The latest by Gail Caldwell

                For those of you who care about such things, I actually read three adult books this weekend. One of them was Gail Caldwell’s new memoir, New Life, No Instructions. Caldwell’s memoir from a few years back, Let’s Take the Long Way Home, was one of my favorites.  Let’s Take the Long Way Home was the story of her friendship with fellow writer Caroline Knapp, a friendship that had a lot to do with their mutual love of dogs. So, it stands to reason I loved it.

                A dog features in New Life, No Instructions, too. But this story is about growing old and struggling with life changes. Caldwell had polio as an infant and her right leg was always weaker, shorter and caused her to limp. When she hit her fifties though, the pain became intense and she struggled to be able to keep up with her young Samoyed, Tula. Now, aging isn’t something I’ve missed out on, but still the thought that there might come a time that walking dogs would be difficult took my totally by surprise. I live by the theory, if I do something every day, I’ll be able to do that thing every day for the rest of my life. So, Caldwell’s disability disturbed me. After all, she was athletic and tough.

                The problem for me, of course, is that I don’t believe in having just one dog and it dawned on me reading Caldwell’s memoir that if anything happened to Bruce, I’d have trouble walking both dogs by myself. The old dogs were always willing to walk in tandem. I could hold their two leashes in one hand, and like they were harnessed together, they’d walk along side by side. They’d also slowed down enough that even together I could keep them under control.

                But Pippi and Ben, even though they are three years old now, have not yet figured out how to walk easily alone, no less together. After we first got them, I tried walking them together once and just barely managed to make it back home. They pulled, not always in the same direction, and tangled me up in their leashes.  I managed to keep from getting dragged down the road after a chipmunk only by sitting down and screaming a lot.  Since then, I’ve refused to walk both of them by myself.

                But Caldwell’s book made me realize, if I’m going to have dogs until the day I die, I better start getting back to walking them by myself. So, this morning, I hooked them up and headed out. It was a beautiful day – sunshine, birds chirping, warm. Pippi and Ben refused to walk side by side, so I wrapped their leashes up short and had one on each side of me. The first quarter of a mile was not a pretty sight. They kept trying to change sides, sure that the other one’s sniffing area was more delectable. I was wrapped in a leash like a mummy in no time. Fortunately, there were no chipmunks in sight. So, I had them sit, gave them each a biscuit bone, and untangled myself.

                We proceeded down the road. The dogs have been trained to sit whenever a car approaches and they know there is a treat in it for them. Usually they will start sitting as soon as they see a car coming, even if it’s a mile away. So, they sat for every car and ate biscuit bones liberally.  Ben pulled a little ahead. Pippi dragged a little behind. I managed to be the anchor in the middle of the parade. But we made it, which was the important thing. 

And so did Gail Caldwell. I won’t give it all away, but give New Life, No Instructions a read and discover how for yourself.

MakerSpaces

When librarians talk about libraries, we sometimes wax poetic. We may even sound like fisherman talking about how big the fish we caught or almost caught, was. Except we are talking about how important libraries are, or what you can do at a library, or what libraries contribute to society. Sometimes we say things like, libraries are a cornerstone of democracy, libraries are where everyone is equal, libraries are open to everyone regardless of gender, race, religion, educational or socioeconomic status. Which is all true, even if it does sound lofty. But now, there's a new visionary idea that librarians want to promote. It's the MakerSpace.


What's that you are asking?


A MakerSpace is just what it sounds like - a space to make something. But in some ways what a MakerSpace is is so much more than that - so much bigger - so much deeper, because it's based on the idea that libraries are no longer places you go to for information, entertainment, knowledge. Libraries are about learning, but learning in community where sometimes you are the student  and sometimes you are the teacher. Libraries are places you go to be part of creating something new - so you aren't just reading someone else's story, you are writing your own. Your aren't just watching someone else's movie, you are making your own. You aren't just checking out a book on knitting, you are sitting down and knitting.


I took a tour of the FabLab (their MakerSpace) at Fayetteville Free Library a couple of weeks ago, and came away drooling all over myself. Their FabLab is almost as big as our main reading room. It has six sewing machines where people can come and sew, take sewing lessons, or join a quilting circle. It has a wood working corner, where if you can build something. It has 3-D printers and craft kits for everything from jewelry making to painting. But you know what the coolest thing was? They had fancy shaped cake pans you could check out. Tractor ones and Blue's Clues pans and Paw Print pans.


