The Horse Boy and a boy named Horse.

Yesterday was my long day of the week, starting with a cup of coffee and a couple of chapters of The Horse Boy (now a film) by Ruphert Isaacson at six o'clock. I was pretty excited to find this book, as coincidentally my new young adult novel, In the Shelter of the Sky (currently unsold and just finished for submission in early November) features a little boy with autism named, Horse, who speaks for the first time when my male protagonist, Catch, brings a riding horse to the Night People, who worship Great Horse as the creator of the world and believe riding is an abomination. Catch and Spring (my female protagonist) travel to a mountian shaman to seek healing for her injured leg and his black thoughts--what we would today call post traumatic stress disorder. My story is set 6000 years ago in central Asia and is fiction. The Horse Boy is a true, contemporary account of a father and mother who bring their autisitic son to shamans and horses in Mongolia to seek healing for him.

My story thread came from lunch last March with my ancient horse guru, Sandra Olsen, of the Carnegie Musem of Natural History, when I was invited to do a presentation and book signing for the opening of The Horse exhibit. Sandi told me a story of a little boy with autism who spoke for the first time when he was intrudced to a policewoman's horse in his school parking lot. Funny that with all my delving into the ancient history of humans and horses, that artifact of modern life should be among of the treasures that I was able to bring to my story. I should add that Sandi is not ancient--only the horses that she studies!

Ever since the first version of Wind Rider appeared as a short story called A Gift from the Spirit in Horsepower Magazine, there has seemed to be some sort of channeling going on. I wrote about people who only had domesticated dogs and horses long before I discovered the Botai culture of ancient Kazakhstan. Then while researching Shelter, I reconnected with Steve Bodio, author of Eagle Dreams and A Rage for Falcons, who was my mentor at the Wildbranch Writers Conference about fifteen years ago. Darned if he's not researching the domestication of the dog in Kazakhstan while I'm researching the domestication of horses! (I think I'm being led to Asia and to writing about hunting with horses, eagles, and dogs next!) And now the mystical connection between autists and animals . . .

So anyway, to make a long blog (and day) short, I taught two three hour classes with my foundation drawing students (who mostly seemed still exhausted and thoroughly blocked about the concept of actually working despite their Thanksgiving break) with grocery shopping in between. Then off to the Wellsville Creative Arts Center for my tile making class with Ashley Gray. I have now carved one-and-one-half tiles in clay, so my new bathroom should be done in about ten years. Home in wind and rain at nine.

Big Turkey Tracks

Fred (Wiz) and I got back from Thanksgiving in New England yesterday afternoon. The Allegany plateau was the predicted ten degrees colder than the rest of the world and yes, indeed, we did awaken to a dusting of snow this morning. Charlie the rooster and Buttercup, the hen are safely in their new coop inside the garden where they can roam during the daytime. I'll call my friend Bob (www.thunderbirdatlatls.com) tonight and see if he's willing to sell me a couple more hens. I really love hearing Charlie crow through the dim world of my early morning sleep hours. I don't find it annoying, just sort of a peacefull country sound. Also it reminds me of Sally Birmingham, our dear neighbor who passed away a few years ago. She loved to hear a rooster crow.

We had a lovely, mini-Thanksgiving with our daughter, Spring, at our hundred year old, barnswallow's nest of a camp in southern new Hampshire. The overcast weather held the temperature at a pretty comfortable 46-48 degrees. It's a hard building to heat, but we were pretty snug. We feasted on an eleven pound, organically grown, heirloom variety, Burbon Red turkey purchased in Northampton, MA, but sadly grown in California and shipped cross country, which gave that little bird a much bigger footprint than it already had. Ah well. All the veggies were from our garden, butternut squash, leeks, brussells sprouts, and potatos. Yum. It was fun cooking together, and very tempting to pull up chairs for the three dogs to join us at the table.

As we washed up our three plates in the kitchen, I thought, uh oh, now it's the Christmas season!

To Blog or Not to Blog . . .

Blogspot, Facebook, MySpace, Plaxo . . . What's a person who grew up in the last of the typewriter era to do? I'm not sure if I'm really a blogger. . . and my followers are probably convinced that I certainly ain't. What I'd like to do, since I don't really journal any more, is use it as a sort of open journal. Think in words a bit and if anyone wants to snoop in case I say something amazing, or amazingly stupid, well okay, have at. That way, whether I'm actually writing great fiction or not, at least, I'm keeping the writing muscle excercised.

Writing for me is easier once I've got a story roughed out. I could whittle, paste, and polish almost indefinately. It's the early days that are the hardest when every line seems barely worth putting down, the story is worthless, and my personal troll is huge on my shoulder yelling all this unhelpful derision in a cracked voice, spittle flying all over the keyboard, breath scented with rotten mackerel, into my ear. It's fairly painful.

