It Takes a Village to Hatch a Dragon

I just finished writing 20 pages of original work - which breaks down to 7 children's books.  It might not sound like much to some, but this is coming from the woman who never finishes any piece of writing.  I am creatively exhausted and have spent the last hour and a half rearranging my pots of herbs. 

I wrote two different stories about dragons, but could only come up with one dragon name, "Flint".  (Sharon said I couldn't name a dragon "Sparky.")  It also became apparent to me that writing a nice ending isn't my forte.  A typical Eydie ending goes something like this - "And then Flint realized he never had to leave the Renaissance Faire to find his muse.  All was well as he walked home."  I will never complain again about a crappy ending to an otherwise fabulous novel, like Gone Girl: A Novel by Gillian Flynn.  I am DONE complaining about it.  Right now.

It took a village to write these stories.  Prairie Sherry patiently listened to each draft.  Giving authentic advice like:

• "I think Gus the Hamster needs to be exhumed.  You need the pages, girlfriend."  (If you don't remember what she previously said about Gus the Hamster, refer back to the blog "Prairie Girl is Shunned.")

  

  "Wake up, Gus..."

• "Flint needs to misbehave in the grocery store.  Have him throw  a canned ham or something."
• "Add some dialogue.  I simply MUST have more dialogue." (Luckily she wasn't asking for more cowbell). 

Another friend told me all about dragons.  I would never have written a dragon book without his input.  I learned that dragons latch on to whoever is around when they hatch (Inspiration for my book, Dragon Mom.  Titles don't seem to be a forte for me either.), they have an appetite for charred meat, and their blood boils if they are nicked.  Unfortunately he didn't help me come up with any dragon names. 

Sparky????

And then there is my dear, dear friend who sent me the following text:  "Important.  Don't take no shit from your child lit characters."  Isn't that cute?  He knows that my characters, as well as my children, tend to get a tad out of control. 

Guest blogger Lena gave me a fabulous suggestion that I used immediately, I just can't remember what it was.  But, Prairie Friends, you need to remember to check out her blog and see what she is up to in Africa.  www.journeywithlena.blogspot.com

Now it is time to return my energy to collaging, my family & friends, and starting my next dragon story.

Prairie Eydie

I would like to point out that I kept my comments to myself this time around.  Miss Eydie will be back in the saddle...behind the plow...at the churn on Monday.  It has been very lonely out on the prairie this week.

Prairie Sherry

The Art of Surviving a Dump

"Mr. Teacher, I don't get number 17."

Recently I was dumped. Dumped as in, "He dumped me for for that blond in algebra class."  Yes, dear Prairie Readers, I ventured back out into the dating scene at the ripe old age of 57. I discovered that a dump hurts as much now as when I was 16.  

I won't go into the details because that would just have me sobbing over my keyboard, but let's just say that he was a really sweet guy who decided that life with a woman who still obsesses over children's fiction about pioneer life just wasn't in the cards. His loss most certainly.  Every good man needs a Prairie Grl in his life.  

What I will dwell on is the return of the cookie sheet and its many implications.  

At some point in our sixth-month relationship, I gave him one of my three fabulous cookie sheets--the kind that have the degree of shininess so that cookies never over-brown, the kind where the cookies just slide off without additional greasing.  It was truly a gift that bespoke of love and commitment.  Being a beginning baker, he had been dealing with inferior equipment (I'm talking about his cookie sheet, girls.), and he was thrilled with the results from my far superior tools of the trade (still talking cookie sheets).  

So, the breakup occurred  copious tears were shed, and Eydie consoled me via phone, texts, and personal visits.  I  began healing.  "I can do quite nicely without this man.  I am a strong and independent woman.  My personal value is not based on a relationship."  Yada, yada, yada...

Then a large box arrived in the mail with the ex's return address.  Immediately my rational self dissolved, and I envisioned a "I-made-a-terrible-mistake" gift.  Something sentimental and just a wee bit costly.  Gone was my independence and strength. I ripped into the package.

Well, I gave away the climax of the story.  It was the cookie sheet.  Again, the copious tears and the grieving started anew.  Eydie listened to my sad tale and made the appropriate remarks, "What an idiot!  I'd like to smash that sheet right over his head.  I hope his cookies burn in hell..." (the cookies he baked, girls).

