Robins!

Yesterday I was working in the herb bed, adding new soil and pulling up starts, when I noticed a robin hanging out around one of our pine trees. The robin had a long grass in its mouth and on a hunch, I turned to look at our front porch. There was a nest in progress on the top tier of a plant stand Dad got me a couple years ago.

This is especially heartening because of our robin experience last year.
Last year around this time, I was loading up recycling on my Friday off. It was a gray but warmish March day, when spring was still a promise rather than here in full force like this year. I noticed this robin, peeking up at me over the front of our walk way with several long grasses in its mouth. How neat, I thought, he's building a nest somewhere. Little did I know. When I got home hours later from errands, a nest was fully formed on one of our bird feeders, stored on the top tier of the plant stand. This was our first nest at the house.

I paid close attention to progress. So much so, that I could tell if the robin was sitting on her nest on a sunny evening as soon as I pulled into the driveway. When the eggs hatched in late April, I spent a whole day in the herb garden planting and potting. It wasn't long before I noticed little scratchy sounds. When I looked about I realized that the robin, her beak full of worms, was hopping/running all around me, trying to get to the nest unnoticed yet unwilling to turn her back on me to feed her young. She would peer at me from around the cone flowers, dance around the salvia, and skitter behind a pot.

I loved working with an ear cocked, listening to this quiet yet profound sound of the mama robin literally two, three, four feet away. Sometimes I wouldn't realize how close I was to her and be surprised by her within arm's length.

She refused to go on the porch though and feed her young while I was in the bed, so I began to work my gardening around her, spacing out my trips to the potting boxes or garage for supplies so every ten minutes or so, she got a window to feed them. I would have loved to watch her feed them, but I honestly believe she couldn't override her instincts to not turn her back on me.

I got annoyed, wishing she would get that I wasn't going to hurt her nest but you know, I can't talk Robin, so I just made sure to go get something or do something else every ten or fifteen minutes.

It only takes a robin like, five seconds to find a worm though, so, I had an afternoon filled with hearing a robin rattle around the garden. I'm looking forward to this again this year.

When Andrew and I got back from a vacation, the chicks had went from feathered fluff balls to fledglings, each day, one left the nest to join Papa Robin under one of our pine trees. Until I came home one night to the last one in the nest. The urge to get a picture was too much, but I scared the fledge and he jumped down from the plant stand, chirping his indignation as he raced across the front porch and took a kamikaze dive off the other end, racing for all he was worth towards the pine trees where I saw an adult robin waiting.

In less than a week, the robin was on another set of eggs. I was thrilled. Between these and Mom and Dad's nests, there was going to be a ton of robins hatched out that I could track that year. Then. Disaster struck.

On May 23rd of last year, tornado strength winds pushed through the neighborhood, I remember coming home, and seeing mama robin on top of her nest. As I looked at the debris around me and though of our roof I wondered...did she sit on the nest the whole time the storm raged past, and if so, what must that have been like through her eyes. Over the next two weeks as the bulk of the remodeling and re-roofing were done, I realized with a sinking heart that the eggs were not likely to hatch as there was just too much activity for her to sit on them. Having me putter about the herb garden was one thing, but the numerous trucks, noises, and crew heck, just the sound of roofing, kept her away, and in some ways, this seemed to magnify the sadness of the whole storm event for me.

After a three weeks, I tossed the eggs, I checked and they were already light as air from everything inside them evaporating...and I tossed the nest. I really wish I hadn't because robins can easily clutch three times in a summer. It wasn't long before I noticed robins hopping around with long grasses in their mouths. I'm not sure if this pair was a different pair or the same pair who had had enough of the front porch, but, now they were building a nest on our meter box on the south end of the house. I worried the eggs wouldn't hatch, that the metal would just fry them in the hotter hours, and Andrew worried it was a fire hazard. Well, there was no fire, and the eggs didn't hatch. I tried not to be too depressed.

And here we are in a new year and the robins are back on the front porch. Let's hope nothing disrupts them this year and I'm telling you, I'm leaving the nest up until labor day. Are they the same pair? Could be. Is it just a great spot for robins to nest...you bet. You can look for robin shelf plans on the internet or order a robin shelf from a place like Amazon, who knows maybe Wild Bird too.

I'm interested to see if any robins reuse nesting spots at Mom and Dad's house. They had a robin's nest in a set of antlers Dad had on the hunting cabin, and an old bird feeder Mom had at the pond. When the antler nest fledged, Dad took it away to power wash the cabin and as soon as he finished the wash, a new nest was built. Each site of Mom and Dad's fledged twice, with out one, a total of 14 robins hatched out to take their chances in the great wild yonder. I have no idea how many would survive statistically, let's say one...that's probably generous.

Below are pictures of the front porch nest and the chicks/fledglings,the antler and bird feeder nests. I will keep photo documenting the new construction of the nest and add it later.

Nests are one of those things, that once you start looking for them, you see them everywhere. Yesterday at Lowe's I saw a sparrow fly into the nursery as I was at the register. With a grass in it's mouth I watched it hop from perch to perch until it swooped up to an eve and I saw it arrange it nest. One of the best things about fall for me, is seeing all the birds and squirrels' nests in the trees once the leaves have dropped off. When I post next, I will post some links to some of my favorite live bird cams...

One of the best things in Life...

is line dried sheets. From April, or, for this year, from March, to October I line dry our sheets. There is nothing like stretching out flat on sweet smelling sheets after a hard day of (in rough chronological order)
Watering the herb garden and vegetable beds
Going to the Farmer's Market
Harvesting herbs and vegetables
Mowing the lawn
Hanging out by the pond, reading under a tree during the hottest hours of the day.
Enjoying a nice grill out on my parent's back porch
Walking one of the dogs at the club
Sitting on our front porch, with Andrew beside me and writing in my journal.
Taking a nice long shower or bath using a line up of favorite homemade scrubs, facials, soaps and shampoos.
If weather permits and I can crawl into bed with the window open, even better.

If you have never line dried sheets outside, I recommend it. Yes, they are a little scratchy, but it's the good kind of scratchy, that's the only way I can explain it. The smell of sunshine and fresh air can lighten up my soul in ways nothing else can. Hang the sheets out on a day you know you will be doing lots of stuff outside and once you finally pull the covers up, stretch your toes toward the end of the bed and sigh with the satisfaction of a great day. That's what I do anyway.

Some Tips:
Always wet some paper towels or a cleaning rag with water and wrap around the whole line and walk up and down the line to clean off any residual dirt/dust.

Take the sheets down while the sun is still fairly well up from the horizon before the dew sets in on the sheets.

Don't worry about a bird bombing your sheets, in all the years I've done this, I just had that happen once, and my parents clothesline is surrounded by lots of trees birds hang out in.

For extra indulgence:
Be on the hunt for vintage pillowcases at antique shops, auctions, and online (etsy is a great source) vintage embroidered pillowcases are like little pieces of art with flowers, kittens and other natural elements. The cotton used in vintage pillowcases is much thicker, I don't know if it's thread count per se, or just how they used to make them, but you'll notice that vintage pillowcases in good condition are incredibly more luxurious than store bought. AND you are reusing instead of new-consuming. Here is a sample of some vintage cases I have.

An evening last spring

Okay folks, I promise that I'll let up on the cat blogging, but I couldn't resist posting this picture as I watch wet snow blanket the yard. It's been a long hard week with the weather, so here's a treat.

I took this last spring, May, in the evening during one of those perfect times where the hard spring thunderstorm had passed and the setting sun shone from the west. This was a night that there was a rainbow, and looking out the back door revealed that bruised blue black on the storm wending it's way towards Columbus.

Huh, apparently falling wet snow brings out the bad poet in me as well.

Anyway, I was running around the newly planted herb garden trying to get nice pictures of some flowers, none of which turned out. the ones of Maxwell and Molly watching my antics however, turned out nicely. That gerber daisy was in a pot, and is not actually growing out of Maxwell's head.

maybe a non cat pic next time, J

the infamous mo mo

As I was flipping through many a spring-taunting photo for this week's blog, I came across this shot of a still kitten-ish Molly. Since I haven't posted about her specifically yet, I figured I would post about her tonight.

Molly is the third cat Andrew and I have shared since we have been married. We got her June 2nd, 2007 after realizing that Tweeker was desperately lonely. Andrew wanted a tortoiseshell. I don't know why, he's never had one before and he kept saying "I want a tortie kitten and I want to name her Molly." So we trundled to the Union County Humane Society and they only had two kittens, a tiger and a tortie. So Andrew asked for them to bring the tortie out and here came this tiny 8 week old kitten who had been thrown out of a passing truck.

