Effie at Eighty One

Today is my mother’s birthday. She’s eighty-one.

This is Mom when she was eleven years old, in 1939.

And this second picture doesn’t have a date on back, but she appears to be about the same age, maybe twelve. I love these pictures of her when she was a little girl. And yes, I see some of myself in her then. And also now.

Here’s my post about her birthday last year when she turned eighty. She was still in the assisted living home then—still clinging to the last bits of independence that she could grasp. But she was happy in her ever-shrinking world, and I hoped against hope that it would last for a few more years.

And then the inevitable happened. In October she fell and broke her hip, and you know the rest of the story. [If you’re new to my blog and want to catch up, check out the posts below. Just click on the title that interests you to read the post. Then close it and return to the current post to continue. Thanks for reading!]

Bingo December 2008
Long Distance Caregiving November 2008
The Purse November 2008

If Mama Ain’t Happy November 2008

HER Mother’s Keeper October 2008

My Mother’s Keeper October 2008

Unhappy Chairs September 2008
The Good Granddaughter August 2008

The Good Daughter Part II July 2008

The Good Daughter Part I June 2008

The Glasses (within the post, “The Treasure Hunt”) April 2008

She Can’t Possibly Be Eighty February 2008

Piece of Mind November 2007

I went to visit Mom on Tuesday this week, rather than today, her actual birthday. She has no idea what day it is, but she still lights up when she sees my face. Each time I drive down to Jackson, I wonder if that will be the visit when it happens—when she doesn’t know who I am.

First I stopped at Beemon’s Drugs at Maywood Mart, in my old neighborhood. Beemon’s is one of those old-fashioned drug stores that carries lots of cute gifts and knick-knacks—the perfect place to gather goodies for Mom’s birthday. Into the box went:

Good Housekeeping Magazine (because the pictures are pretty and colorful, and she loves that, even though she no longer reads the articles.)
M & Ms.
Chewing Gum.
A stained-glass cross to hang on her window.
Lipstick and blush-on.
A new comb, brush, and barrettes. (she’s not letting the beautician at the nursing home cut or perm her hair)
A lavender (her favorite color) plastic make-up bag to put the new goodies in.

Next I went across the parking lot to McAllisters to get two giant cookies—her favorites—and included them in the gift box.

Off to Lakeland Nursing Home I went, to find Mom not scooching up and down the halls in her wheelchair, as she usually is, but sitting in her room visiting with her new roommate, Mrs. Jackson, who is 86 and in her right mind. I think. The reason I think so is because she was able to tell me all about her son, her previous situation, and then to tell me that “this is the end of the line for me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean I guess I’ll live here until I die.” She was very matter-of-fact about it. Mom seemed unplussed, as she piddled around with her birthday card and gifts. We had fun, putting on her new lipstick and blush-on and holding up her new mirror so she could see how pretty she looks. (If only my skin would look like hers when I’m 81!)

“We get along pretty well,” Mom said, pointing to Mrs. Jackson. “Come on over here and have some of my birthday candy,” she waved at Mrs. Jackson, who was stretched out on her bed, because her back was hurting.

“No, thank you. I’ve got plenty of candy from Wal Mart,” she pointed to what looked like a display on a candy aisle at any discount store. “I used to work there,” she explained.

I kept asking Mom if she didn’t want to go up to the lobby to visit, thinking she would want to get out of her room for a while.

“No, I’m fine here. Just look at those beautiful trees!” She points out her window to the huge pines on the city park property next door.

“But I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.

“But Mom, you have on a diaper, remember? You just go when you need to and the nurses will clean you up.”

“But she goes to the bathroom on her own sometimes,” Mrs. Jackson interjected.

“Really?” I don’t even try to hide my surprise. “Do the nurses know this?”

“I don’t know, but she goes in there and gets on the toilet sometimes.”

Mia, the head nurse, drops in shortly after this conversation, so I step out into the hall to ask her about it and she says, “Oh, yes. She’s figured out how to unhook the alarm so we don’t know she’s out of her wheelchair. She gets the diaper off and gets herself onto the toilet. Sometimes we have to help her get the diaper back on.”

I’m flabbergasted. “But what if she falls?”

“If she falls, she falls. We’re doing everything we can, short of restraints, which we don’t use here at Lakeland. She’s doing fine.”

Back in Mom’s room, Mrs. Jackson is complaining, “The food here is awful.”

So I look at Mom to see if she agrees, but she’s off on another planet, stroking the ribbon on her birthday gift.

“And the plastic covers on these beds are so hot I wake up sweating at night. Do you think we could get something more comfortable?”