Granted, he did send a note with the cookie sheet, but that didn't help much.  The band aid had been ripped off, and we all know how much that hurts.

So I need to relate some sort of lesson that I learned through all this.  For one thing, I learned that sometimes our actions are imbibed with much more meaning than others realize.  In giving him that cookie sheet, I was giving a bit of myself.  He thought he was just returning an object, but to me it was much more.  

Also, I learned that MEN CAN BE REAL POOPS SOMETIMES!!! 
Thank you for allowing me to get that off of my chest.  It was very cathartic.  Our dear Prairie Men, please forgive.  I perfectly understand that females, as well, have this tendency.  I have been the pooper and the poopee.

Oh, and I have learned something else.  When you are really feeling down, throwing yourself into something new is really therapeutic.  Like this writing gig.  I suspect that Eydie knew that when she insisted that we start this blog, "Now!"

And Mr. Cookie Sheet, if you ever google "blogs written by women obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder"  and come across this piece, I forgive you...sort of.

"Bye-bye, Mr. Cookie Sheet."

Prairie Sherry   

P.S.
It being Wednesday, and Wednesday being a perfect day for cookies, let me share a great recipe.  These literally melt in your mouth.

Delicious Cookies

1 cup butter (no nasty margarine) at room temperature
2 cups flour
5 tablespoons sugar (that's all)
1 cup pecans, finely ground 
1 teaspoon water
1/2 teaspoon real vanilla

Cream butter.  Add remaining and combine thoroughly.  Roll in quarter-size balls and place on your cookie sheet (sniff).  Flatten with a floured glass.  Bake at 350 degrees just until light brown on the edges.  Cool on racks and then sprinkle with powdered sugar. 

There's nothing like a good cookie to help mend a broken heart.

The Art of Friendship

Prairie Eydie is off on a family vacation.  She left this post in my capable hands.  Honestly, I didn't touch a thing. 


I believe that the artistic process is meant to be shared.  Sometimes I need to be squirreled away with my writing, and many times it needs to be just me and my rick-rack. But the creative process is more fun when friends are drizzled in.  Especially when you can spend time with Prairie Sherry.  When you work in the same space your energy, creativity, and hearts combine.  Awwwww.  (((Hugs)))  You'll end up with a fresh idea, a new direction, or the courage to scrap a piece of "art"  (or at least what you fervently wanted to call "art", but wasn't).  Added bonus?  You have someone to help you clean up the creative spew. Only Eydie would come up with "spew."  I wonder what would happen if I start calling some of the crap my students turn in "spew?"

So here is what you can do.  Call a friend and meet at a local coffee shop.  Make sure your friend buys the lattes.  Bring your journal or the notebook that your tween only used seven pages of (or your true teen--I have a stack of 14 half-used notebooks that I have accumulated) .  (Be Green, Prairie Friends) (Prairie Grlz are so socially aware.)  

Now you are at the coffee shop and have absolutely nothing to write about.  So spend 37 minutes gossiping about co-workers and Paula Deen.  I would prefer to discuss the world energy crisis, but I gossip to make Eydie happy.  Then refer to Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life(or People Magazine)  to kick start your writing.  (I first encountered this book on my Grandma's kitchen table when I was 22 and have never been without a copy since.  My copy is bloated and autographed since it was rained on during a Pacific Northwest camping trip. You can see the black mold on this photo.)  I don't remember my grandma ever having a book on her table.  Sometimes she had a plate of fried headcheese. Yuck!  

Personally, the first book that ever made me want to become a writer was Valley of the Dolls.  My friend Mary and I pinched a copy from one of our mothers.  Whew!  Steamy!!    

The "bloated" copy.

Here is one of my favorite prompts from Wild Mind.

Do a timed writing for ten minutes. She does have a timer.  Begin it with "I remember" and keep going.  To begin with "I remember" does not mean have to write only about your past.  Once you get going, you follow your own mind where it takes you.

Being a teacher, I wrote an example for you. 

