See Aunt Jenny O Hike!

“Open! Close! Open! Big plates! Open! Small plates! Close! Close! Open! Big plates!”

This is an actual conversation that I had today, with my youngest nephew (whom we shall call Eel). And by “conversation” I mean me jabbering on like a worn out copy of Dick & Jane, holding him while he plays with a cabinet and says something to the effect of “Buh! Buh bleeh buh!”

Eel is just shy of his first birthday, and has begun to talk. Mostly he makes noises, but every once in a while busts out with an actual word, like “Dad-dah!” or “Ball!” (and uses it in the appropriate context, no less). Highly gratifying for those of us convinced of his epic (budding) genius.

Nathan had to work today, but his sister and I took Eel out for a hike here in the park. The only problem was that once we got to the trail head, we realized we’d forgotten the Eel-carrier. Whoops. But we’re nothing if not troopers, so we each took a tiny hand and began the Slowest Hike Ever.

Toddlers interact with the world very differently from adults. I can only assume it’s the newness of everything. They walk slowly not just because their legs are the length of a small bread loaves (and their balance that of an inebriated nineteen-year-old), but because they are making sure they take it all in. There are frequent stops to investigate interesting rocks (and the edibility thereof; my sister-in-law’s rule of thumb is that if it’s too big for him to choke on, he’s more than welcome to stick it in his mouth), to stare gape-mouthed at little rivulets, to point out at the vegetation and triumphantly announce, “Bush!”

It was not the brisk four-miler we had planned, but in a lot of ways it was even better. We can always load Eel up properly tomorrow, but today I’m glad we took the time to appreciate North Carolina on a smaller scale.

Blue Menagerie Pt VI

(author's note- I'm going to be traveling for a while, so I may not get my posts up The Day Of- rest assured, as soon as I'm home I'll post 'em all...)

It took a little less than an hour to get there- and probably would have taken even less time if every car that approached hadn’t sent Sallie diving for the bushes until their tail lights were gone. Fortunately there weren’t that many cars about.

Sallie knew better than to ride her bike up to the main entrance- that sort of boldness only worked in broad daylight. Instead she hid it in a ditch about a block away and made her way around the back side. There were plenty of lights, which was both good and bad- bad because it made her easier to see, but good because it meant she could see, and moreover they cast some pretty strong shadows for her to crouch in.

This portion of the fence was made of extremely tall chain-link, something Sallie had prepared for. A moment’s digging in her pack produced a heavy pair of wire-cutters, and she went to work in one particularly dark area. It took longer than she’d expected- the people in movies always seemed to clip right through, but Sallie found it was taking all her strength to cut even one piece of metal. She tried to ignore the sensation of time slipping away as she struggled to open enough to let her (fortunately) slender frame slip through. She ended up with a nasty scratch on her arm (torn through her shirt) but counted it well worth it as she caught sight of the lemur cage.

Her heart, apparently having realized that there was no exit through her throat, had instead begun trying to beat its way straight through her chest. It made Sallie feel dizzy, and she told it firmly to calm down- there was no one here, she was not going to get caught, and anyway so what if she did? What would they do to her? A lifetime of being grounded or- or even put in jail- nothing could even begin to compare of a lifetime of knowing she hadn’t even tried to save Zeb.

Thus chastened, her heart settled down to only twice its normal pace, and Sallie continued to creep towards the cage. It didn’t have a light shining on it directly, which was all for the best, because she still hadn’t figured out how she was going to get it open to get her little brother out.

Finally she was there, her face pressed against the bars. The small grey bundle of fur was wheezing quietly in the center, ringed tail once again wrapped around it.

“Pssst,” she whispered. He didn’t respond, so she tried a little louder: “Pssst!” Still nothing- if anything she thought the tail wrapped itself even tighter. It reminded her of the way her brother used to burrow deeper into the covers when he didn’t feel like getting out of bed. “Zebediah Obediah Thoris!” she hissed. “You wake up right now!”

The little lemur lifted its head, looked at her blearily, and let out a confused chirp.

“Zebbie!” she said, reaching her hand through the bars and stretching it as close to him as she could. Her brother (and she knew it was her brother, because there were his blue-gray eyes!) shook himself and stumbled over. He patted her hand, then looked into her face and made the same noise he’d made in her dream:

Pbwit pbwit pbwit!

“I don’t know what that means, but we have to get you out of here!” The lemur nodded, effectively squashing any residual doubt Sallie might have entertained about his identity.

