At the end of October, for three nights in a row, a few hours before dawn, strange cries reached me. The first time I heard them, I shook off sleep and staggered upstairs, thinking one of my kids was in the grip of a nightmare. I was wrong. The cries were multiple and coming from outside—outside, but nearby. Coyotes.
I’d seen coyotes before, but singly, never in a pack. Those three nights of yips, whines, and whistles were something else. I thought maybe the coyotes were calling to one another and gathering after their hunt, but I recently did a little research and read how, in October and November, the young disperse, and such cries communicate the establishment of new territory, like an auditory fence. [Read more…] about Song dogs
I love this time of year, when purple and white asters flank our road and the trees put on a glorious show of copper, scarlet, umbers, gold, and that luscious, luminous red like the blush on a peach. Even the sky has a fall-ish look, with great clouds tumbling across the bluest blue. October makes me glad I live in the country, nestled in the woods. It beckons me outside to see the sunshine in the foliage, leaves sweeping the cold air, mushrooms dotting the moist soil under the canopy, and geese stitching the sky and honking overhead. 
I spent the first half of my summer revising a manuscript. It’s in my agent’s hands now. I have nothing new underway. No outline for a novel, no notes, not even an idea. 
I live in the woods, but there’s enough of a clearing around my little house to let in some sunshine, so flowers and shrubs can grow. Only three trees occupy the clearing: an oak in front and a maple and an ash out back. The ash stands closest to the house, by the screened porch and outside my kitchen window. I’ve appreciated this closeness. For the nearly twenty years I’ve lived here, the ash has been a good companion.
When I was a teenager in the late eighties and early nineties, I wore the fragrance Eternity by Calvin Klein. The scent drew me. So did its high price. Eternity was a luxury, and I’d grown up with precious few luxuries. I wanted one. To purchase the perfume, I had to dish out a whole weekend’s worth of income—fifteen hours of earnings!—from my job at the nursing home. I wore Eternity religiously. 
I did a couple of book talks at area schools last month. At the one, a middle school, before I could even say a word about creative writing or my novels, a kid asked me, “So are you a millionaire?” which was so cute and funny and easily answered: “Not even close.” Later, another kid asked, “When’s your next book coming out?” This question made me laugh, too.
Last winter, my twelve year old and I finally finished The Lord of the Rings. Now we’re well into The Black Cauldron, the second book of Lloyd Alexander’s The Chronicles of Prydain, but we miss Tolkien’s books. When we’re out walking our dog Mocha, we still talk about them and mull Frodo and Gollum’s relationship, Sam’s loyalty, the dancing, forest-loving Tom Bombadil (Who the heck is this Tom Bombadil?), and, of course, the ring. We’ve spent a lot of time unpacking that ring, dwelling on its creator, bearer, influence, and fate. The ring’s always starting trouble, and the obstacles born of the ring’s nature and destiny create great conflict. 
If you have kids, you probably can recall something they did or said early on in their lives that seemed quintessentially them, a moment that encapsulated their very nature. I remember visiting my in-laws one afternoon, some months after the August birth of my first child. My father-in-law was trying to make my baby smile by teasing her about her nickname (“Pumky? What kind of name is Pumky?”). She was sitting on my hip—hadn’t, in fact, even started walking or talking yet—and it was clear from her expression, she didn’t appreciate what her grandpa was saying or how he was saying it. As soon as he fell silent, she blew a raspberry. It was a gratifying reaction. You tell him, Pumky. She still has that moxie. 
I miss my grandma’s soup. Several times, I’ve tried to recreate it but can’t find a recipe that reproduces it exactly. The results might taste good, but they don’t taste like Grandma’s soup.