I look at Mom and ask, “Mom, is the bed comfortable enough for you?”

“Oh, yes, it’s fine.” Her eyes have a bit of a glazed-over look, but her smile is full.

“And I can’t seem to get a television in here,” Mrs. Jackson continues. Her son lives in town, so I ask:

“Has your son tried to bring one and get it hooked up? You have to call Comcast a few days ahead of time. But you are welcome to watch Mom’s tv whenever you want to.” I look at Mom.

“I don’t watch it much any more.”

“What about the news. You used to like to watch the news.”

“Yes, sometimes.” There’s a resignation in her voice that’s new.

“Well, it’s okay if Mrs. Jackson wants to watch it, right?”

“Oh, sure! Anytime she wants to.”

“Well, my son will be bringing mine eventually,” Mrs. Jackson says. And he’s going to bring me some pictures for the walls like your mother has. Her walls are bare, whereas Mom's are covered with framed photographs, posters, and a bulletin board filled with labeled pictures. Another bulletin board is covered with cards.

About then Mom is playing with her new makeup, when Mrs. Jackson brings out some liquid foundation makeup from her drawer and offers it to Mom: “This is the wrong shade for me—would you like to try it?”

Mom takes it and smiles, and their eyes meet and for a moment it reminds me of two young girls sharing beauty supplies. Mom hasn’t worn liquid makeup in years, but she says, “I might like to try it some time.” And she puts it in her makeup bag.

When’s it’s time for me to leave, I ask if Mom wants to go up to the lobby to see me off, but she says, “No, I’ll stay here, thank you.”

I kiss her goodbye, and tell her happy birthday again, and as I leave her room, I watch her maneuvering her wheelchair around to the far side of her bed and placing her birthday card in the window with her other cards. I stand and watch to see what she does next, but she doesn’t move… it’s close to sunset, and the deep orange sky behind the increasingly dark trunks of the pine trees is something to behold. And mother would rather look at the sunset through the trees than watch the news on TV. Who can blame her?

Native Daughters Make Good

Tuesday I drove down to Jackson to visit my mother in the nursing home again. Friday will be her (81st) birthday, but I decided to go Tuesday because I wanted to meet fellow Jackson native, Kathryn Stockett, and hear her read from her newly published novel, The Help.

After visiting with Mom, I got to Lemuria Bookstore at 4 for the signing, scheduled to begin at 4:30, and I was about 20th in line. The line continued for an entire hour, but I got books signed for myself and my friend, Jan, (I was spending the night with Jan). After Kathryn signed our books, I got us seats on the 3rd row for the reading, and I’m so glad I got there early because there was standing room only. How wonderful to see the turnout for this native daughter.

When Kathryn finally made it to the reading, she was accompanied by actress Octavia Spencer, who read the part of Minny in several of the readings. Jan and I laughed at the funny parts, and teared up at the poignant and familiar themes of family and race in the town we both grew up in.

Kathryn and Octavia were both animated...

...and did a great job bringing Kathryn's colorful characters to life. It was more of a performance than a book reading.

Back at Jan’s later that night, we talked about the way it was in our own homes and lives in the 1960s in Jackson, and how important “the help” was to our families. We weren’t wealthy, neither of us, but we had a lot more than we realized at the time. Like maids that accompanied us on family vacations to do the cooking and cleaning. Lillie Bell was very significant in my life, as she worked for us full time while my mother taught school, until I was around eight or so. I'm pretty sure that I'm still alive today because of the many times Lillie Bell saved me from certain death at the hands of my brother! Kathryn talks about how she felt about the black woman who worked for her family, here.

I’m looking forward to starting The Help, but I promised myself I would the finish the two other books I’m reading first! I’ll get to it soon! Congratulations, Kathryn, and good luck with your book tour!

Another “native daughter” making good right now is 21-year-old Alexis Grace, who is amongst the 36 finalists in the 8th season of American Idol. …. She’s from Midtown Memphis—graduated from Overton High School in 2005. What an amazing voice coming from such a tiny girl! She looks like a young Dolly Parton, and she’s got a two-year-old daughter, and her fiancé is serving in Iraq right now. What’s not to love?

So I taped last night’s show (since I was out of town) and watched it this afternoon when I got back to Memphis, and then watched the results on tonight’s show. CONGRATULATIONS, Alexis! She made it to the top 12! Check later for news about another Memphian, Lil Rounds, who also made it to the top 36. I think she will be competing in the 3rd group of 12, week after next. Yeah, it’s fun to see native daughters make good—from both of my “home towns! Click on the video below to see more of Alexis Grace.

