A Letter to my Friend Sue McGuiness Wall (1962 – 2012)

Sue and her daughters with their piping hot apple pies.
American Gothic House, August, 11, 2011

Dear Sue,

I just got back from your funeral. It was a full house at the Catholic church you attended. You were attending today alright. Just not in the way you would have liked. You would have approved of the service. Your students were there in matching T-shirts taking up several rows. Your whole family was there, your parents and siblings, and god knows how many other relatives and friends of all ages. Your girls sat in the front pew. They were very brave and they looked beautiful. You did a really good job raising them and though you left early you can be assured you gave them a strong and solid foundation on which to continue building. Everyone was so sad at your farewell, I think Kleenex stock went up today as a result.

I drove up from Eldon, which as you know since you had come down to see me last summer, is a two-hour drive. Six months ago when you came down with your two teen daughters to bake pie in the American Gothic House you were beaming and energetic. And though I knew you were still fighting back the cancer I thought nothing could keep you down. I remember you telling me how you had originally gone to the doctor about a sprained ankle or something and came out with a diagnosis for ovarian cancer. Oh man! But this cancer wasn’t going to get YOU, by god. Not you. Not fierce and fiery Sue. I was sure, with your determination, that remission was the only possible outcome. I was so impressed with your positive attitude, moved by it, inspired by it. If I were in your position I can only imagine how much I would be complaining and crying and carrying on. But not you. You made chemo look like a cakewalk. I used to get your emails with your doctor’s reports. You never wavered in your hope, your optimism, your humor. “More chemo?” you would say. “Bring it on!” Your display of strength and grace is something that will always stick with me. I wish you knew what an impact you’ve had on me, how deeply your warm, strong spirit has touched and influenced my life.

I thought about you as I made my way north for your service, about how of all the things, you probably won’t miss Iowa’s winter weather. It was 19 degrees today, bordering on bitter cold. But the roads were clear (thank goodness, because I wouldn’t have been able to make the drive otherwise -- I never did get snow tires on my Mini Cooper). The sky was blue and the sun was shining brightly, which made me think you had a clear view from wherever you are now. Some call it heaven. Some say you are in a parallel universe. Some say you become energy that can move anywhere. I wish I knew. I wish we could still talk and email each other. If there really is some other world “up there” then I hope you’ll go find Marcus. Give him a hug from me and then ask him to take you on a motorcycle ride. There’s nothing nicer than feeling the wind in your face. (Well, to me there was nothing nicer than feeling the wind in my face while having my arms wrapped around my husband’s gorgeous body.)

Speaking of gorgeous husbands, I finally met yours. He was standing in the chapel, the small one off the main church, where you were –how do I say this respectfully – on display. I had just gotten done talking to you, saying goodbye, telling you how disappointed I was that you couldn’t stick around. I leaned over to sniff the roses that adorned you and when I turned around I spotted a very handsome, fit gentleman who stepped toward me. I figured it was Brad. It was. Before I could introduce myself he said, “You’re the pie lady.” I had to laugh. He started right in on how good those pies were you and your daughters made last August. I was nervous and didn’t quite know what to say, even though I know from losing Marcus that the only thing to say is “I’m sorry for your loss.” But we managed to talk about a few other things – besides pie, I mean – and he said running is helping him. I said I wished I could still exercise the way I used to but that instead of producing endorphins, running only dredges up suppressed grief. I told him he could send the girls down to my place this summer to help with my pie stand. He said thanks but he’s going to take some time off and focus on family, and stay busy.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that your husband possesses similar strength, grace and optimism to yours. You guys even look alike. I’m not sure how his clothes came up in the conversation, but he pointed out that you had picked out the suit he was wearing. That broke my heart to think of you having that conversation with him, that you knew you might not make it and how you might have prepared for it, and even picked out his clothes for the funeral. Two things of note here, Sue: one, you have excellent taste (in both clothes and men) and two, your husband actually did what you asked! I think you must have had a very good marriage. I also think he must be a very good dad and will love and protect your daughters with all his heart.

