The Book Aunt

February 15th, 2010 by Cindy Strandvold

When I was a little girl, my Great-aunt Thelma always sent me books as gifts. Now I know to some kids this might rate up there with underwear for Christmas, but to me it was heaven. Aunt Thelma had no children of her own, but she had an uncanny knack of choosing books I loved. To this day I have the well-worn, first-edition copies of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach with her neat cursive inscription and the date of 1973. I was eight.

In my life I have read thousands of books, but Roald Dahl still heads the list as one of my favorite authors ever. As a childrenís writer myself, I aspire to his extraordinary ability to invent completely ridiculous situations and characters that are somehow totally believable. What kid could resist this opening scene from James and the Giant Peach?

"Here is James Henry Trotter when he was about four years old. (illustration)

Up until this time, he had had a happy life, living peacefully with his mother and father in a beautiful house beside the sea. There were always plenty of other children for him to play with, and there was the sandy beach for him to run about on, and the ocean to paddle in. It was the perfect life for a small boy.

Then, one day, Jamesís mother and father went to London to do some shopping, and there a terrible thing happened. Both of them suddenly got eaten up (in full daylight, mind you, and on a crowded street) by an enormous angry rhinoceros which had escaped from the London Zoo."

See what I mean? So, what books do you remember from your childhood?

Love Letter to Holden Caulfield.....My tribute to J.D.Salinger

February 12th, 2010 by Heather Schichtel

It's really too bad that so much crumby stuff is a lot of fun sometimes. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Oh Holden!

We meet in Mr. Stough's English class. You were so real, so jaded, so naughty. You smoked, you drank, you flunked out of school.

And yet we were told to get to know you. It was an assignment! Who was Holden Caulfield? What were his dreams? His failures?

It was the happiest day of my young English Literature career.

So different from Huckleberry Finn, the sonnets of Shakespeare, you were tragic like Hamlet but so relatable! You Holden, would never wear tights and hold a conversation with a skull. You were way too cool.

Oh Holden! You were nestled in my book bag, with your dog-eared pages I circled quotes where your voice touched my inner teen-angst! I had found my soul mate. If only you had been here† as a senior at Bear Creek High School! We would sneak cigarettes in the parking lot, we would wear black, listen to the Smiths and comment that everyone else was a phony and that goddamn money....makes you blue as hell.

It would be perfect.

And then we moved onto Macbeth.

Sadly Holden, I am now older. Today if I sat with you out in the parking lot, I would tell you to stop smoking, call your parents, stop pissing away their money, buck up and go back to school.

Sadly.

Good Posture and the mother-son duke it out.

February 8th, 2010 by Quinn Reed

When my son was thirteen he started to slouch.† His tailbone would be inches from the back of a chair and his shoulders rounded.†† As his concerned mother, I went into action to get him to correct his poor posture.† I started with reminders to sit and stand straight which led to nagging which led to pleading which led to bribing which led to scare tactics which led to appealing to his vanity.† I told him he would develop painful back problems in later life, along with osteoarthritis and diminished lung capacity.† I told him slouching gave an impression of laziness and defeat.† I pulled out my big guns and told him that he was far too handsome to ruin his 5í11î with crappy posture. ††Nothing I said worked.† I cut out posture improvement regimens from magazines and offered to pay for massages if he stood up straight.† But nothing I did worked either.† At some point, he told me to let it go so I decreased my posture comments to twice a year and then zipped my lips altogether.†† I havenít mentioned his posture to him in four years.

Yesterday, he phones from Alaska where he is working as a petroleum engineer for Conaco Phillips.† He is now 25 years old.† ìMom, I have a second birthday present for you.î† (His first present was a mason jar filled with homemade bath salts wrapped with enough duct tape it to keep it safe for the three thousand mile journey from him to me.† By the way it was the best bath salts Iíve ever used.)† ìMom, today I bought a yoga mat and made a commitment to improve my posture.î

ìWeíll thatís great, son.† Why did you do this again?î

ìAs a birthday present for you.î

Weíll I am way too smart to believe that one.† Perhaps it was because he is now 5î10î or maybe because his girlfriend and him are on a health regime. †They swim, work out, eat fish and bake their own biscuits with spelt flour.† ìScott, as a yoga teacher, an occupational therapist and your mother, I am delighted.î† And then I slipped in one last comment to seal the deal.† ìI always thought that you are way too handsome to ruin the total package with bad posture.î† ††He shared my comment with his girlfriend and she agrees.

