Comin' Thro' the Rye

Long before Holden Caulfield ever imagined himself on a cliff catching children, Robert Burns (that sexy, self-educated Scotsman) wrote his song “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye.”

Gin a body meet a body
Comin’ thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Comin’ thro' the glen
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warl' ken?

Ilka lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, ha’e I
Yet all the lads they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.

Burns was born 255 years ago on January 25. If you feel like giving it a try, enjoy the rolling rhythms of  his “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye” by reading it aloud -- or even sing it, if you know the tune. Then light a candle and kiss someone in celebration of the life of this poet who continues to urge us all to relish our own lives.

Ground Control to Major Tom

My daughter recently got into David Bowie, and I’ve had the first line of his song “Space Oddity” going through my head for the last few weeks. I find myself singing it (in my best pre-Ziggy-Stardust voice) at random times throughout the day – while I’m driving to work or cooking a carrot soup or checking my email.

I suppose that’s what happens when you hang around other people – their habits and hobbies and interests tend to rub off on you. During my sixth grade Gone With the Wind kick, I addressed my mother as “Miss Barbara” (in a Southern drawl, of course), and she returned the favor by calling me “Miss Linda” for many years to come. I started researching the life of Emily Roebling when our son, at age eight, got obsessed with the Brooklyn Bridge, which Emily's husband built, and I immersed myself in John Lennon lore during our family’s Beatlemania phase. Thanks to that obsession, I even ended up writing a short story, “The People v. Hiroko Uno,” which was published by Imitation Fruit a few years ago. (http://www.imitationfruit.com/Issue_9/people_hiroko/people_hiroko.html)

That’s one of the many things I love about teaching creative writing classes – all the participants inspire each other. We hear someone read a story that cracks everyone up, and we all know we want to try our hands at humor too. Or another writer will share an elegiac piece that’s so moving the room is silent for a moment after she’s done reading, and we feel the call to tiptoe into new territory.

Luckily for me, I reap armloads of creative inspiration through all the students I teach each week. This Saturday I get to meet with yet another small group at 100^th Monkey Studio, and you’re welcome to join us too. Besides leaving with some new material of your own, I guarantee your unique voice will serve as inspiration for someone else.

Creative Writing Saturdays

100^th Monkey Studio, 1600 SE Ankeny
Saturday, January 18, 10 – 11:30am
Cost: $20

Read On, Macduff!

Dear Friends,

My daughter spent her winter break composing college essays. One question asked her to write about a piece of art that expanded her world view. Here are some books that did that for me in 2013.

Margaret Fuller: A Life. Megan Marshall takes her meticulous research about the famous feminist icon and spins a spellbinding story of a living, breathing woman.

Nine Horses by Billy Collins. The plain-speaking former poet laureate reflects on a chess piece found in the park and a song looping through his head and somehow touches on our need for transcendence.

My Beloved World by Sonia Sotomayor. A call for us all to work and love and learn and rise.

Clair de Lune by Jetta Carleton. An odd, newly discovered novel about a young depression-era teacher who yearns to live a larger life. Jetta Carleton’s words are like rare jewels catching light.

Mink River by Brian Doyle. A lyric novel peopled with a cast of colorful characters singing a mischievous, healing song.

Life After Life by Kate Atkinson. A woman keeps dying and getting a chance to live her life again. No, that’s not it. I’m too in awe of Kate Atkinson, the Empress of Dark Wit who also has the humanism of E.M. Forster, to attempt to describe her newest book in a few sentences. Let me just say that reading her work is a little like listening to Mozart or seeing one of Shakespeare’s plays or watching the sun rise over Mt. Hood. How can it be that this world of ours, which has produced internment camps and juntas, has also graced us with such art?

Wishing you all a happy new year full of your own reading adventures!

From Rosemary to Rudy - An Accidental Love Song

I don’t read newspapers much. I find it hard to keep heart if I’m fully aware of what’s going on – the kidnappings and hurricanes, the smoking remains of a crumpled cockpit and the hard set of a senator’s jaw in the midst of a campaign. One day, though, I was in a coffee shop and a headline caught my eye: It said that the singer Rosemary Clooney had died.