The cage was shaped like a small circus wagon, consisting primarily of dark metal bars and brightly colored, intricately carved wood. One by one Sallie tested the bars, but each was solid- and far too thick for her to file through in any reasonable amount of time (she hadn’t had much hope for that idea, anyway). The curious thing was that there didn’t seem to be any sort of opening anywhere- she’d thought she might unscrew some hinges, or something, but there was no door at all. She wondered briefly if she was strong enough to use the hammer she’d brought to break through the wood, but rejected the idea as being far too loud.

“Well you had to get in there somehow,” she said, exasperated. Zeb, who had been following her circuit with interest (and occasionally shaking a bar himself), let out an excited chirp and leapt onto a large branch that was propped up into a top corner of the cage. He scurried up its length, launched himself to a little platform in the center of the cage, and then stretched up as far as he could while reaching for the ceiling and making tiny noises of lemur frustration. It took Sallie, dazzled by the swift, acrobatic grace of his movements, a moment to realize what he was trying to show her.

“Oh!” she said, and angled her head so she could peer up towards the ceiling. Sure enough, there was a trap door! “Oh brilliant, Zebbie! Now give me a moment to figure out how I’m going to get up there…”

In the end she used a method similar to Zeb’s: she braced her feet against the stout branch and used her arms to inch herself up the bars, inch-worming her way up until she was able to fling her upper torso over the top of the cage. It wasn’t much harder than climbing a tree, but it did leave her a bit winded, and once she was on the roof she took a moment to catch her breath, propping her back against a bit of carved decoration.

Beep!

Her dumb watch again, sounding abnormally as it pointed out that it was now three o’clock. She knew she had to work quickly: Daddy would be getting up at five-thirty to go running, and she couldn’t count on getting home any faster than it had taken her to get here. Sallie started to move towards the trap-door, and then froze as she heard foot-steps approaching the cage. Below her she could here Zebbie dashing in mad circles, probably trying to draw the attention of whoever it was away from the top of his dwelling.

“My my my, aren’t we naughty? Up past our bed-time and up to no good, I’m sure.”

The Various Pleasures of Books

There's an article over on NPR, discussing the smell of old books and whether or not it's important to have a collection of physical books. I made a contribution to the comments, which I will cut and paste (and then expand upon it, apparently) to here because it totally counts as having done writing today, and I kind of need to get my Packing for NC on...

I am One Who Smells Books.

This may have something to do with the fact that I am more sensitive to scents than most people I know (my husband affectionately refers to me as his little bloodhound), but I think it also has to do with the scent-memories imprinted on me from a young age of wandering through used bookstores with my father, looking to round out his collection of Heinlein. So for me there is a visceral pleasure in smelling books (yes, I include new ones in that statement, a result of former book seller nostalgia) that e-books will never, ever match. Does this mean I wouldn't get a reader ? Oh heck no- I seriously covet such excellent technology (the ability to carry fifteen books on vacation without going over weight restrictions? Um, yesplease). But I will also keep my ever-fluxuating library of tangible books, even as I continue to frequent (and I do mean frequently) the public library. I love reading, and I don't care what form it takes (I have been known to read shampoo bottles, for the love of Pete )- but I also love books, and it is important to me that I have some of my very own. They're like friends I can revisit when I'm feeling in need of comfort, and I would be lying if I said I didn't dream of eventually passing on my favorites to my (still hypothetical) children, just as my parents did to me. I remember the thrill of reading the same physical book my mother read at my age, running my fingers over her handwriting in the front end-paper, being blown away by the fact that she had dared to color in Nancy Drew's dress. It was a wonderful connection to the child she once was, and it made me feel closer to the adult she'd become.

Furthermore, having a library speaks to me of luxury and wealth (both monetary and intellectual). It's a comfort to be surrounded by books, because it means that you could afford them. And no matter how poor you might get, you still have those books- even if you have to sell them, you still have the knowledge that they contained. So yeah- I like having physical books because I find them comforting on so many levels- emotional, mental, fiscal... I don't think a reader will be able to replace any of that- nor do I think it should- but I do believe it will make an excellent solution to my "how did I end up with so many paperbacks that I need to donate??" wailing that occurs about once every three months or so...

(And now I really, truly need to get to effin' packing.)

Blue Menagerie Pt V

Sallie knew she had to get back to the menagerie. The question, of course, was how. And also when. The fair grounds were a good five miles from her house- not an undoable distance by bike, but not the sort of thing she could conceal under the guise of a trip to the corner gas station (not that Mommy and Daddy were overly keen on her going even that far without a chaperon). And she had to decide fast, because she was pretty sure that the menagerie wouldn’t be spending more than a month in town- and she wasn’t sure how long it has already been there.

