Second Book Signing

The second book signing for Gopher to the Rescue today at the Barnes and Noble at the Spectrum Center in Reston was awesome. We had lots of folks come from our neighborhood, writer group buddies and old friends visited, and amazingly enough some people whom I had never seen or met bought the book and even took pictures. And the kids liked the book!

It was great to see when I gave my little spiel trying to get them to look at the book. At first they kind of like the idea of gopher being a tiny little hero that helped the huge mountain recover. Then when I, or they, opened the book and they saw Laurie O’Keefe’s Illustrations, their eyes would light up.

The activity with the kids, I thought, went over really well.  After I read the book and emphasized what the plants and animals need to survive, we “repopulated” the devastated volcano in four stages.  First week, six months, 5 years and 30 years. After we talked about what had happened to the plants at each point, my little helpers handed me cards with animal pictures and we talked about whether each animal could return to the volcano yet.  The kids were engaged and they were each proud of the “Recovered Volcano” picture that resulted in the end. Some were very good.  Others just colored in the volcano, but I think the activity was great for the really young. The only thing I might do is to have a smallish white board with which to guide the activity.  A large easel would be too hard for me to “recover the mountain” without loosing their attention.  But maybe the little clipboard that I used was too small.  Possible tweak if I do another event for the very young.

What made this event so great, however, was the Barnes and Noble staff.  Susan Fry, their community relations manager and the staff in the children’s section couldn’t have been more supportive and helpful.  And I believe this runs in the Barnes and Noble culture. Danielle, at the B & N in St. George, Utah, was equally as helpful and supportive.  This one was a bit more successful because in St. George we were pitted against a Navy Air Show, (how dare they do that when we’d planned my book signing), so the attendance by the youngsters was sparse.  You could say that B & N benefitted by having more folks in the store, or folks that wouldn’t normally have come, come to the store, but I think that would be wrong.  Perhaps, some day, when I have my great blockbuster break out novel, a Barnes and Noble book signing would be profitable to B & N. But, for people like me, they do it to be good citizens, members of the community and supporters of the arts. Bravo to them, and thanks to them and to my next door neighbor who rallied the parents in our block to come out and support the book.

Check out the pics!

Check out the pics!

When I told the Literary Midwives to send me good vibes for my first author visit I was showered with promises of good vibes as well as articles on how to do it. I went in armed with knowledge, buoyed by my friends’ and my children’s good wishes and my husband’s undying attentiveness. I came out, well, not as well as I’d hoped, but not as bad as some of the horror stories.  I was talking to fourth and fifth graders about writing the five paragraph essay.

If I were to rate myself I’d rate the talk somewhere between mediocre and brilliant, tending towards the first. I have to say that the students and teachers and staff at Red Mountain Elementary School in Ivins, UT couldn’t have been more well behaved, nice and helpful (is that parallel construction?) The students wee delightful and the teachers, despite my many glitches, were grateful.  And the glitches were significant.  I did two presentations.  I felt confident and connected with the kids immediately (thank you twelve years of Girl Scout Leader duty). But having forgotten all those twelve years, I had no watch.  Well I did, I just didn’t look at it.  My presentation, which at home lasted 35 minutes and I expected to expand to an hour, was only a little over half done when I caught my husband using the sign for closing the pargraph that I’d been using with the kids.  The next classes started streaming in.  I didn’t dissolve on the floor into a puddle of tears, but I tried to wrap up and recover in my best Girl Scout style.

Second presentation.  Should be better, right? The wheels were turning to see what do I cut.  I knew what I should cut, the engagement with the kids, but I love that, and then I’d be lecturing and they’d fall asleep.  I am an adult, however, and realized that was what I must do. So I climbed once again on my horse and began, my trusty I phone acting as my remote for the Power Point (actually Mac Keynote) presentation with presenter notes right on my phone’s screen. And then it died. I lost connectivity. Even though one of the teachers tried to get it, nothing worked.  I had to resort to carrying my laptop around.  Thanks, MacBook Air, for being light.  But….there were no presenter notes on my screen! I was actually ready for this eventuality and I was counting on my presenter notes and….they were gone. 

Never fear, I said to myself.  I gave plenty of slide presentations when I was working back millions of years ago.  I’d write the presentation one day, run over it a couple of times, and presto! I could go without notes.  Remember, a million years ago, there were no hidden presenter notes, you’d have to carry sheafs of paper in your hand and then change with every slide, you couldn’t walk around like I wanted to do with the kids.  But my memory failed me.  I hadn’t practiced this presentation a couple of times, I’d practiced it 10, fifteen times. And still I drew an almost blank.  I forgot some of my most salient points and then I’d have to go back to them. I did finish on time, but I know I didn’t engage the kids.  Who could? Carrying a laptop as you pace from one side of the gym to the other isn’t great. I felt like those folks in the hospital pushing the stick with all the bags around and having tubes coming out all over the place. And I got flustered. 

