I wanna be in pictures!

How many people do you think have read the original Frankenstein by Mary Shelley? Despite its age, it's actually a fascinating, compelling book that is only remotely related to the movies that have been made in its name.

It makes me wonder, what would Mary Shelley think if she saw a movie of her book? Would she be pleased? Bemused? Disappointed? Or not even recognize it as a derivative of her original work?

On Sunday evening I was blog-trotting and visited one of my favorite writer's blog Allison Winn Scotch, who is the author of The Department of Lost and Found and the soon to be released Time of My Life. She wrote a post on the Oscars and books that had been made into movies. As I began writing my comment to her post, my mind went off on a tangent, and I realized that I had the subject of another post!

Actually this one had been brewing in my mind ever since I read Julie and Julia by Julie Powell. Her book was derived from her blog where she journaled her daily journey through the Julia Child's classic, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I then went in search of her blog. There I read a post where she excitedly announced that her book had been optioned to be made into a movie, and later announced that Meryl Streep would be one of the actors to star in the movie.

This got me thinking, what is it like to have a movie made from your book?

Margaret Mitchell's epic translated well to the screen. Perhaps like many others, I saw the movie before I read the book. And while I ultimately enjoyed the book more, in this case I believe the movie stood alone as a groundbreaking work of art.

But I wonder, what did Margaret Mitchell think when she saw her book on the big screen? Did she feel the screenwriters, the director, the actors, got it right? Did Clark Gable capture the same Rhett Butler she originally saw in her imagination?

Or is it too much to expect that reality could ever adequately our imaginations?

Do you remember how popular The English Patient was? Both the book and the movie were an absolute sensation.

However, this is a case where, despite the beauty of the movie, the fine actors, the haunting cinematography, all of it could not compare with the stunning poetry of the Michael Ondaatje's original novel.

Laying aside the business considerations of payouts and movie options, what does it feel like to turn your work of art over to others to re-write and re-interpret? Is there a sense of loss, or a hopeful anticipation?

This raises two interesting ideas about movies made from books: 1) perhaps the movie are more accessible, or a more comprehensible vehicle for conveying a theme than a book, or 2) more hopefully, a well-done movie version leads people to read a book they may not otherwise have approached, and perhaps the movie serves as a 'Cliff notes' to make a difficult book comprehensible.

One of my favorite movies of all time, Doctor Zhivago....I saw it for the first time when I was a little girl, years before I ever knew that there was a book of the same name.

I have not yet had the opportunity to read Boris Pasternak's original novel (although I actually own both the book and the movie). But when I do, I know that I will see Omar Sharif and Julie Christie as Dr. Zhivago and Lara.

A Golden Journal's Day at the Beach

After a week of rather contemplative posts, I thought that you and I were in need of a little light hearted fun....a day at the beach. Luckily for me, I live a short five minute drive from these golden shores. So, grab your sunglasses and sun screen and join me.

Yes, that is my real journal. When I need to clear my mind, I grab a book, my journal, and head to the beach. I'm one of those individuals who need to get away from time to time to 'recharge' in solitude. My favorite place to recharge has always been the beach.

The soothing properties of the ocean are well known, from the gentle rush of the waves across the sand, the positive ions of salt water, the everchanging scenery, or the comraderie of being around other people who are also having a wonderful day.

I think it's actually due to the happy memories I have of beach days as a child. The beach was always a place where I felt safe and free and as if the world was filled with possibilities, symbolized by the mystery of the distant offshore horizon.

Although I didn't get to the beach until late afternoon....an attempt to preserve my wrinkle free complexion for a day longer, there were still plenty of others enjoying the day. In fact, there was something of a carefree festive atmosphere, no earnest sunbathing gods, lots of families making the most of each lingering hour.

I sat near the pier on this trip.

They charge a dollar for sightseers, two dollars for fisherman. The tourists stroll out to the end, admiring the view.

Unobtrusively, they will stand behind one of the fisherman and then bend slightly at the waist to look in the buckets of water holding the little fish that are their live bait. The fisherman will answer the same old questions, do you catch much, what do you catch, have you every caught a shark, what about a barracuda? The answers to all these questions are generally 'yes'.