The lady said her name was Molly (coincidence right?) And as soon as she was placed in Andrew's hand she snuggled up against his shirt, like her back to the wall, warily eying the world.

So we brought her home crying all the way and introduced her to Tweek. We put her on the ground, and she immediately shot, tail shaking like a skinny flag, under the entertainment center. This induced completely unfounded panic, and not trusting that she would come out on her own, we enticed her with canned food.

For about two weeks we kept her in the guest room. She was only 8 weeks old when we got her, and brought her out morning and night for play dates with Tweeker on our bed. Molly immediately laid out who was boss, swatting at Tweek, and demanding to be groomed.

Molly has grown more affectionate with age, partially I think because after Tweek passed away she became the dominant cat and partially because she just became more loving. She sleeps with us most every night, and demands loves to be cuddled on a sleep in morning. She is the most predatory of our cats so far, the most entranced by bugs in the house, the most alert to birds outside. She likes toys, but seems to be a bit bored by them, like she knows they aren't the real thing. And has always retained some wild spirit.

She greets me at the door now, and stands up on her hind legs, stretching her body long to be petted. She loves to run around the house with or without Maxwell and she chirps more than meows.

A favorite spot is over the cabinets above the refrigerator where she will cry for Andrew to reach up and pet her, letting out a little meow as she yawns.

When she's really cranked up she likes to run halfway up the stairs, point her butt towards the front door, and put her head on the stair, peeking at us like she's about to do a headstand.

They say torties have their own personality and that's true of our little mo mo. She's not affectionate the strangers and she's no dope. But she's our little treasure.

On New Year's Eve I decided to clean the floors because they had gotten to the point where every time I looked down I couldn't live with myself.

I hate doing floors.

I hate going floors because with two cats, one being long-haired, and having laminate floor in most of the downstairs, every fur tumbleweed, every piece of dust, litter and detritus just leaps out and screams at me.

The house I grew up in was almost all carpet so laminate, even after 5 years continues to drive me crazy.

The stairs though, the stairs are the bane of the bane of my existence.

You can't tell from this picture, but let me assure you, these stairs look as the carpet was put down yesterday.

How did I do it? A new three step process. First I used these wonderful things by pledge that Andrew saw on tv and bought for me...probably because of all bitching I do about the cat hair.

http://www.pledge.com/fabric-sweeper/

When we got home and tried them out on the couch, the half we fabric swept looked brighter, almost a different color than the control side of the couch. It's that incredible.

So I used this first on the stairs. It did two things. One, it got a lot of cat hair up. And two, it loosened up all the crap that had been trapped by the cat hair.

Then I used the two gallon shop vac with just the hose no attachments to pick up the loose crud.

Then I used the little attachment you see pictured on the stair. Mom got it from LTD.

http://www.ltdcommodities.com/

I don't know if you know about LTD, but like a lot of mail order/paper advertisements, the products are hit and miss. Mom loves LTD and this little attachment, with it's neon green bristles and manic spinning when attached to the hose pulled everything else up.

When I was done, the stairs practically glowed and sang angelically, like in a commercial.

And then the cats came to investigate.

I predict that by Martin Luther King Day, the stairs will look just as they did on December 30th.

But that's not the point.

The point is, for me house cleaning is like, a metaphor for larger things in life.

I hate that I have to do it. I come home from work or get up in the morning and notice a dirty/dusty x, y, z and sigh to myself as I envision time in the future, spent on cleaning something that will just get dirty again.

But there is something to be said for the satisfaction from focusing on a single task. I listen to audiobooks a lot when I clean, and to engage in the low level physical activity and let one's mind wander isn't a bad thing. The satisfaction of seeing the steps SO clean...only comes from letting them get SO dirty in the first place. I've never been a spot cleaner, more of a, let-it-accumulate then clean it really good, kind of gal, so I guess for me, housework is about picking the flavor of drudgery.

So much of our lives is about the balance of maintenance (mowing the lawn, cleaning out the car, getting milk for the 5 millionth time) and doing the fun stuff we all enjoy. How does one appreciate the satisfaction in the drudgery, and remind oneself to appreciate the time they get for doing things they enjoy? That is one of my goals for the new year, to be less cranky about the house cleaning, and to appreciate when I am doing the things I enjoy.

And, one last work about cat hair and carpets. A clean carpet can't snuggle with me on the couch or greet me at the door, or do playful antics with toys or for canned food. The cats can, and I am reminding myself of that now as Maxwell stretches from his spot on the dining room rug and walks off, leaving a light coating of white hair on the rug...

So I am going to enter a contest...

You can read more about it here

http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/

And scroll through the entries to the one dated February 7th.

Wish me

L
U
C
K

Jules

A Note about the Advocacy Column

Hello, if you have ideas for advocacy topics, have an advocacy question or want to nominate yourself for a future interview, drop a line at juliethelibrarian@gmail.com

All submissions will be considered.

Jules

Maxwell and Molly are finally mixing and I think we're making progress. Maxwell still stays largely in his room. We had to move the boxspring and mattress away because he kept hiding under the bed. Sunday night I returned from an author visit and found him on the family room couch to which he made a slight eeep sound and ran down the dining room and hallway and up the stairs back into his room so he must know his way around.

I was worried about Molly. Up until Tuesday night, Maxwell had her buffaloed, charging out of his room to the landing, kicking his hind legs out and chasing her off. Molly always came up to investigate though and she's figured out his bluff.

Last night I watched them get very close to each other. It was very interesting to watch. There was no chasing or spitting, just some low growling. Maxwell has the look on his face of being resigned that this other cat is going to do what she wants, but I hope he is understanding she isn't going to hurt him. He tolerated her approach until she touched his tail with her nose, then he lashed out but even then it seemed half hearted.

He was on the landing this morning but raced back into his room. I can only hope someday he'll be racing around the whole house with Molly, fast friends and happy.

I'll post some pictures of Molly soon.

Meet Maxwell

Well, the Monday after Christmas Andrew and I stopped by Petsmart before going to see Sherlock Holmes. I did not expect to see a cat I would be interested in but there was a little fluffy cat named Maxwell laying in his litter pan. He looked kinda like Kitten, and is fluffier than Tweek, with both layers of coat instead of one.

He loved to be petted and went on his hind legs to meet our hands for pets on his head. He has a sweet little cry, kinda like "eow" and it's the most pitiful cry you've ever heard. One of the adoption folks had a little dog on a leash they use to see how cats react. Maxwell left us in the play room to trot down the hall to his cage, and waited for the adoption person to open the door then he jumped right in. We loved him and he's been home since the day before New Year's Eve. He was one of 19 cats rescued from a good intentioned hoarder, who lives near a junk yard and just got overwhelmed.

He's still in the guest room, but is often in the room to greet us now instead of hiding under the bed. He already plays hard to get, refusing to jump on the bed (even though tell tale tumbleweeds of fur indicate he's been on it when we aren't around.) So we have to come to him to pet him but he's so darn cute and lets us rub his belly.

He needs fattened up, and his ears cleaned out and he is slowly meeting Molly. He took a swipe at her through the door they other day and I hope he won't dominate her, but as long as tehy get along and play together I guess it doesn't matter.

I'll keep you posted. jules

Um, Journals

Journals

If we don’t count the paperback teddy bear journal I bought in the third grade where my entries were, borderline incoherent sentences written in bulbous cursive then abandoned after a couple entries, I started keeping a journal in 1993. I can’t remember why I did. Just that I had gotten a journal as a birthday gift…from whom I couldn’t tell you. One of those thin hardcover blank books with lines, and an oil painting of a girl holding a cat on the cover…the kinds of blank books that were popular before the stores took notice of the market and cranked out wider varieties of blank books with lots more expensive options.

This summer I dug all of my journals out of my trunk (another blog entry on it later) and stacked them up on the dining room table. A coworker had mentioned that her daughter had begun her first journal so I wanted to see what they looked like all together.

I needed a couple journals a year during my junior and senior years of high school (which sounds just about right) but since have averaged about one a year. My entries these days are further apart but longer.

My journals are not going to help any aliens in the future decipher what it was like to be living in this time period, in this area. It’s the most mundane of things. The journals are not for an audience of hypothetical great grand children, or for a university library after I’ve won the Nobel in literature. It’s not to help me think things through either…usually when I am stressed or working on a problem, I wait until it’s resolved before I commit it to paper.

As I look at the journals I can see how my tastes have changed over the years. I started out using only journals given as gifts…getting 3 or 4 more after the first gifted journal from various relatives like clockwork around the holidays. The gifts weren’t given with the knowledge that I’d actually use them, and I find that interesting that several friends and family thought of a journal as a gift for a teenaged girl.