Quinn Reed

Take a StandóBe CourageousóHelp Others

February 3rd, 2010 by Cheryl Courtney

His mother died when he was five and then the sister, who he counted on as a mother, died. He grew up on the streets of San Francisco, raised by the World War II veterans who managed the local YMCA. The speaker was Gus Lee, a first generation Chinese man who served in our Armed Forces.

I was hooked. See, he had already explained more than I have ever ìlivedî in his opening words. However, his next thoughts completely floored me as he†continued to describe†how†the home village in China was taken over, the country swarmed by over a million invaders--all determined to commit genocide and re-establish a different government. So his parents began the ëspectacular adventureí of immigrating to the US.

He reminded the NoCoNet audience of over 250 job seekers that very few of us came here on a first class ticket. Most of our ancestors were fleeing impossible odds and running to the only place that would take them.

How true. My ancestors were Irish/Welsh immigrants, poor working class folks who settled in the South, along the Mississippi River Delta of LA. My grandfathers were iron workers. black smiths and mule skinners for the logging company. Every day my dad put on his uniform and went into the city to work; he hung glass in the skyscrapers and was proud of his job.

Gus Lee reminded me that I only need another job. Nothing more. Not a new country. I do not have to run for my life. My children do not go hungry every night; they have both parents and a warm, safe house to sleep in. Nothing about this economic downturn is anything like what any of these brave immigrant†people endured.

I became keenly aware that all anyone in the room needed was the next job. I felt humbled, expanded, rejuvenated with a healthier perspective. And, then he explained that courage is part of character and you can let fear erode your character or stand up and be intentional about who you are and what you are all about. He said you can show your family fear or courage in the midst of travesty. It is a personal choice and a soul quest.

Upon reflection, few things really shake up in my blessed life in Loveland, CO.

But the earth did shake and broke open in Haiti and the world fell down on all those people. Till I get another job, I have a job to do. I am helping at the warehouse of H.E.L.P. International in Loveland, CO. check out http://www.helpint.org/component/option,com_frontpage/Itemid,1/You can help, too.

Stay courageous, persevere. Help others all you can. You can learn more about Gus Lee and Character.FtCollins athttp://www.characterfortcollins.org/

I have this problem with books

January 31st, 2010 by Shelley Widhalm

I have this problem with books, but I do not think it merits an entry in The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. However, I cannot be certain, because it is not like I have a copy and could easily look up a ìcategoryî to find out if I have a disorder beyond being a bibliophile.

Granted, I love books, both their physical attributes and the possibilities of what stories, along with the language in which they are told, could be secreted inside.

I have been a reader since elementary school, the intensity and frequency of my obsession following a wavy line on a bar graph. In college, for example, I read textbooks and novels for my English class and was too read-out for reading during my free time. Now, I read instead of watching television, to relax and to escape into a place other than Larimer County, Colorado.
So my problem is that I am very committed to my books, whether I buy them, borrow them from family or friends or check them out from the library.

I can start reading a book and not like it, or even hate it ñ I donít like the style, the setting, the plot or the characters, for example ñ but I have to give it a chance. I figure 50 pages is fair, and then if I still do not like it, well, Iíve read 50 pages and thatís 1/6th the length of the average book I read. I think, oh, I put all this time into it, Iíll read some more. And when I still donít like it, I have become committed to finish the book. I have to finish the book! Even though life is too short to read a book one does not care for, I end up reading in a race trying to finish the book to read something I like.

Iíve decided my problem is book-aty, or an excessive loyalty to books that causes one to make A Too-long Yowl of frustration.

Framed by Fay Ulanoff

January 27th, 2010 by Fay Ulanoff

Sitting in a local health food restaurant I noticed some art work hanging on the wall behind my mate, who turned around to look at it.

ìHow much is it?î† I asked.

He twisted his head around to answer me and read off the price, which was $270.

ìWow thatís high for a photograph,î I answered in between bites of my delectable sandwich.

He tells me that price is for the original, but an unframed print is only $100.

I tell him with the digital age upon us, everyone and anyone is a photographer, and there arenít any negatives, which makes them all prints.

He agrees with me, and remarked that perhaps if it were signed it would be worth it.

ìWell maybe itís under the matting. Look over there,î I pointed.

ìWhat are you looking at?î

ìThere, above those two men eating at the table across from us.î

ìYeah so.† Exactly what do you see?î

I pointed once again to a white frame and told him that picture is only $6.00 framed.

Reading back to me he said, ìNo it is $6.99 for an 8 piece chicken dinner.

Olive and My Book Club

January 25th, 2010 by Maryjo Morgan

Belonging to a Book Club can sometimes be a challenge. Take for instance this month. Our January selection was "Olive Kitteridge" by Elizabeth Strout © 2008 Random House.

