Poetry Night at the Williams

We still had children in high school and foreign exchange students living with us when my husband decided he didn't know enough about poetry.  He delcared Sunday evenings to be poetry night at the Williams home.  (Really? Who is the writer in this family?)

No one was allowed to dinner without a poem.  Sunday evenings found the kids grumbling.  "Do we have to bring a poem tonight?"

"Yes!  And tell us something about the poet too."

There was a mad rush just before dinner as everyone flipped through books or raced to the computer to find a poem.  My daughter often found it easier to just write her own.  It usually had forced rhyme and was about a family member.  There were lots of laughs and debate about whether this counted as poetry.

We had a student with us from Uzbekistan who read Pushkin in Russian.  Our student from Chile read Neruda.  We were treated to readings in Norwegian and German.  Tranlations mandatory.

And then a funny thing happened.  Word got out about poetry night and our children's freinds wanted to be invited for Sunday night dinner.

My husband and I would look at each other and groan.  "Geeze.  It's Sunday.  We need to find poems....fast."  The tables had turne....in a good way.

The tradition lasted for several years with the support of our kids.  The ones who still lived at home reminded those who had moved out but would be with us for Sunday dinner that they needed to bring something to read.  Family friends who were invited for dinner on Sunday always asked, "Should I bring a poem?"  Or they just brought one.

Sometimes Sunday night poetry happened on other evenings too with more and more people and we made it pot luck.

The tradition was difficult to maintain after Steve and I moved alone to Chinle two years ago but as we made new friends I threatened that we would have a poetry night.  Some even began to ask when we would have that Poetry Soiree.   But life gets in the way and it took over a year...finally I got up the courage.   Fearing no one would show up I sent out the email.  You must bring a poem or other reading.  I suggested we would accept music in the second round of reading to make the idea more palatable.

People responded.  Some would not be in town.  Others would come.  Do I really have to read?  I hedged ...bring a poem is the rule.  Let someone else read it.

And so they came bringing computer printouts and books...and yes guitars.  One person read a letter from his uncle...EB White.  Who knew?  Surrendipitously another friend had recently been to New Orleans where a street poet had written a poem for her.  She read that.  Another read her son's prize winning poems from high school.

Some read their own works.  One young man confessed to spending two weeks to trace down a poem he had heard years ago but had forgotten the title and author.  He found it and read...a love poem.

Quiet babies came.  Some came late, some left early.  And yes we had some music too.

Bashful?  Indeed.  But no one asked to have someone else read the poem they had brought.

Poetry on Sunday has not become a tradition in Chinle yet.  But for several days after that evening  people who had been came up to me and remarked that they had enjoyed the evening.

Interestingly each one commented on how much they learned about the reader from the poetry they shared.  Things they never knew or would have guessed about theri friends and neighbors.  An unexpected pleasure.

Go ahead you know you want to do it.  Organize a poetry night at your home and see what surprises
happen.

Pickin' Pinons Part II

Pickin' Pinons Part II:  Where Grandma Gets Lost,  There be Bears, and I Make it Home in Time to Serve Dinner for Ten.

The plan this time was to meet at the Saw Mill store (the place where my friend's cows hang out when they disappear).

For once I found my way over dirt roads in my trusty four wheelin' jeep and got there first.  No cows.

My friends arrive and I jump into their car.  We take the road to Blue Springs Canyon and pass Deer Springs Village(three hogans).

"There are some things you need to know about picking Pinons," my friend says.

One, don't shake the tree.  That is what bears do.
Two, don't lie down while picking.   That is also what bears do. (Wait don't we have to climb the tree?)
Three, don't climb the tree.  (Apparently bears do this too?)
Four...(snicker here)...Don't fart....(snickering in the back seat).  If you fart the Pinons will smell and taste bad.
I wonder if bears fart.

Other than the bears, I think I have this covered.

We pull off the road, look up to find the trees with Pinon cones and plop ourselves down under one.  I stay close to the car since "there be bears here"(I know... cliche, writers should not use them).

Grandma begins picking up the seeds as soon as she is out of the car.  Peck, peck, peck...like a chicken.

She has done this before.

