Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday blogs here.    

What’s your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen. No analysis needed or required. Let the poem sink in and move you wherever it may. If you’d like to tell us what the day’s poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you’ve chosen to reflect on in the coming week, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored to have your comment. 

Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets, and I found his poem, Obituaries,  both amusing and touching.  I’ll admit to reading obituaries with great curiosity and enthusiasm and marveling at the amazing lives even the most “ordinary” people have led.  But, of course, there’s more to this poem than that.  ”The awful flood of life” is an image to consider this week.  I know I will.  What will you take away?  Will you read the obituaries with a keener eye?

I love doing research.  One of the joys of writing is my freedom to choose subjects that interest me, then read, surf the Internet and travel to find out everything I need to know.  Okay, sometimes I just want to know things because I do.  I know, as I’m delving deeper and deeper that I will never use the facts I’m uncovering, but I just can’t seem to stop.  It’s either too much fun or early signs of an obsessive-compulsive disorder.  I’m not taking any bets.

In June I had the pleasure of visiting Asheville, North Carolina for a week.  Asheville is not unfamiliar to me.  As our children were growing up our family spent portions of nearly every summer in Western North Carolina, and a son moved to Asheville the moment he was able, where he worked, completed college and began his own business.  Now he’s a tried and true member of the community, with an extra bedroom for his mom when she needs an Asheville fix.  Grown children settling down in beautiful places are one of the childbearing bonuses no one mentions. 

When I was planning my newest series my brainstorming buddies, aware of my connection to the city, suggested Asheville as the setting.  I knew they were right.  Asheville is picturesque, multicultural, and unique.  The things I didn’t know could be discovered, plus I have my son and old friends who will be only too glad to answer questions.  So in June, I set out to see if my optimism was founded.  Would I be able to do a credible job of representing the area?

Authors are faced with many tasks when they begin a story.  One of them is how true to life they’ll need to be.  Here’s an example: The first scene of my novel takes place in a park on a playground.  I wrote the scene before I made my trip last week.  I described a typical park, with just enough detail that I thought I’d be safe.  But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find all the elements I’d used in just one park.  The elements were there, but split between two parks I visited.  So, do I name a real park to give the scene more authenticity while simultaneously setting myself up for emails that say: ”There is no Blankety-Blank in Doo-Dah Park?”  Or do I simply name a section of the city and hope nobody’s that picky?  This is fiction, after all, and my merger of two will not defund the city’s parks and recreation department.

Or how about discovering that Trust and Luck, two nearby townships with names that fascinated me the moment I heard them, aren’t laid out exactly the way I envisioned them.  Can I move actual townships?  Just a little?  Redesign roads leading off them?  Expand their boundaries?  What must I be true to?  What can I fudge?

These questions will haunt me as I write.  But they are small problems compared to the big one that makes most authors break out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.  What about all the things I think I know that I really don’t?  All the mistakes waiting around the corner because I’ve never thought about them?  Those blithe convictions that are teetering on a mountain ledge as I’m leaning over to erroneously name distant peaks, none the wiser?

I do love research.  I do love Asheville.  I do love fiction.  I’ll throw all that in the cast iron kettle of my imagination and stir and stir.  The result?  A pack of lies or a sterling depiction?  We shall see.

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday blogs here.    

What’s your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen. No analysis needed or required. Let the poem sink in and move you wherever it may. If you’d like to tell us what the day’s poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you’ve chosen to reflect on in the coming week, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored to have your comment. 

Daily Life, by Susan Wood, so beautifully captures the perils of giving in to the mundane and of being easily overcome by the ordinary. Haven’t we all had days when “a parrot of irritation” sits on our shoulder?

Poets.org is a wonderful site to browse, since the poetry is there because of the generosity of the poets and their publishers, and biographies of the poets themselves are included.  Stay awhile once you arrive, and enjoy.

How can we transform our perception of our daily life, our daily struggles into something “like a bird slowly unfolding its wings?”  Something I’ll ponder.