Dashing Our Thoughts Against the Presence of God

My dear friend, Father Paul Yerger of Holy Resurrection Orthodox Church in Clinton, Mississippi, just returned from a clergy symposium—The Diocese of the South (OCA) Pastoral College. In his weekly online bulletin yesterday, Father Paul included the text of Metropolitan JONAH’s talks at the clergy gathering: “Do Not Resent, Do Not React, Keep Inner Stillness.” There’s lots of good stuff in there about forgiving those who have abused you, and the journey/process of prayer, confession, healing, finding inner stillness. It’s a deep and lengthy article, but a wonderful preparation for Great Lent, which Orthodox Christians will enter on March 2, just two weeks from today.

I’m not going to comment very much on the text, since it will take you a while to read it, other than to mention this interesting quote from St. John Chrysostom in the section on inner stillness and how to pray:

“When you pray before your icons, light a candle and then close your eyes!” The icon is a sacrament of the Presence.

I was fascinated by this, since I often lose myself in the images—the icons—before which I pray, sometimes even becoming distracted by the style or other artistic elements of the icon. (This probably happens to me even more because I paint icons, which makes it hard not to notice these elements.) But Met. JONAH reminds us of the icon’s spiritual power, calling it “a sacrament of the Presence.” The Presence of God.

What do we do when we try to be still and our thoughts—especially resentments—invade our minds? Met. JONAH says to “dash our thoughts against the presence of God.” We have a choice. We can choose not to listen to our thoughts during prayer. We can choose to learn stillness in the presence of God. And maybe that stillness will eventually stay with us throughout the day.

I want to believe that God is big enough to take all the thought-dashing that will be coming at Him if I choose to enter into this struggle to find inner stillness. It’s not a new struggle—I’ve been here before, on and off for many years, with varying degrees of “success.” It’s always painful. But sometimes there’s a tiny bit of growth, of maturity, that comes with the struggle. And always there’s this choice of my will to engage in the battle, or not.

Yesterday at church I was discussing this with a friend when I thought about how it’s been two years since I’ve been to the monastery, and yet my mind is busy trying to plan another beach trip. Not that it’s automatic that you can pray, find peace and shut out images and thoughts when you’re at the monastery. In fact, I’ve probably experienced as much or more inner stillness walking on the beach than walking through the woods at the monastery. But there’s something incredibly celestial about being in the church services with the nuns. Like the icons, their lives are a sacrament of the Presence.

The beach. The monastery. Inner peace. Thought-dashing. It’s a lot to consider during these last two weeks before Great Lent.

That Lovin' Feeling

Happy Valentine’s Day! Whether you’re a sucker for Hallmark or a critic of the day’s cheesy-ness, let’s meet in the middle and just have fun with it. Like these make-your-own-candy-e-hearts that I just discovered. I’m sure there’s a way to order the real thing (like the personalized M&M’s I discovered last Easter) but it’s too late for that, so here are a few I would have made and sent to family and friends if I had thought of it earlier. (I’m sure my daughter is thinking, “But Mom, I can’t eat the e-Puffs!” and I’m thinking “It’s the thought that counts, right?”)



The black one for Oreo (my black and white cat) is supposed to look like a Necro wafer. Yum, can't you just taste it? (Lots of imagination is called for here.)

And what about my man? He went to Rachel’s! (In these depressed economic times, it’s a bargain over Jared’s, and I love flowers, and these are gorgeous!)









Last night a few girlfriends joined me for a little Valentine’s Eve get together, and how cool are these wine glass labels that one of the girls brought?

I know I should have taken pictures last night when everything was fresh and cute rather than this morning when I’m loading the dishwasher and the glasses have the remains of Cosmos and Salty Dogs in them, but hey—you get the picture. And the cream puffs dipped in hot fudge sauce would have made a pretty picture, but, well, too late now. (oink oink!)

My Valentine’s Day gifts to you, my readers, are two pieces of prose—one published and one that didn’t make the cut. And the winner is….my writing buddy (and Ole Miss journalism student) Michelle Bright, (left) columnist for The Daily Mississippian, with her point-on review of the movie, “He’s Just Not That Into You.” You can read Michelle’s column here. Way to go, Michelle! And I’m dying for some of your grandma’s fried chicken!

And now for your free essay. Along with 650 others from around the world I entered Writer’s Digest’s Valentine’s Day contest (“Red Heart: Black Heart”) and didn’t win. Didn’t even make it to the finals. The category I entered was “Essay: Love at First Sight.” 750 word maximum. The winner wasn’t posted as of 11 a.m. today, and the voting is over, but by the time you click on the link, maybe the winner will be announced. But if not, you can enjoy reading the finalists.