High school kids hang out in groups on the other side of the pier. Surfing is not big here, (except in summer, when a tropical storm is on the way in or out) simply because we don't have the waves....but boogie boards, or wave skimmers, are very popular.

Seeing these kids reminded me of my own high school days, and my trips to this same beach. Times seem not to have changed this ritual of adolesence.

There are a lot of things I love about the beach. The sky is one of them.

Perhaps it is the expanse of wide open sky that draws my eye upward. I never fail to find some fascinating cloudscape. I know, the scientific explanation has to do with weather patterns, a cold front moving in, a wind swept clouds, the towering cumulous clouds that sail by like schooners.



Feeling refreshed and once again at peace, I head home. Just as I drive over the Intracostal Bridge, I'm compelled to pull over to capture a perfect end to the day....the exquisite sunsets we are blessed with in my home state.

A Literary Experiment: Do You See or Hear Your Imagination?

On Wednesday, I wrote on the impact listening to Barber's Adagio for Strings. Then I went to bed.

And I began wondering, where did the impetus for this post come from? Why had I suddenly started thinking of the emotional impact of listening?


Then I remembered that just before my mind, seemingly randomly, wandered to a memory of Barber's Adadio, I had been linking across the blogosphere when I found A Writer Afoot. I scrolled down the page, and read a post describing a walk while listening to Bel Canto, a fine literary novel by Ann Patchett. I read this book last November and loved the beauty of the language.


As I brought the book to mind, I couldn't imagine listening to it rather than reading it. This is inspite of the fact that at this very moment I have Sue Miller's The Senator's Wife playing in my car and have relied on audiobooks to provide entertainment on road trips. But the books I choose for audio play tend to be commercial fiction, mysteries, thrillers, quick pacing... literature lite.

This leads me to consider the different experiences we have with literature. Why does it matter whether we read rather than listen to a particular piece of writing?

If I am tackling a beautiful piece of literature, I prefer reading rather than listening. The experience of reading allows me to savor a particularly moving passage, to see the action in my mind's eye. I find that I appreciate an author's choice of words, the cadence of her language, or the visual imagery of a description, more when I have read it, rather than heard it spoken.

Perhaps it is the intrusion of the reader's voice. When I am reading, I hear my own voice, or the voice of the character. The introduction of the reader's voice cuts off that internal creation and imposes what the producer believes the character should sound like.

And isn't the imagination of, and seamless entering into, the author's created world an essential component of the literary experience?

Well, let's conduct our own Literary Experiment here. Below I have provided an excerpt of Bel Canto's opening page as well as a link to an auditory clip of the same passage. Both were obtained from Ann Patchett's website.

Chapter One

When the lights went off the accompanist kissed her. Maybe he had been turning towards her just before it was completely dark, maybe he was lifting his hands. There must have been some movement, a gesture, because every person in the living room would later remember a kiss. They did not see a kiss, that would have been impossible. The darkness that came on them was startling and complete. Not only was everyone there certain of a kiss, they claimed they could identify the type of kiss: it was strong and passionate, and it took her by surprise. They were all looking right at her when the lights went out. They were still applauding, each on his or her feet, still in the fullest throes of hands slapping together, elbows up. Not one person had come anywhere close to tiring. The Italians and the French were yelling, "Brava! Brava!" and the Japanese turned away from them. Would he have kissed her like that had the room been lit? Was his mind so full of her that in the very instant of darkness he reached for her, did he think so quickly? Or was it that they wanted her too, all of the men and women in the room, and so they imagined it collectively. They were so taken by the beauty of her voice that they wanted to cover her mouth with their mouth, drink in. Maybe music could be transferred, devoured, owned. What would it mean to kiss the lips that had held such a sound?

Excerpt: http://annpatchett.com/belcanto-excerpt.html

Now, I invite you to listen to the same excerpt, by clicking here.


This link will take you to Ann Patchett's web page for Bel Canto where you will find a link to an audio excerpt of the same passage.


Let me know your thoughts. Was your experience of Bel Canto affected by the method of delivery? Do you have a preference of reading v. listening to books?