After a while I’d buy them, and went through a spiral bound phase. But I always waited to buy one until I was near the end of the current one. This worked well enough until graduate school when I got to the end and couldn’t find anything I liked in the stores. I went to every book store in the city and had to settle. I’ve had a policy ever since to buy a journal I like on the spot, and now have enough squirreled away until…oh, 45. But it’s nice to finish one journal and browse my collection of them, weighing them in my hands, looking at the lines (although I do ones without lines too) deciding about the color. I like all of them, but I choose each one at the time based on my mood.

I wrote at my desk in high school, college, graduate school, and got away from that once I was in the real world. I started writing in bed before reading but lately have switched back to writing on my table in the guest room, where I do all my fiction writing.



Pens? Pencils? Some of my early ones were in pencil, some were done in with pens that had some significance to me, a gift, a souvenir from a trip, etc. I’ve done black, but mostly stick to shades of blue. Very often the color and feel of the journal from covers to paper will influence the choice of pen and color. I’m so obsessive that when my pilot precise v5 ran out, and I tried to make do with the uniball blue roller (that I’m using in one of my writing projects.) I had to break down after a couple of entries and buy some more pilots at the store. That’s how weird I am…in case the huge collection of blank books I’ve already bought wasn’t a tip off for you.

Pens and pencils will have to be another blog. Prepare to be riveted.

I don’t know why I do it, it may be the simple reason that when I’m not working on something, I can always write in my journal and the movement of pen against paper, the ordering of the daily life things and sometimes what I think about them, feels calming. Like tidying up the kitchen or crawling into clean sheets. Since all my old journals are in the trunk, I rarely back track through them—and didn’t even do that when I drug them out for this picture. Every now and then when I do, some entries make me grimace, not so much at the language of my recordings but the priorities of what I recorded and my thoughts on them. Some make me smile to myself or laugh out loud and others bring a flood of things I had forgotten.

As I write this blog, I picture something I’ve never imagined before, me an old woman, tottering around the house, or bed-ridden in a nursing home, surrounded not bylarge print word finds, or tabloid magazines, but three score of these journals, reading them slowly from the beginning to the end, a review of my life as I told it in the narrowest of lenses before moving onto my great perhaps.*

*Directly stolen from my Teen Read Week experience from John Green, the last words of Simon Rabelay and I'm sure I am not spelling Rabelay right but am too lazy to look it up.

Here and Back Again

Well, it’s back to blogging. I haven’t in a year not for lack of topics. I could have been blogging about our trip to Los Angeles in the spring or our vacation to Wisconsin this past summer. I could have blogged about the lavender I planted in the backyard, or the black lab puppies my Dad raised this summer. I could have blogged about how Governor Strickland’s off the cuff decision to gut public library funding kept me at some level of internal turmoil during the cool weeks of summer. I could have blogged about making chocolate chip cookies or the few photos I took this summer.

But I didn’t.

And I didn’t blog from lack of inspiration. I’ve been following www.madeinatreehouse.com and www.alainnotebook.com and more recently www.herlandnotebook.com

I didn’t blog because I didn’t feel like it. The idea of blogging and posting a picture was too much effort.

And now I blog not so much from inspiration, guilt or any internal drive. I’m blogging because eventually, if I am very, very lucky (or unlucky time will tell how I feel about publishing) I may have a book to promote.

I read on a blog in the publishing ring of the web, that writers often reflect the culture of their times and the JD Salinger couldn’t get away with being the “secluded writer types” in this decade like he could 40, 50 years ago…because at that time the secluded writer type was what was expected…take the drunken writers of the 20s and 30s as another example.

And these days the name of the game is promotion. Twitter, Facebook, blogging, blah blah blah.

Part of deciding to share my writing with the world, means making peace with the fact that art becomes product. Passion becomes business. Revisions, promotion, all of it.

So I figure I might as well get in the habit of blogging, and start reviving and building my following from friends and colleagues.

I will try to post once a week. I’ll be talking about all the things I didn’t talk about this summer, don’t expect the blog to be blah blah blah my book etc. Not for a while and never entirely.

So what should I rattle off today? I suppose the recent sad news. My heart is still cracked over it, and I try not to think about it much.

As you have read in an earlier post, orange cats are magic and I have a history of them. The latest chapter, I am sad to report, is that we had to put our precious little tweek to sleep October 2nd.

It was unexpected and I’m still shocked really. I’m used to being philosophical about a pet’s death, chalking it up to old age like Chubby, or prolonged illness like Kitten. This past spring Tweek had developed, a sniffle, or a snuffle. No snot or anything, just snorting, snoring sounds. Antibiotics didn’t work but prednisone did and Tweek happily ate his ground up pill in a treat of canned food. The sniffling/snuffling went away.

Around Labor Day it started up again. I called in for some prednisone but it did not go away. The substitute vet at our place, gave him a high powered shot of prednisone and extended the prescription. He suggested Tweeker may have feline asthma as Tweek was the perfect age and it was the perfect time of year to show these asthmatic symptoms. By the last week of September though, Tweek was showing no improvement and the snorting snuffling was growing worse. Another trip to the vet, another medication. Our vet, a good country vet, I’ve known since a child told us if it didn’t work we’d need to do an x ray.

Two days later Tweek wasn’t eating, only getting in three doses of the new medication. His manner began to change. He was lethargic. We could not let him in the bedroom as we could not sleep from his snorting breathing.

I took him in Friday morning, dropped him off and gave the vet my Dad’s number as I was on the way to work but before I could get halfway to work Dad called me. The news was bad. Andrew had just gotten off work and Dad called him. Andrew met me at the house to go back to the vet together to say good-bye.

Tweeker did not have asthma, but a tumor, in the cruelest of places. The x-ray showed a mass in his trachea, that had probably been growing since spring, repressed by the prednisone and quietly growing all summer. Because of it’s placement in Tweeker’s throat, it would be impossible to remove without cutting into his major arteries, and nerves. He could no longer eat. His breathing would only grow more and more labored through a passageway slowly being choked off.

Our vet is a good country vet, which does not mean the suggestion is always “put ‘em down.” He looked at us and said, “there is a lot that I can do, and a lot that I have done, but I can’t do this.”

The brought him in and I held him so Andrew and I could pet him and say good bye. He kept trying to scramble out of my arms, stressed and scared by being at the vet’s his snorting breathing, a cause for worry sounded like a death knell. His eyes wide and bright and all I wanted was to fix him. But sometimes fixing means letting go. It takes two shots, one that’s used like before an animal surgery, then the final one, the vet gives behind closed doors.

I stroked his long soft fur, trying so desperately to memorize the feel of it beneath my fingers. The transition from him breathing that horrible rasping to silence. One last look at his little face, frozen in an open stare, and back to the reception desk to make small talk, about library funding no less, until the vet came back with a cardboard box and said he was sorry. And I know that he was. What kind of job is that to have? Saving and ending lives…ending suffering either way. How many creatures does a veterinarian put to sleep in their career on average? And how lucky are we to have someone to do it?

Dad and Andrew made a box and now Tweek rests in the orchard with Kitten. How can we be in this house less than 4 years and have buried two cats? I know Tweek had a great life, and every day he had two people who loved him, cuddled him, and gave him anything he could need. But at four years old, the consolation rings hollow, as I suppose it does for anyone losing a loved one too early. But it’s always too early isn’t it?

Of all the pets I’ve had, Tweek had the most habits, quirks, and little things he did around the house. I see his little ghost all around the house, in every room. All the little things he’ll never do again. I wrote over twenty things in my journal.

Molly’s behavior has changed drastically. From the first night she’s slept with me, not as close as Tweeker did, but close all the same. She’s taken to stealing bran flakes off my cereal bowl when my back is turned…something Tweeker did. She greets me at the door now, and this afternoon, she laid on my lap and we took a nap in the recliner. She cries more and wants more attention.

An internet site said that sometimes one cat is repressed by the older one, or the cat that was in the house first. It makes sense but it’s still eerie.

We’ll probably get another cat, a little boy kitten most likely in the spring if Molly continues to act lonely. And odds are, we’ll get an orange one.

But my story isn’t over yet, because less than 24 hours after putting Tweek to sleep I found myself in a hotel near OSU campus for a children’s writing conference. I could not have wanted to be there any less. I won’t prop any illusion that I’m less needy or neurotic than the next writer…I’m not. But being surrounded by 103 people needy and desperate for that love for their work as writers are was too much, it really was.