But now, I hope you enjoy my essay... with your chocolate. Or flowers. Or Puffs.

That Lovin’ Feeling

It felt like I had been waiting my whole life for this moment, although I was only twenty-six years old. Oh, sure, I had several cases of puppy love when I was young, and quite a few serious adolescent crushes, including one my junior year in high school which actually resulted in marriage two years later. But I wouldn’t say that any of those relationships had begun with love at first sight.

My first crush took some time to evolve. I had known Buster for several years before my interest in his motorized go-cart morphed into curiosity about kissing. And when the first kiss finally arrived—in fifth grade—it couldn’t hold up to the rush of speeding down Hillview Drive with the wind blowing in my hair and the smell of gasoline feeding my ten-year-old thrill-seeking hunger.

Gary came closer to winning my heart in eighth grade, with his disarming good looks and mysterious past. Gary’s family had moved to my hometown in Mississippi, so his status as an outsider added to his mystique. But again, it was never a case of instant infatuation.

My tenth grade romance almost fit the cliché. I met Allen on a bus ride to my first high school football game. Stolen glances turned into introductions and awkward smiles, and when he sat by me on the ride back to school after the game, there were definitely new awakenings in parts of my body that were struggling to make that life-changing transition from girl to woman.

When I met Bill half way through my junior year of high school, he was a sophomore in college. He slayed me with his baby blue eyes, cleft chin and sexy baritone voice. His precursors had all been boys. This was a (nearly)grown man, sweeping me off my feet on our first date—on a sailboat—serenading me with Herb Alpert’s latest hit, “This Guy’s in Love.” But could I know true love when I was only seventeen?

Fast forward nine years to 1977. I was twenty-six years old and in mourning over Elvis’ death in August when the long-awaited phone call came. “Can you be here tomorrow afternoon at 3 p.m.?”

“Tomorrow?—oh, of course!” I stayed up all night, preparing to meet the man of my dreams. After changing clothes three times and fussing over my hair and makeup ’til the last minute, I was finally as ready as I would ever be.

It was only a ten-minute drive, and my heart was pounding as I walked through the front door and into the parlor where Jonathan was waiting for me. I approached him slowly, holding back the rush to embrace. Finally our eyes met, and I completely lost myself in that first look. And then I held him. So this is what love at first sight feels like—like nothing else matters but the connection of two hearts beating as one. When we kissed, it was as if no one else was in the room, or anywhere on Earth, for that matter. But after a few minutes, our pas de deux was interrupted by my husband’s voice: “Can I hold him?”

I reluctantly handed the two-week-old baby boy to my husband of seven years, and turned to exchange a hug with our social worker. She had worked with us for five long years, and now the formal adoption placement was complete. After a little more paperwork, we would be taking our son home with us.

It’s been thirty-one years since the day I fell in love with Jon. My husband and I eventually adopted two more children, but with each of them, we received photographs from orphanages in Korea and had time to bond gradually with their images during the months of waiting for them to arrive. With Jonathan, there was no photograph, no prelude to our first embrace. Love at first sight? Absolutely. But I think it was the kiss that closed the deal.

FAILING the Inner Artist Test!

Back in 2002, Julia Cameron published a book called The Artist’s Way. I got the book, and worked through the exercises she suggested, including the concept of “morning pages” and making an “artist date” with myself each week for a while—attending art openings, visiting museums, or just letting myself sit by the Mississippi River with a sketch pad or journal and watch the sunset. I think Cameron’s book was instrumental in kick-starting my writing.

So when someone recently sent me a copy of The Artist Within by Whitney Ferre I wondered if she would bring something new to the pursuit of creativity. Ferre lives in Nashville, where she leads corporate seminars, teaches art classes, and serves as a creativity expert on television & radio. Whitney is also an artist, a wife, a mother, and a co-owner of Rumours Wine Bars that build communities around food, wine, and art.

So, last night I opened up my new copy of The Artist Within and worked my way through the first few sections of the book. I say “worked” because, like The Artist’s Way Workbook, Ferre’s book has exercises to do to awaken one’s awareness of the power of the right brain to change every area of a person’s life.

Ferre uses the eight principles of design to teach us “how we visually analyze everything we see.” I took her simple test to discover my strengths and weaknesses, and some of the results were quite surprising. You see, I consider myself to be in touch with my creative side, and I’ve always thought my “artist within” fed the other areas of my life. So, when I scored only 129 out of a possible 200 points in the eight areas of design, bells went off in my head.

