Tumbleweed

As the rest of the nation freezes under snow and ice, Arizona has cold winds and these things blowing all around.

Writing (and reading) for Family

Earlier this year I decided I wanted to write something for my grandmother on her 100th birthday in September. I thought whatever I wrote could be private, for her to read and remember, but as the party planning got more elaborate, I was placed on the schedule of events. I'd be reading "Reflections." When I learned that there would be an audience I tweaked what I'd written and then I filed it away. That was in July.

I need about two months between finishing a piece and looking at it again for revision. By then I'm less attached to what I wrote the first time. It just so happened that in August and September, I was so busy with work and family that all I had time to do was read it a second time. I didn't make any revisions. I told myself that the piece was fine. I promised myself I'd look at it again when we got to Atlanta for the party. I pictured myself on the hotel bed with my laptop, making changes, reading it aloud. Of course, that never happened.

I was anxious, then, because I had not revised my "reflections." There would be 300 people in attendance, and a lot of them would be church folks that I didn't want to offend or bore. Let's be real, a churchgoing audience is used to a different type of rhetoric than you find in a quiet essay. I guess I was also nervous that my father, brothers, nephew, sister-in-law, cousins, uncles, aunties would be there to listen. I'd never shared with them a personal essay that I'd written.

I also kept replaying a scene from the movie, "Death at a Funeral" starring Chris Rock. In it, Rock plays a writer who's been working on a novel for forever. He's a serious brooding type with little sense of humor. At his father's funeral, Rock reads a eulogy which is filled with the kind of flat and boring historical facts that just won't fly with black folks at a funeral. I'd filled my essay for my grandmother with flat historical facts. I mean, how else do you talk about living for an entire century?

And then, at the party other people got up and started saying the same historical stuff that I'd written. Even if it wasn't exactly the same in content it was in spirit. Unoriginal ideas are not something we writers strive for.

I started revising in my head. I began mentally cutting and pasting. "The beginning was boring," I thought. I'd start with the third paragraph.

Reflections were scheduled at the close of the event. There were two readers of reflections: me and one of my grandmother's friends. The friend was from a senior citizens group that meets to play bingo and such. This gray-haired woman was exactly the type of phenomenal speaker you never want to follow. She had no notes. She was funny. She told personal stories about my grandmother that were endearing and specific. I am certain that the words she spoke were mostly spontaneous. She was brilliant.

When it was my turn, I walked up to the front with my two typed pages. I decided right there not to read the first page. Instead I just talked. i told them how I'd fretted about this reading. How I'd researched all these historical facts which were not really relevant. I told them that I was happy I'd done the research because it helped me understand the dilemma I faced when talking about my grandmother. On the one hand, I was reading about an America pre-voting rights for women, pre-civil rights for blacks, and a world where a lot of ugly things were happening. On the other hand, there was Rubie and her constant laughter, her flowering garden, her delicious pound cakes. I told them that it was hard to reconcile these very different images without conceding that maybe Mama Rubie's life was blessed. I admitted that "blessed" is not a word I often use but that it seemed appropriate to describe a woman who thrived despite such low expectations.

I then shared a few personal stories and read from the end of the essay. This was a section of the essay that was written more like a prose poem. I got a little emotional as I read, but it was an emotional day.

I heard Toni Morrison say once that the revising is never done, not even after publication. I'd add that the revision process continues even as you walk to the mic.

Countdown to Rubie's 100th Birthday!

My family is preparing for a big birthday bash for my father's mother, my Mama Rubie, that will take place on October 2nd and 3rd in Atlanta. My aunt Miriam is the one doing the hard detailed work and the rest of us are really just going to show up and enjoy. I'm still tinkering with a short tribute that I'll read at the gathering. Before I wrote the first draft, I pulled out my teacher's edition history book to remember the political and cultural events that my grandmother has witnessed. It's amazing to think of how much the world can change in the span of one (long) life.



On September 30 which is her actual birthday, Willard Scott will send Rubie his birthday wishes on The Today Show, so watch if you're able.


When its all over, I know that moments from the event will inspire later fiction that I write. No family event is complete without drama; I'm already getting a taste of it as folks stress out about the planning. The great thing is that when the date arrives, we'll forget the pettiness and prickly personalities and celebrate a remarkable woman. I can't wait to see my grandmother all dressed up, probably with a hat, and surrounded by her many relatives and friends.

A Summer Photo

Dog Update Number 1

Seymour at the rescue shelter

Seymour, a three year old chihuahua mix, has been at our house for six days now. Incidents of pee in the house: three. The shedding has been minimal. I didn't want a goofy dog who runs, jumps, and aims to please all of the time and I'm happy to report that Seymour is more of a depressed neurotic like the rest of us which is quite nice. He's more like a cat than a dog but he's warming up to us as time passes. He growls at Paul, tries to intimidate Ava with his tiny teeth, but is usually friendly to me and Amir. He treats me like the alpha dog of our house and is kindly rewarded for this with chicken flavored treats.