Photo credits: http://www.abcgallery.com/P/picasso/picasso110.html
ocw.mit.edu/.../CourseHome/index.htm

Barber's Adagio: Music for Literature

I wasn't planning to post tonight and then, just before shutting down my computer for the night, this piece of music came tapping at the back of my mind. Perhaps it was yesterday's posting of the chapter describing a certain heart wrenching scene from Crime and Punishment. Or perhaps it was the cloudy, rainy weather we've been experiencing here.

It is an exquisite piece which by turns makes me mourn days gone by or want to get in the car and take a scenic drive on a rainy day, with a belief that I am certain to see the outline of silvery light tearing away the edge of cloud and suggesting the possibility of new begininngs.

I've even used it as a line in one of my novels, when I had the main character state that she would like to have it played at her funeral. (Ok, I admit, that sounds creepy, but it's a murder mystery.)

I dare you to listen to Barber's Adagio without feeling transported to a feeling, or a memory. It is one of those wonderfully evocative pieces of music whose experience is as much about feeling as listening.

You tube credit: skyblue999
Conductor:Leonard Bernstein

The Glass Mystery Chapter 10 - Lake Tahoe

Chapter 10


Crime and Punishment is a disturbing novel.

It is also a brilliant discourse on the destructive potential of the human mind and its possibilities for redemption. I believe the Russian mind is different from the American mind.

When I got to the store, I went through the routine of opening up. As I worked, I inhaled the scent of mildewed paper and leather and ran my hand along the stacks of broken and torn bindings that spoke of age and love. In the back of the shop, I entered the work room and flipped the switch to illuminate the store. The boxes I’d begun to sort through last night were still in their place. I made a mental count and walked toward the last box that I opened before closing last night.

They were from Mrs. Corman’s collection of old children’s books. Propped up on the pile was the first volume of a first edition set of Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz series. I picked up the book and looked at the cover. I put the books back in the box and went over to the back door. There was no sign of entry. I hadn’t expected any. When I left the workroom I locked the door behind me and went to the front of the store.

Crime and Punishment is divided into six parts. The first part contained the murder upon which the rest of the book revolved. There was no mystery. We were put into the mind of the killer and followed him step by step, from his contemplation to commitment.

What disturbed me most, however, was not the murder, but an earlier scene. Raskolinkov, the main character, recounts a dream in which a thin, sickly horse, harnessed to a cart in front of a bar, is challenged to pull first four and then an entire gang of drunken men. The horse tries desperately to take her master’s orders, but as she stumbles under the impossible load she is whipped mercilessly. The longer she tries and fails, the more brutal become the whip’s lashes. The peasant entreats others to join him in the beating, finally calling for boards to beat her when he deems the whip not brutal enough. Raskolnikov see himself as a child in this dream, helpless to save the mare, he nonetheless runs to its dying body and clasps the head in his arms, kissing the eyes and muzzle.

I went now to the shelves, pulled an English translation of Crime and Punishment, went to the front of the store, and took my seat behind the counter next to the front windows. I pulled out the Russian text of Crime and Punishment and looked up the passage describing the horse’s death.

Then I flipped over to the page describing Raskolnikov’s murder of the old woman. I read both events from the English version, the Russian version laid on top. I studied both pages. Raskolnikov’s depiction of the murder of the old woman lacked the beauty and emotional weight of his dream of the horse.

Once again I experienced the same outrage and helplessness of the boy unable to stop the savagery. My heart was torn between a steely wish to exact on the peasants the same torture they gave the horse, and a bewildered Christian’s cry to God, that strangled frustration, that the strong triumph over the weak.

I put my hand on the page and closed my eyes. Before me appeared the face of Katerina as she lay in the snow, her eyes searching the starry Heaven that was about to receive her.

Photo credit: http://mondragon.ca/bookstore

The Glass Mystery Chapter 9 - The Moscow Diary

Chapter 9

Moscow is a beautiful city. Russians, a ferociously beautiful, forbidding people, at once welcoming and impenetrable. One of my favorite memories of Katerina occurred in the small park across the street from the Embassy.

On this peak autumn morning the trees wore harlequin robes. The park is small, less than a city block. There is gymnasium equipment, asphalt pathways creating paths through the trees. In the morning, preschool children play on the swings, and adults do calisthenics on the bars. A parade of dogs freed from the confines of small apartments enjoy a morning walk.

