climax… which may or may not involve a certain, very interesting, chair.

For an intelligent take on a vamp tale take on Meek’s Dying Light. And keep at least one light burning through the night.

On Motherhood: To moo or not to moo

The sign on the door read: Pick up 3 items to dress like a cow and get FREE food at Chik-Fil-A! Wear a hat: get a free sandwich - Entire outfit: free COMBO!

"Cool," I said, and opened the door.

I signed The Dude out of day camp and picked up a cardboard cow hat, half of what looked like a sandwich board scrawled with "Eat Mor Chikin" and a slick of stickers. One of the camp counselors explained that the stickers could go on a T-shirt, and all together The Dude would get a free meal the next day, the same day the whole camp would spend at Pump It Up, a facility in Mt. Juliet filled with those huge inflatables for bouncing, jarring teeth, stepping on body extremities and eventual vomiting, in my experience.

"So," I said, herding him into the car, "tomorrow you dress like a cow and bounce around in overpriced rubber apparatus, that about right?"

"Sounds right," he agreed.

Unsure of anything related to the clothing or costuming of small children, I called my stepmother to see where to buy plain white T shirts. Turns out they are sold by the pack at Wal-Mart, Target, etc.

$50 later, we get the shirts and head home. This morning I lay out a plain white Hanes T and D gets to work with the stickers. We decorate a hat, we paste black stickers on his shorts. He is all cow'd up, mooing all the way to camp.

When we pull up to the building, we see a girl in the obligatory bright yellow T shirt of Field Trip day. I frown. Glancing in the mirror, I see D is frowning. I get out of the car, round the trunk, eyeing the window. More yellow-clad kids. I curse beneath my breath.

D hops out of the car, takes one look at the building and snatches the cow hat off his head, pushes it at me.

"They're wearing yellow," he says.

I swallow. "Yeah. Maybe... maybe we should have packed your field trip shirt as your extra shirt in your backpack."

He tosses a scowl over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs to the front door. "Yeah. Maybe, mom."

Inside is a sea of yellow. My heart thuds, and D walks into the room, awash in the sunshine of field trip shirts, a white beacon in spotted shorts sifting through the kids. Dejectedly, I hang his backpack on the coatrack on one wall.

"Yeah," one counselor says, moving toward me, "they're not actually going to eat at Chik-Fil-A today."

Because this is a church-based camp and school, I reign myself in. "Then why did the note say for him to dress like a cow?"

D, his back glaring white among his yellow friends, casts another look over his shoulder which, if they could kill, would have nailed him for matricide.

"Some of the parents thought that," the dewy-faced counselor said.

I bare my teeth at her. "And yet none of the other kids are dressed like a cow."

"I know," she showed me her braces. "It was a misunderstanding."

I squeezed the bridge of my nose between two fingers, glad to have job where it's okay to have these things happen: I can drive the 20 minutes back home, grab the yellow field trip shirt and pack a lunch, and drive the 20 minutes back and hopefully be back in time to catch them before they leave for the field trip.

When I return, with literally minutes to spare, D is on the playground, his white T shirt filthy and missing its bovine black spots. I offer the Marvel Comics 3D lunch bag and yellow shirt, which he refuses to take.

I lean toward him, ignoring the camp counselor who has accompanied him to the playground gate. "You want to change now, sweetie? You can just change and I'll -"

"No," he says firmly without meeting my eye. "Later."

I shrug and back away. "Okay... well then, have a good day, sorry about the cow thing."

He raises his face and moos at me. "From the only cow in the yard," he says, smiles, and runs away.

I know a girl who spends all day Sunday praying. All day, I repeat. Yes, all day, she says. In meetin all day, we pray. I can’t think of what to say to that. I wonder what she prays about. I blink at her. All day, you meet and you pray. She nods, and I wonder what she has lost to make her pray that way. And in the black without reaching or breathing or knowing I let you go.

On Auvillar: Introduction

Monday night I returned to Tennessee from a 10-day stay in France, and while I had an amazing time (physical traveling including planes and trains – yikes!) I was very, very glad to be home. I was especially glad to return to Mt. Juliet: I missed my friends and co-workers, the people who surround and lift me daily, to whom I turn and confide.