“What’s wrong with me?” But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me explain the test:

Ferre’s “life design diagnostic” includes rating yourself using 5 questions pertaining to each of the 8 principles of design. The highest potential score for each section is 25. Here’s how my scores went:

Emphasis: 22 (my highest area, which is all about goals and achieving and order)
Balance: 16
Proportion: 17
Unity: 17
Harmony: 11
Contrast: 17
Rhythm: 14
Repetition: 15

Ferre goes on to say that if your total score was in the range of:
175-200, “you are listening to your artist within!....”
150-174, “you are on your way to being creatively fit….”
125-149, “set the goal to do Creative Exercises each week, but don’t reprimand yourself….” (I was BARELY in this range!)
Under 125, “Don’t feel bad…. You are on the brink of something really fabulous.” Which sounded kinda’ cheesy, but I played along and went to the next section, which was about the design principle that I scored lowest in, Rhythm.

And there was another test. This time I was asked to list the following shapes in order of my favorite to least favorite. Here are the shapes, in order of my preference:
triangle
spiral
plus sign
square
circle

The shapes are the 5 Universal Symbols, and the author says this is what they mean: (she tells us this after we rank the symbols, so we aren't swayed by their meaning)

Cirle: Unity
Square: Foundation/Earth Energy/Grounding
Triangle: Goal Oriented/Reaching the top
Plus Sign: Relationships (East v. West/ Night v. Day)
Spiral: Go with the flow.

So I looked at those definitions and thought, hmmmm, interesting that my favorite, the triangle, is about being goal-oriented, which is certainly my strength. And the spiral, my 2nd favorite, is about being flexible, which I’m not, but want to be. My 3rd choice, the plus sign, also indicates something I long for, better relationships. And the 4th and 5th were in the right order, in that my weaknesses are what they represent, grounding (square) and unity (circle.) Just as I was pondering the results, Ferre says to go to page 50 to learn the significance of the order in which I listed my favorite to least favorite shapes. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough!

Here’s the “key” to my universal symbol survey:

Whichever symbol you listed first, your favorite, symbolizes your goal right now.
Your second favorite symbolizes your hidden strength.
Your third favorite symbolizes what you want your goal to be.
Your fourth favorite symbolizes what you are considering ignoring.
Your least favorite symbolizes what you are unconsciously ignoring.

So, I looked back at my favorites again, considering my choices in the light of these “keys” and it was really quite amazing:

My favorite symbol, the triangle, which represents being goal-oriented, symbolizes my goal right now. (TRUE.)

My second favorite symbol, the spiral, which represents “going with the flow,” symbolizes my hidden strength. (So does that mean I am capable of being flexible, but just haven’t uncovered that strength yet?)

My third favorite symbol, the plus sign, which represents relationships, symbolizes what I want my goal to be. (Now this is point on—I hunger for intimacy in relationships above all else, but I despair of achieving this, so I fill my time with other pursuits. Wow.)

My fourth favorite symbol, the square, which represents earth energy and grounding, symbolizes what I am considering ignoring. (hmmmm I can hear myself arguing with advice from my best friend about this very thing, as she tries to get me in touch with the earth, and myself.)

My least favorite symbol, the circle, which represents unity, symbolizes what I am unconsciously ignoring. (Okay, this is puzzling. If by unity she means connectivity with others, the earth, myself, and all that, I don’t get how I’m unconsciously ignoring that. But if it’s unconscious, how would I know?)

And this is just the first fourth of the book. Not sure if I’ll stick with it or not… but I am little intrigued. Maybe it’s just another rabbit trail on my search for balance. If I discover something amazing in future pages, I’ll get back to you!

But I’d like to “round out” this post with a brief review of another book, The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan. I was fascinated by the title when a friend sent me a link to Corrigan’s memoir, and this link to video of her reading her essay, “Transcending” because a few years ago I spoke at a women’s retreat in Austin, Texas and chose as my topic, “The Middle Way.” My talks at that retreat were about finding balance in our lives as women who are spiritual beings, friends, wives, and mothers.

Kelly’s blog post was in O Magazine last month. So I got a copy of the book and jumped in, just a few days ago. I’m loving it so far. And it’s helpful to read other memoirists’ styles. Kelly uses “the middle place” to mean the place women often find ourselves between childhood and motherhood. Especially when we’re struggling to raise our own kids, take care of ourselves, and often take care of our parents at the same time. Her battle with cancer, and her relationship with her father in particular, highlight her book.

Okay, let’s just make this “Book Review Thursday.” One of the books I list in the “competitive title analysis” section of my book proposal (which I send to agents) is called
Love, Loss and What I Wore by Ilene Beckerman. Well, it seems that there’s a new play out based on the book!