The sunlight was bright and I was early. I parked against the sidewalk and headed to the less populated center of the park, to a bench that sat on the edge of a circular concrete pit. I sat back and allowed my eyes to climb the branches to the tops of the trees. I watched a shower of gold, red, and orange as the breeze blew the leaves from their branches. A ballet of beauty in death.

“The leaves fall the same way here as in your country?” Katerina sat down next to me.
I had been squinting into the sunlight and my eyes took a moment to adjust as I turned toward her. “They appear to turn in the same direction.”
She laughed. “Not counterclockwise?”
“That’s only on the other side of the equator.”
Her brow furrowed, translating my feeble joke.
“I’m just kidding,” I replied to relieve her.
“Are you homesick?” she asked.
I nodded. “I’m happy to be here, but yes, autumn has that effect.”
“It’s the same for me,” she said. “The falling leaves are like the trees saying good-bye to all the fun times of summer. The times of eating, drinking, and swimming out in the village are gone for another year. Now my family is canning the vegetables and preparing for the winter.”

A few months earlier Katerina had invited me to her family’s dacha, a cozy cottage in the woods. All of the cooking was done nearby in what was called the summer kitchen.
We were seated together outside, under a makeshift pavilion of corrugated aluminum siding and two by fours. Ten of us sat at the long table, in our bathing suits, still damp from a swim in the nearby lake. We ate shashlik and fresh cucumber salads. We drank vodka, toasting one another in increasingly elaborate speeches. I’d never experienced anything like it in the States.

I smiled at Katerina as she stood, signaling that it was time to leave our autumn reverie behind. “We will have more parties,” she said.
“I would like to invite you to my apartment for Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “And bring your parents.”
She looked at me and then smiled, “Have you already ordered your turkey from the commissary?”
“Ofcourse!”
“And planned your menu?” She laughed and headed toward the Embassy.

Now, her cohorts in the Embassy had experienced the gut wrenching roller coaster of happily believing she’d gone to Dubai for a sexy weekend to the stunning understanding that she’d never left Moscow and she was dead.

Who had been given the unbearable duty to tell Katerina's parents?

Phtot Credit: http://moscowdailyshot.blogspot.com/2007_10_01_archive.html

Paint as a Metaphor for Mountains

I'm very good at mulling.

As my last post demonstrates, there are moments when I become frozen with indecision. What I realized as I was going to the paint store to buy another three samples to test on the walls, is that this latest struggle isn't really about paint. It's a metaphor, the symbolic, or physical manifestation, of something much larger.

For the past year I have desperately and sometime haphazardly tried to figure out where to move. My dream is to move to a house in the mountains. The only thing that holds me back is that I can't decide where to move. Okay, that's not the only thing, the other thing is my concern about my mother, Adele. (see my earlier post entitled, Adele and Me).

I have flown out west, to drive two thousand miles around Colorado and Wyoming. I have subscribed to daily real estate property listings from Evergreen, Colorado, Southwestern Montana, and one of my favorite places in the world, Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

Yet, with all this mulling, I have not been able to choose a place. There are nights, more frequent than not, when I wake up at four a.m. despairing that I will never move and rolling over to cry into my pillow a desperate plea to God for direction....I suppose that like my last post, I somehow hope for guidance from a higher power to provide me with the direction I seem unable to provide for myself.

Tonight, I have made a decision about paint.

I've chosen the gently warm as a summer breeze yellow that you see in the pictures above and below. It's called Cozy Cottage. Yes, that is the paper plate I used to paint the original sample on the wall. It's number in the twenty sample line up? It's number three. Interestingly, now that I've made the choice, I am completely at peace with it.

What does this mean in my quest to find a place to call home?

I hope that it means I will soon make a decision in this regard as well. Of course, I'm still praying for Divine Guidance. I'd love one of those reassurring 'open door' moments. At the very least, I hope this paint metaphor will translate into a similar epiphany: that given enough thought and focus, I will reach a decision on where to move, and that once I do, I will experience peace, and a good night's sleep.

Paint My Living Room!