"I remember collaging with Sharon for an extended weekend up North.  We brought so many supplies and a huge stack of canvases.  All the tiny bits were neatly organized into manila envelopes and plastic bins.  By the end of the weekend we had run out of canvases.  Paper, buttons, and stickers littered every surface. 

We didn't know what to do without canvases.  Totally lost.  Our t-shirts were stained and we were wearing droopy pajama pants.   We had been living on crusty bread, imported cheese, and bottled water for two days.  Since we were in Northern Wisconsin, we decided to brush on a little mascara and head out to a fish fry.  No one would ever see us again.

We returned to the cottage reeking of grease.  Feeling energized, we decided to move on to making wreaths.  We hot glued vintage Christmas tree ornaments to grapevine wreaths.  Visions of shabby chic mantles were dancing through our heads.  We soon learned that you can't hot glue glass ornaments, because they WILL fall off.  We frantically reglued and stressed out as ornaments fell off the wreaths faster than we could reglue them.  Finally we threw the wreaths and horrible ornaments away.  It felt so good to be free."

In reality, we were drinking Malbec. Don't let Eydie kid you.  We collaged for 48 hours straight.  I can't even describe to you how bad we looked (and smelled)--unwashed, blurry-eyed, dehydrated...

If you're not the writing type, you can always collage with a pal.  Below is a collage that Sharon and I made together.  Actually I think she did most of the work and I just added some flowers and buttons. Eydie thought that it didn't have quite enough bling.  Pretty typical some might say. Yup, Eydie is the blingy one.  But it remains one of my favorite collages because we created it together. Sniff. 

This would be Eydie circa 1956.

Prairie Eydie (and Prairie Sherry)

A literary classic.

The Truth About Lying

"Does this hurt, Miss Puttmann?"

I am doing a little physical therapy this summer.  I have a wee shoulder issue that sends searing pain to my upper arm.  Not a major problem unless I attempt to pull a shirt over my head over my head or lift anything heavier than a pencil.  Yes, I have procrastinated a bit dealing with this.  Remember my physical of several weeks ago (stirrups but no ponies...)?  My doctor decided that my summer should include 6-8 trips to PT.  I made the first today.

I spent an hour going through a series of "tests" which involved the therapist tying my body into a variety of pretzel shapes to see what was truly causing the pain.  Then she ran me through the "exercises"--to be done 3 times a day along with massive amounts of icing (not the frosting kind).  I never was a dancer or a cheerleader.  In fact, I was a Jazzercise dropout in the early 80's.  I can't memorize exercises or routines.  I have no left-right orientation.  I always use the wrong arm or move in the wrong direction.  My therapist could see she was dealing with a special case when I was finding it difficult to mimic even her simpliest moves.  She printed out six pages of instructions to go home with me.  Like that is going to help.

Truth be told, I cheat at physical therapy.  Oh, I start out promising myself that I am going to faithfully adhere to the regime, but by day two I have usually lost the instructions and let the scheduled exercise times slip from my mind.  It is like my brief stint at piano lessons.  I never practiced.  Well, 15 minutes before I was to leave the house for the lesson, I would crack the spine of the music book and attempt the first measure.  Right before I get out of my car for the next PT appointment, I will pretzel myself in the car a bit and call it good.  For these particular exercises, I may have to open the sunroof for my overhead stretches and then dangle my left arm out the driver's side window.  I am glad it is summer.

When I ran this idea past Eydie, she said, "It is like lying to the dentist about flossing."  Lie about flossing?  I was totally shocked.  I religiously floss every night, sometimes twice if I have had a little extra snack after the initial toothbrush session.  She lies to her dental hygenist.  I may lie to my doctor about how many cups of coffee I drink per day, but I would never tell a falsehood about something as sacred as dental floss.  But then Eydie is the type who stretches the truth about the actual dates of her children's birthdays, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

During my brief stint as a Roman Catholic, I learned about venial (itty bitty) and mortal (humongous)sins.  I am figuring that lies about PT exercises, piano practicing, and flossing won't put the two of us into the burning fires for all of eternity.  But when do you cross that line?