July sorta got away on me. August as well. I got offered a job teaching a drawing class at Alfred State College and spent much of that month studying up and freaking out. Then the class actually started and I've been trying to stay one jump ahead of my students, feeling like a twenty-one year old newbie teacher when I'm actually three and a half decades older than that. Well isn't it nice to feel young and foolish again!

The truth is that I have met and gotten to know forty-eight eighteeen-year-olds who delight, disarm, and amaze me every time we meet. They walk all over me and then come through with gestures of integrity, thought, and lord have mercy--drawings! I think some of them may have actually learned a bit about how to apply pencil or charcoal to paper. I hope I've helped some get over fears that they are not the next DaVinci, and I hope my DaVincis--and there are several of them--have found it worthwhile. There have been a few days of frustration, but many more days of exhileration, challenge, and fun. Next semester, it's figure drawing, and yes, some of them will be naked (the figures, not the students) and maybe some will be male, and maybe some will be less than perfect physical specimens of the human race.

Meanwhile, somehow in the past year, I actually (let's see, what are some good synonyms for "wrote"? Coughed out? Spewed? Vomited? Bled? Birthed? Ripped out of my Viscera?) . . . Well, where once there was nothing, blank paper, empty disc space, for three long years since Wind Rider, there is now In the Shelter of the Sky, a second generation companion novel. Maybe it is not the season's next best seller. It's not even sold. Not even read by anyone but me yet. The market has gone upside down. But it's part of me, and it's here. And actually--I love it.

On the homefront, the sweet little puppy of six months ago, Georgie, killed or drove off to the foxes her first chicken the other day and mauled Charlie, the rooster. He seems to be recovering and hopefully the chicken master is wiser. Now we know that Georgie may not look all that much like a Jack Russell, but she definately has the soul of one. And we need a new hen.

Hammers and Nails and Puppy Dog's Tails

This is our new puppy, a little girl Jack Russell, born April 16th. We've had her since June 5th. She is now almost ten weeks old and has Fred and me wound about her little tail. Did I say tail? Yes! She has a beautiful little tail! We took a chance and committed to her when she was only a day old so that we could save her tail. We sure lucked out. Georgie is smart, healthy, and crazily speckled to boot. She may not be showring material, but she's won our hearts. Already she knows come, sit, and speak, and is learning stay. I've been putting a soft pillow at the bottom of the stairs incase she loses her brakes going down. She hops to the second stair and takes a flying leap onto the pillow! She and Cole Porter, our six month old cat wrestle wildly. It gets a bit rough, but they both keep coming back for more. Spike, the ten-year-old Aussie tolerates the puppy amazingly. She hangs by her teeth from his ruff and helps herself to his chow. He just looks worried, with an occaisonal bark of reproof when she oversteps the limit of his endurance.

I want to start a revolution in this country and The American Kennel Club. The old nursery rhyme isn't so funny. Why would anyone want to cut off a puppy's tail? The American Veterinary Association has just come out against tail and ear docking. It's illegal in Europe and Australia. Dog need their tails for communication and balance (and snipping off ears is just plain dangerous and barbaric). The tail is the happy spirit of a dog. So let's see those stupid breed standards vanish!

Wednesday, May 5th, 2009

(Here's a photo of me riding in Alaska last June! I'll try to get a good shot of Katy-Morgan some time. I can't remember this horse's name but he was a nice character. The ground we rode over was very spongey, but he handled it just fine.)

This time of year just blows me away. Yesterday morning, walking back from digging leeks with my husband to send to his parents in Florida, I saw my first Nashville warbler! I missed the roufous crown spot, so will have to try for another look. It was up by the Lyons Road, a wonderful, steep little seasonal connector between Irish Hill and Shamrock Roads. The girls used to call it the Lions and Tigers Road, and loved to run screaming down the hill after walking up to it. I also saw a Blackburnian in the treetops out behind the old chicken house. I was grateful to find our hunter neighbors had taken down their deerstand that was over the border on one of our trees and from which one could see our house and conceivably fire into our back yard. This morning I scouted down an elusive woodthrush to add to my 2009 list. It was impossible to mimic the ethereal, twining double notes.

The Junior Girl Scouts came up to ride Star and Shady yesterday afternoon. It's pretty hard to talk seven fourth grade girls into surpressing their urge to shriek and leap about wildly! "Horses are prey animals, they spook easily . . ." Ah well. They weren't too bad and I think they all had fun. Star was a good old girl and Shady was great considering she hasn't been ridden in over a year. We didn't take Katy out as she's a bit of a fireball. Here's her rhyme:

Katy’s Made for Galloping

Katy’s made for galloping and Katy loves to run
Katy thinks that walking really isn’t very fun

Her walk is locomotive and her trot’s a little bumpy
She’s got not use for cantering, it only makes her jumpy

Oh, she’ll slow down if you sit right back and really tell her whoa
But Katy’s got two settings; one is stop, and one is go

Katy’s built for bushwhacking, as broad as she is tall
You wouldn’t think that Morgan mare had any speed at all

But out across the meadow track, underneath the sky
I gather up the reins and then I let my Katy fly

You may call my horse a fireball, even call her crazy
But one thing that you couldn’t call my little mare is lazy

May Day Evening

The sixteen or so hours that I am awake each day seem so short.