I overheard things that made me groan inwardly. I got so bored at one session I began to write a short story in my main character’s voice about the things I overheard and saw.
I had paid extra to have my query letter critiqued by a reputable and well known agent and the first ten pages of the book critiqued by an author. I had taken the first 19 pages of the book to our Wisconsin vacation, desperate to cut enough to bring the second main character in under the ten pages. I did, I drafted the query using advice from Query Shark and a book a colleague gave me.

So I was marking time until I could get my material back.

At the query workshop, the agent passed out our letters. My heart did race a little as she handed mine back to me, but it was heavy even as it raced. I read it. I flipped it face down on the table and leaned back in my chair. I read it again.

The agent would like to see a couple of chapters. She said other positive things, and some constructive things.

At the end of the workshop I approached her. My voice was not my own. I can speak in front of people no problem, American Library Association, a public library staff day, meetings at the library. Whatever. It’s easy I can do it on the fly. But talking to this agent. About my book. Five years of work. Characters I love so much. I felt so ashamed of my meekness but there it was. This was something that really counted in my heart.

The agents said send it anytime. No expiration date. Do a major revision. Try to bring the word count out of the sky. Take it seriously and don’t send it too soon in a rush of excitement.

So okay then.

I had to stay through the very end, to get the 10 pages back. A couple of dozen people crowded around the conference organizer with the ten pages, little bombs of hope, I thought.

I got mine and moved through the mob of people rooted on the spot to read their critique. I managed to turn two corners and go towards the lobby before reading mine. My heart sank at first as the critique started out saying they were just one reader. “Well, one out of two isn’t too bad.” I said to myself. But then I kept reading. This author who has written several books and one a nice selection of awards had lots of good things to say. Things that made my heavy heart life high enough to survey possibility. Comments written in the margin of the pages made me smile. I might be able to get these kids’ story out afterall.

I saw other writers comparing notes on their critiques, many with low voices and subdued faces. I wondered to myself what kind of world I live in where I can lose Tweek and get such substantial positive feedback on my book in the same 24 hour period. Was that the trade-off in the universe? Would it had happened even if Tweek was well and trotting around our house?

So how is that for my first blog entry in months and months?
I need your help. I need the motivation to blog, and I need to build a following for future possibilities of promotion.

Will you become a follower instead of just checking in occasionally?

Will you forward my blog to one person you think might like it?

I would like to have twenty five followers by the end of October. I will post two more blogs between now and the first weekend of November.

Thanks, Jules

Nothing like Lactose Intolerance to Keep You Humble

Okay, so we all know that by and large, this blog is not geared towards my professional work, that's a personal choice more than anything else. That said, I am thrilled, thrilled to share with you dear readers my selection as a 2009 Library Journal Mover and Shaker. You can read about it and see my ultra suave picture here

http://www.libraryjournal.com/MS2009Inductee/2140336012.html

I have my cousin Cherie to thank for the fabulous hair. The photo shoot was in Denver and she took me to her fabulous hair guy Wayne and he made me look, well, great.

In an alternate universe, I'm sure my hair looks like this all the time. It's the same universe where I've published my book and can eat macaroni and cheese.

But in this universe, I'm still lactose intolerant, and there's nothing like not being able to eat 8o% of the items on a restaurant menu to keep you humble.

As evidenced here by my very attentive server last night:...

well blogger says there's an internal error so picture a restaurant receipt here:

Atlantic Salmon 11.99
NO BUTTER OR DAIRY PLEASE OR SHE WILL DIE


Here's to decades without mac and cheese

your 2009 Library Mover and Shaker
jules

The Yellow Cats in My Life

On Christmas Day, a yellow kitten, about 12 weeks old trotted up my parents lane towards their house as if on a mission. Their 11 year old tuxedo cat was not amused and began beating up on the poor thing immediately. We separated them. The yellow kitten with a white tip tail and an upside triangle of white on its chest cried and purred and let me pick it up immediately.

We already have two cats, Molly and Tweeker. They get a long great. I really didn't want another cat. But, you can't turn away a yellow cat on Christmas Day so I popped it in a rabbit cage with plastic tray, with a can of food, dry food and a litter tray. I put straw in the corner and schlepped the poor bastard to our garage. Andrew named the cat BOLO, an acronym for Be On the Look Out for...

Bolo was very sweet, I let it out to run around the garage while I cleaned out its cage and gave it fresh victuals. I think I wouldn't have had to press Andrew to keep it, but two cats are enough. I put a night light in the garage so BOLO wouldn't be in pitch blackness.

Yesterday morning I called 9 count 'em NINE humane societies. There was no room at the inn, anywhere. At 3:30 though, the good folks at Union County called saying they would take one kitten, but I would have to pay a surrender fee. Fine.

I had a late lunch at Mom and Dad's and in the fog, the rain and the cold, trundled Bolo into a carrier and took off for Marysville.

I have to admit, the little sucker was so cute I almost turned back. I kept one hand with fingers laced through the bars of the carrier. Bolo laid its chin on my fingers and purred to sleep. Occasionally opening soulful yellow eyes.

Bolo is really cute.

But I don't want a third cat.

I took Bolo into the Union County humane society. They don't euthanize unless animals are diseased or aggressive. They pronounced Bolo a girl, among the slight 3% of yellow/orange cats that are female. They were impressed by how lovey she was and assured me that she would adopt out quick and they would call me when she did.

I paid the surrender fee and donated a little something extra. If you live near Marysville, stop by and ask for Bolo, or the little yellow cat that came in the day after Christmas. I would love to see her go to a good home.

Yellow cats though, have been a large part of my life, and by telling you about them, you'll get a further peek into the life that is Jules.


IN the begining there was...

The first cat I ever encountered was my parents cat, Kitty. Kitty was a tiger striped and my Mom really loved her. There are pictures of me as a baby with her nearby. Kitty had to have a surgery and didn’t make it.

When I was three, four-ish a gray tom began to live with us. I named him Lucky (man who hasn’t had a pet named Lucky). Lucky used up a good third of his nine lives during his tenure with us, from tomcat fights and once, Dad accidentally ran over Lucky with a truck and he survived, so was he really lucky?

After Lucky disappeared, there was a succession of strays that passed through. I was obsessed with the name Jeff for a while and when I was in the third grade, fall of the third grade we got a barn cat, a gray kitten that I inevitable named Smoky.

Smoky had a cold. Dad took him to the vet. Smoky didn’t have a cold, he had feline leukemia and died at the vets.

Not so good with the cats so far.

Then there was Squeakers. My Uncle cat us this cat, he kept a tuxedo kitten for himself and I got the adorable orange and white Squeakers. Squeakers was a terror. His favorite game was the “hide behind something and wait until family member walks by. Jump out, latch yourself to their leg with you claws and hang on.”

I felt guilty for hating this cat. Everyone was wary of him. One summer day, Dad was taking the round up with the spray wand and the handheld tank around the farmyard killing weeds. Squeakers decided to play his favorite game and before Dad knew it, and airborne Squeakers sailed through the air and through a stream of round up. Dad did not intentionally spray Squeakers, my Dad isn’t like that. It was all just a horrible intersection of circumstance.

Dad hoped for the best. But the next morning I found the worst when I went to feed him, Oh Squeakers the bell tolled for thee.

Even though I didn’t really like the little bastard, it’s still traumatic to be like, 8 and find your pet kitten um, prone and not breathing.

So Dad took me to a buddy’s house, you know the inevitable country farm with 50 cats.

I saw two yellow cats and I couldn’t make up my mind. Dad reminded me I could only have one. I reminded him that just the other day I found my kitten laid flat on the barn floor with flies buzzing around him…it would be years before I found out about the round up bit. I got two cats.

The one I wanted the most, the fat orange one, I named Chubby. He was a darker yellow to orange, short hair, with green eyes. I can see him in my minds eye, looking pissy and adorable. I also picked out his lighter yellow, blue eyed litter mate, Jeff. Yes, I named yet another cat Jeff, don’t ask me why.

So the Perdue family left Cecil’s farm with Chubby and Jeff in tow.

We have lots of pictures of Chubby and Jeff sleeping and playing together. Since they were litter mates, I was like the third wheel. Chubby liked to be petted on the head and could tolerate being picked up but he wouldn’t let you rub his tummy. Jeff would not let you pick him up or pet his head but he would stretch out in front of my Dad’s wood stove and let you rub his tummy.

We got these kittens when they were a little too old I think, to be really groomed to be affectionate. They were in at cats, meaning they didn’t have a litter box in the house and weren’t declawed but Mom trained both of them to go to the door when they wanted out.

In March of my fourth grade year, when the cats were one year old, I came home from school to find Chubby by the back porch crying. I could hear crying underneath the porch…it was Jeff. We was in the corner but too far back for me to reach. Dad got home shortly after I did and took Jeff to the vet. He wouldn’t let me see Jeff, whose back legs had been crushed by a car.