All of this brings me to Pa Ingalls.  Eydie and I have discussed, ad nauseum, a moral issue that occurred in The Long Winter.  The Ingalls Family is slowly starving to death as the umpteenth blizzard hits their small Dakota Territory town.  Pa leaves the family huddled around their last potato skin to go to Almanzo and Royal's house.  Pa finds the brothers tucking into a feast of flapjacks made from  the seeds that were to be used for the spring's wheat crop.  Pa sits down to join them.  Remember the Garth Williams drawing of Pa with the huge stack dripping in melted brown sugar before him?  Of course you do.  Pa returns to his starving family with no doggy bag and no mention of the feast.  A sin of omission!!!  Now I would put this one in the biggy category, much worse than a teeny fib about doing a stretching exercise. 

    

Stack of flapjacks
(perhaps the originals)
                                                             

And while I was hunting around for flapjack picture, I came across this quote that I believe came from Laura Ingalls Wilder's first, The Little House in the Big Woods.  It is a bit disturbing.  It deals with that whole "crossing the line" thing.

                 "Once you begin being naughty, 

                 it is easier to go on and on, 

                 and sooner or later something

                 dreadful happens."

I think my mom use to say something like this to me now and then.  I suppose if I don't watch my P's and Q's with this venial stuff, I could end up in the state pen by the time the time I am 65, and I don't think they let felons collect Social Security.  I wonder if prisoners are allowed to blog?

And no, good readers, I haven't forgotten it is Michael Landon Monday.  I found this shot of M.L.  It just proves his incredible versatility as an actor.  

I Was a Teenage Werewolf,
released in 1957,
with Michael Landon playing Tony Rivers. 

Prairie Sherry 

P.S.
Be daring, be brave, be bold.  Become a "Priaire Grlz Follower."  Just click on the "Join This Site" button at the right-hand top of the page.  It makes Eydie and Sharon feel good.

Guest Blogger Lena Finds Inspiration With Prairie Grlz

Prairie Grlz are far more than two-soul sistahs following their passions, they are an inspiration!!

As I write this blog sitting on the plains of a Wisconsin farm enjoying a Sassy Cow 
vanilla ice cream cone, I am reminded of how much my life has been influenced by these women.



As middle-aged tiara wearing women creating their own art,

Eydie and Lena (guest blogger) making middle-age look good!

they have shown me that it is never to late to start pursuing your dreams and discovering who you are.



Laura Ingalls Wilder at 19

Laura Ingalls Wilder is the perfect model for these Prairie Grlz as she was a teacher at 15, mother at 19, and finally a writer in her 50's. I am wondering if life has to be experienced before one can truly discover who they are and begin to express it. It seems to be true for us as we become artists and authors in our 40's and 50's!!!!

Only a year ago, I found myself wallowing through the empty-nesting stage of life. My whole adult life had been centered around raising my two children. Days and weekends full of hockey/dance practices, games/recitals, and boy/girl sleepovers. Once they moved out, I found myself lost. It seemed I couldn't find my way out of the maze I was stuck in. As the 'older girl' wrote about her realization that she was about to become an "old mature bird sitting on an empty nest" I realized I was just like her. I too was not about let boredom become my vocabulary.

Eydie pushed me to discover my artistic and creative side by designing collages and making cards. I found myself changing my daughters bedroom into an art studio. Now, my once spotless house is in chaos! In any corner, at any time, you will find an abundance of stickers, glue sticks, mod-podge, scissors, buttons, rick-rack, ribbon, canvases, and any worthy object to be applied to a collage. I remember Eydie once said, "Stop being so matchy-matchy in your art, get funky!" Here is the collage that came from that advice.

But the inspiration hasn't stopped there. This summer I will be venturing on a month long mission trip to Tanzania, Africa. While I am gone, I will be writing a blog for the first time. After reading daily blogs of Prairie Grlz, I was inspired to tell my story. Sharon has been my guide into the navigating of my BlogSpot. Thank you Prairie Sherrie!!! Be sure to check out my adventures at www.journeywithlena.blogspot.com.

So...............thank you Prairie Grlz for the inspiration!!!!