My friend and I find one tree with lovely large gold Pinons all around.  One more suggestion presumably not a rule...don't try and pick the Pinions out of the cones.  Too late.  My fingers are covered in tenacious sap.  I try to wipe my hands on my jeans.  My fingers stick to my jeans.

As we clear the area under one tree we wander to another.  I squat, stoop, bend, pick up Pinons.  I find myself stretching out to reach a nut.  Wait I am nearly lying down.  (nearly is an ly word...writers are not supposed to use them) I check to make sure no one saw me...especially a bear.

Now I know why my friend has face-booked and texted for two weeks about how sore she is.   Her family has sold $400 worth of Pinons.  Lots of squatting,  stooping and bending presumably (ly word) without lying down.

The bottom of my little plastic container is barely (ly) covered.  I toss in a few symetrical golden cones (I collect stuff from nature) and continue to pick.  Grandma says I have a lot of Pinons.  Her daughter points out that I have a few entire cones in there.  They laugh.

Grandma wanders off looking(also writers should not use -ing words) for a better spot.

My friend shows me how to "cheat".  She hauls a handmade kind of sifter out of the car.  Then she breaks off a branch of sage brush for a "broom" and brushes the pine needles and nuts into a pile.

The pile goes into the sifter.  She shakes it until there are mostly Pinons left and puts it all into a bag.  At home she will winnow what she has saved and let the wind sort out the pinons.

It is 2 PM, the time we had agreed to leave so I could get home for a dinner party at my house.  But Grandma is nowhere to be found.  Some of us go into the forest calling "Grandma."  I stay near the car worried about Grandma and bears.

At 3 PM we decide to leave one person where the car is parked and someone would drive me back to my car.  I was concerned about Grandma alone...with bears.  Everyone agreed that grandma knew where she was.  They usually picked until 5 or so and Grandma must be watching the sun.  Besides my friend who stayed behind said she would just sit and pick more Pinons, no worries.

They each had a sack full.  I had half of a small plastic container of nuts.  Clearly I was not commited to this endeavor.

I get home in time to prepare dinner for ten and even roast my Pinons with salt.  A text informs me that Grandma is back.  I imagine them in the hogan telling stories(mostly about me, the silly Belegana) eating roasted pinons.  Lots of laughs and warmth.

I served the Pinons with appetizers. They are all gone.   Now I wish I had picked Pinons more diligently.  Or maybe I should just stick to writing about them.

Kind of wish I had seen a bear.

Pickin' Pinons Part I

Pinon Pickin' Part I: Where the Sling Shot comes out and I Don't get to Pick Pinons.


I have mentioned before that a writer takes every opportunity for a new expereince that could lead to material.  So when I got a text message inviting me to go pinon picking, I texted back "sure, when?"  (My texting abilities are limited and I actually said sur, wen?)

After several texts, it was determined we would meet on Monday morning at the Little White House Canyon and I would follow my Navajo friends to the Pinon picking place.

A little back story(or info dump) to be used sparingly by writers:  Pinions are the seeds of pinion trees an evergreen tree that is prevelant in the southwest:

For more than for at least 2,000 years Pinyon nuts have been used by

Native American peoples of the Southwest, including Pueblo, Navajo,
Ute, Shoshone, Cahuilla and Paiute. The fall harvest of these nuts was
an occasion for great festivity. Surpluses were stored for winter food
supply. The seeds were also used for cosmetic and medicinal
purposes. It is still a common for many Native Americans of the
Southwest to supplement their diet with the traditional Pinon nut by
gathering them in the time-honored tradition passed from generation
to generation.

Here on the Navajo reservation signs go up everywhere around this time of year.  "Pinons for Sale"  or  "We buy Pinions."  They are used for oil, salted and roasted, eaten like nuts.   They bring a heftey price...$5 for a tiny bag full.

Late Sunday night I got a message.  "Problem with horses our land."  


The short story:  

The neighbor's horses had crossed the line(actually bits of blue plastic twine strung around the property) into my friend's yard to graze one too many times.  

She shot pebbles at them with a sling shot.  (This is where I live now.)

The neighbor didn't like that.   

She told him her mind about horses grazing where her sheep should be.  

He had back up....more guys came over.  

She called for back up...Her sister called the police who came rapidly.

The guys left with horses.

