Who Laid the Egg?

Changes are coming...

I haven't updated since late November, but since then I've started working on a children's book. It's almost done now.

The book started with the munchkin helping me cook up some eggs for breakfast one morning. He's been terribly fascinated with eggs and counting them out for me. He's also fascinated by breaking them open for me. The only challenge is slowing him down enough for me to keep up.

Munchkin has also helped collect eggs with his aunts, so we naturally started talking about...

Who Laid the Egg?

Sneak preview of one answer over on the right:

Ostrich!

I've been working to finalize the book the last few days, and I'm almost ready to put it out, starting with paperback and Kindle version, and possibly a hardcover as well, if people are interested. I'll update you as that happens.

With that said, I've posted on this blog for a lot of years. I may keep it around and post occasionally, but I'm in the process of setting up a new Internet home. If you currently use my www.aesauble.com domain to get here, that's going to change in the next couple of days, and you will need to use www.theloremistress.blogspot.com once again.

A Case Study in Spontaneity

Sometimes brilliant ideas are so brilliant that everyone thinks of them at once. My husband and I had one of those ideas last night. 

Like half of the population of the northern United States, we were sitting at the dinner table, talking about the chance of seeing the aurora borealis last night.

So, I came up with the brilliant suggestion—why could go camping! Find a place, pitch the tent, go to bed, and wait for the munchkin to wake us up at midnight or 3 a.m. He’s quite good at that, so we might get a couple chances to venture out and see what we could see. We could even take the leftover pancake mix from our August camping trip to make breakfast before coming home.

After a ten-minute discussion and a quick check to find a campground, we decided on a plan. If we hurried, we might make it out before it got too dark, so—yes, camping trip; yes, northern lights (we hoped); and no, pancakes.

That last part was just as well, because I was only thinking about the pancake mix. I hadn’t made it as far as remembering the skillet, peanut butter, syrup, or jams, much less plates, forks, knives, and napkins. Or even a mixing bowl…

We didn’t have two sleeping bags, so we planned to take a couple of quilts instead. We had the car packed, the baby in pajamas, and were out the door about forty minutes from the time we first floated the idea. We also forgot the second quilt.

Of course, night always comes a little faster than you expect, and you never get out the door quite as fast as you expect. We were only halfway to the campground before night caught up with us. As we left the highway and headed uphill to find a site, we could only see the road ahead of us in the darkness. We went on, though, past the main parking lot and along the windy logging road until we reached the entrance…

…and found the campground was full. We drove the loop anyway, but the sign at the entrance was correct—no room here.

Now we had to come up with Plan B.

We didn’t have a map, but we knew we could find a couple lookout points along the route back into town. With that in mind, we decided to head back and stop the first place we found something promising. Maybe we wouldn’t camp, but we could at least hang out and watch the stars.

Perhaps we should have thought better of that plan when we found the traffic backed up over a mile from our destination.

The cars were creeping up the steep hill, all of them waiting to turn the same direction.

We joined the line, though, and eventually reached our turn. Past that point, the traffic was moving pretty quickly, so we went on, scanning the dark shoulders for a sign. The drive took a bit longer than we expect, but soon enough we passed what we were waiting to see—lookout point, one quarter mile.

The lines of parked cars started just after that. By then, we knew the parking lot would be packed, so we pulled off into the first empty spot we could find on the shoulder.

Our plan was pretty simple by this point—let’s see what happens. So, we loaded up the baby backpack with a water bottle, a tarp, and a blanket, tucked the baby into a front pack, and grabbed our pillows.

We saw a few other stragglers headed down the road to the lookout, but as we approached the entrance, we met a tangle of cars—those still hoping to get in, as well as those who had given up and were headed out. The backup worked in our favor here, and we made it across the road in one piece, only to meet a larger crowd of people gathering on the hillside below the parking lot.

At this point, the adventure was about to lose its charm.

Fortunately, we had visited this place about a year ago. On that trip, we discovered a secret trail that looped along the hill below the main lookout area. Now, we headed down it, expecting to meet another crowd at any moment.

This time, the plan worked. When we got to the place we remembered, a flat stretch of trail overlooking the river, no one else was around. We had an area wide enough to spread out tarp with a little extra room, and we had a gorgeous view of the sky—everything we could ask for.

Somewhere on the hillside above us, a laser beam swung back and forth across the sky. Down in our little nook, the munchkin stared around fascinated for a few minutes, fussed around for a few more minutes, and then settled down to sleep.

The wind was blowing hard all the while, but we settled under our quilt and watch the sky. The quietness last for half an hour, maybe an hour.

Then other people began wandering down our secret path. The rest of the trip didn’t last very long after that. We moved to another section for a short time, but the wind was still blowing steady, even though it wasn’t too cold. Plus, the moon had come up, and our slim chance of seeing the aurora borealis had faded. It was just time to head home.