Oh, and speaking of funeral clothes, you looked very pretty in your grey sweater set and your sparkly hoop earrings. Your head was bald. I was glad they didn’t try to disguise you with a wig. Bald suits you. Not everyone can pull off the look but with your freckled complexion it worked. Last time I saw you your hair was just growing back for the second time, coming in soft and fuzzy and a little grey. Of course it was very disappointing – to say the least – to see you just lying there and unable to have a conversation. I really wanted to see you smile. Your smile was one of your greatest traits (of many.) The picture they used on the funeral program showed your impish grin. The shot really captured your essence and I kept staring at your picture throughout the service. Seeing your smiling face in that picture didn’t help stop the tears or make me forget you were in that casket just a few feet away—au contraire—but it did remind me of what a force of life you were. By the way, the priest got a few laughs when he described you as stubborn. That made me a little proud. If you ask me, stubbornness is an essential quality and I liked how yours was acknowledged in a loving way.

You and your crazy curly
red hair -- and striped socks.
Ah, high school.
Those were the days.

I know we weren’t that close in high school. Friends, yes, but you know how in our small parochial school we all split off into our little cliches. But when I returned to Iowa in August of 2010, you came to see me judging pies at the Iowa State Fair. You charged through the crowd in your yellow slicker (it must have been raining that day) and I recognized you and your bright red hair immediately. You wrapped your arms around me in a powerful embrace and you flashed that signature smile of yours. You made me feel so welcome, so special, and in that instant we were connected in a way we hadn’t been in our teen years. We didn’t get to see each other that often in the past year and a half since I moved back to Iowa, but I liked how we kept in touch through emails and phone calls. And then, of course, through the pie lesson. That was such a great day, last August. I still have the adorable apron you brought me, the blue and white checkered one with the jewels sewn around the bib. It’s my favorite and I will always cherish it because it will always make me think of you rolling pie dough in my kitchen that day, laughing, talking, sharing stories, so full of life.

Ah life. Why do I still have one and you don’t? Well, maybe you do. Yes, definitely you do. Just in another form now. That energy of yours could never die. It continues. It permeates. It remains. It reminds us to stay strong. Like you.

When I got home from your funeral – when I got done bawling my eyes out – oh, and I’m very sorry I didn’t stay for the burial or the lunch afterward. I could feel the grief building and I didn’t know how long I could contain it. I wanted to talk to your parents and your girls. But I knew and respected my limits. The last funeral I went to was Marcus’s. I knew it was going to be tough to go to yours. It was. It seems very wrong that the last two funerals I attended were for people – good people – in their forties. I hope the next funeral I go to is for someone who lived to 105. That would be cause for celebration, not tears. Anyway, I was saying, when I got home from your funeral I read through our exchange of emails and came across this one from exactly one year ago to the day. Here’s what you wrote:

“Last weekend I participated in a retreat at church to tell my ‘story’ and the importance of having such an amazing community of people to rely on. While I was there, I purchased a daily devotional book entitled Heaven Calling. I had to laugh at the devotional for yesterday (chemo day). It was entitled ‘Mission Impossible?’ and I'd like to share an excerpt with you: ‘I know you child—your strengths and weaknesses. I also know your beliefs about what you can or cannot do. As a father has compassion for his children, I have compassion for you. Yet I wouldn't be a good Father if I didn't know when to stretch your limits. Precious one, trust me to know what you can and cannot do. Whatever task I call you to, I will give you exactly what you need to do it.’

Then you added:

"From one strong woman to another, sometimes it sucks being this strong, but at day's end I wouldn't have it any other way."

No, Sue. As one strong (and stubborn) woman to another, I’m sure you wouldn’t. I am so grateful to have known you, to have learned from you, to have been infected by your contagious smile. Good luck on your new journey, my friend. I look forward to seeing you again. Until then, I send you all my love and gratitude.

Beth

PS: Brad said you were an avid reader of my blog, so I thought it only fitting to write this blog post for you. Miss you, girl!

Teaching Pie Making in a South African Township

What? You thought I traveled all the way to South Africa for a vacation? Think again. I am not the kind of person who can sit on a beach for a week (though sometimes I wish I was). The purpose of my trip two and a half continents away from Iowa was two-fold. One: to take a break before the onslaught of my book launch. Turns out that even though I wrote the book a full year ago, launching it into the world brings up a whole new mess of emotions. And two: to test drive my next book, "World Piece." The idea for this book is to bake pie around the world, sharing our American-style custom and learning about other cultures' versions of pies (and believe me, every culture has one). And if I'm going to tackle the entire globe, I have to start somewhere. Why not start near Cape Town, South Africa where (a) it's summer (while it's snowing in Iowa) and (b) I have a good friend, Alayne, who would help me get immersed in the local scene quickly. So quickly, in fact, that a few hours after I landed Alayne had secured a pie class venue in the township of Kayamandi. For over 100 kids.