In the end she decided the only thing for it was to go at night, after her parents had gone to bed. She knew they would probably cheerfully murder her if they caught her out of bed after midnight, but also she knew it would all be worth it if she brought Zeb back. She refused to think about the problem of him being in lemur form. Mommy was fond of saying, “How do we eat a bear?” to which Daddy and Sallie would chorus, “One bite at a time!” Sallie knew it meant she was supposed to focus on the task at hand, instead of worrying about what might was going to happen in the long run. Perversely, it always made her wonder why she would be eating a bear in the first place…

It was Thursday night, five days since she’d fainted at the menagerie. Sallie, pleading a headache she didn’t feel, went up to bed a full half-hour early, at seven-thirty. She figured it would be smart to get in a decent nap before her adventure- no good breaking Zeb out if she was too sleepy to think straight. She’d packed a backpack full of potentially useful items earlier in the week (including a heavy flashlight as long as her forearm, half the contents of her father’s tool box, and a few snack bars raided from the pantry), and had conveniently “forgotten” to put her bike in the garage that afternoon. She took a moment to set the alarm on her pink plastic watch to one in the morning- her parents were sure to be asleep by then. She let out a shaking breath; she was ready- now she just needed to go to sleep.

Sleep, of course, refused to cooperate. Sallie lay in her bed, trying every trick she knew to coax the Sandman in. She tried counting sheep, but the darn things kept wandering away from the fence she was trying to get them to jump over. Next she counted all the triangles she could see in her room, to no avail. She even resorted to Daddy’s advice of actively tensing and relaxing each bit of her body.

Useless. All useless.

Sallie sighed noisily and rolled over. Great. She was going to have to go on a rescue mission with zero sleep. This was less than ideal. In fact, this was… was…

Beepity-Beep! Beepity-Beep! Beepity-Beep!

Sallie bolted upright, feeling panicked. Her stupid watch was going off too early! And it was so loud! Her parents were sure to hear it! Sallie fumbled at her wrist until she managed to press the correct combination of buttons that silenced the incessant beeping. She glared at it in the darkness, wondering what had set it off, and then glanced over at the cheerful aqua glow of her bedside clock. Oh. It hadn’t gone off early at all: the numbers read 0101. Maybe Daddy’s secret sleeping technique wasn’t so useless, after all.

She sat very still, ignoring the way her heart was doing its best to claw its way up her throat, and strained to hear any noise that might indicate a wakeful presence in the house.

Nothing.

She eased herself out of bed, crept to the bedroom door, and poked her head out. Still nothing. She decided she would do a quick test run before committing to her backpack: she could always pass it off as needing a drink of water, should anyone still be up.

But no one was. Sallie made it to the bathroom and back with only the reassuring rattle of Daddy’s snore to break the silence. Thus satisfied that her parents were not in fact waiting around the corner to bust her, she pulled on a pair of dark jeans and black socks under her navy blue nightgown, then topped it all off with a long-sleeved black shirt. Perfect. Well, she might wish for some black mud to put on her face, or a black knit stocking to cover her braided hair- but it was too warm for that sort of thing, anyway.

She laced up her tennis shoes (dark blue and green canvas- perfectly respectable for someone with a lot of night time sneaking to do), hefted her backpack, and took a deep breath.

It was time to go.

Don't Believe Everything Kate Beckinsale Tells You

"But, but- you're a werewolf!"

"Yeees..."

"And he's a vampire!"

"Also true," the silver-haired girl lifted one heavy brow. "Your point?"

"So then- how can you- aren't you guys, like, mortal enemies?" This was met with smokey laughter and a decisive shake of the head.

"Oh good gods no! I swear, you've been watching too many movies with pleather-clad starlets! My people and his have never been at odds the way your stories would have us. Why should we be? We don't exactly compete for natural resources."

"But, but- the legends..."

"Pfft, legends. Stories made up to comfort weak humans cowering in fragile huts. Far better to believe that vampires and werewolves fight amongst ourselves than to face the fact that such monsters might work together. It's the same thing with all your stories about his people needing invitations to enter- wishful thinking, nothing more."

"That's... not true either?"

"Hardly. Neither is the thing about garlic, if you're taking notes. Honestly it's more likely to keep me away than him- my nose is much more sensitive." She looked vaguely satisfied with this statement.

"But... You know, you're not making me feel better about any of this."

"I'm not trying to."