You can see where this is going right? The little hamsters in my brain are just flat out running on their little wheels! So --- if you want to help be part of creating at the library, come talk to me. Volunteers are always welcome.


Now what are we going to call it?

Have I told you how much I love Anne Ursu?

My friend, the author Anne Ursu, (I just love writing that!) just posted another brilliant opinion on her blog. Anne is the author of Breadcrumbs, a middle grade novel that I finally got around to reading. And I'm wondering why I waited so long. Reading Anne is always a lesson to me. I keep repeating to myself, "Why didn't I say/think that?" or "I wish I could write like that!"

Anyway, check out her blog for her latest thoughts on the Secretary of Education.

Vampire Bats at the Library

 

A Jen (the Goth Librarian) and Emma (her ghost sidekick) Library Story

            Jen locked the library door and walked back through the dark building to her office. The rumbling of the elevator and grumbling of the furnace, no longer bothered her as she walked through the old building.

She didn’t even jump when Emma, the Ghost of Librarians Past, materialized beside her. “Do you have tomorrow’s story time planned, dear?”

Jen gritted her teeth. The ghostly librarian might use endearments when she spoke, but there was nothing sweet about the way she nagged and commented on everything Jen did. Only last week, she’d appeared after a very successful teen lock-in to sniff her nose and say, “we’d never have teens running around the library in the dark in my day.”

A teen would never have dared breath in the library in Emma’s day!

Jen sat down at her desk and picked up the book for tomorrow’s story time; Bats at the Library by Brian Lies. She loved the cute furry flying mice the pictures depicted. They wanted nothing but to fly in to the library and read stories all night. A clunk up in the attic brought her back to reality. Obviously, the real bats who lived in the attic weren’t cute story lovers.

The clunk was followed by a few more. Jen got up and walked out into the dark library. She stood listening to the thump, thump, thump coming from the attic. If that was bats, they’d grown feet and were walking around up there!

She made her way to the stairs. She placed her right foot on the first step and cursed the architects who’d put the light switch up in the attic, rather than at the bottom of the stairs. “Emma,” she whispered.

“Here, dear,” a disembodied voice said beside her.

Great! The ghost didn’t even want to materialize. Whatever was up there, even Emma didn’t want to see it.

The third stair tread creaked. She paused and then shook her head. It was a just a squirrel. A squirrel with big feet. She paused on the top step, her hand resting on the knob. From the other side of the door, she didn’t hear anything.  Either whatever had been there was gone. Or it was waiting right inside the door.

She threw the door open and lunged into the room. A tall man stood in the middle of the attic, moonlight cascading in the window and gleaming off his pale skin. He turned slowly to face her, the light sparkling off his fangs. Vampire bat in the attic!

Jen wiped her sweaty hands on her sweater. Along with garlic and a stake, she’d left the Librarian’s Guide to Fighting the Paranormal in her office.

The vampire smiled, looking past her. “Good evening,” he said in deep sonorous tones. He sounded like James Earl Jones.

Okay, not just a vampire, but a clichéd vampire inhabited her attic. She followed his gaze. He was smiling at Emma, who had not only materialized, but was smiling back at him.

Emma patted her hair. The old ghost was actually primping for a vampire. When she stepped toward him, she walked with her hands behind her back.

The vampire reached out his hand to her. “It’s been a long time, Emma.”

Emma, her skirts swishing behind her, reached out her right hand to the vampire. “It has been Dmitri.”

He bent to kiss her hand. As he straightened up, she leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “And I told you, to stay away from my town,” she said, as her left had flashed out. She drove her number 2 pencil into the vampire’s chest.

He stood perfectly still, his mouth a red round “o”, his eyes wide. And then he slowly turned to sand, dropping into a little pile on the floor. A breeze lifted through the window and blew the vampire out into the night.

Emma walked back to the door. “Close your mouth, dear,” she said, as she walked by Jen. As Jen hurried after her, the ghost added, “I keep telling you, all the iPads in the world will never replace a good no. 2 pencil.”