Other things I had trouble with, how do you dismiss an answer that’s not so close to what you wanted that you can’t use it but it’s close enough without being dismissive? How do you handle off the wall comments? I realized as I was there, that I couldn’t say, like I did in Girl Scouts, “Come on guys, get real!” What do you say to a young lady who says “I’ve never read Harry Potter” and she seemed to be proud? How do you cut off the discussion? 

Having survived was a an accomplishment. Now I know what I must change.  How to change it? Any suggestions? I am going to send the teachers a little note thanking them and asking them what was good, what was helpful what wasn’t helpful. What they would have liked better.  I hope they’ll respond and be honest. I’ll talk to Apple and find those presenter notes and get me a cheap back up remote. I must resolve not to be flustered and take a minute to problem solve, even though it’s embarrassing.  And I’ll put times at significant points in my slides.  Any help will be appreciated.  I have one other one in two weeks, March 28th.  I’ll be talking to 7th and 8th graders as well as fourth and fifth.  Hope they are as nice as Red Mountain’s Students and don’t eat me alive.

 

 

First Author Visit

When I told the Literary Midwives to send me good vibes for my first author visit I was showered with promises of good vibes as well as articles on how to do it. I went in armed with knowledge, buoyed by my friends’ and my children’s good wishes and my husband’s undying attentiveness. I came out, well, not as well as I’d hoped, but not as bad as some of the horror stories.  I was talking to fourth and fifth graders about writing the five paragraph essay.

If I were to rate myself I’d rate the talk somewhere between mediocre and brilliant, tending towards the first. I have to say that the students and teachers and staff at Red Mountain Elementary School in Ivins, UT couldn’t have been more well behaved, nice and helpful (is that parallel construction?) The students were delightful and the teachers, despite my many glitches, were grateful.  And the glitches were significant.  I did two presentations.  I felt confident and connected with the kids immediately (thank you twelve years of Girl Scout Leader duty). But having forgotten all those twelve years, I had no watch.  Well I did, I just didn’t look at it.  My presentation, which at home lasted 35 minutes and I expected to expand to an hour, was only a little over half done when I caught my husband using the sign for closing the pargraph that I’d been using with the kids.  The next classes started streaming in.  I didn’t dissolve on the floor into a puddle of tears, but I tried to wrap up and recover in my best Girl Scout style.

Second presentation.  Should be better, right? The wheels were turning to see what do I cut.  I knew what I should cut, the engagement with the kids, but I love that, and then I’d be lecturing and they’d fall asleep.  I am an adult, however, and realized that was what I must do. So I climbed once again on my horse and began, my trusty I phone acting as my remote for the Power Point (actually Mac Keynote) presentation with presenter notes right on my phone’s screen. And then it died. I lost connectivity. Even though one of the teachers tried to get it, nothing worked.  I had to resort to carrying my laptop around.  Thanks, MacBook Air, for being light.  But….there were no presenter notes on my screen! I was actually ready for this eventuality and I was counting on my presenter notes and….they were gone.

Never fear, I said to myself.  I gave plenty of slide presentations when I was working back millions of years ago.  I’d write the presentation one day, run over it a couple of times, and presto! I could go without notes.  Remember, a million years ago, there were no hidden presenter notes, you’d have to carry sheafs of paper in your hand and then change with every slide, you couldn’t walk around like I wanted to do with the kids.  But my memory failed me.  I hadn’t practiced this presentation a couple of times, I’d practiced it 10, fifteen times. And still I drew an almost blank.  I forgot some of my most salient points and then I’d have to go back to them. I did finish on time, but I know I didn’t engage the kids.  Who could? Carrying a laptop as you pace from one side of the gym to the other isn’t great. I felt like those folks in the hospital pushing the stick with all the bags around and having tubes coming out all over the place. And I got flustered.

Other things I had trouble with, how do you dismiss an answer that’s not so close to what you wanted that you can’t use it but it’s close enough without being dismissive? How do you handle off the wall comments? I realized as I was there, that I couldn’t say, like I did in Girl Scouts, “Come on guys, get real!” What do you say to a young lady who says “I’ve never read Harry Potter” and she seemed to be proud? How do you cut off the discussion?