(Author's note- we watched Rise of the Lycans tonight, which put me in a vampire/werewolf mood, wondering why people had latched on to the whole "mortal enemies" thing. I have several stories featuring the two races- amongst others- set in the same general universe, and I enjoy tweaking the mythos to suit my own ends.)

Adventures with Autaugies

We spent a good portion of today over at Nate's parents' house, along with various other members of the family, including our niece and nephew (who for stalker's sake shall be called Quail and Toad, respectively). Quail is about four-and-a-half, and exceptionally bright for her age. No, this is not the doting aunt in me (not more than can be expected, anyway); she is the kind of smart that messes up my expectations to the point where, when I am around other children her age, I cannot help but wonder why they are so dumb- and then I remember they're not dumb, per se, they're just closer to the average than she is.

But I digress.

Quail, Toad, and I were out in the backyard when Quail announces, "We're in the jungle!" and insists that it's very scary and we'd better hide, dragging me over to a large oak in the center of the yard. For a brief moment the adult in me is all befuddled, unsure of how one "plays pretend"- but then suddenly a rusty gear breaks free, and I remember.

"What's out there?" I cry, hunkering down with her, letting her be the leader and protector, as all big sisters crave to be.

"Snakes! And bugs! And bears! And most scary of all- autaugies!"

So we decided we'd better build a house to shelter in, and things went from there, the two-and-a-half year old Toad becoming our "magical talking puppy", and gamely running and shrieking with us every time we were beset by the terrible autaugies (which, as the game progressed, turned out to be a lot of tiny, really mean dragons who would attack us even if we tried to be nice to them, which will teach me to try to teach diplomacy to a four-and-a-half year old). Quail and I finally teamed up to fight them with Quail's magical sparkling shoes- which consisted of me hooking my arms under hers and swinging her in a circle so she could kick all the creatures that had us surrounded.

It was such brilliant fun!

I'd forgotten how much I love playing pretend (I think that's really what I'm craving when I get all sulky for someone to do table-top role-playing with). It was so liberating to let my imagination run free, to immerse myself in the magical world Quail had crafted, remembering my own childhood standards (such as ushering them into the double-bench-swing, because it's a magic flying chariot we can use to escape) and inventing new ones on the spot (I got tired and told them the autaugies had sapped all my energy, so they had to go on a quest to find the flower that would make me better- and after they brought it back to me I played for more time by telling them they needed to brew it into a special tea...)

I think it's probably a really good idea for anyone who wants to write genre fiction to spend at least one day a month playing with a couple of little kids- my imagination certainly feels sharpened.

Moms and Manuscripts

As you may remember, last Saturday was my birthday. The Saturday before that my Mom and step-dad came up to Birmingham to take Nathan and I out for lunch, to celebrate about halfway between our two birthdays. While we were out at lunch, Mom and I started to discuss A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which I had read at the urging of my cousin, and Mom had read at my urging once I had finished it. We had such a lovely time discussing the book that I decided we should make a concentrated effort to talk about books more frequently.

Flash forward to this week, when I was watching Becoming Jane, and deciding that I really did need to re-read Pride and Prejudice (bizarre fact- I never actually read that book until I was well into my twenties. For some reason I'd thought it was going to be insufferable, and then of course it turned out to be so, so wonderful...). I mentioned as much to my mother, and she said she thought she might have a copy around the house I could borrow if I liked. I told her that was okay, because I was pretty sure I had a copy, as well- of course, it turned out we were both wrong, and so I ended up getting a copy from the library. But as I stared at that copy last night, I was struck by a sudden inspiration- mom and I should both re-read it, and then discuss it! Yes, a tiny book club of two was just the thing! And so I did not start re-reading last night, I valiantly held off so that I could make the proposition to my mother that we both go purchase the book (so we could make notations in the margins without guilt) and then discuss in a semi-academic manner. Such brilliance! Anyway she agreed, so now we both have shiny new Penguin editions, and have scheduled our discussion of Volume One for April the 10th (would be next weekend, but Nate and I will be in North Carolina).

I am very, very excited. So excited. You have no idea. None. I have yearned for a book club for years, but it is hard to find people who both shared my interests and my level of intellect (what's that, you can't read the type around my big head? Sorry...). Mom fulfills both needs nicely, and moreover I think it will be incredibly interesting exercise in getting to know the non-mother/daughter parts of one another's brains.

In all likelihood I'll be posting some of my reactions and such (to P&P, I mean), so make certain your loins are thoroughly girded for literary discussion. Just sayin'.