This is the story of a paint job gone horribly wrong. While I was cruising around South America, I had my walls painted blue. A pale, sad, blue that makes me feel like I am living in the underwater portion of an aquarium.

To remedy this mistake, I decided that I would re-paint the walls a warm yellow or gold. That was my intent....and then things got terribly out of hand.

Please look closely at the paint samples above and note the numbers written on them....# 12, 13, 14, 15....16. That's right, I've tried sixteen different paint samples on my living room walls.

Here's a view of samples twelve through sixteen. I leaned a picture against them in a vain attempt to help me in the decision making process by seeing which one would work best with the artwork.

These three are numbers 17, 18, and 19......that's right, nineteen! The bottom sample which looked so good on the card, looks like melted chocolate ice cream on the wall, and not in a good way.

If you're wondering about samples one through eleven....here they are!

Help me, please......leave a comment or email with your choice. Please. Before I start sampling the green shades.

The Fine Art of Revision

It’s been one month since I completed the revisions for my novel, posted here under the unfortunate title of The Silver Cord.

While I have now begun sending it out, as well as moving on to my next novel The Glass Mystery, I continue to think about the first novel. Specifically, I think about it as I go for my evening walk through my neighborhood. Although I no longer post the revisions on this blog, I have made some changes to draft posted on this blog.

First, it received a new title, one that I had its inception in an earlier post as I toyed with the word circularity which I felt was a theme of the book. Second, in keeping with this developing theme, the idea that history repeats itself, I took out all references to its original time frame (World War Two) and specific place (Budapest). During these nightly walks I contemplate other changes that I might make to improve the book.

This is what brought me to share my thoughts on this topic and hopefully receive your input as well.

There are numerous books and articles on the mechanics of revision, which generally go something like this:

* Put your manuscript away in a drawer for a week, month, year….so that you can come back to it during the revision process with a fresh perspective. (This assumes that as soon as you shut the drawer containing your manuscript, you can simultaneously stop those incessant thoughts about its worth or flaws. According to your mood.)

* Before you begin revising, read the entire manuscript through once without marking up, just to get a sense of flow and continuity of plot. (This assumes that you can read a couple hundred pages quickly or in one sitting.)

* Start again at the beginning and start line editing, focusing on character development, dialogue, scene structure, pacing, over use of adverbs, adjectives and other words that might annoy your readers….or agents.


These instructions are useful and appropriate for producing readable manuscripts. What has been on my mind, however, is the work of the unconscious mind in aiding the writer in the revision process. That is what I mull over as I walk through the evening air.

For instance, I know that my latest revision of Circularity (aka Silver Cord) passes the mechanics test. Yet, I am not satisfied with the conveyance of its theme. I don’t have the answer of how to fix that aspect.

Nevertheless, I have no doubt that as I continue to present this question to my unconscious, the answer will eventually present itself in some seeming spark of inspiration, one of those ‘out of the blue’ moments that wakes us from our sleep or sends us scrambling for pen and paper to capture what we are sure is a brilliant thought.

I want to clarify that I use the term ‘unconscious mind’ loosely, because I think this is just another word for intuition, synchronicity, creativity, or our connection with the mind of God. What you call it is not important, what matters is that this focused attention on finding the unknown answer, and a belief that the answer can and will be found, seems to me to be the real Art of Revision….it is the final, or ultimate re-visioning of the books as the expression of your desire or imagining of the book’s purpose.

Forgive me, that last sentence sounds awful ‘woo-woo’. I hope I convey that the Art of Revision allows the author to uncover and share her ultimate intention for the book as she sends it out to her readers, whether that be the rollicking fun of chick-lit, or the heavy going idea of redemption.

I’m just wondering how many more miles I’m going to walk until I figure out mine!

Travelogue: Cafe Tortoni - Buenos Aires

Paris is one of my favorite cities in the world. And one of my favorite things to do there is spend an afternoon, or end a day of sightseeing, or begin an evening out, at one of their wonderful cafes.

If, like me, you are a fan of Paris cafes, then Cafe Tortoni is your place to hang out in Buenos Aires.

Established in 1858, the cafe is known as a gathering place for artists, musicians, writers and polititicians. The cafe's walls are adorned with art as well as life size statuary of its most famous patrons. So, yes, it is a destination tourist attraction. But it's also a popular hangout for locals.