Jeff was buried by a large tree near one of our barns.

For months afterward Chubby did not like to be alone. If he was in the house and he felt like he couldn’t find us, he would stand in the middle of our hallway and cry. He did not however, greatly increase in affection. This is not to say he didn’t like to be petted or have his chin rubbed or brushed. This is to say he wouldn’t let me dress him up in a cabbage patch doll bonnet and dandle him on my knee like a baby. God knows I tried.

Chubby began to spend more time in the house as time passed. When we were leaving the house for several hours, we would have to put him outside.

Like a sixth sense, Chubby could tell we would be getting ready and make a break for going behind the couch. I was the obvious choice to fish him out. Chubby would wait until I had just reached him before releasing a potent cat fart. I managed to get him out every time though and he never scratched me up in the process.

Now by now you are thinking this cat is a real piece of work, but let me assure you that while Andrew refers to Chubby, even posthumously as the “viscious viscious creature.” Chubby was in fact my Beloved Childhood Companion.

When I was done with my evening chores, or later when I came home from my high school job at night and Chubby was in the barnyard, he would race me to the house. In my later college years, there were nights when I could beat him.

When I was little we would play a game where I would hide in the pine trees on the northern side of our yard and Chubby would follow me.

Chubby would sleep with me when I was sick. He was never one you could wrap your arm around and cuddle, but he would sleep by my feet or curl up behind my knees.

I used to make him catnip socks from my old socks and he developed a taste for syrup and butter left on my plate after eating eggos or cream cheese from a bagel and he loved pepperoni from Grandma's pizza.

As he grew older he spent more time in the house. Laying against Dad's legs on the recliner---more for body heat than affection I'd think. Mom would patiently let him out at 3 in the morning for him to go to the bathroom and then let the old man back in.

Chubby liked to be brushed, but even that was a little game. You could brush him and brush him and he would purr and roll around but brush him one second to long and BAM, he's whip around and try to scratch you.

Even though Chubby was a medium sized cat, he would scrap with any cat that came on the property, he was very territorial. And he had a couple close calls. He was struck by a car but only his back leg was stressed, not even broken. Another time he got a bad bite on his paw in a cat fight and had to go to the vet. When he was abotu 14 he ate something bad and nearly died, the vet saved him though.

By the end of my college years Chubby began to look different, grizzled. His head started to look larger than his body even though he weighed the same. It took him longer to jump down from beds and chairs. He moved slower. By the end of graduate school he'd let me hold him for longer periods of time, mostly because he was too tired I think.

After Andrew and I left our wedding reception, we went back to Mom and Dad's house to change out of the wedding clothes. I left my dress on the guest bed, in my old bedroom. When Mom came home, Chubby was laying on my dress, sunning himself through the west facing window. Mom took a picture of it for me. Despite having claws, Chubby didn't hurt the dress at all and Mom let him sleep, waiting for him to get up before packing my dress away.

By the winter of 2005 Mom and Dad were telling me everytime we visited how Chubby was on his last leg. I think they worried how upset I would be. Sadly, pets rarely die peacefully in their sleep. I told them they would know when it was time and that was okay by me. I still have in a little box, a bit of Chubby's fur, taken from the brush we used at our own risk to brush him.

One day in March, Chubby walked into the kitchen while my Dad was eating breakfast. He sat down and lifted a front paw to lick it as cats often do, but he lost his balance and fell down. He looked up at my Dad, and did not attempt to get up so Dad took him to our good country vet.

Chubby was very close to or just at 18 years old. Not bad, not bad indeed.

And I suppose it is with Chubby in mind that I was determined, no matter what to find little Bolo a place at a humane society. I was calling as far away as Licking County. If we had to keep Bolo a week until there was a place, or even adopted Bolo ourselves, I think we would have. But I am pleased with Union County and sure she will get adopted, who knows, maybe by a little girl who wants a yellow cat.

There are a bazillion stray cats out there, many will live and die without any notice of humans. We can't save them all. But like everything else in life, we do what we can. If you are thinking about getting a pet, or maybe you have lost a pet recently and are hesitant to get another, I would say this to you:

You love them while they are here, and give them the best life you can and then you let them go when it is time...they count on you for all of that. And, when you are ready, you save another pet's life...for yourself, for them and for the honor of those you have loved before.

Bolo and many other worthy animals are waiting for you... PS, I will post a picture of Chubby on the wedding dress when I can.

Ten More Random Things, real time

1) I've not been sleeping well lately. I usually read till I get sleepy but I keep reading andnot getting sleepy. Then the cats wake me up on and off and I don't have the heart to kick them out. Last night I actually woke up and reminded myself to do something at work and I know that's not healthy...I'm worried.

2) I had a horrible migraine Saturday. First one in two months. Sucky

3) We didn't put up a Christmas tree because I knew sweet little Molly would destroy it. I tried putting a fiberoptic tree up but she chewed it and knocked it down. So now all we have is snow men figures on the tv and presents in the corner. UGH.

4) Typing longhand writing takes a really long time.

5) I'm tired of cleaning our house and I'm only 30.

6) I'm bringing Clementines to our staff pot luck.

7) Thinking about sharing on the blog, the things I am doing in my life to go green and the struggle between, want, need and green. There are five billion sites like that but the difference with this one is you know me. Comment if you would like to see an occasional blog post on that.

8) Worried that I am running out of stem on the book. Seems like every scene I start bores me to write. If it's boring to write then God help the reader.

9) Rediscovered how much I love working quietly in my little room, and how much I love solitude.

10) My purple hat with the tassles is warm and whimsical.

Ten Random Things and a Reader Contest

1) I am addicted to sugar, and just fine with that, thanks.

2) Cookie Monster, Oscar, and Grover are my favorite Sesame Street characters. When I was little, Mom would buy me these Sesame Street picture books at the grocery store, they were a series, and each one was like a print version of an episode, with counting pages, stories, and focus on a letter and number. I still have them.

3) I hate to vaccuum.

4) My first car was a 1982 Berlinetta Camaro with brown metallic paint...I was supposed to get a station wagon but Dad wanted it to drive to work...

5) I am the 1992 Champaign County Rabbit Queen...yes I have a tiara.

6) I am the 1997 Champaign County 4-H Girl of the year, yes I have a silver pitcher and yes I polish it once a year.

7) I am roughly 100,000 words into my first book for teens. It's almost done...theoretically.

8) I am afraid of toads and frogs. Yep.

9) If I was going to be a boy, my parent's were going to name me Andrew. My first high school boyfriend's name was Andy, and I am married to an Andrew.

10) Lately, my cat Tweeker has been sleeping with me, on my pillow every night. Boy can that little booger generate heat!

11) Bonus: The first person who can name what food group I can no longer eat in the comments section gets a *new* lip balm.

Lip Balmers Anonymous?

Okay so not this past Saturday but the Saturday before that, before Halloween, Andrew and I were at Whole Foods. I needed some of the fabulous rice cheese that has provided a ray of hope in my dairyless world.

As Andrew was perusing ales, I went to the bath and body section and lo and behold there was...

A new Burt Bees Lip Balm...I have regular and pomegranate and now there was...Honey.

Dum da dum!

I snatched it and bought it and put it in my purse.

When we got into the car I wanted to try my new lip balm but couldn't find it in any of my pockets as I had already forgot that I had put it in my purse.

So as I was driving to the gas station I asked Andrew to look for my lip balm in my purse because I wanted to try it RIGHT NOW. Only to realize too late my dreadful mistake.

"Is this it?"

"No, that's Kiss My Face Vanilla Honey."

"Is this it?"

"No, that's Naked Bee honey."

"Wait a minute...Julie how many lip balms do you have in here?"

"uh..."

"Four...Five!"

"I could collect coach purses instead honey."

"Seven! Julie you have 7 lip things in here."

"Their average cost is about 3 bucks...less than a pack of cigarettes."

"Average cost? Average cost? What's the most lip balm you have ever bought...oh God I don't want to know."

"The most expensive lip balm my sweet, is the one I bought at Traverse City, it is excpetional a 10.00--which is just the cost of three lip balms...on average."

After we left the gas station Andrew said.

"Hey...I know you have lip balms in the bathroom door...like five right."

I wisely don't say anything.

"And you have a bunch in that little longaberger basket on the kitchen counter."

Silence seems safest.

"And what about all your coat pockets. Jesus Julie, you've got like what 25 lip balms."

"I don't have that many."

But Andrew got me thinking and one day before we left for Chicago I did a sweep for all my lip balms. And here they are.