 I remember what life was like in the western suburbs of Cuyahoga County before Borders moved in.  At the time we had only one bookstore within a ten mile radius.  That shopworn independent had been there for years.  The inside was, at best, disheveled; the stock was low, and the people behind the counter never wanted to chat. 

There was also that “little room” in the back where children weren’t welcome. All I took away from reluctant trips to the store was a memory of that “little room,” which I dusted off years later and used as a plot point in Blessed is the Busybody.  Hey, who wants to leave a bookstore empty-handed?

Then,  just three miles away, Borders moved in.  Big, beautiful, bold Borders Books. 

Fairyland.

I remember the first time I walked inside my brand new store.  There were books everywhere.  Sales personnel who’d been selected and trained to find just the right books for every customer.  Music, coffee, comfortable places to sit while I decided which books to buy.

I remember the first author book signing I did there.  The CRM (Community Relations Manager) was a fabulous guy who adored books, theater and making a splash.  My book, a romance, was set in Scotland.  Jonathan had a bagpiper stand by the door and pipe readers inside.  Be still my heart. 

My Borders store was always filled with quiet music, with readings and fabulous entertainment.  It was also packed with customers.  Once I looked up to see every single space at the front counter manned by a clerk, at least eight of them, with lines of six or more at each register, and everybody’s arms overflowing with books.

The decline of my Borders was subtle.  First events were cut, then community relations managers were given pink slips.  My store was no longer a happening  place.   Staff was cut to the bone.  Signings were no longer promoted with enthusiasm.  No one seemed to know where books had been stored or how to set up a table when it was my turn to sign.  The booksellers who were left were overworked, harried and underpaid.  Naturally, enthusiasm dwindled.  Borders was saving money, I was told.  I wondered for what.

Now Borders is closing.  With it, go so many booklovers.  The employees who hung in there, worked and cared about their jobs.  The readers who went back time and time again to buy books, even when the magic began to die.  The authors who now have one less venue for their work. 

The analysts will point to this and that as the problem.  I’m sure they’re right.  Bad decisions about Internet marketing. Competition. Rapid expansion. A scary economy. The list goes on. 

There’s no question this is a difficult time to sell anything.  But I wonder.  Had corporate left their board rooms, had they been there the night my store was filled with music and customers toting armloads of books, if they’d sat down for a latte and a long, look at what was happening when creative, enthusiastic people ran the show, might they have made better decisions?  Might they have hired more CRMs?  Hired and trained more, not fewer, booklovers as staff?  Turned up the music and let the joy continue?

I guess we’ll never know.

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday blogs here.    

What’s your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen. No analysis needed or required. Let the poem sink in and move you wherever it may. If you’d like to tell us what the day’s poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you’ve chosen to reflect on in the coming week, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored to have your comment. 

Today’s poem is by Emily Dickinson and in public domain so I can share it directly with you.  I loved the imagery, death being cast as night with all it’s possibilities.  I found this on Writer’s Almanac, as I often find our poems, and the title is in lower case letters, as you see it here.  What if anything moves you about this poem and makes you consider your life or days?

The daisy follows soft the sun

The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”

We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee, —
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night’s possibility!

Remember Joan, the pie prize winner whose daughter made a fabulous blueberry pie and won a prize at the fair, only to have it disappear before the second round of judging?  I received so many requests for the recipe after I ran Joan’s story, that I begged her to ask her daughter if she would part with it.  Graciously, she agreed.

I had lots of blueberries, so today I decided to “do a Wanda” and make the pie.  I followed the instructions with two deviations.  I used frozen crusts I already had, plus I cut the sugar in the filling to 3/4 cup.  You can see my masterpiece below. I have to say, with complete sincerity, this pie was absolutely fabulous.  Everyone at our table said so.  Without having to make crusts, it was easy, as well.  No wonder this won a prize. 

As a thank you for making the pie in the first place, Joan shared one of the prizes in her box with her daughter.  My thanks to both of them for taking the time to share the recipe and the eating pleasure.  My family thanks them, too.