Yesterday was: write (reviewing early chapts. of WIP), go to dump and Dr.'s checkup (while listening to Twilight Book Two on tape--very funny, imagine going to a birthday party at a vampire's house getting a paper cut, then slashing your arm open on broken glass, I mean what a situation!) yoga class, Colbert Report, bed.

Today: write (adding patches to early parts of WIP--it's like piecing a crazy quilt), prep for presentation to eleven 1st graders at ICS School, do presentation (fun group-a set of triplets in the class!), sit in on author Joanne Hurwitz's presentation to 4th and 5th graders at Wellsville middle school (boy soes she know how to manage a crowd!), dig up and transplant some of the creeping phlox that doesn't do so well where it is, cook chili and cornbread, eat with Fern and Fred, catch up on computer stuff (like blog).

Oh! Check our my friend, Linda Underhill's new book: The Way of the Woods

I was fortunate enough to hear readings from it in progress at the Pond House Writers Group in Alfred. It's what all my woodsey relations (and there are lots of them!) are getting for Christmas!

Synopsis
In The Way of the Woods, Linda Underhill explores some of our nation’s most important forests, from the magnificent old-growth groves of Cook Forest in Western Pennsylvania to the endangered hemlock forests of the Great Smoky Mountains in eastern Tennessee, from the giant sequoias of the Sierra Mountains in California to the rainforest of the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State. Along the way, she also walks in ordinary woodlands, state parks, private nature preserves, and the woods surrounding her family cabin in western New York. Part memoir, part travelogue, and part meditation, The Way of the Woods examines the ways in which forests and woodlands contribute to the life and health of the planet. Each of the forests Underhill visits has a story to tell, and each of the lyrical narratives she relates about her journeys reveals an insight about forest conservation, including the importance of preserving old growth and wildlife habitat, the significance of urban forests, the role of fire in the regeneration of forests, and the ways that forests and woodlands inspire us with a sense of the sacred. Together, these stories provide the reader with many reasons to be concerned about the fate of our forests. Anyone intrigued by the beauty and mystery of the American landscape will find something to enjoy in The Way of the Woods.
Biography
Linda Underhill is the author of The Unequal Hours: Moments of Being in the Natural World. Her essays have appeared in such journals as Fourth Genre, Under the Sun, ISLE, and the Pennsylvania Review. She is former Chairperson of the Humanities at the University of Pittsburgh at Bradford and is currently a Visiting Professor of English at Gettysburg College. She lives in Wellsville, New York.

Chloe is a Russell

This is Chloe! She's seven years old and belongs to our daughter, Spring. When Spri was in high school she had a little trouble with the NY State Regents Exam in Math. After two shall we say "not passes" we asked her what it would take, and she said, "A Jack Russell puppy!" Which worked perfectly. Spring just graduated from college and moved into her own apartment, so Chloe just moved out. We couldn't stand the nest being quite that empty, so we are getting a new puppy, a little Russell girl named "George" after our old beagle. Georgie was born last Thursday night. We had to pick her out then because we wanted the whole dog this time and tails get docked by day three. I wish the breed standards would get over amputating doggie parts. It just ain't right or necessary. Fern made up a poem about Spike's missing tail one time:

"Over hill and over dale
Spike's been looking for his tail
It's been missing from his bum
Since the day that he was born . . .

There's more to it than that, but I can't recall it right now.
Here's Chloe's Rhyme:

Chloe is a Russell

Chloe is a Russell and a Russell is a pup
Who has to see what’s happening and needs to know what’s up!

She bosses all the other dogs, attitude is all
And no one dares to tell her that she’s really very small!

She’s as savage as a lion; she’s as growly as a bear
All the toys belong to her; she doesn’t like to share!

She really likes her Squeaky fish, she really likes her ball
You must throw them down the stair well; you must fling them down the hall!

She drops Squeaky in the in the tub because she knows that he should swim
Then she’ll stare at him and tremble till you finally rescue him!

She’s busy in the orchard, and she’s busy in the yard
And she’s busy in the woodlot; little dogs work very hard!

She rushes after rabbits and she scurries after squirrels
And she chases all the chipmunks; she’s a very busy girl!

She terrorizes chickens and she exercises deer
And she just despises garter snakes, a Russell knows no fear!

She can’t be caught for cuddling, she’s got no time for mush
There’s a woodchuck in the pasture and a Russell’s in a rush!

And when the day is over, and she’s finished with her fun
And her Russell heart is happy, and her doggie work is done

A tired little Chloe hops up on the bed
And crawls beneath the covers, and let’s me stroke her head.