There are 24...but I couldn't find my old almond oil one from CO Bigelow...and I'm not sure the two Burt's bees lip shimmers should count, or the tinted CO Bigelow...but Tweek is showing off what I currently can find/use.

So if you average the cost of each lip balm at 3 bucks a pop you are looking at 75 dollars worth of lip balm.

I think it's appropriate that Sarah Palin is in the background on CNN. That chick spend more than 150K on clothes on the RNC's dime...so I like to think she lends some perspective to the shot.

What do you think? Do I have a lip balm problem or a harmless and quaint collection of girly items? I expect comments...and now you all know what to get me for Christmas...

A Charming Tale in Which Julie Sticks Her Foot in Her Mouth...with the Amish

Okay so yesterday morning Andrew and I were at the chiropractor's office, sharing the waiting room with a young Amish women and her adorable infant. The baby was dressed in baby boy blue, complete with knit cap, and wrapped in a black wool coat folded like a snug carrier. I said to the young lady how adorable her little baby boy was...only to be told thank you, and it's a girl.

Oh, I said, I'm sorry I took her for a boy just because she was all dressed in blue. The Amish lady just smiled at me and Andrew was giving me this weird look.

A second Amish woman came back into the waiting room, with another baby girl...dressed in blue...and it slowly dawned on me, the gray dressed the women wore, the blue baby outfits.

After the Amish family left I looked to Andrew and said. The Amish wouldn't dress their baby girls up in pink would they? Because pink is not a neutral color.

Well Duh.

Oh well, I can only hope the Amish mother took my compliment with the good intention behind it and not the handsmack ingnorance of her culture.

Sigh

Fall Continues

The picture posted here was taken in September. Do not be deceived. The picture is doctored in the sense that it was full sunlight and I was watering my Mom's roses. So it's not like I was in the right place at the right time after a rain shower. But, it's not a bad shot.

Speaking of great shots, I was driving home from my ahem, fitness class on Monday night and on the drive home I counted 10, count 'em 10 combines in a mile stretch of fields on 29 at the route 38 intersection. I had never seen that many combines at once. It was a little crazy. There was so much dust in the air that in a quarter mile stretch felt like driving through the fog.

You may have noticed more deer hit on the roads and ditches lately. That's because we are right in the middle of the white tail rut (translation: boys chasing girls). I saw a doe, a yearling and a fawn off of 270 the other day, and a doe in the corn just outside of Marysville today on my drive up to bowling green. I also saw two red tail hawks and some white heron like bird in a pond while taking 75 north.

I may post a picture of a red tail in flight, I have a couple that are just okay.

I'm not crazy...

Last night, after producing 4 pages, I decided to swith gears and actually take a look at a book I've had out forever, "The Forest for the Trees" by Betsy Lerner. After a brief perusal I decided I would want to pull some things out to record so I opened up my lilac rubbermaid tub full of blank books...I will talk about this another time. And I selected s smallish one, magnetic flap, light blue with a white vine/floral pattern.

I selected a pen to use and began to record a few things from the book. Andrew had just gotten back from the gym.

Molly, the cat who chews like a dog, was under the guest bed chewing on something. I found this so irritating that I got up and began to slap my hand against the mattress to distract her--nothing doing.

I yelled, I cajoled, but she continued to make the chewy tuggy noise from somewhere under the bed.

I've been a little short tempered lately so I kicked the boxspring without realizing that even though box springs are relatively light, they are framed with wood.

So I hurt my big toe. It hurt so bad. I flung my pen in anguish, yelled at Molly and collapsed on the bed...and Molly continued to make the chewy tuggy noises.

Andrew assured me that even though I had cracked the toenail and there was a little blood, it was not broken. I recovered, and when I got out of the shower, decided to look for my pen. I could not find it.

"So just use a different pen." Andrew suggested.

"But I don't have a second pen in that color."

"So just use a different pen."

"I can't, I already started writing with this one."

"You are crazy."

"I am not, I just need that pen."

I found it this morning...while Molly was chewing on something.

Tis Fall

The picture attached with this blog was taken from a treestand, about twenty feet up in an undisclosed location.

Generally I don't like height, I don't like being on the third floor of the library and looking down to circulation...but the treestand I don't mind a bit. I have this special vest that attaches to a safety belt on the tree so if I were to fall, I'd just dangle until Dad came to get me.

The evening I took this picture, there was a trail of corn cobs and husks leading to the tree and about a half dozen cobs on the foot platform of the stand...racoons.

I sat for two hours watching the colors of the field and trees change with the setting sun and clouds of birds fluctuating from ground to tree to sky.

I did not see any mammals to take any pictures of...unless you count a huge white cat. I heard some turkeys. Just as Dad was coming to unhook me, we heard two raccoons squabbling behind me in a tall tree. They had spent the day sleeping in a hole and were just getting ready to come down for more corn. By then it was too dark to take a picture.

I like fall. I like not having to water trees after four months of solicitude. I like the commute...seeing deer in the evenings at the edge of woods and in the corn fields. Watching clouds of dust around the combines and grain wagons in the morning and evening. The moon is always so cool in the fall, larger, richer, and better colored than any other time of the year.

I love turning the air conditioner off and not turning the heater on and I love wearing hoody sweatshirts on my way to work and casual days off. My current favorite is the Nightmare before Christmas hoodie I got at Disneyland when I went to ALA.

Last night, as I was driving home from class, I passed three combines in the fields. Seeing their lights in the dark was a comforting feeling. About a mile from my house I passed a corn field and at the base of a hill, between two sections of corn in a wide flattened aisle was a combine and grain wagon side by side. The lights of the combine illuminated the grain dust and it was just a really romantic scene--I'm serious. I wish I could have a picture of it...even if I had a camera it would have been too dark. Aw well.

The other great thing about fall is the Brach's candy pumpkins. Candy corn is for wimps. Each pumpkin equals five candy corns. They are even made with honey...and high fructose corn syrup. I eat them at work and Katheryn is very good at taking them away from me before I get sick...but they are so delicious...(homer simpson salivating sound...)

Contradictory items

Later this week I will post a new picture taken from a surprising spot and wax poetic about the fall season.

Im the past 24 hours I have seen:

A customer in line to purchase generic immodium i-d and two regular size reese's cups packages--so technically 4 regular size reese's cups I mean, isn't that a little weird.

And I saw a guy on 670 this morning driving an ice cream supply truck with a cigarrete in his mouth.

I thought they were contradictory but maybe I am just being weird.

One flash drive found and another freakin' lost

Um, last night I discovered that the photos my Mom took during my parent's vacation to CO are really hard to import into my photo program from the cd made at the photo place in Colorado and by really hard I mean it's probably simple and I couldn't figure out how to do it.

So I am emailing all of the cd pictures to myself so I can put them on a flash drive to put in my photo program.

But, my Mom had a bunch of photos on her memory card so two nights ago I painstakingly (har har) uploaded them, did some cropping and some tonal adjustments. And saving them on a flashdrive.

I *thought* I brought my flashdrive with these memory card pics to work to work on my dinner and when I put the flashdrive in guess what.

None of the Colorado pictures from the memory card were there...but my Michigan Vacation pictures were!

I do not know how to explain this...

It just goes to show, if you can't find your flash drive with your precious vacation pictures then just order a replacement cd from shutterfly, spend 15 bucks, what a week and then...

find the lost flash drive.

bang head
on key board



now...

Whatever, here's a vacation picture, mine, not my parents.

Best Picture of the Season

Okay so here is the joy of photography. I didn't realize how good a picture this was going to be until I brought it up on the laptop. The little bug to the right, I think really makes the picture...it gives it energy and perspective and makes the whole image alive.

What to talk about today...other than the fact that I keep getting horrible horrible headaches alternating with horrible stomach roiling illness, I'm just fine. I don't know if it's stress or my immune system has let any beg stroll into the ole Jules Saloon or if my body is just sensing the oncoming winter and flaking out on me...or quite possibly I could just be doing too much.

In keeping with the theme of doing too much but not inlcluding watering trees, I'll tell you how I spent Saturday, my last full day of vacation.

I went to the farmer's market in Urbana where I got eggs, maple syrup, bacon, soaps, trail mix and Cortland apples. Cortlands are my favorite. Sweet, juicy and just a little grainy, they seem to me like the most "just picked off the tree" kind of apple.

Then I got some gas for the mower. Then I spent 7 hours in the yard. Don't worry I wore lots of sunscreen.

What did I do?

I mowed the front yard, back yard and "back forty" which is the part of the yard that wasn't seeded with grass but retains its pasture grass from when our lot was, well a lot.

This always needs mowed twice as it grows with a vengeance. So I mow it with the deck up and then all the way down.

Then I ate lunch.