The last text I got was "Can't go tomorrow.  Need stay this week.  Make sure they don't come back." ( The horses or the guys? ...or both?)

Back to plan A...I stay home and write...NOT about picking Pinons.  OR about NOT picking Pinons. 

Stay tuned for more.

Galimoto Dream to Reality:Grassroots "Ford" in Tanzania

The most gratifying part of being a writer is to have your books go out into the world and bring back freinds and connections and the unexpected....

I recently recieved an email because someone in Tanzania found my book Galimoto.  He wrote to me  of a young man who lives in Tanzania and made these toy cars from old wires when he was a child.

The young man tells of how, when he built these remarkable scultures, he dreamed of building his own real car one day.

Now like Kondi in the book who sat under the shade of a tree in Malawi and built his Galimoto,  Mr. Ntubanga has set up a welding shop under a tree in Dar es Salaam.  And like Kondi he has followed his dream with determination and perseverance and has created a real working car from scaps of metal and other findings.

According to the email I recieved:  The car has already made its maiden trial “sail-far” safari, on road travelling from Dar es salaam where it was made at a welding workshop under a big tree, to Dodoma-the capital  and back, covering without complication, 450km twice, (thus 900km), on the journey that took 13 hours plus either way..!

Its speed is up to 60km per hour and its fuel consumption is quite economic, only consuming 30litres diesel per one way.

The email also claims this vehicle can do much more than provide transport:

For according to himself, he has done that to fulfil that childhood dream. As a child back in the village of Ng’wang’wita, area of Ng’wangimu, ward of  Nkoma in Bariadi District Shinyanga Region, he used to make toy cars-“galimotos” and thought that when he grows up he will make the real one. He sees this as just the beginning of flowering of his creativity. He plans to make other kinds of devices (implements) to meet the challenge of transportation in general, produces and goods carriage in urban and rural areas, sick people (emergence) carriage in rural areas, water availability - its carriage and storage, irrigation; electricity supply and agricultural agrarian revolution via simple technologies etc. This means that here is a “Tanzanian Thomas Edison” potential too..!
He says his car is multipurpose that, apart from being a 1.3 tonnes “beast of burden” able to carry up to 10 people as a group with their goods, or alternatively transport 1000 litres of water a go, can as well…
(2) Grind /mill maize and other cereals,
(3) Threshing same too,
(4) Extract-squeeze out sunflower oil from sunflower seeds,
(5) Pump water from wells and ponds,
(6)Make mud-made bricks, whether to be sun-dried (adobes) or red clay fire-burnt.  
(7)Be source of (produce) electrical power in the village for computer learning courses right at rural areas…!

With limited formal education, no ability to speak English(the langauge of the educated class in Tanzania) this young man has used his common sense, imagination and sheer grit to make his dream come true.  He has dreams of making a tractor next.  

At this point Mr. Ntubangan has not been able to find any financial backing for his efforts, for more projects.  He clearly has the ability and determination. 

It is my hope that someone who has an interest and the knowledge and the energy to help this man realize his dreams of building more "grassroots" technology to help the people of his country will see this blog.

Please share it, like it and comment and share it again and again...maybe a dream could come true.

To read more about this young man contact me for the complete document.

Getting High is Never Easy

Handies Peak, a 14er in the San Juans of Colorado is the highest I have ever been.  But first you have to get to the trail head.  We stayed in Durango (Downtown Durango Innhttp://www.durangodowntowninn.com/  right on the Animas River, dog friendly and a one block walk to restaurants and shops).

It is about a one hour drive to Silverton through beautiful mountian switchbacks.  This was Labor Day weekend and a few Aspens were already turning Colorado gold.  The temperature was a perfect not too hot, not too cold and the sky turned blue as we climbed out of the clouds and then descended into the funky mining town with more character than most any place I have ever visited(see earlier blog http://karenlynnwilliams.blogspot.com/2012/04/writer-and-her-setting-silverton-co.html).  I would have spent the day drinking at The Avalance Cafe a tiny restaurant ringed in a fence made of old skis and poking in art shops and quirky antique joints or just taking in the ambience of the one horse town but we had work to do.