The wood paneling, the marble floors, the small black tables, are all perfectly reminiscent of the cafe experience. The menu is extensive, I recommend the chocolate and churros ( a wonderful tube shaped doughnut), or the Sandwich Tortoni, an open faced cheese, tomato and ham sandwich.

I had the chocolate and churros during my visit. The churros are warm and crunchy. Who doesn't like fried doughnuts! Quite honestly, I wish I'd taken a picture of it, that's how good it was!

The only downside of Tortoni Cafe....the ability of the waiters to completely ignore your presence, even when surrounding tables are empty....makes Parisian waiters look like cooing nannies.

Luckily, we found one who waiter who was not only attentive, he actually smiled! My only regret is that I didn't have more time. Like any cafe, Tortoni is a place to savor, over hours and books read and journals written in.

Bonus points: the cafe sells a variety of souveniers....I brought home a pair of coffee cups and saucers, and every time I have my coffee with them I'm transported back to Cafe Tortoni.

The Glass Mystery Chapter 8 - Lake Tahoe

Chapter 8

At first light, Thea got up and went downstairs. Out of habit, she plugged in the electric percolator so that the coffee would be ready when she got back. She pulled on her boots and her father’s old red down jacket, the one they’d argued over. Then she went to the sliding glass doors and stepped outside.

The winters were so different here. The morning sun was as white as the fresh snow and stung her eyes. The cold air closed her throat as she inhaled and zipped the jacket’s collar to the top so that she could shield her face.

Thea bent down and examined his footprints. The flurries of the night before masked the definition so she contented herself with following the trail toward the trees. He had stopped here, the tracks distorted as if he’d stomped his feet trying to stay warm while he waited. He’d decided to go back toward the house. She followed his steps until they lead to a place underneath her upstairs bedroom window. Thea looked up, following his imagined gaze and considered the pointlessness this perspective would have offered given her second floor bedroom. Had this been a listening post, the place to catch a call to the police?

Then she looked down and examined the area around her feet. He had turned this time and gone back into the woods a final time. Thea followed as far as she could, until the tracks were lost in the undergrowth of bushes. But his path was clear. Down the hill from her house was a road, the place where his car had carved a space into a pile of snow when he’d parked.

After dropping George off at his house last night, Thea told him that she would open up the store this morning and that he should stay home. She was worried that he was coming down with the flu. He’d seemed overly tired as he struggled to get out of her car and she’d jumped from the driver’s seat to help him up the stairs to his front door. Now she was glad that George would not be at the store today.

Thea walked back up the hill to her house. She dropped her boots by the door to puddle and her coat on a nearby chair. She poured herself a cup of coffee, turned on CNN, then went back outside and stood on the deck, and looked at the trees. She looked around, calculating the distance to her nearest neighbor and hazarding a guess about how sound would carry.

Then she went inside and upstairs to get ready for work. Thea dressed quickly and on the way out, she stopped by her nightstand and picked up the volume of “Crime and Punishment” that had been left for her last night.

The Glass Mystery Chapter 7 - The Moscow Diary

Chapter 7

Moscow is far from my mid-western home. Before coming here, I stood in front of a map of the world and ran my finger along the fine black line from east to my more familiar west.
I thought of the cold winters back in Michigan, where I’d gone to college. I remembered the shock of my freshman year, the months of dim sunlight, hidden beneath bank heads of clouds. I reminded myself that I’d eventually gotten used to it, as one does when there is no other option.
Yesterday the sun came out. For two hours in the morning. And then the clouds returned and it began to snow again. Yesterday’s sun was the first we’d seen in thirty-two days. I know because I counted. Marked each grey day off with an X on my calender at work.

At this point in the winter, the snow is only marginally pretty. It is pretty because it covers the blackened snow underneath. It is pretty to watch as the street lamps outside my windows illuminate it. Other than that, its beauty pales in face of its powerful reminder that winter had not yet relinquished its grip.