Joan’s Daughter’s Wonderful Blueberry Pie

For the double crust:

3 cups flour
1 and 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 1/4 cup shortening
Ice water

Add 3/4 cup shortening to flour and salt, and using a pastry cutter or two knives, cut until resembles coarsely ground cornmeal.

Add remaining 1/2 cup shortening and this time cut until it resembles small peas.

Add cold water, 1 tablespoon at a time until dough forms a tight ball. Divide in half and chill.  Roll dough for bottom crust and fit into pie plate.

For the filling:

4 cups fresh blueberries.
1 cup sugar
3 Tablespoons of flour
2 Tablespoons of tapioca
1/2 teaspoon of lemon peel
1/2 teaspoon each of nutmeg and cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon of salt

Add sugar to the blueberries, then combine flour, tapioca, lemon peel, spices and salt, and mix with blueberries.

Fill pie shell and sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of lemon juice and dot with 1 tablespoon of butter cut into small pieces.

Roll out the other half of crust and cover pie.  Be sure to vent by cutting holes or pricking with a fork. Seal the edges.

Bake at 425 for 35 to 40 minutes.

(A printable pdf is available here.)

Joan says she makes hers with blueberries picked from Pertic’s.  Mr. Pertic was the developer of the Blue Crop blueberry, which is particularly huge and sweet.  Care to find a pick-your-own place near your house?  Double the fun of making your pie.  Be sure to bring a child or two along if you can.

We plan to eat ours with frozen vanilla yogurt made in my husband’s new ice cream maker.  How about you?

I’m sure Wanda is hovering in the wings so she can steal this recipe for Wanda’s Wonderful Pies.  BTW, if you’ve yet to buy and read Sunset Bridge, then you’re missing out on an exciting development at the pie shop–among other things.  But my lips are sealed–except when I’m eating another slice of pie.

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday blogs here.    

What’s your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen. No analysis needed or required. Let the poem sink in and move you wherever it may. If you’d like to tell us what the day’s poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you’ve chosen to reflect on in the coming week, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored to have your comment. 

A Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry talks about one exquisite moment in an “ordinary” place.  “. . . and around it the whole field filled with chicory in bloom, blue as the sky reflected in the pond.”  I was in my mid-twenties before I saw wild chicory in bloom in Southwest Virginia.  I could not imagine anything so lovely entwined and blooming with Queen Anne’s lace by country roadsides, weeds some called it, but not me.  Never, never me.  Chicory still thrills me, as it thrilled Wendell Berry.

What might you find at home that is more significant, more heartbreakingly beautiful, than anything you saw when you searched in other places?

Last week before the Casey Anthony verdict, I sat in a room at George Washington University and listened to a group of law students argue a case.   Since I’m friends with one of the law professors, I’ve done this before, perhaps half a dozen times. 

Any given night during moot court sessions, there might be six trials in session, all trying exactly the same case.  It’s quite an achievement to find enough volunteers to make the process work, so our jury had only four members.

I’ve never been on a real jury, although I’ve been on voter rolls since 1970.  I’m envious of my friend, the author Karen Young who served an entire year on a state grand jury and has stories to tell about it.  I joke about my FBI file.  Have they inadvertently mixed me up with another Emilie?  Do I have a ringer on a watchlist?  I did protest in front of my university administration building as a sophomore.  Hmmm. . .

Without real experience, I’ve been delighted to take part in moot court.  Some of the law students are naturals, some need work, some of the defendants and witnesses should consider theater as a major.  Last week was the first time, however, that we tried a case of sexual assault.

In previous cases I’ve been interested in my own reaction.  While I’m usually a person who tries to weigh both sides of any issue, I really don’t want to hear “why” somebody might have committed a crime or what will happen if he’s thrown under the calaboose.  I want the facts, ma’am.  Did he or didn’t she?  Show me the proof, and I’ll convict without worrying about the wife who will have to fend for herself or the library where our suspect volunteers every Wednesday.  But if there’s reasonable doubt?  Watch out.  If a prosecutor can’t make a case, then I can’t say “guilty,” no matter how likely it is that the defendant did indeed try to run down his mother-in-law after she served him greasy pork chops.