Olive Kitterage by Elizabeth Strout, 2009 Pulitzer for Fiction

No wonder Olive Kitterage nabbed a Pulitzer!

Before Christmas I went to the Loveland Library but their copy was already gone; I didn't have any road trips planned, no Denver outings, so a book on tape wouldn't work this month. Next I checked the Poudre Library District online and all of their 4 copies were out.

Finally I chose Prospector (inter-library loan) and hoped for the best. After all, I was early and most people have time off work over the holidays. Surely they must read then?

When the calendar announced our Book Club meeting last Tuesday I was still bookless. Since I did have a business meeting that would make me late for the Book Club discussion, I opted out with regrets.

The book arrived Wednesday. Go figure.

But since "Olive" had traveled all the way from Greeley, and inter-library loans are usually short with no renewals, I dug right in.

It jazzes me to experience a story unfolding - I simply love it when I have no idea what a book or movie is about.† It's hard in this age of information to maintain such an innocence, but when it does happen, I am enthralled.

Kitterage and Pulitzer vaguely connected, but I did not know anything about the story.†† I purposely did not look at the back-of-the-book blurbs. Did not read online reviews. Nothing.

Reading a book this way is truly like taking the author's hand and allowing myself to be led around unfamiliar territory.† This book is unfamiliar Ö in style and content. Olive Kitteridge is odd, quirky and thoroughly engaging.

Thanks to the savvy readers in my Book Club for yet again launching me on a worthwhile journey.

The Day Without a Computer

January 22nd, 2010 by Phyllis Kennemer

A Day Without My Computer

Following my usual mode of operation, I made some notes and did some organizing for my almost due article the night before my writersí meeting. I intended to write the rough draft the next morning. This time my procrastination caught up with me. When I sat down at the computer in the morning, the monitor screen was blank, black, not a glimmer of light. I did the only trouble-shooting I know how to do. I turned the computer off and then on again. The screen remained black. I called Jeff, my computer guru, in a panic and listened impatiently to his voice-mail tell me that he was out of town for the week. He did offer an alternate number. When I called this number, Charles gently explained that he was swamped with trying to service both Jeffís clients and his own and, yes, everyone was working toward a deadline. He would fit me in as soon as he could. Turned out that did not happen on the same day.

What to do with no computer? I came to realize how much I depend on having my computer available when I went a full day without one. My first thought was to do a bit more research for the article. Whoops, no access to web sites. I may have some papers to grade for my online course. Wonít work! Canít get to the internet. Wonder what Laura Lee has posted on Midlife Crisis Queen and I always get a chuckle out reading Heatherís Samanthaís Mom blog. Whoops! No blogs.

Instead, I will sort magazines and catalogs ñ and feel righteous about getting to a task long postponed. But I can not reward myself with playing a quick computer game (or two). Oh well, I will mix up that new casserole I tried last week. No luck. The recipe is in my computer files.

In the meantime, I am worrying that my computer has a virus, that all is lost. I do have a back-up system, but what a hassle. Or a worse worry, what if a hacker has gotten in and stolen important information?

Charles came the next morning. He checked everything out. My monitor had died. Thatís it. Nothing was lost. Nothing stolen. He gave me the specifications for buying a new monitor. I bought one and my granddaughter hooked it up for me. My life can return to normal. Thank goodness!

Good Enough

January 19th, 2010 by Cindy Strandvold

My name is Cindy and Iím an perfectionist. My whole life Iíve held myself to ridiculously high standards, agonized over mistakes real and imagined, and endured entirely too much stress over things that donít matter.

Did you notice the typo in the first sentence? Believe me, itís killing me to leave it there. But in my ongoing fight against being smothered by perfectionism sometimes I have to do things like that.

Iíve found perfectionism is like the kudzu vine engulfing the southeastern United States. It digs in its roots and insidiously takes over your life. You can hack it down, but when youíre not looking, it grows right back.

Thatís when I make a deliberate effort to cut myself some slack, try something new, or make a mistakes on purpose. Who needs perfection anyway? Good enough lasts a lot longer!

Transferable Skills

January 19th, 2010 by Cheryl Courtney

Attended NoCoNet's presentation yesterday and learned more about summarizing quantifiable transferable skills as I, along with 250 displaced professionals, step on the path of Reformulating Ourselves to the Job Markets of 2010.

Big words--essentially--look for the stuff I did that I can do for anyone else.

In reading Heather's Blog about Haiti, I had a thought...isn't that the miracle of reaching out across the water--finding something I can do for others?