Then I hooked the mower to this little red wagon and hauled mulch, lots and lots of cypress mulch and garden soil to 8 of our pine trees...think of the little guy enjoying a shower in an earlier post.

I had done earlier in the week all the trees on the south side of the property--and now it is time to work on the north side. I also mulched two crabapple trees and a maple.

Mulching is like putting little scarves around your trees for the winter. For the trees that were planted in 2007, less work was involved...pulling up weeds that had taken advantage of the shade, water, and fertilizer stakes then adding mulch.

The 7 pine trees Andrew and I planted this spring though, require a little more love.

Because of being recently planted, the dirt in the hole is loose and the soil we added had settled, leaving the base of the tree not filled in with dirt even to the ground. In some cases there are cracks in the dirt that can lead right down to the base of the tree in the hole to its roots and this is very bad.

Because when water settles in and gets down there and it gets cold (like it tends to do in winter) the water freezes and wreaks havoc in the space where the tree is sleeping for the winter.

So I have to scrap all the mulch that I had placed over the summer and fill in with nice rich garden soil to fill in cracks, make up for the settling of dirt and just give the tree a nice layer. Then I put the mulch back and then add mulch to it. I haven't spent all this time watering these little darlings all summer just to loose them in winter.

I'm still not done. I ran out of top soil and still have 4 more trees to do plus three lilacs...if I don't decide to just rip them out and plant pine trees because the little jerks seem to not want to live very much.

Jules you ask, why are you killing yourself on the yard you still have the whole month of October.

Um, not really, because after I get the mulching done each tree still needs.

A fertilizer stake for food.

And I'd like to spread a boatload of grass seed in an attempt to have a nice lawn someday.

Plus, I have some professional things I need to get done in October including one trip and a large author visit and some other things and besides that.

IT COULD RAIN EVERY FREAKIN" DAY IN OCTOBER.

And while that would free me up for the myriad of indoor endeavors, like writing...it's not helpful to get these last crucial things done my friends.

Gotta make hay...
Or Mow Grass
Or Mulch Trees
Or something

Okay well, see ya, Jules

Almost Lost

I've been dragging my feet posting a new blog because I've been in a bit of a panic. I have misplaced, but at this point can say I have officially lost all of my vacation pictures that were on my flash drive. At least I thought I did. In a rare instance of rearranging my routine, I saved the pics onto a flash drive, uploaded them on shutterfly, without saving them on my laptop. Luckily, I can create a dvd disc from shutterfly and regain the pictures. So as soon as I get the dvd I'll post some more pictures.

I took a nice picture this weekend so maybe I will post that later.

Almost Lost is a good title for my little quirk of misplacing important things. I tend to take things I should really not lose and putting them in some weird place where it couldn't possibly be thrown out...and then promptlt forget where I put it. This happens abnd home and at work. Finally I bought a "safe box" to keep at work.

Almost Lost is a good title too, for this past week, a sorta vacation week.

I always like to take the third week of September off because it's our anniversary week and we may or may not take a trip so I just take it off just in case. Andrew doesn't have any vacation time built up and between teh July michigan vacation and our upcoming trip to Chicago in November, staying home seemed like a good idea.

But I didn't stay home. I went to 8 hours with or work obligations. They were worth it and I really needed to be there...but that's 8 hours that I could have been doing something else. As it was this is what I did on my sorta vacation:

Kitchen: Cleaned, really really cleaned.
DVDs watched:2
Trees re-mulched for fall: 20
Lawns mowed: 2
Big breakfasts made: 2
Writing: 0
Pictures taken: About 20, 3 are good.
Long Baths: 2
Nice suppers made:1
Loads of Laundry:12
Fitness Classes taken:3

Fitness? Fitness? What's that all about. Eh, I'll tell you eventually.

More later J

Love Joe

Movies on TV

Okay so last night I was waiting for Andrew to get done working out in the basement so we could retire for the evening. I was in the family room flipping channels and taking notes out of a non-fiction book when I found lo and behold, Star Wars A New Hope on the spike channel.

It had just started, you know where the droids are running around the ship before Darth Vader comes on.

Now here is the thing, I have like 4 versions, the original on tape, the original on DVD, the remastered versions...but it was on tv. And, like a favorite song on the radio I was delighted by the wonderful randomness of cable television.

So I watched. Andrew came upstairs and got some dinner and sat beside me.

"Do you want to watch something else?"

"No, why?"

"Well, it's not like we haven't seen this five thousand times and could watch it whenever we wanted."

"Yeah, but it's on tv."

"What is it about favorite movies on tv that compells you to watch? Which movies are like that for you?"

"I'd say every movie I own."

"Andrew, you own like dozens of movies, you'd watch every one if it popped up on tv?"

"Yep?"

We watched Star Wars until Han Solo shot Guido in the cantina and Andrew complained about the remastered version where it shows Guido missing Han. I suggested naming a hypothetical child "Han Solo Scordato" and Andrew made a number of ways kids could tease a kid named Han Solo.

So, what movie would you watch when your flipping channels, even if you own it and/or have seen it 5,000 times.

I expect comments.

swish crack!

Watering...the Cows? A Quaint Country Yarn

Meet this year's feeder calves, or two of the 9 that are next door. My Dad used to raise beef cows that would calf every year but now he buys calves (around 500 pounds) lets them graze all summer and then takes them in late fall. You can't get much more local than that. Mom and Dad give us a half a beef, so we're pretty lucky. This year, one of the calves (the white-faced one) looked at me longingly one night as I watered...eyeing the water wand with such yearning.

I called my Dad.

"You giving these cows any water?"

"What to you mean?"

By this time I had slung the wand over the fence and turned the water flow down a bit just to see what would happen.

"They're looking at my hose like they haven't water in days."

"Their tank is full in the barn."

White faced had taken the mouth of the wand in like a straw and was gulping it down but it looked like as much water was sloshing out from the sides of his mouth as was going down his throat.

"Then why is one of them sucking water out of my wand?"

Others came to investigate and then began to lick at the water fall. Kids around a fire hydrant came to mind.

"He is not."

I positioned the cell phone in a way that would pick up the slurping.

"Huh, I guess he is. They're just goofing around."

And from that night in early June, whenever the cows are in the pasture near my trees, and they see me watering, they come up, white faced in the lead. If it's late and I'm pressed for time, I don't bother but more often than not I do. They jostle to get teh wand, and others are content to just snag the excess. On hot nights I spray the tops of their backs to cool them off but, they're indifferent to the shower.

One night, as the sun was setting, three of the black faced steers were huddled around the wand, each head looking forming a three leaf clover around the stem of the water wand. I didn't have my camera...it would have made a really good picture. I've tried to replicate the situation a couple of times but no luck. This image isn't bad though.

But Jules! You say, how can you eat these charismatic fellows! Some of you might be asking, but Jules how can you eat meat at all!

Don't be offended, or I hope not to offend. But yes, I do love beef. Especially grass feed beef in my own backyard...so maybe that will be my next post or not. Maybe the comments will tip me off. Jules

Legos are Cool Scroll Down for new Blog Posts

What is it with you and watering trees?

Well, some of you folks might have noticed that I mention, in my summer blogs, and in conversation, the compelling urgency to water trees. What is it with this obsession?

Well, you plant trees in the fall or Spring (the adage about planting them in months with the letter "r" in them is a pretty good rule.) Whether you plant in the fall or the spring, you can't (well, you can I suppose if you are okay with ripping out some of the trees you plant and putting new ones in because they didn't survive).

If you can get a tree through the first year of their life in your ground, their first summer, they have a good shot at living longer than you and growing as high as their species tends to do.

For our property, trees are very important, and not just for the aesthetic. Our houses faces West and is on a hill on our road and the Northern Winds can really whip across our place. Pine trees, planted in two rows, or three if we get really ambitious, can grow to make natural wind breaks. They are green year around, providing havens for birds and like some of my parents pines, grow past 40 feet.

The first fall we planted 7 pine trees from pots...potted pines generally do better than bagged ones as they keep more moisture. The trees, were 2 1/2 feet tall. A couple were close to three. We planted them and mulched them and gave a them a little fertilizer. The summer of 2007 we watered them almost every night--crucial when July and August of last year had very high temps and high humidity.

Neighborhood folks passed by and waved at me as I tended my charges. One on hand, it's a pain in the butt to get home at 6:30, change into grungy clothes, empty the cat boxes, fix a quick dinner and spend the next hour and a half watering trees, but on the other hand, it's a nice way to unwind, listening to the birds, watching the cows grave in the pasture and the sunsets.

But no, it doesn't take an hour and a half to water 7 pine trees. We also had a maple, a sycamore, four crabapples and some orchard trees.