I fought against a pet for many years even though I grew up with a poodle (Muffin Pierre Renee Richardson) and owned three cats as an adult. But I'm glad that I gave in to the kids' request for a pet. They are learning responsibility, the nonverbal language of animals, and how to be compassionate towards another living being. It's cool to watch the kids bond with this little dog. The other day, Seymour began laying on his back, exposing his belly for a rub, which I tell the kids is always a good sign.

Organization is Key

This is not a sexy post.

It's about organization. I've spent this summer doing work that I've ignored or avoided for years, like figuring out what that stuff is that's crammed between my bedroom wall and headboard (one hundred dusty gift bags) or what that stuff is pushed into the far corners of my closet (photographs and school papers from college). I've thrown away tons of paper, and bought plastic filing drawers for the papers that I could not throw away. There are Paul's papers, my papers, Ava's ENDLESS drawings and Amir's ENDLESS school papers. Getting all of these things filed in a drawer system is important for two reasons, so we can find them and because Arizona is dusty, dusty, dusty and papers attract dust.

I've been to Goodwill several times to unload. I've painted two rooms (well I served as the general contractor and gave instructions). I've bought furniture, rearranged stuff and de-cluttered the house in general. On the side of the refrigerator I placed a huge calendar that shows all of our schedules for the next four months. I've included writing deadlines in this large calendar which has helped me see how I can merge what's a priority for me (writing and publishing) with my kids' many commitments. I can't emphasize enough how helpful it is to see where I have empty blocks of time. It has helped me visualize when I can sneak time to write other than in the middle of the night.

Last year, I made a vow to make writing a priority in my life in a way that I had not before then. I'm glad that I did and I'm starting to see the fruits of my effort, but oowee! the stress that I endured trying to finish a manuscript while working full time and toting kids to extracurricular activities. The stress was unbelievable. For the first time in my life, I experienced total exhaustion, chest pains, and migraine headaches. For the first time in decades, I had to see a doctor for symptoms and not a routine visit. I realized then that keeping four calendars in my head and not sleeping was insane. A friend, Dawn, laughed with me that multitasking is overrated. In fact, I'd say its not multitasking but more like ADHD.

This doesn't mean that my life is less busy or that I have more time to write. It just means that I can negotiate the chaos with more ease, which will be important when, on July 20, our family adopts Mr. Seymour Simms shown below.

In the Space of One Year

Here is Ava last year on June 12th:



And this May in her soccer uniform:


This is how I mark the time.

Consume Only When Ripe

The kids are losing teeth around the house; Ava lost two baby teeth a couple days after Christmas, and a week later Amir lost his first molar. There isn't a more symbolic marker of maturity for a little kid than a tooth that’s fallen out of her head and landed, bloodied at the root, on the living room floor. Ava freaked out. Amir was at school when his tooth came out and he went to see the school nurse who gave him a plastic container shaped like a tooth in which he stored his molar.

I’m maturing, but it’s not as cute on me as it is on the kids. I chose not to color my hair the last time I went to the salon and now silver strands glitter at my hairline like cheap tinsel and I’m having second thoughts about being dye-free.

In our family garden, vegetables have broken ground as evidence of the planters’ hard work, patience and luck. Last November, Paul and Ava planted tomatoes, romaine lettuce, broccoli, and basil in our backyard. We had a feral cat, we think, that nibbled the lettuce for a while and because of that we didn’t believe the lettuce would ever grow. I’m not really sure what “we” did to remedy that, but today there are beautiful heads of lettuce above ground.

The lettuce is not quite mature, but it’s getting there.

Who knew that broccoli had such proud stature as it grew?

Our tomato and basil plants didn’t make it, although I remember Ava pulling off leaves of basil in December and munching on them near the swing set, so I think it was growing for a while. I asked Paul what happened to those plants and he said the weather got too cold. In a classroom, two out of four would be a failing grade, but in the garden it feels like our effort deserves a B+.

My manuscript is maturing. I’m 80% there, working on the last three stories before I send it to friends for review and feedback. I’ve had most of the stories published and recently sent another story out to find a home. I started the first stories in the collection some ten years ago, think about that! Over those ten years I’ve written a dozen stories, a novel, a poetry collection, had two children, completed an MFA… and I still don’t have a book. Believe me when I say that this writing thing ain’t for everybody.

Even without a book, I’m pleased with how my writing has evolved. The stories in my collection feel like everything I’ve thought about over the years and I’ll be proud to copy this manuscript and stand on street corners to pass it out if it comes to that. Unlike the novel and poetry--which I rushed to finish for school or because someone asked if I had a manuscript--this collection has been a labor of love like the garden. I’ve been slowly growing these characters over time. The stories really weren't ready before now. Sometimes I flip through the pages simply admiring how it looks.

There’s something satisfying about well-told short fiction. A story is not an entire world, not like a novel, but it’s a slice of life that reaffirms our daily experience. I re-read one of my favorite stories last week: “Real Estate” by Lorrie Moore. Those pages with Ruth’s laughter….well, it just doesn’t get any better.