In My Next Life

                We all have our addictions. Mine is checking the want ads looking for what I’ll be in my next life. Currently in the running are doing an animal act at the circus, being an ornithologist, and becoming an archer. (The employment opportunities may be limited on the latter.) But some days, I’m intrigued by the more mundane. Like recently, I saw this ad to work in the Continuing Education office at a college.  The job consisted of recruiting and assisting adults who were returning to college.

                I said to Bruce, “I could do that. I’m the poster child for returning to school as an adult.”

                To which Bruce answered, “You’re the poster old lady for returning to school as an adult.”

                Husbands! You got to love them, because the alternative involves jail sentences.

                I actually, for a brief moment last week, looked at degree programs wondering if it was time to go back to school. But looking through course requirements I realized I’d finally reached the age where going back to college has lost its appeal. It’s not that the memory isn’t what it used to be – although that’s true. Or that adult ADHD has taken hold and I just can’t hold one thought in my brain for that long. It’s that I’ve reached the age where I am no longer willing to have someone tell me what to do.

College involves requirements. And I no longer believe that what other people require is a necessity for me. At my age, when someone tells me what to do, I no longer jump to it with a smile. I’m practicing my baleful look, with a drippingly sarcastic, “You think so?” thrown in. Which is, I’m told, infinitely better than throwing things at people.

                But really – at some point in life it’s time to do what you want to do. Learn what you want to learn; the way you want to learn it; at the speed you want to learn. It’s called jumping through your own hoops.  

That’s where the library comes in. Libraries, since the beginning of time, have been about life-long learning. Life-long learning is fun. You get to control everything. Want to start a new business, learn to make cheese, write your memoir? You can find the information at the library. If one book is boring, try another one. Read it when you want to, where you want to (but remember no sand or water on the books!). Learn at your own pace, your own way.  At Burger King you can “have it your way.” At the library you can “learn it your way.”

I’ll let you in on a secret – when you are a life-long learner, if you aren’t totally enthralled with a book by the second chapter, the second page, or the second paragraph, you don’t have to finish it. At a certain age, you deserve to read what you want. And at the library, we’ll help you find it! So go ahead, take up dragon training. At the library you get to make your own curriculum.  

               

This Essay May not Save your Life, but a Poem Can

There are days when words fail me. Usually they occur when I hear someone say something that feels so amazingly wrong to me, I can’t believe anyone could ever think that. Some part of me knows there are all sorts of logical, thoughtful, calm things that could be said.  But, I’m so busy fighting the desire to use violent force, I can’t think. I can’t find a cohesive argument, because the only thing going through my head is “Don’t hit them, don’t hit them!”

I had one of these conversations with Bruce the other day. I was talking about a poet I know who does a “Poet in the Schools” program. She spends a week at schools throughout Central NY doing poetry workshops.

“What if the kids don’t want to do poetry?” Bruce said to me.

I resisted hitting him, despite the fact that he would never dream of saying “what if they don’t want to learn biology?” He still clings to the vestiges of early Quakerism that held fiction and poetry were “unreal” and therefore to be avoided.

That evening I was reading Jeanette Winterson’s memoir Why be Happy when You can be Normal?, and found that some people can manage articulate, intelligent, and most important, peaceful answers to such comments. Why be Happy is Winterson’s memoir of her rather grim childhood. Adopted by a Pentecostal family, she grew up in poverty dealing with abuse from her adoptive mother. She left home at sixteen, kicked out by her mother because Winterson was gay.

Poetry and literature helped Winterson survive. Discovering T.S. Eliot set her on her own journey as a writer. She writes:

               

"I had no one to help me, but the T. S. Eliot helped me.

                So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers – a language powerful enough to say how it is.

                It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place."

 

“A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is.” Reading that, I realized that when people say that poetry is unnecessary or unreal, they are thinking of poetry as flowery and sweet; missing the toughness of it. Poetry comes with sharp edges, cutting truths that crack us open. If you think it’s soft and flowery, maybe you aren’t reading the tough stuff. Or maybe like Winterson says, you haven’t had a tough life.