Kayamandi is a privileged township as far as townships go. (Remember, "township" is a euphemism for slum.) It is supported by various NGOs and with the vision, leadership and labors of local Stellenbosch resident Hannes Van Zyl, it has a clean and modern center for after-school programs. Hannes understood my approach to pie and its "therapeutic value" and arranged for me to spend an afternoon teaching my craft in the township.

My host (and good friend) Alayne not only helped arrange the class and took me shopping for pie making ingredients, she accompanied me to the class. (She also drove me because I'm still too terrified to drive on the left hand side of the road.) She took initiative and began the long process of peeling 16 kilograms of apples -- which is 35 pounds.

The kids arrived and were excited to help. I have taught many pie classes and had to teach many an adult how to peel an apple. Not here. These kids knew how to use a paring knife and made the work go quickly.

I had trepidation about teaching this class because I didn't think the South African kids would know what pie was, let alone be enthusiastic about making it. I thought the whole effort might fall flat and be a total bust. I was very wrong. Pie is a known entity in this country -- they have meat pies and a sweet favorite called Melktert, which is a sweet custard pie. The kids' enthusiasm was so great  I was lucky to have some extra adults on hand to keep them from jumping onto the tables. That said, I was blown away by the good manners and listening skills of these darling, incredibly well-behaved students.

Pie dough calls for ice water. Since we didn't have ice cubes, we froze water in plastic bottles ahead of time. This was fine with me because one of my favorite points to make is: Pie is about improvisation!

Speaking of improvisation, I had to throw some of my pie-making mandates out the window. Namely, there was no way I could preach about not overworking the dough when we had so many kids wanting a hands-on experience and not enough work stations to accommodate everyone. They ALL wanted to help and I was not about to stop them!

Look at all those busy hands in the bowl of dough. Not one of them complained about getting their hands dirty. This was a first for me.

Yeah, that's me (above) -- one big blur because I never stopped moving long enough to have my photo taken. I ran from table to table answering cries for help. "Teacher, teacher, can you show us how to roll the dough" and "We need more flour" and "We need some help."  I happily came running. Literally. At least it helped me (temporarily) forget about my jet lag.

The center supplied rolling pins -- child-size ones, no less. I'm going to have to invest in some of those when I get home.

Happiness is 20 kids making one pie. Look at the flour on their hands. Look at the smiles on their faces. If this doesn't make my 24 hours on 3 different airplanes worth the trip, I don't know what does.

A perfectly placed flour hand print. A perfect smile. (above)

Adding the sugar to the apples...(above)

There was never a moment when apples were not being peeled or sliced. As the German saying goes, "Many hands make little work." Everyone pitched in so willingly.

Who knew that the stand-out students would be the teenage boys? These guys took to pie making instantly and naturally. What was especially impressive was their teamwork. What you don't see in the picture is the pie they made with all the leftover dough. It was huge, in a casserole pan, and I saw them fitting pieces of dough into the trough, working together, as if they were contestants on a cooking show. If they lived closer to Eldon, Iowa, I'd happily hire them for my pie stand this summer. I'm not kidding.

They made 12 pies total, plus the big casserole-size one. All apple. All delicious. All made with dedication and love.

This little guy above was by far the smallest kid in the class. But size doesn't matter. He got an A-plus for his hard work. And he offered heaps of help to others, finding and fetching the cinnamon (one shaker shared by the whole room), sprinkling sugar, and did a good job rolling his own dough.

We didn't have aprons so the kids' school uniforms were covered in flour by the time we were done. None of the kids complained, but I wonder what their moms said when they got home.

The students never lost interest, even after the pies went into the ovens. Here (above) a group keeps watch over one of the two ovens we used. This was helpful as the ovens were on two different floors.

The group of teenage boys guarded their pies in the oven behind them, including the super-size casserole pie.