Honorary Prairie Grl Lena

The Art and Anxiety of Selling

If any of my children are genetically predisposed to careers in sales, I probably destroyed their chances early on in their lives.  When they brought home the fund raising packets from school for overpriced wrapping paper, waxy chocolates, and Reader's Digest subscriptions, I tossed them into the garbage with the lofty proclamation, "This family doesn't do fund raisers..." Being a teacher, I have sat through enough fund raising presentations to know of the plastic riches promised to children who will  wheedle and pester their relatives and neighbors to buy crap.  I allowed my children to believe that their mother existed on this higher moral plane where such activities were tantamount to child labor and commercial slavery.  

The truth is, it was my terror talking.  Dear Prairie Readers, let me take you back to 1963 and second grade.  While I wanted to join Brownies, there was no troop available, so my mother opted for the shoddy substitute, Camp Fire Girls.  We didn't have the flashy uniforms with the coveted beanies, our pledge was not something you would remember down through the ages and be able to recite on your deathbed, and there were no cookie sales.  Instead we sold "butterscotch discs"--nasty pseudo-butterscotch candy that came in a round tin.  I think these tins sat in warehouses for several years before being shipped out for sales, as the candy always stuck to the wrappers and had a faint rancid odor.

Even at age seven, I had this sense of foreboding as my camp leader stacked two dozen tins into my stick arms with the admonishment that all must be sold before the week's end.  As I staggered to my mother's car, I had hopes that she would see this as an opportunity to do some early Christmas shopping (the candy sale was in April), and she would whip out her checkbook and make a mass purchase of all twenty-four tins.  

Alas, the reputation of the quality of the product preceded it, and my mother bought one measly tin and then sent me out into the neighborhood to unload the 23 remaining. Remember, this was a time before the concerns of stranger-danger, and sending a 7 year-old off  alone to ring the doorbells of unknown homes  was considered perfectly reasonable.

It was at this point that I realized that I had major anxiety issues regarding selling.  I could not force myself to go up a driveway let alone ring a doorbell. As I sat in the neighborhood park pushing down my panic and weighing my options, I sampled a piece of my wares.  It was as bad as expected.  Sellers anxiety plus an inferior product led me to my only recourse--lying.  I headed home, told my mother that I couldn't find a single buyer in the neighborhood, and figured that this was the end of the entire enterprise.

Oh no, my mother saw this as a learning experience, and being concerned with my sales technique, she then sent my sister along with me.  That is when I resorted to tears.  I stood on the curb with my sister by my side and I howled.  I recall Sis took pity on me and bought a tin so that I only had 22 remaining.  After that, I don't have any recollection, but I do know that this was my last year as a Camp Fire Girl. 

There were other times during my childhood when I was forced to sell things, but let's just say that none of them turned out well and the anxiety was just reinforced.  Obviously, I stayed far away from the School of Business at UW-Eau Claire during my years as an undergrad, opting instead for the School of Education.  Safe choice.

Just to prove that change is possible even when one has reached the dark side of her 50's, let us fast forward to the summer of 2010.  As I mentioned in a previous post, divorce does a number on family budgets, and I was facing a bit of a monetary shortfall.  Good friends of mine, Paul Ehrhardt and Kay Jensen own an organic farm just north of Madison, JenErh Family Farm.  They asked me to manage their stand at the Dane Country Farmers' Market on the Capitol Square each Saturday morning. Alas, managing also means selling.

Terror doesn't quite describe what I was feeling, but several outstanding bills scared me more.  I decided it give it a try for several weeks, just until I could find something else.  My first morning I arrived at the square at 6 AM, learned the intricacies of setting up a farm stand (display is everything), strapped on a money belt, and began greeting customers.

My co-worker Sarah and our fabulous beets!

What I have found is, if I really believe in my product, I can sell it.  Noxious artificially-flavored candies? No.  Free-range chickens who actually had a happy life and veggies just hours from non-tainted fields? Yes!  And I love interacting with my customers--foodies like me who don't wince at paying a bit more for quality.  People who will share a recipe or a storage idea for root vegetables without knowing your name.  Gone is the anxiety.  Instead I wake up at 4:30 on Saturday mornings from mid April to late November pumped.  I glory in the fact when we have had a good sales day.  My only tears are when we do not.