The hard woods we water a little differently. Some folks in the neighborhood asked me what our watering system was.

Our watering system, for hardwoods, is basically, washing out and drilling holes in the bottom of empty cat litter buckets (why buy 'em?) and filling up the buckets with water. The small holes drilled at the bottom allow for slow draining of water so more soaks into the roots instead of getting lost on the surface to evaporate.

But the attention pays off. Passers by who wouldn't know better would think our house has been established longer than it has because of the number and size of the trees. The potted pines, now in their second summer have grown a freakish amount, a few are even over my 5'1'' head. The maple, that I could reach the top of it's leaves with the water wand last summer, is well beyond its reach.

This summer has been kinder, more rain and less humidity. The trees struggling through last summer are doing well, and get only one water a week if there has been no rain as I expect their roots to go further down rather than depending on regular watering like houseplants.

But watering still takes an hour and a half. We planted another seven pine trees in a staggered row in front of the crop last year to really fill in for the wind break. We planted another 8 trees last fall on the south side of the property and a small grove of three lilac trees, all of which wilt when they get too much rain and too little, plus more orchard trees, and Andrew's fledgling vineyard plants.

Last night was a real blessing, breezy, cool and fall like with a darkening sky to the south not quite able to reach the sun, setting earlier by the day.

It was enjoyable to water in comfort, no bugs, no sweat, and I gave every tree a good long drink. Hence the picture above.

It's satisfying to give these trees a good boost. Why bother to use the considerable energy to plant a tree if you aren't going to help it survive. I like the idea of planting trees that, some at least, can easily out live me. The trees on my parent's property really make it cool, restful, and natural. I hope someday, trees will be one of the dominate features of our land.

Picture of the Week

Okay so in the past, I've created a whole album of photos, sent a link to the photos over email, and then added "check out the blog at:" etc etc

Well, I'm taking a lot of photos and I'm really busy and I am going to try something new as I learn and play at CML.

So, I am going to try try try to update my blog once a week, and post a picture, a new picture from the ever growing number of pictures I am taking.

Hope you like the new system, Jules

photo: the shores of Peterson Park, in Leelanau County Michigan, our summer vacation.

Tweeker and Molly

This is a fairly recent picture of our cat babies (Andrew would call them Cats) Tweeker (orange) and Molly (tortie)

They are great fun and company. Molly is definitely the more classic cat-like, slinky, aloof sometimes and cuddly at others. She runs the schemes, chases, and exploring adventures. When ever they are caught doing something naughty, Molly looks at you with a cool, narrowed face. She's not going to talk. Tweeker, wide-eyed, plays the sweet but dopey sidekick to a tee.

Tweeker will allow you to shove him into the carrier for the vet, and take medicine before he has even known what happens. Molly has to be tricked, cornered, wrapped in a towel and boy can she glare.

Tweek cries sometimes but mostly opens his mouth and makes an almost muted (me--uh) sound. Molly has a one note, lingering cry that wavers in a high pitch.

Both cats love to cuddle, but only Tweeker can be picked up. Molly always must come to us. She will cuddle with me in bed as I read, propped up in the crook of my arm, a paw outstreteched to touch my chin, her face flat against my arm. As soon I shut off the light, she is gone, scampering away to chase Tweek or jump on the kitchen cabinets.

Tweeker is the one who I always find curled up on my pillow in the middle of the note, ultra soft and warm.

Good companions, these cats, they really make our house a home.

But Hey...Aren't You Big on Gaming at the Library???

Well, yes, I've written an article and spoken on the topic, and I'm on ALA's national expert panel. But here's the thing. I'm a big advocate for gaming because I appreciate the everyday results of the program in our library and I see the potential gaming can have...but no, I'm not a gamer. I remember we had an atari and I played Frogger and I would play Combat (the tank game with my Dad) and I was really good on the invisibility setting, I would get like right up next to my Dad's tank and blow him clear across to the other side of the screen but...I digress.

I never played super mario brothers, or even asked for one. I think, even at the tender age of 5th grade, that I knew if I got one I would:

a) play it all the time.

b) get frustrated and play it for a while and not play it

I lean towards option b. I am not known for my patience. I think video games do reward persistence and patience and problem solving but back then, I was interested in not getting frustrated. Maybe I'd be more patient today if I played more video games.

Even now, I bought the latest Simpsons game for PS2 because you know, I love the Simpsons, and I played it for like 45 minutes, got challenged, frustrated and then I haven't played it since.

I played Kingdom of Loathing on line for about a year. I got to the very last challenge, and even when I found the cheat it sounded too hard so I quit.

Yes, there is a pattern here, at least with videogames.

So no, beyond the odd game of bejeweled, I am not a big gamer. But like I said, I don't have to be to appreciate the variety of skills, opportunties and experiences gaming can offer.

So, I hope that reduces some of the contradiction...or maybe I'm just a little contrary.

Learn and Play at CML Or, my Ambivalence for "Hey, you really got to try..."

Dear Friends and Family, yes it's time for Julie's random blog post. But, coincidentally, I am blogging now as part of a learn and play initiative for the Columbus Metropolitan Library System where I work and the good folks there want us to all learn and play with new technology. So, I already had the blog so posting was just like half the task for this week.

But, I think this is an ideal time to air out my ambivalence, hesitance and, okay let's face it downright indifference at times to all these new things to do on the web. I hope my honesty will be at best refreshing, and at worst (I'm trying to avoid at worst) revealing me as a sham of a young librarian who should be as gee whiz gadgety as they get.

Okay, let me back up. It's a bit of a running joke between me and my friend Beth Gallaway about my so-so attitude about every new little whatchamacallit that comes down the pike. Beth will send me some link to some thing, link ning or twitter or you name it and invite me to join. Sometimes I do, I create an account and then I never go back to it again, or I just never create an account. Beth's aware of this, so I don't feel so bad admitting it to God and everyone else on the web.

It's the same ambivalence I feel when I go to a conference and the inevitable technology session listing the things I should be doing right now and something inside me just kind of sighs.

I'll use this blog as an example.

Just as I was posting a picture, recently taken at the beloved Champaign County Fair, I scrolled down the rest of the screen to find that I have failed to fill out most of the profile thingys like favorites/interests etc. I looked at the boxes and something inside of me sighed (hey, I'm a writer I do a lot of internal sighing). I mean, I have already filled this stuff out on facebook and myspace and here it is on blogger.

And maybe that's what my internal sighing is really all about. There's just so much. MySpace? Facebook? Or some other new great thing everyone is on. Shutterfly? Flickr? Photobucket? Photobuquette? (that last one is a joke).

I have like, four email addresses, not counting the gmail I use to get into this blog, which, I never look at. One for ebay, one for work, personal and work-personal.

Geesh.

And see here is the thing, when I go home, I don't go on the computer. It's not that I have like some deeply held principle to not be on it...technically I am when I am writing (technically it's not writing so much as inputting my longhand writing) and working on my photographs.

But when I come home, I just want to do other stuff that I enjoy. Ideally I suppose, to fit the mold of the young librarian gizmo wonder gal, I would enjoy doing all these techno things at home. But I'd rather not. I'd rather:

Be outside, working on our yard (read mowing, watering trees, general upkeep)
Be outside at my parents house, eating dinner on their deck or playing with the dog or hanging out by the pond or
Be outside at the really cool place my Dad works, climbing up in treestands taking pictures of nature and wildlife.

I'd also rather be:
writing,
reading,
refinishing furniture (although I don't do this one so much anymore)
working on stamp art (newer hobby)
working on fabric painting (so new I haven't started it yet)
watching stargate atlantis with andrew
putting something in the bread machine
making cookies


or

going to a wood turning class

or

running the 5,000 errands one needs to do when working full time, like

taking the recycling in becasue your rural county, God love it, doesn't have curbside pick up

paying bills (yes, I know I can pay them online...)

getting groceries

getting tires rotated (try doing that online)

picking up presecriptions, drycleaning, taking cats to the vet
dropping off goodwill stuff

etc
etc
etc

Look, I'm not trying to argue that my life is some full vessel of excitement and glamor, or that the activities that I enjoy doing are superior to posting on a blog every 6 hours or twittering or playing an online game--not at all!!!

What I am saying is everyone has a limited amount of time in the day. We all have to make choices. I generally choose to minimize my tech use compared to some folks I know to do other things.

But then I feel a little guilty, not keeping up with all the gee whiz stuff.

And the really sick thing is, I've really enjoyed typing up this post so why don't I do it more often?

Anyone want to comment, I'll put this post on the psychologist's couch.

Next Blog: But what about gaming? Aren't you like, really big into that.