Money buys convenience. Parking on the street is not necessarily free. There are young men who make a living by shoveling the snow to create parking spaces for their clients. They come to your window and you give them a couple of notes. Your car is then safe. On some narrow side streets, you simply park on the broad sidewalk and pedestrians walk around your car. I haven’t quite figured out the code, so I simply follow the example of the cars before me. On my street, for instance, there is a young man who reserves my place with a battered plastic bucket, and I park on the sidewalk every night. His service includes a weekly overnight washing of my car, whether I ask for it or not.

They found Katerina’s body today. The news first circulated through the Embassy in sketchy whispers. The cause of death hasn’t been released…they only said that she’d been found in the park. The shock is somehow worse since everyone had been nursing the much happier scenario of her being on a romantic getaway in Dubai.

I went to the Passports section, where Katerina worked, after lunch. Two of her girlfriends and co-workers were red-eyed and teary. I offered my condolences and asked if Katerina’s parents had been contacted. They nodded and said that her parents were expected to arrive that afternoon to formally identify the body and make funeral arrangements.
They’d made it through the most difficult years of the Soviet system by benefit of their scientific degrees. They’d had a nice apartment downtown.

They’d told me that they’d had only one child because they thought they could provide more for one than two. They’d planted all of their hopes and dreams in their daughter.
In 1994, just as Katerina had finished her degree in languages at University, they’d sent her to relatives in Brooklyn for a summer, so that she could experience American culture and polish her English language skills. They dreamed that she would use her language proficiency to advantage as business opportunities with the U.S. filtered into Moscow. When she’d obtained a job in the Embassy, they were thrilled. They viewed the position as a launch to better things. Katerina had in fact begun applying to business schools in the United States.

That they loved their daughter, as parents love their children, is not an adequate explanation of the grief they experience.

This child carried their hopes, she would see her country flourish, and take advantage of every freedom they had been denied, it was more than the death of a child, it was the death of a dream they’d carried in their hearts for decades. How do you arrange for that funeral?

In the newer cemeteries, those placed in the rich, muddy earth that had been farmland, the marble headstones sprouted faster than any crop the fertile land had ever seen. Just inside the gates, there was a small building where you selected the slab of marble that would adorn the grave. Then you gave the picture of your loved one to the man who carved the headstones and he would place it on a machine that would create a laser portrait in the bitter stone an exact replica of the photo. It was eerily magical.

At that graveyard I saw a five foot head stone, on which was carved the life-size replica of a four-year-old child in his ski suit. He was a beautiful child. And as the crowds of marble gather around him, he will remain forever beautiful and young.

What picture will Katerina’s parents choose for her final portrait?

photo credit: http://www.volgagermans.net/norka/images/Norka_New_Cemetery.jpg

Adele and Me

Isn't she beautiful? This is Adele, aka Adeline, aka Mom. Two years ago she had open heart surgery. In the two years since, she's had perhaps a dozen hospital stays, but she's also been on a cruise around the cape of South America,



and flown on a helicopter to a stand on a glacier in Alaska.

She is a terrific flirt. Here she is with one of the cowboys on an 'estancia' outside of Buenos Aires. I'm not sure who thinks they got luckier.... Actually, they both seem to be enjoying themselves. And that is one thing that I have always admired about her...she speaks easily with everyone, has a knack for working a room, or making people feel as if they've known her forever.

I admire that because she is so much my opposite, I am uncomfortable in crowds and would much rather be reading a book in solitude than talking to anyone. And that is the difference between us....

Adele's oxygen is getting out and 'being with people' that is her life blood, where she is happiest. Just last week, after she had spent the day in bed to weak to move, her doctor gave her the choice: check yourself into the hospital this evening or come to the doctor's office in the morning prepared to spend the night at the hospital. Mom chose to take her chances the next morning...so that she could go to her Wednesday night dinner at church.

I got home from work just in time to see Adele climb into her friend's car as they headed off to church. Three hours later she called and asked me to pick her up from a different friend's house, where she'd gone to visit after church.

I, on the other hand, wilt unless I have my requisite time alone to write, read, and simply stare out the window. Which I suppose is good if you are a writer.

Here we are at a cocktail party as we cruised the Chilean Fjords.

Generally I don't like to stand this close to her because she is obviously a rock star, which just makes me look bad.