This had been true until the case was sexual assault. 

The cases the GW law students try are based on real events, with many details altered and rewritten.  By the time we hear them, they’re almost entirely fiction.  In this one, a young pregnant waitress walks home late at night after getting off work early because she’s not feeling well.  Halfway there, she’s accosted by a customer she just served–and doesn’t remember–escorted into his car at knife point and eventually raped.  At night’s end she’s deposited back where the nightmare began and allowed to finish her walk home.

I wanted the defendant to fry.  Our victim was lovely, young, sweet as her diner’s apple pie.  Her husband was madly in love, poor but hardworking.  Wow.  Does a happily married woman expecting her first child and experiencing morning sickeness (at midnight) really offer herself to a stranger she meets in the diner, then beat herself up so she can use rape as an excuse because she’s late coming home?  Did it matter to me that the police detective did not test the DNA from the rape kit?  Not when both of them agreed the sex had happened.  This was not, remember, an episode of CSI.

How often is a sexual assault witnessed by credible people who can testify to what they’ve seen?  Most of these cases have to be, by nature, circumstantial.  So at what point must we rely on indirect evidence and convict a rapist or a mother who murders a child?  At what point are our doubts reasonable and at what point absurd?

Our jury of four hung.  By the end of our deliberations three of us agreed that the defendant was guilty.  The fourth was certain from the moment we put our heads together, that he was not.  She thought the investigation should have gone deeper, even though most of the facts were not in dispute.

In fairness to our hold-out, every other jury that night brought in a verdict of not guilty.

I thought about that mock trial when I learned yesterday that Casey Anthony will go free.  I thought about my own reaction and sympathy for the moot court victim.  About the fact that only rarely does a prosecutor have a credible witness who can point a finger and say “I was there and I saw her do it.”  I thought about how much rides on the supposed sincerity of the defendant or accuser, the quality of the lawyers and prosecutors.  The good ones win their cases, even if the cases have holes.

Our justice system isn’t always fair.  Poor defendants are sometimes assigned great public defenders, and sometimes they’re assigned recently graduated law students who never won in moot court, either.  High profile cases attract fabulously inventive lawyers, who frequently win cases that looked bullet proof because they coin catchy slogans or artfully muddy the waters.   Jury pools who watch too much television can’t understand that underfunded police departments must pick and choose what and whom to pursue and spend taxpayer money wisely.

Our justice system isn’t always fair.  It is, however, pretty darned amazing.  Casey Anthony will go free because twelve of her peers looked at all the evidence, perhaps thought she is guilty as sin, and still voted not guilty.  Because not guilty was, in their minds, the only legitimate choice.  For them the case wasn’t made.  Reasonable doubt existed.  And in the background, the death penalty loomed.  We may not agree, but in this country?  Thank God we’re allowed that privilege.

Welcome to Sunday Poetry, and yes we have a new photo.  It seemed time.  If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday blogs here.    

What’s your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen. No analysis needed or required. Let the poem sink in and move you wherever it may. If you’d like to tell us what the day’s poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you’ve chosen to reflect on in the coming week, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored to have you comment. 

Mary Oliver’s poetry always moves me.  This poem, The Summer Day, seems especially appropriate for the beginning of July.  How will you spend the remaining days of your summer?  Will you take moments to contemplate grasshoppers?  Will you give yourself one day just to wander through fields?  What phrase, thought, or word here will help you get through the next week?  What will you do with your one wild and precious life?

First a big thank you to all who emailed or contacted me through my Facebook page to say that you had bought your copy of Sunset Bridge or were on the way to the bookstore to do so this week.  It was so gratifying to get that wonderful response, and I’m delighted so many of you are looking forward to reading it. 