Having survived was a an accomplishment. Now I know what I must change.  How to change it? Any suggestions? I am going to send the teachers a little note thanking them and asking them what was good, what was helpful what wasn’t helpful. What they would have liked better.  I hope they’ll respond and be honest. I’ll talk to Apple and find those presenter notes and get me a cheap back up remote. I must resolve not to be flustered and take a minute to problem solve, even though it’s embarrassing.  And I’ll put times at significant points in my slides.  Any help will be appreciated.  I have one other one in two weeks, March 28th.  I’ll be talking to 7th and 8th graders as well as fourth and fifth.  Hope they are as nice as Red Mountain’s Students and don’t eat me alive.

“Gopher to the Rescue, A Volcano Recovery Story” by Terry Catasús Jennings

“Gopher to the Rescue, a Volcano Recovery Story” came into the world at the beginning of February. Published by Sylvan Dell and including lots of educational activities, both within the book and on-line (for owners) it relates the surprising story of how tiny gophers played a part in the recovery of huge Mount St. Helens. “Gopher” is an engaging story about how the recovery took place. It stresses the interconnectedness of life and celebrates an unlikely hero. Accompanying “Gopher,” Kool Cat (KC), the first feline blogger, has begun hosting a website/blog for elementary school students, KC’s Wild Facts (kc’swildfacts.com). There, elementary students will find fun science facts and gentle prods to find more fun facts about the topic on their own and even write about it. KC will post every two weeks. I hope teachers will find this to be a useful tool. And of course, information on purchasing “Gopher to the Rescue” is available there.
Two things amazed me about working with Sylvan Dell on this project. The first was the amount of care that was given to every word and the meticulous vetting of the book by experts. This book was vetted by US Geologic Service scientists, and scientists at Mount St. Helens. The other thing that impresses me about this book is the amount of additional information, (some of it I authored, other they developed) which is included in the Sylvan Dell website for students to enjoy. The book is available as an e-book and is also available in Spanish. Take a look, even if I say so, I think this book is not only engaging, but a great resource.

The Difference is Love

Not twenty feet from me a life went out, like a spent candle, without fanfare or fuss and I wondered how it could have happened. Where was the chorus of adoring relatives holding one’s hand as you cross over to whatever lies beyond? Where were the codes and the stats and the shouts of “clear” followed by the shock of the paddles on a chest? There was nothing. It was in an emergency room and the life went out so quietly that no one in the other occupied rooms was aware of it. It wasn’t until much later, when someone finally complained about the lengthy wait that a nurse explained there had been “a death—we have to take care of that and then we’ll get to you.”
It was all so routine. Looking back I could now place an overheard conversation in the context of “a death.” It started just like our triage interview had started. “How are you dear and what brings you to see us.” It was said in a cheery voice that belied the tiredness of the eyes. There was something said about breathing and then the question came about how long it had been happening. I either tuned out or there was no more conversation to be heard—I was there because my eye had run into a dead branch in a small town in southern Virginia. I had my computer and I was working. I wasn’t concentrating on anything around me, just catching snippets in between thoughts. At some point I heard the respiratory team called to ER. But there was no sense of urgency at all in the call. There was no hubbub, no consternation. My husband later said there was an elderly gentleman in the waiting room crying—he was probably in his eighties.
Was the medical treatment appropriate? Perhaps there was a “do not resuscitate” order. Perhaps nothing else could have been done. What amazes me is how easily it happened, and that once it happened, it was just something else that had to be taken care of. For the staff in the emergency room, this was just another day. Not at all that they were uncaring or unprofessional. It’s just that death is just one of the many things they have to handle in a day.
My father was the first death that I experienced. I remember wondering how everyone else could go about their business when my world had so suddenly stopped and become empty. How could other folks pick up their kids from school, go to baseball games, watch TV, eat and laugh when a piece of me had just been torn to shreds? How could the rest of us in the emergency room have our scratched eye looked at, our tummy ache soothed, our broken leg set? That lonely man’s world in the lobby of the emergency room had just come to pieces and the rest of us were continuing on—the baseball player got his leg set. I got drops for my eye. We went to our cozy homes. He went to an empty one.
The difference between taking care of a death and grieving because of one is love. If death is such a common place occurrence, we need to live our life with enough love that in the end we’re sure there will be someone in the lobby crying for us.