Movie musicals have always lit up my family life. My mother and I used to sing “Shall We Dance?” as we dusted the living room, taking care to imitate Yul Brynner’s accent as the King of Siam. Later on, my son would put on a plastic top hat and pretend he was Fred Astaire in The Gay Divorcee. My four-year-old daughter continued the tradition when she asked for a wedding gown for Christmas so that she could look like Tevye’s eldest daughter in Fiddler on the Roof’s “Sunrise, Sunset” scene.

My husband and I were visiting my parents for the holidays when we first saw White Christmas. Joining my brother and his wife on the couch, we all delighted in the movie’s over-the-top Technicolor corniness, collectively cracking up when Bing Crosby called Danny Kaye a “weirdsmobile” and also when the two actors (with batting eyes and fluttering fans), pranced through their “Sisters” routine.

Of the two actresses in the movie – Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen – we all loved Rosemary. She was the cool, womanly one, looking as solid and strong as her voice sounded while she struck sultry poses and sang “Love, You Didn’t Do Right by Me.” In a black mermaid dress that left her broad white back and shoulders bare, she was the opposite of the poor, ailing Vera-Ellen, in her pony tails and turtle necks.

After reading Rosemary’s obituary – and the details of her professional and personal descent in the 1960’s, which was followed by a career revival and a late marriage to a lover she’d jilted four decades before – I decided I wanted to write about her. However, the words, as they tend to do, took a different turn, and I somehow ended up writing an ode to Rudolf Nureyev instead.

Here’s to more curving paths in the coming year. Sometimes they take us where we need to go.

Roar!

Dear Friends,

You know that feeling -- the burn of embarrassment over some old picture of yourself. I was not entirely thrilled when my beloved cousin posted this photo of me online. The pixie haircut and red bathing suit were bad enough, but the angry I-want-my-graham-cracker-now! look on my face was just downright humiliating.

When my son and daughter saw the picture, though, they laughed with approval. "You're roaring!" they both said. Yeah. I like that -- a different way of seeing myself. Maybe I'll make this photo my coat of arms and fly it from my balcony.

You might want to give it a try too. Take a look at an old picture of yourself. You just might see something new.

Speaking of roaring, my short story "Some Tigers" was just published by Gold Man Review. In the piece, tigers live amongst people. They're not exactly pets -- more like friends or relatives. Trouble and other good things ensue. 



Vroom!

We had a fantastic time last month at my Saturday morning creative writing class. With the studio's red walls and collages and mobiles all around us, we let our imaginations run wild as we wrote about lobster bibs and red berets, a log cabin and a pink Camaro, Marilyn Monroe and Mahatma Gandhi.

I can't wait to see where our writing will take us next time.

Creative Writing for Adults (ages 16+)

Saturday morning, 10-11:30am

December 14^th
100^th Monkey Studio, 1600 SE Ankeny St.
Cost: $20 per class

Yours ...Truly

What are your obsessions? Your interests, your hobbies, your passions that make you uniquely you?

Our neighbor has a room in his basement where he hand paints tiny replicas of real French soldiers. In his garage-turned-woodshop, my husband has a display of old saws. Our friend, whose dream is to open a brew pub, owns over a thousand beer glasses.

As for me, I have a thing for the funny dresses I find in the Goodwill bins. Dresses with big flowers and flounces and pleats and puffs. They're usually crammed into a narrow closet full of things I don't actually wear in public, but every now and then I pull one out and put it on, and all day long I want to laugh.

On my silly dresses I often wear a little pin - a bluebird, a butterfly, a ladybug. By far my favorite one is the honey bee. I've had it so long I don't even remember who gave it to me, but I like to think it was a gift from my grandmother.

Gram lived to be 101. A few weeks before she died she took my cold hand between her two warm ones. By the time I left her, my whole body felt like a glowing furnace, like I could heat a room, a house, the world with the warmth Gram gave to me.