A second big thank you to all the radio stations who have aired interviews with me in the past week.  I’ve done sixteen so far and have five more on my schedule.  What a great way to promote a novel without leaving home, and afterwards it was great to hear from listeners who now plan to buy the book.  Along with that, many thanks to the reviewers and writer friends who have interviewed me or reviewed my novel.  Both take time and commitment, which I appreciate.

A final big thank you to everyone who sent pie recipes, links or stories to be entered in the Great Pie Prize Giveaway to celebrate the Sunset Bridge launch.  It’s been such fun to read your entries, and I intend to publish more as the months go by.  Choosing the prizes for each box was delightful and took most of a year to finish.  Who knew there were so many fabulolus pie-related items?  Jigsaw puzzles, pie birds and pie top cutters.  Plus all those luscious cookbooks.

At the end of this blog I’ll announce our final winner.  In addition to the four pie prize boxes awarded in June, the grand prize is the choice of a Kindle from Amazon, complete with Wi-Fi and E Ink pearl technology, or the Breville Pie Maker from Williams-Sonoma.

First, though, a few more recipes.  This one sounds delicious, and while Pat sent me the recipe, I found a link to make it easier for you.  It’s for Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream Pie from Southern Living.   Sounds like summer on a dessert plate to me.  Yum!

Judy sent me this one for an old standard with a twist.  She copied the recipe off a sewing forum years ago, but due to server crashes, the recipe no longer exists and she’s never been able to find it anywhere again.  I’m delighted she copied it when she could and is sharing it with us now.

A Different Kind of Apple Pie

(Judy says: This recipe is not your usual pie crust but it is just wonderful.) 

Crust:

1 ½ cups flour, ½ cup vegetable oil, 2 tablespoons milk (very cold) 1/12 teaspoons sugar, 1 teaspoon salt.

Filling:

6 cups apples peeled cored and thinly sliced, ¾ cups sugar, 3 tablespoons flour, ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon, ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg.

Topping:

½ cup flour, ½ cup sugar, ½ cup butter

Preheat oven to 350F

For Crust: In a large bowl, mix together, flour, oil, milk, sugar and salt until evenly blended. Pat mixture into a 9-inch pie pan, spreading dough evenly over bottom and up sides. Crimp edges of dough and perimeter of pan.

For Filling: Toss apple slices with sugar, flour, cinnamon and nutmeg. Spread evenly in unbaked pie shell.

For Topping: Mix together flour, sugar and butter until evenly distributed and crumbly in texture. Sprinkle over apple filling.

Place pie on a baking sheet on middle rack of preheated oven, bake 45 minutes. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream, if desired.

And finally, from Cindy, a pie that will not heat up your kitchen if you use her final tip.  Cindy says this it first pie she makes every summer, and you’ll see why.

Pineapple Pie

1 box instant vanilla Jello pudding

1 8oz carton sour cream

1 8.5 oz. crushed pineapple, use juice

1 small container Cool Whip

Mix the dry Jello pudding mix and the crushed pineapple. Add Sour Cream. Pour into baked and cooled 9-inch pie shell. Top with Cool Whip, all the way to the crust to seal the pie. Chill and keep in the refrigerator.

Cindy uses a graham cracker pie crust so she doesn’t have to turn on the oven.  Sounds like a good idea to me.

Finally, our grand prize winner:  Jean from Florida sent a funny story about her pie making history that I included on my blog the week I announced the second giveaway winner.  She says she never did become a pie baker, but I guarantee she can bake a good tale for us to enjoy.  Now I hope she enjoys her choice of prizes because random.org chose her entry for the grand prize.  I’ll let you know which of the two possibilities she picked.  (Late breaking edition:  Jean chose the Kindle and it’s on its way to her.  Turns out she’s a quilter and an FSU alum, like me.  Go Seminoles!)

I have so enjoyed hosting this giveaway. I hope you’ve enjoyed the recipes and stories, and for the five winners, your prizes, as well.  Again, thanks to everyone who participated.  And don’t forget the women of Happiness Key are waiting for you in the final installment of the series, Sunset Bridge, available at last.