"I don't want to sound like a wus,"  I told our friend who has hiked several 14ers this year, "but really how bad is the off- roading to get to the trail head?"  I had heard of her other adventures, getting hung up on a rock for example at the edge of a two hundred foot drop when she found herself contemplating leaping out and letting the dogs go.  Obviously she made it through the pass that time.  But that was another story.

We had to go to American Basin and then 4 wheel it for about an hour through Cinnemon Pass.  I admit the sceneray was breathtaking...so was the cliff along which we drove.  I was certain our rear wheels were fishtailing off the edge everytime we made another switchback.  No fear, my husband has added "Oh shit handles"  to our jeep and I had my fist white knuckled around them.  Our little two door vehicle with short wheel base and high clearance did just fine.

There we were parked at the trail head looking up at Handies surrounded by mountain peaks, peaks behind peaks for 180 degrees.  There we were with at least 30 other hikers who had picked the Labor Day weekend for a possible last hike of the season.   There we were with at least 10 hikers who were under the age of well...10, some toddlers in backpacks, some a tad older on their own two feet.  Reena was with us and she had plenty of canine friends too.

This was going to be a cinch.  We were already at about 12000 feet with only 2000 to go.  I figure at 60 I was the oldest one on the mountain that day...it kind of felt like Everest on that fateful climb with all those groups going up at once, too many as it turned out....well at least the image came to mind for me.

The trail began fairly easy, level in fact but quickly turned to up hill scree.  Scree is a good way to sprain an ankle.  I take it slow.  I also have trouble breathing at 12000 feet even though I live in Chinle Arizona at 5500 feet and walk everyday.  Like I said I was the oldest one on the moutain and I suspect everyone else there lived in Durango at at least 6,500 feet.   They all had the advantage.

Steve coached me up..."try taking 60-100 steps and then stop for a breather."

"That's what I've been doing only I shoot for 10 -30 steps."

I was the tail as usual.  More scree, more switchbacks, the air got thinner.

We were about 500 feet from the top.  We had already made it passed the saddle.  "What does it mean if your fingers are tingling?"  I asked Steve.  At first I thought it was from the cold.  It got chilly up there pretty fast.

"You're breathing too much,"  he said.

Really?  I should have been climbing AND holding my breath?  I sat down in hopes that my heart would stop trying to pound it's way out of my chest.  500 feet from the top was fine with me.  I didn't feel the need to make it to the top. (Competition is not my middle name).  It gave the few stragglers who began later than we had plenty of time to pass me.    Those coming down, the ones who had trotted up earlier all declared I was nearly there and wouldn't regret making the summit.   What did they know?  The view from here was just fine.

When my fingers felt better than completely numb I started to the top.  After a 15 minute sit down, the final assent was a peice of cake...well anyway not too bad.  The veiw was worth the brush with death from hypoxia.

We had just enough time for a few photos, some trail mix and suddenly dark gray clouds were threatening rain.(I am the one who looks like she is going to pass out).

The way down was faster with...obviusly less labored breathing and no tingling fingers.  We did get some hail which our friend told us delightedly, "I am so glad you got some weather. Everyone who hikes Handies gets hail."  Right and then it rained.  All that remained was to four wheel out on slick rock and mud.  I could hardly wait.

The Pale Ale at The Avalanche Cafe was the best I've ever had and I really don't even like beer all that much.  Getting high is another thing.

Who Remembers Cowboy Small?

Cowboy Small by Lois Lenski.  A classic.

I had my own Cowboy small living with me for ten days. 

Grandson Ethan!  Ride 'em  cowboy!

Cowboy Small...I remember him from my childhood. One of my favorites!  First published in 1949.

Share this post if you remember this book.  Or even if you don't ;-)

Writing A Picture Book is Easy....Not

Just do hours and hours of research for days and days.....

Then you develop a passion...or maybe you already had a passion.  You become more passionate.

You ignore other writing projects...that news article about the bats in school...hmmm that could be fun...who ever heard of a bat day off from school?  Two actually.   OK save that for the next project.

You ignore your family....as much as possible.

(photo by Suchitra Baker)

You do more research and have some fun along the way.  

Then you write ane write and write.....  The you rewrite and rewrite and rewrite....

Then you hope someone will publish it.(You do a lot of hoping, sometimes you cry or scream or yell).

The support of writer friends helps a lot.

This process could take months or years.  

You gotta love this job!