But what about all the kids that do? Have tough lives that is. If we reduce education to facts and figures, to whether a kid knows how to look up how thunderstorms occur and present a powerpoint presentation on it, or write a five paragraph essay on the life cycle of a snail, have we failed to acknowledge that living requires more than information? Have we failed children with tough lives, who need the raw language of poetry, a cutting metaphor for life, in order to crack things open and find themselves? Have we failed to provide a “language powerful enough to say how it is?”

“A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is.” It needs to be emblazoned on our schools and in our minds. If it weren’t so long and I wasn’t such a wimp, I’d have it tattooed on my arm. Like a good poem, it pulls me up sharp.

I haven’t always thought of poetry as a tough language. I think of swearing and yelling as tough. But the truth is – that truth is found in the subtle, sharp metaphor that arrows into my heart and soul and resonates with something deep in my core. Facts and figures don’t do that. Poetry, literature, a pointed metaphor, a character like me and yet not – those things help me find myself. And isn’t that, at least, part of what education is?

Yeah, we need facts and information – but we need to know who we are, what motivates us, and how to live in the world we are in, with the facts and figures we’ve learned.

I promise to keep working at not hitting the people who say poetry, fiction, and fantasy aren’t necessary or important. But I expect all those people to start listening to the “tough language” of poetry. Their lives depend on it.

 

 

 

My Untidy Mind

My office has been described as “cheerfully untidy.” I’m not sure what qualifies a mess as “cheerful.” Untidy is rather obvious.

It’s an odd state for someone who goes crazy over messy shelves and misplaced books. The fact of the matter is I’m afraid to put anything away. If I file something it will be lost forever.  I will be madly searching for the craft idea under ‘c’ for craft, or ‘p’ for program, only to discover two months later I’d put it under ‘k’ for kid’s or ‘s’ for summer reading. I need a cross-indexed catalog for my filing system that lists all the things I might have filed something under.

It’s easier to just leave it all on my desk. Somewhere in one of those piles is the piece of paper I saved just for this occasion. I just need to look through all the piles.

I’d like to say the problem is stress. Too much to do, too much to remember. But, I’m beginning to be afraid that the old mind is just not what it used to be. There’s just too much stuff in there. Adding something means, deleting something else. 

I used to refuse to have a day planner, saying if I had so much to do I couldn’t remember it all, than I was doing way too much. But now, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do today, no less next week. People tell me I need an iphone or smartphone. I could do everything with it, call people, take pictures, keep my schedule. But really, I’m already forgetting things. Do I want my life organized on a device I might set down somewhere and not be able to find? And then there’s learning how to use it. I might need another degree just to access my calendar!

Despite that fact, I keep trying to cram more information into my head. I check out ten books a week, sure I need to read every one of them. And then I bring back nine (or sometimes, sadly more) unread, not having found the time to do more than read the inside flap or the back cover. My shelves are full of books I’ve been meaning to read for years and alas only half of them have actually been read.

A lot of people get rid of books after they read them. But not me. I hold on to them, sure I’ll need to refer to them again. But I don’t underline in books, or turn down the page corner. (Don’t even think about doing that to a library book!) So instead I write out quotes I want to remember in my journal. But years later, when I want that quote, I can’t find which of the journals filling my book case actually contain it. I started putting post-it notes in books, with my comments on the text. But unfortunately, when I go back I have no idea what the cryptic note means, or why I cared about that paragraph anyway!

Now, I’ve started using those little sticky arrow things that usually say “sign here.” Only they’re meant to point me to the best parts of a book, the things I want to remember. Last night Bruce, noticing one of those arrowy things on every single page of a book I was reading said, “Really, Priscilla, why bother?”

He’s right, of course and not just because I want to remember everything! A couple of years ago I read Marion Woodman’s “Dancing in the Flames.” I talked about if for months, reciting her ideas over and over. Last month, I thought I really needed to find those quotes again. I checked my journal sure I’d copied them down and couldn’t find them. So, I decided to re-read the book. Except there was nothing in it that vaguely sounded like what I remembered reading before.

“Are you sure it’s the right book,” Bruce asked.

“Of course, I am. It’s the only Marion Woodman book I’ve ever read.” He gave me the look, the one that says I may be losing it. But I’ve decided Marion just isn’t as smart this year as she was two years ago. I’m sure that has to be the problem.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste – but losing it’s pretty darn hard, too. But I’m sure mine’s not lost. It’s just cheerfully untidy!