So, we gathered up our stuff and trekked back up the hill. The parking lot had quieted down somewhat, but it was still packed—think about fifty cars trying to fit into a place meant for twenty. It was 11 p.m. by the time we reached our car and packed up, but more cars were still driving up. When we reached the turn back down the hill, the line had doubled from what it was before, and we were just as glad to be heading home.

We didn’t see the lights after all, but as they say—fun was had by all.

Celebrating July

Happy 4th of July to you!

I know—the 4^th of July was last week, but it was a busy week, and I’m finishing some thoughts this week that I started a couple weeks ago. This is a slightly belated Independence Day post, but it's mostly about how important this month has become for me.

The 4th of July is a national holiday, commemorating the US's formation, the signing of the Declaration of Independence, freedom, fireworks, and summer barbecues. It’s my own celebration month as well, partly because of the number of family birthdays at this time of year, partly because I started blogging in mid-July.

Yes, I've been blogging for almost three years now. Another week will mark my first post a long, long time ago, back in 2011. That's just over 180 posts ago, with enough words to make a novel, more words than I've managed to write on any of my novels in that time. I’m hoping that part will change soon.

I actually created this blog on the 4th of July, however, while house/dog/cat sitting for a friend. That was the first year I spent the 4th of July away, or any major holiday actually, away from my family, and later that summer, I headed up to Alaska for the first time.

The year after that, while I was in Alaska for the second time, the 4th of July was the day I started a long-distance friendship with a special, extra-awesome guy.

Last year, I was just back from my honeymoon.

This year, as I'm looking back at those past anniversaries, I'm also watching a little munchkin who is already trying to go, see, do, taste everything. We've added a third to our family this year, and he might just inspire some children's stories along the way—something I wasn't ever planning to do.

I’m a fairly quiet person, so I'm not setting off fireworks, but I feel like I should—it’s all worth celebrating. I foresee some busy years ahead, with plenty of changes, surprises, blog posts, and missed deadlines. I’m hoping to make some deadlines as well, finish some projects, and have a lot more quiet celebrations with my family along the way.

What about you? What are you celebrating this month?

Tree & Python

(Photo all wrong for time of year, but I liked it)

Human perception is a tricky thing.

For years, there was a huge old tree growing along a road. I drove past it several times a week, but I never really noticed it, except for maybe the lower branches when they were lit up by an annual Christmas display.

Then, one year, I happened to drive by and realize that the tree was flowering.

All along, I must have assumed the tree was an oak. It was big, it had that shape, and it was green. And that was all I bothered to notice. Apparently, though, it was a silk tree and really gorgeous once I finally started paying attention.

It’s funny, noticing how something will pop up once you start paying attention.

I realized that again last week, when I joined a critique group, as part of my 'make the story survive past November strategy'. After I signed up, the first round of emails came out, we started introducing ourselves, and then I logged onto the site where we could access the email archives. Right at the bottom of the page, I noticed a cute little logo…

I wouldn’t have noticed that back in September. Probably not even in October. But that class I’m taking happens to be teaching Python. (Python, for clarification, is a programming language named after Monty Python. It was not named after snake, I have been told, though some of the projects might have felt distantly related to a python.)

Writing meet programming; programming meet writing. I'm noticing something new these days.

Little Glimpses

Sometime time ago—back when spring was young, and all that—someone and I hiked out to see a 700-foot waterfall.

We made the hike twice, actually. The first time, we knew about a waterfall back in the woods somewhere, so we decided to mosey out and take a look. After all, a 700-foot falls ought to look impressive, even if it’s just a trickle.

After a mile or two along the road, we reached a trail and followed it uphill. We could see the river, and a waterfall, but it didn’t look like the falls we were expecting. Then, we found the trailhead, which told us that we were about four miles from our destination.

 

Neither of us had water, and we were in California, where the weather is hot even in early spring. So, thinking better of an eight-mile trip without supplies, we went back and plotted a trip for another day.

What we didn’t know was that the waterfall wasn’t just a falls, or even a double falls. It was a five-tiered waterfall. Where we started, near the foot of the hill, we could see a wild rush of water over rocks and logs.

Further up, the river mellowed into a fast-running stream. It changed again into a shorter falls, but still further on, we could see glimpses of the largest section, a 300-foot drop into the narrow crevice.

This time, we thought, that must really be it—not as tall as we’d thought, but an impressive white sheet of water falling through sunshine to disappear behind the rock. We climbed on, nearing the falls, while the path changed from woods and pine needles to rocky steps.

But, as we came around the corner, we found that the path went on, past the edge of the falls up to the foot of yet another waterfall.

And the steps climbed even past that fall. We thought that this must be the top. We could still see a low rim of hills above the top of the falls, but we had climbed almost two thousand feet already, and surely the river would level out just above this climb.

It did, but only for a short distance. And this time, we could see the final falls, coming down over a hillside of stone.