I’d love to see it, as I can’t help but invision my own memoir adapted for the stage or screen some day. But Beckerman’s book is a lighter look at the clothes she wore throughout the different stages and events of her life, and I’m not sure my story would adapt well for theater. For now those thoughts are only a distraction, when I need to get back to the goal at hand—drafting the rest of the book. Because I like triangles, remember?

The Lenten Triodion and Prelude to Spring

Yesterday was the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee on the calendar of the Orthodox Church. It’s the first of three Sundays leading up to Great Lent. For Orthodox Christians, Great Lent officially begins on Clean Monday, which falls on March 2 this year—just 3 weeks from today. Last week I was at our monthly women’s gathering when one of the women mentioned how glad she is that Lent is drawing near and I said, “Really? You’re looking forward to Lent?’

Her answer was better than I can paraphrase. It included being tired of her heaviness, her baggage, and ready for cleansing. I listened and wanted to feel the way she did, and now, with Great Lent only 3 weeks away, I will ask God to help me hunger after this time of self-denial and spiritual growth.

This morning I found something that helps: A couple of paragraphs from my blog post about this time last year:

There’s a wonderful essay by Metropolitan Kallistos Ware , in the book, Living Orthodoxy in the Modern World. The essay is called, "Lent and the Consumer Society." It's actually where I first read about flying kites on Clean Monday. Anyway, I love his approach to Lent:
We are encouraged to associate Lent with fresh air, with the wind blowing on the hills, with the coming of spring. Lent is a time for flying kites--a time for adventure, exploration, fresh initiatives, new hope.... It also has to do with freedom.... Lent is a time when we learn to be free.... As a human person in God's image, I am not truly free unless I have learnt how to use my freedom rightly, and this process of learning presupposes obedience, discipline and self-denial. Freedom is not only a gift; it is a task....Lent is concerned, first, with the offering of the world back to God in thanksgiving....

I love that. It's not about self-depracation and groveling. It's about seeing ourselves as God sees us. Yes, seeing our sins and repententing of them. But also seeing God's gifts come to fruition as we labor. Freedom means freedom from slavery to self and harmful passions, but also freedom to be all that we can be.

The complete services for Great Lent are contained in a book called The Lenten Triodion. The Lenten Triodion derives its name from the Greek word meaning "three odes," since the Canon of Matins is based on only three of the scriptural odes or canticles, instead of the usual nine. If you’re Orthodox (or just curious) and would like to know the readings for these weeks of the Church year but don’t want to buy a book, you can find may of them here.

The past weekend was full of beauty in so many ways. On Friday night I attended a reception for the students in the Masters of Art Education program at the Memphis College of Art.

Just visiting the building itself, especially at night, is a treat.

My invitation came from one of my Goddaughters, Julie Stanek, who teaches art at Rossville Academy. Julie’s work at the show included several groupings in oil… like these sunflowers.

And this piece, showing a beautiful butterfly on an interesting tree branch. Congratulations to Julie and the other students on an excellent show! It was fun to run into Andrew Dycus, a classmate of my oldest son’s back in middle school! And I also enjoyed a sneak preview of the Works of Heart Valentine Auction being held the following day.

My friend Daphne came over from Little Rock that evening, and the next day we took off for Oxford, where the Oxford Film Festival was in progress. We were too late to join our friends, Doug, Herman and Ginger at the 10:30 a.m. showing of “Neshoba,” so we did a little shopping at Square Books instead. I was excited to find Jayne Anne Phillips’ new book, Lark and Termite, and to learn that she would be reading and signing in Oxford on March 10. I also grabbed a signed edition of Francine Prose’s latest novel, Goldengrove.

We were honored to have lunch with the author, Jere Hoar,who had been one of the guest speakers at last summer’s Yoknapatawpha Writers Workshop. It was fun to talk with Jere about writing projects and buying land around Oxford and other pursuits.

Later we met up with Doug at Off Square Books, and the three of us headed out to the country looking at land. Doug wanted to show us Larry Brown’s property out in Yocona, just outside Oxford. Doug had attended Larry’s funeral back in November of 2004, and hadn’t been to the site since.

We felt like we were walking on sacred ground, as we explored the dock by the pond.

“The Shack,” where Brown did much of his writing.

And his grave. The smaller grave is from an infant daughter. (Brown has other living children.) Larry was four months younger than me, so he died when he was only fifty three.

I’ll just let these pictures speak for themselves, other than to say that I could hear the wind in the trees. I think the last time I heard the wind in the trees was two years ago when I was visiting a monastery up in Michigan. Yes, Daphne, I know I need to get out of the city more. I get that. I just don’t want to sleep on the ground in a tent.