I was startled and surprised to find that the people in France, especially in Paris, were very friendly and helpful: from the Delta employees at the Charles de Gaulle airport to waiters in Paris and people in Metro (subway) tunnels, almost everyone was willing to assist a fumbling American struggling with rushing crowds and a very tentative grasp on the French language. There is a stereotype, I think, that Americans have about the French: there were many “frog” and smelly Frenchmen jokes posted on Facebook and in emails to me, but the truth is (and thanks to the Eyewitness Travel France guidebook for the tip) if you smile, say “Bonjour!” and are friendly immediately when you approach someone, 90 percent of the time that person will smile and help. Or at least try. Because French doesn’t sound nearly so lovely (or coherent) when it’s tainted by a Tennessee twang.

One major thing I learned while in France is tolerance: not being able to communicate with everyone around you because you can’t speak their language (in their home country) is frustrating and at times quite scary. While I agree that if a person is going to move to a different country they should at least try to learn the native tongue, those visiting should be treated with patience and kindness. As a tired but persistent to see the sights, non-French speaking American who was treated almost consistently with patience and kindness, I now know that sort of karma can come back to you both ways.

Something else I learned while away is that it is self-indulgent and easy to take your friends and family for granted, especially those you see on a regular basis. I missed my family terribly, but I also missed my friends and coworkers. I was flung out into the world, away from my support system and comfort zone, and while it became less difficult every day I still struggled. I couldn’t think about my 4-year old son for more than a moment without my throat closing up, and I found myself constantly wanting to call or text my friends to describe the slant of light on the roses of Auvillar or the cute Parisian couple with no regards to the restraints of public displays of affection.


But most importantly, I learned that I am stronger than I thought. I traveled internationally (flying stand-by at that) by myself, and while it was definitely scary (the TGV European train system takes some study and swift feet) traipsing through airports and gasping at the Eiffel Tower sparkling like lit jewels in the black Parisian sky on my own was liberating and fulfilling. I am resilient and adaptable and calm in stressful situations. I learned a lot about travel and French culture (and wine and cheese and bread, oh my!), but I also learned a lot about myself. I learned to slow down, and listen, and breathe. I learned to linger with the sun in my hair instead of cursing that there aren’t enough hours in the day.

I learned to live, not just make it through each day.

On Motherhood: SpongeBob & Burger King - full circle

Editor's Note: This is an old blog from my Myspace days. (Don't snicker, there was social media obsessive distraction before Facebook.) I was cruising through my old blogs, and I thought it'd be interesting to see what I was blogging about this at time two or three years ago.


In April of 2007 Draper was 18 months old and I was still working for the State of TN. I was miserable there by the end, and I started at The Chronicle just two months after I wrote this blog. This one doesn't talk much about how much I hated that job by the end - that subject is reserved for the blog before this one, and it is cratered with the blasts of F bombs. This one's better, I think, and funny and relevant because, lo and behold, SpongeBob is back at Burger King now, and Draper already has three of the watches. And his language and vocabulary skills are much, much better now (god help us all).



While at the beach just a few months after the blog below was written, in between the State job and starting at The Chronicle.






April 17, 2007
Burger King is corruptive
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

There's this new TV commerical that promotes a new line of Sponge Bob Square Pants toys at Burger King. My son, 18 months, is obsessed with Sponge Bob right now, even though, to my knowledge, he has never seen the show. Thinking it was bright and colorful (and cheap - I mean, why buy clothes for a toddler who doesn't know how badly pizza and mustard stain clothes?), my mother bought him a SB T-shirt which, given the chance, Draper will wear every day. Thus followed a SB doll and pillow case, which must be in his crib before he will enter it.

The commercial begins with two kids exclaiming the fact that SB is now at Burger King. A mother and father are in the bathroom when this announcement is made, and the dad is in the bathtub, fondling a large yellow (somewhat realistic) sea sponge. The dad stands up and asks, "Honey, who am I?"

Of course she stares at him, incredulous, wondering why the hell she married this goof who takes baths in the first place.

He puts the sponge on his head and stands up, covered, conveniently, in bubbles. "Sponge Bob no pants," he cries.

Draper turned from the TV and looked at me. "Mama."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Mama."

I shook my head. "No."

He walked toward me, palms up. "Mama. Bob-bob."

I sighed. "No, Drape."

He touched my knee. "Mama. Bob-bob no paz."

I put down my magazine. "Draper. It's an ad."

Draper cocked his head and gave me a look that mirrors my own when I'm dealing with someone who simply doesn't see things my way. "Mama. Bob-bob no paz."

Note to self: boycott Burger King.