I mentioned in one of my early posts, a couple years ago, that hiking can be a lot like life at times. Maybe you start out with a good view of where you’re headed, but once you’re on the trail, it’s hard to see how far along you really are.

I’m the type of person who likes to look ahead and see what’s coming, but I’ve found over the years that life comes in sections like a waterfall. It might be nice to see the whole gorgeous downpour at once, but it’s often broken up into chunks—100 feet here, 150 there, with lots of rapids and shallows in between.

The last couple of summers, I worked in Alaska, in between tutoring and writing during the rest of the year. None of those were things I could have imagined just a couple years before. At one point, I was considering grad school, both because I like a particular type of literature, and because I was looking for something definite, something that would give me an idea what I was supposed to be doing and where I might be headed.

Grad school fell off my list, but I’ve passed different section of the falls recently. I met someone awesome and got married. (That trip back in the spring? We were on our honeymoon, down in Yosemite.)

I know there are still a lot of corners to turn. For now, though, I’ve gotten small glimpses of what the trail ahead might look like, and it's more than I could have guessed or imagined on my own.

Plus, it’s always fun to be on a hike with a friend.
 

Would you go to the moon?

No one has asked me recently if I want to go to the moon.

At least, if anyone has tried to email me or send me notices of a free space flight, a once-in-a-lifetime offer of a trip to the lunar satellite—well, the notices haven’t yet shown up in my inbox or my mailbox.

But I have wondered recently—if someone offered me a trip to the moon, what would I say?

Some people could probably tell you what I would say…it depends…

But what does it depend on? How many months or years of preparation it would take? How nervous the idea of space travel makes me? How well the safety statistics are balanced toward survival? How much I might or might not have dreamed of walking on lunar dust?

Or does it just depend on whether I can say yes or if I’m more comfortable hiding behind the answer no?

How often do we miss adventure just because we decide it’s not for us—that space beyond our tiny layer of atmosphere is just too far beyond our comfort zone?

In other words, if someone offered you a free trip to the moon, would you take it?

At Year's End

The year has been traveling fast…

Just this Tuesday, I looked at the calendar and realized that the following Tuesday would be Christmas day. There are Christmas cookies, and Christmas Carols, and even Muppet Christmas Carols in the air.

 

If I were better at journaling, I could tell you more of what this year has brought. Teaching logic, surprise beach trips, flights to Alaska, long work days, home with family and friends, some writing over the summer, lots of writing over November for NaNoWriMo, changes, surprises, expectations of changes, and lots of happiness.

 

By my count, there is only one more week left to this year. Next week, for my last blog post of the year, I am hoping to review a few more new books from my reading.

And then it will be the beginning of a new year. I expect even more changes to come in this next year, but the most important part of life doesn’t change, that:

“Down in a lowly manger
The humble Christ was born,
And God sent us salvation
That blessed Christmas morn.”

And so, in spite of presents and change and busyness:

“Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing;
Come adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.”

Merry Christmas, my friends!

 

Surprise…

For years I have claimed not to like surprises. In fact, my family has a rule that we’re supposed to plan our spontaneity.

We can handle adventures. We just want to know about them before hand—no surprises, please.

Surprises mean something has gone wrong. The car makes strange noises. The faucet handle no longer turns the water off. The laptop won’t talk to the printer when I absolutely must print a couple dozen pages of information before midnight so that I can head off by 7:30 next morning.

Sometimes, I admit, surprises do mean good things—but they so often happen in a stressful way. Good news, the lodge has more guests coming; bad news, we have to find space for fourteen extra guests and set two more tables for dinner—with only an hour before they arrive.

Surprises mean learning that I get to tutor again this year with a homeschool co-op. Junior-high last year; 5th-6th graders this year? No big deal. (Actually, yay!)

Oh, wait, make that 3rd-4th graders. (Yikes!)

Recently, though, my views have been changing.

I’ve learned to cope. I can handle the idea of teaching 8 and 9 and 10 year-old students—after hitting momentary panic and calling my mom, of course. But I can handle it.

It’s actually fun.

I’ve only taught once so far, but they like me so far. I like them too, and we get to be goofy. We get to sing preposition songs, memorize history timelines, practice identifying cell parts—and even, I’ve been told, play with a crawdad and cut up owl pellets. We’ll have lots of surprises there, I’m sure. And two of my students this year are younger siblings of two of my students last year.

Have I mentioned my ability to handle surprises? It’s growing by leaps and bounds.

Last week, a friend and I were thinking about visiting a particular library. At the last minute, we scratched that and went to a different library instead. It was entirely spontaneous, I promise—we even surprised a couple of the people we met there.

Surprises can require effort and change, yes. But surprises can, after all, mean fun and excitement.

(It’s also a nice surprise to find a topic for yet another blog post after procrastinating for two days.)

So…

Hurrah for surprises!