Slipping Over to the Passenger’s Side

My child is fifteen years old.  So what? You say.  It’s not as if she were getting married, or having a baby!  Oh, but it is, I say.  It’s that and more.  Fifteen is a milestone.  It is the continental divide between adolescence and young adulthood. On the one side is a pimple faced adolescent with moods and personalities that change more frequently than the weather.  On the other side is an individual with a singular purpose, pursued relentlessly at every opportunity – to get the keys to the car.
Fifteen doesn’t sneak up on you.  It hits you right smack in the face the day your kid gets that learner’s permit.  The child who forgets his lunch money daily, is suddenly able to remember each and every document that is needed to get that permit.  The child who never has enough time to study for his Social Studies quiz is now able to recite the driving speeds for all manners of roads.  He is a scholar on which way to turn the wheel when you’re parking on a hill.  The words of choice for the fifteen year old have changed from “What’s for dinner?” to “Can I drive?”
    Fifteen is the time when you become acquainted up close and personal with the topography of every parking lot and quiet street within ten miles of your house.  The day she gets her permit she wants to drive home and you let her.  It is the day you move over and she’s in the driver’s seat.  It is the first time you put your life in her hands.
“You know, Mom, my driver’s ed teacher says we need all the experience we can get before we get our real license.”  This is her mantra.  This mantra makes us deviate ten miles on our Sunday morning drive home from church so that she can “experience” the interstate.    This mantra makes us take roundabout routes that avoid highways at rush hour.  It makes us leave the house ten minutes earlier on the way to school to allow for time for her to make the turn from our neighborhood onto the main road.  On the way to school, the scene is repeated daily. Kids drive up to the school, get their back packs and get out of the car.  Then the Moms sheepishly come out of their cars, try to steal a kiss from their fleeing offspring and give each other that look that says, “Yeah, I have a fifteen year old too.”
The day your child gets her driving permit your relationship changes. She now has a three-ton machine with which to make her point.  Up to this day, you have been trying to mend your ways, to let her fly, to let her make her own decisions and make her own mistakes.  You try to respect the fact that she is a responsible person even though she waited until Tuesday to start the research paper due on Wednesday.  You try not to nag when she chooses to watch reruns of “The Simpsons” rather than study for that Algebra test–never mind that she has a B+ and a great grade would mean an A.  You bite your tongue when she’s not in bed by twelve o’clock since she spent her free time in the afternoon on IM. You feel that you’re getting pretty good at this, and she’s pretty proud of you.
But the day she gets her permit this all changes. Now you feel that you have to impart every bit of driving wisdom you have accumulated over twenty some years of driving. When something goes wrong, you do best in monosyllabic terms like “NO!”, “DON’T!!”, “STOP!!!”.   I do it loudly as I grab the dashboard and put my foot through the floor.  “I thought you weren’t going to yell at me any more,” she says.
“I saw my life flash before me,” I say.
“It hurts my feelings when you yell at me,” she says.
Eventually, I try to put it in perspective.   “You’re just going to have to learn to live with this for the time being,” I say.  “This is the way I am.  If you’re doing something wrong, I don’t have the time or the presence of mind to try to phrase it in a diplomatic way.   By the time I think of a nice way to tell you, we’ll be history or you will have killed somebody.”  She pouts all the way home.
“Next time, I’m going to ask Daddy to take me” she threatens.  That’s meant to be the final insult, but soon she realizes that Daddy dear has even less patience than I do.  She’s stuck with me and slowly but surely we start to turn a corner.  As she learns, there are less reasons to shout.  As I learn, pointed barbs are more fun and effective than yelling ever was.  “Left two wheels on the ground on that turn, did we, Missy?”
Eventually she realizes that all that experience she thought she’d garnered by being a passenger for fourteen years (as she never fails to tell me) isn’t worth diddly. She accepts the fact that even though she’s perfectly capable in her eyes, of driving in the Indianapolis 500, she will still have to take “baby steps” to keep me happy.
Eventually I realize that she is becoming fairly capable.  I relax when she’s driving.  As she gains in skill and confidence (or overconfidence in my eyes), speed becomes an issue and I have to once again, reel her in.  But a bridge has been crossed, through which one can never walk back.  If you trust this child with a vehicle, you’ll find it hard not to trust her to manage all those little things of her life like her studying, her friends, her goals.  When you slipped over to the passenger’s seat, the tables turned.  The child that you carried around for fifteen years, is now carrying you around.  It is the first step in that inexorable march towards the day when she will be taking care of you completely.  You hope that when she does, she won’t yell quite as loud.

Originally published in The Washington Post

Hello world!

To ruminate is to chew your cud.  It’s what cows do.  They chew something over and over until it’s a digestible mush.  That’s what I like to do with words.  I like to chew over and chew over an event, a feeling, an observation in life until I can make sense of it.  I’ve been lucky that some of my ruminations have been published as essays in The Washington Post and in The Reston Connection. I’ll post my weekly columns to begin with.  But since I’ve never been able to keep those reporting wheels from turning in my mind, as life happens, I’ll blog.  Come along and share my Ruminations on a Happenin’ Life.