This is me at market on a cold May day
extolling on the virtues of ruffled kale.

And this new feeling of retail empowerment has gone into my Prairie Grlz experience.  Never would I had thought that I would actually be thinking of opening an Etsy site to sell things that I have made.  Instead of terrifying, and I finding it exciting.  I love what Eydie and I are creating, and I want to share it with others.  I am looking forward to our launch in mid August.  

Lesson learned.  Take pride in what what you do, and do something that you believe in.   Don't sell crap.

Prairie Sherry

PS!!  PS!! 

Tomorrow WE HAVE A GUEST BLOGGER!!  Our first!!!  Please tune in and meet Prairie Grl Lena.  She has won a Prairie Grlz t-shirt for her efforts.  I'd show you one, but we haven't gotten them back from the printers yet.

Prairie Grlz will be taking a break from the blog on Thursday and Friday of this week.  I am sure that on the 4th I will be slopping Mod Podge on something. 

  

We are all walking each other back home

Much of my art is inspired by either a quote or a retro lady wearing bright red lipstick.  Sometimes a Hummel will strut over my canvas, but not very often.

I am a huge fan of OWN's (Oprah Winfrey Network) Super Soul Sunday.  Oprah has amazing thought leaders on as guests.  Gems like:  Rainn Wilson (Check out "Dwight Schrute's" website, www.soulpancake.com for some fun and insight into your soul), Brene Brown (love her new book, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead), Dr. Wayne Dyer (does it get better than, The Power of Intention: Learning to Co-create Your World Your Way?), and Don Miguel Ruiz (If everyone read his book, The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom (A Toltec Wisdom Book), the world would be a different place.  From personal experience, I can attest that not taking things personally eliminates a lot of pain.). 

One Sunday I was watching Ram Dass (former colleague of Timothy Leary at Harvard) on Super Soul Sunday.  Ram said, "We are all walking each other back home."  I immediately reached for my Super Soul Sunday notebook (I am such a geek.  I have the official Oprah notebook - free for the first one million respondents.) and wrote it down.  And then I went in my studio and made a collage.  One of my favorites ever.  It hangs by my bedroom door so I can see it often.

I don't have a problem walking home people I like or love.  Bring it on.  I'll listen to you cry about the dumb-ass boy who left you for a buck toothed girl.  I'll pick up your kids from ballet practice.  And I'll clap my hands joyfully when you tell me your latest artistic accomplishment.  Count on me to be your biggest fan if I like you. 

But, I DO have a problem walking home people I don't like.  And then having them escort me to my front door???  Forget it.  As Anne Lamott says:  “You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”

I was pretty sure Ram wasn't referring to just prancing around with people you already liked.  So, I grudgingly admit that I learn the most from people I don't even want to be around. 

I learn from the over-achieving mothers who send cupcakes on their child's actual birthday.  I take creative license to move my children's birthdays around to a date that works with my schedule.  In fact, next year I am moving all of their birthdays to July so I don't have to send in cupcakes adorned with gummy worms to school and preschool.  Okay.  These over-achieving mothers show me how to step up my game, but not too much. 

I learn from the student who I wish would be absent, but who is there each and every freakin' day.  I learn from this student (and there is a fresh supply each and every year!) patience and how to be a stronger teacher.  Oh, and I learn more patience. 

I learn from the person who never stops talking about themselves and their problems.  I learn how people want to be heard.  I also choose friends who know how to listen.  Here is a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh (Another of Oprah's Super Soulers!  He taught Oprah how to mindfully drink a cup of tea.  Which reminds me of the time Sharon and I went on a silent, mindfulness retreat.  Yeah.  After mindfully eating our skimpy salad, we broke out to go and shop on State Street.)  "The most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention.  When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers."  Awww.  I am going to remember that when my boys want to give me a tour of their latest Lego battleground. 

Now it is time to turn our attention to Michael Landon Monday.  Did you know that Michael Landon was married three times and is survived by 9 children?  (Sorry Prairie Friends.  Sharon took all the images of Michael without a shirt.) 

Mighty vicious looking hoe, there (added by Prairie Sherry).

Prairie Eydie