I wouldn't mind staying in this corner, whereas she can't wait to get out of my grasp and go mingle. I returned to my cabin shortly after this photo was taken. To happily sit on the balcony, write in my journal, and take photos of the fjords.

This photo captures her real beauty. I originally envisioned this essay to be one of those chest thumping, heart-string tugging odes to caring for an aging parent. Oh, the sacrifices.

Then I started compling these photos and that essay just fell apart. This is clearly a woman with a lust for life. Yes, we face an almost daily high wire act as we work with her doctors to balance her myriad of medications and stave off congestive heart failure.

She is eighty, afterall.

What I have learned from her, every day, and what I love about her more and more is that she embraces the challenges and adventures of each day with joy and surety of her faith. She is often strong where I am weak and I hope visa versa.

Someday, perhaps I will write one of those obnoxiously pretentious essays that paint the adult child as the long suffering hero who gallently cares for the ailing parent.

Actually, I hope it never comes to that. I hope we are both better than that.

The Glass Mystery Chapter 6 - Lake Tahoe

Chapter 6

Thea was different now than she was then. At least that’s what she liked to think.

She believes she’s mellowed. The sharp anger that drove her actions in her past life, has banked to embers. But there were moments when sorrow snuck up.

A simple everyday event for everyone else would send Thea to her bed. One moment she was fine, the next a victim of an avalanche of memories and second guessing. Though it was embarrassing to cry, there were sporadic four a.m. mornings when she gave herself over to it completely. Somehow Thea believed it was like bleeding a wound, eventually the sheer volume of blood would wash away the offending spike. She realized the fix was temporary, because it wasn’t a fix at all, only a release.

She’d warred with bouts of depression since childhood. A weakness she coddled as if it was a frail child. It was her business and no one else’s. When Thea felt the signs of the gathering storm, she sent herself to bed. And George understood.


Thea picked up the calla lily and rubbed a drop of the red liquid between her fingers. She brought her fingers to her nose and confirmed paint chemicals.
She stood and looked at the footprints left in the snow, the path they made toward the forest that surrounded her house. The same forest that enticed her to buy this little house for the privacy that those trees would afford.

She stood holding the flower, the book, and it’s wrapping paper to her stained chest. Staring into the trees, she dared the messenger to make further contact, to own up to his intrusion.
Instead there was only the black silence of the single digit hours past midnight, the sound of snow accumulating on branches, the bend of those branches as they received their load and sent what they couldn’t hold showering down to the ground.

The smell of wood smoke was faint, the remnants from neighbors’ fireplaces already extinguished before bedtime. No smell of humans. No sound of footsteps retracing their path through the snow.

He knew his footfall would make too much noise in the snow. He was waiting out there. Not for her. But for her to close the door and go back to bed.
In a gesture she knew would be noted, Thea threw the calla lily across the snow. Then she turned and went back inside, locking the door.

She took the book up to her room and placed it carefully on top of two other books. Thea didn’t open the book and look for messages. She didn’t care if they were there. In fact, she would have been disappointed if there was anything to find between the pages other than text. It would diminish her opponent.

There were two stacks of books on her nightstand. One pile contained books to read for her edification. The other pile now consisted of three books. Tolstoy, the journal found in the Corman estate, and now a volume of Dostoevsky.

Thea got into bed and looked at the three books in their neat arrangement. She yawned and cursed the man who’d woken her from her sleep. She treasured the deep escape of dreams. On a good night, she was capable of sleeping for twelve hours. On the nights when her depression crept in, she could count on waking at two hour intervals, starting at three a.m.
Thea leaned toward the pile containing the journal and the new addition. Her hand hesitated over the journal, its arrival in her house was linked to the tonight’s events. She suspected that both events had been set in motion even before Mrs. Corman’s death.
Thea turned off the light and lay back in bed and considered how the events of past few days and the events described in the journal. Through the window she kept opened a turn, she heard the faint crunch of his footsteps coming toward the house.
She held her breath.

He stood still for minutes, she heard the steady fall of his breath. Then he turned away. Thea lay still and listened as his footsteps retreated into the forest.

photo credit: www.casatahoe.com/alpine_view_pics/cabin_view.JPG