Back in town we met up with Michelle at High Pointe Coffee, then joined Tom Franklin and his wife Beth Anne Fennelly for drinks on the balcony at City Grocery, and eventually walked three doors down to The Lyric where Beth Anne was master of ceremonies for the Oxford Film Festival’s Awards Ceremony. There were a few film clips and lots of champagne, but the food line was too long, so we left hungry but happy from another day full of friendship and art and nature.

This gorgeous weather, as well as the approach of Great Lent, are such complimentary preludes to spring. Yep, it’s 72 degrees on February 9 here in Memphis, Tennessee. I’m going to sign off now, and head down to Harbor Town, to walk by the Mississippi River, and maybe do a little reading or writing….

Prose on Memoirs and Interview with Jayne Anne Phillips

Remember my three New Year’s goals? Writing, Exercising, and Organizing? I’ll bet you’re wondering why you haven’t heard anything from me about my progress on “Operation Chaos” in the past week. Well, my “excuses” are: I was out of town for six days and I was sick most of that time and a few days after returning home. So, exercise and cleaning out junk have definitely not been options for the past couple of weeks, but yesterday I got back on track with writing, and drafted 10 pages of the next chapter of my book. I’d like to finish the first draft of that chapter today, so my blog post will mainly be quotes and links to two good reads:

First of all, a friend sent me the link to this interesting article about memoirs in Harper’s by Francine Prose titled “Books and Circuses: The politics of literary scapegoating.” Prose is author of many books of fiction, and the New York Times bestselling nonfiction book, Reading Like a Writer, which I enjoyed and found very helpful.

The article is rather lengthy, especially since she intersperses her political views throughout the piece, which is otherwise mainly about memoir as a genre in general, and a few well-known examples in particular. She talks about the levels on which readers read memoirs, and this part was especially interesting to me, as I continue to write my own truths, hoping that some day readers will read my words in a way that is, as Prose says, “not only extra-literary, but personal.” Here are two teaser paragraphs—if you want to read the rest of the article, click here.

The next level on which memoirs can be read involves our sense that a writer is telling the world something we might not confide to our best friend. This sort of reading experience is provided by the increasingly crowded subgenre of autobiographies that portray the outrageous exploits of parents who have remained, in the writer’s memory, larger than life, just as they would have seemed to a child. Some of the most popular recent memoirs—Augusten Burroughs’s Running with Scissors, Jeannette Walls’s The Glass Castle—fall into this group. The writer’s courage or boldness in making the private public may be part of the reason why so many first-person accounts (Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love is yet another example) may fulfill a self-help function, and why thousands of readers find their encounters with these intimate narratives to be less voyeuristic than therapeutic. The traumas of the reader’s own dysfunctional childhood or painful divorce seem suddenly less taboo, less isolating, less fraught. Hidden secrets may come spilling out in the supportive context of the book group—a less expensive alternative to psychotherapy—and the reader may feel heartened and encouraged by the fact that the writer (such as Margaret B. Jones) has not only survived but triumphed.

To read in this way is to enter into a relationship with a book and a writer that is not only extra-literary but personal, a phenomenon that may be partly responsible for the orgies of recrimination that have followed the exposure of memoirists with faulty recall or vivid imaginations. It’s less as if a writer has lied or exaggerated than as if one’s therapist has been found guilty of practicing with false credentials.

My friends over at the Creative Nonfiction Foundation would agree with Prose about the importance of not writing memoir with “faulty recall or vivid imaginations.” If you want to make stuff up, write fiction.

Which is what novelist Jayne Anne Phillips has been doing quite well for some time. She’s also teaching at the Rutgers-Newark Master of Fine Arts Creative Writing program, which she launched two years ago and directs. Her recent novel, Lark and Termite, just came out in January. Phillips is a fan of William Faulkner, and says, of one of the main characters in her latest novel, “Readers may compare Termite to Benjy. In fact, Termite is Benjy’s elemental opposite….” I’m hooked—can’t wait to read it. When I was a freshman at Ole Miss in 1969-70, I did a paper on The Sound and the Fury. I don’t think I understood much that Faulkner was trying to say in that strange work of fiction, and I remember making up lots of stuff in my paper, but hopefully Phillips’ novel will be an easier read. I’ll let you know!

I was interested to learn that Phillips’ husband is a physician at Harvard Medical, and to hear her talk about how she has juggled her life as doctor’s wife, mother, and artist. I love her words near the end of the interview:

Artists have never been respected in America; it’s just not an American tradition. Communal art, crafts, yes, but individual artists, working essentially alone, are outsiders, they’re crazy fools, they’re not doing real work, they’re suspect, they’re feared. . . . It’s wonderful!

Anyway, you can read the entire interview with Phillips at Narrative Magazine online, but you have to register (which is easy and free). Just click here and follow the quick instructions. (Or if you see the entire interview when you clicked, I guess you’re in on my password.)

Okay, back to work on Chapter 10, “Spandex and Leg Warmers.” Hmmmm…. This is going to make me want to go work out.

Or not.

In case you can't tell, I'm the one in black tights with a dark blue and black leotard. It was 1985, and yeah, even at 115 pounds I thought I needed to wear black....

2009 Yoknapatawpha Summer Writers' Workshop: June 5-7

It’s official—the 2009 Yoknapatawpha Summer Writers’ Workshop at the University of Mississippi in Oxford will be held June 5-7. The workshop is for anyone writing in fiction or nonfiction, and participants submit up to 12 pages to be critiqued during the weekend. In addition to critique sessions, there are amazing craft talks, panel discussions, open mic and lots of fun times at meals and happy hour!

This year's all-star faculty lineup includes:

Neal Walsh—Ole Miss alum and fiction writer, (right) now on staff with the MFA program at LSU, will again be master of ceremonies, reining in (or not) the creative energies of students and other faculty member, including:

Scott Morris—critique leader par excellent, (left) and author of Waiting for April and The Total View of Taftly. Scott was on staff in the MFA program at Ole Miss for a while, but is now living in California and working on getting his third novel published.

Rebecca Jernigan—returns again this year with her storytelling talents. (right, with Wendy on guitar)

New to this year’s faculty are:

Ace Atkins—mystery novelist, who lives outside Oxford with his family, (left) and

Bess Reed Currence—former literary agent (she was also an editor at The Oxford American) will be on hand to talk about the publishing end of the writing business. (sorry, couldn't find a picture of Bess)

All of this and more can be found here.
I’ve already registered, here.

This will be my third time to participate in the Yoknapatawpha Writers Workshop. You can read about last year’s workshop and see lots of pictures here.

They only accept about 15-16 participants, so register early!

Historic Photos of Memphis

I’ve been sick for several days, which is why you haven’t gotten a post since last Thursday. We were still in Atlanta over the weekend, visiting my husband’s relatives, but we got home just in time for the Super Bowl last night. What a great game! We aren’t huge fans of either team, but they sure put on a show last night.

So, I dragged myself out of bed a little while ago and thought, “Alas, I’ve neglected my blog readers, and I don’t think they’ll be excited about the pictures of my great niece and nephews and other family members in Atlanta, so what’s a sickly blogger to do?” And then it hit me: review someone else’s (professional and historic) photographs.

I recently received a really nice coffee table book called Historic Photos of Memphis by Gina Cordell and Patrick W. O’Daniel. It’s been out since 2006, but this was my first time to see it. It has 198 photographs covering 133 years (1860-1993) with helpful section editorials and notes on each photograph. Since I’ve only lived in Memphis since 1988, I really enjoyed this visual trip through my second hometown’s history.

It was especially fun to look at the Illinois Central Railroad—both the train cars and the station—since the first time I visited Memphis, when I was 8 years old, was by train. My best friend in Jackson (Mississippi) was coming up to visit relatives, and I rode with her, back in 1959. My next train trip to Memphis was in 1968, to visit my boyfriend, who was a freshman at Southwestern (now Rhodes) so I enjoyed the photo of Southwestern, noting how the architecture and buildings never change, only the coeds!

The views of the riverfront are fascinating, especially since we lived at the Waterford Plaza, overlooking the river, when we first moved to Memphis. And also the old Goldsmith’s Department Store (downtown) which was still open, but only briefly, when we came here. I was sad when it closed…. it felt like the end of an era, the excitement and buzz of shopping downtown.

But it’s heartening to see the historic homes which have been preserved and now function as elegant museums, restaurants, and bed and breakfasts, like the Hunt Phelan Home. Lots of “first” are captured by these photos, like the first interstate highway to go through Memphis, and the first non-stop flight to New York City.

Okay, I can’t help but try to scan this one… it’s just a street scene—on McLean Avenue—a few blocks from where I live, but it’s back in 1890. I've got friends who live on McLean now, and I'm sure they're grateful for the paved streets and sidewalks, but also the historic architecture, which has been preserved for the most part.

Visit Turner Publishing’s website or your local independent bookseller (links to a few of my favorites are here) to get your own copy of this treasure. (Yes, of course you can order it from Amazon, but you know I always like to plug the indies.) Okay, time for Tylenol and cough medicine and a nap.