While the pies were baking a group of the kids (mostly girls) spontaneously formed a circle and broke into song and dance. I was running between the two kitchens and only got a brief taste of their music but it was so moving, so powerful, it's just as well I couldn't stay and watch. To know we were in a poverty-stricken area and to witness this expression of joy, this beauty, this celebration of life was almost too much to bear. It was a truly humbling and magnificent moment. I may have been the teacher, but I also learned a lot from these little human beings, so full of life and love.

Here we are in one of the two kitchens. The woman in blue (center) is Mpumi, who coordinated the pie class, with the rolling pins washed and ready for the next class. Yes, I'm teaching a second pie class tomorrow.

Okay, so these may not be the prettiest pies ever produced in one of my classes, but again, let's remember the mantra: Pie is not about perfection. Consider too that we had 100 kids making only 12 pies and English is not even their first language. And I couldn't give instructions in Zulu. But I don't need to make any excuses or apologies for these pies. I was proud of each and every one of them -- of every student and every pie.

Underscoring the politeness and outstanding manners of the kids, they all lined up, youngest to oldest, and waited patiently for a slice of pie. We had to make them wait because even after slicing it, it was still too hot to eat.

One girl was overheard declaring to Mpumi, "I'm going to tell my mom we are going to make this pie every day."

The awning over the entrance to the center says, "Bridge the divide..." I'd like to think that my pie making lesson might help narrow the gap just a little more. I know it did for me.

Guest Blogger: Jack Iken (My Mom is Going to South Africa)

That's me, Jack Iken. I like sticks. A lot.

My mom is packing her suitcase. The big one this time, not the small weekend bag. I don’t like it when my mom leaves. But she needs to take a break from her long days at the computer. She works too much (and doesn’t throw the stick for me enough.) I think she’s been kind of lonely too, since H left. (I miss H too. He was a good stick thrower.) She is going to Cape Town, South Africa to visit her good friend, my Aunt Alayne. I’ve known Aunt Alayne since I was a baby.

My mom is stopping over in Germany, which is where I was born, and it’s where my dad is buried in the ground. But my mom told me she’s not going to visit his grave because, she says, “He’s not really there.” Sometimes I think my dad is here in Iowa because my mom talks to him as if he is in the room. But I don’t see him. I wish I could see him. I wish he would throw the stick for me and let me pull off his socks and chase me around the living room like he used to. I miss my dad. So does my mom. I know this because sometimes she holds me really tight and whispers in my ear, “I miss your dad so much.”

Daisy and I are going to miss our mom when she’s gone. “Two and a half weeks isn’t that long,” she tells us. But in dog years two and a half weeks is more like three and a half months.

I know some things about my mom. I’ve known her seven years, which is like 49 years in dog time, so you could say I’ve known her for her whole life. I know she is afraid of leaving because she equates vacation with someone dying. Her dog before me, Gidget, died when my mom was on vacation. And my dad died when he was on vacation. She hasn’t left Daisy and me for more than four days in the past two and a half years. She hasn’t traveled overseas since she went to Germany for my dad’s funeral.

I always hear her telling people, “It’s a big world out there.” She tells them that when they get stuck in a rut or get too caught up in trying to hang onto something that isn’t working. She likes to give people encouragement and says other stuff like, “Think outside of the box” and “Get out of your comfort zone” and “Expand your thinking” and “Try something different.” Sometimes, when she’s trying to convince someone to really shake things up and go somewhere and be open to something new, she says, “You never know who you’re going to sit next to on the plane.”

I think she is trying to use her own advice on herself. But I know she’s scared about leaving us. And I think she’s even more worried after tonight because when she took us for a walk we heard like five hundred coyotes out in the cornfield. It sounded like they were having a big party and I kind of wanted to check it out. My mom said, “Get back here, young man. Right now. You don’t want to be at that kind of a party. That’s the sound coyotes make when they’re killing something. Now let’s get back inside. NOW. I mean it.”

Daisy and I will be fine. My mom just needs to go to Africa. Even though we are going to miss her, she needs to get out there and flap her wings like a big bird, like the big bald eagles that fly around our neighborhood. Birds always look like they are having so much fun. But, I wonder, do birds like to chase sticks? My mom needs to remember that even though she misses my dad and his death has made her more scared about life, scared about losing more people she loves – or dogs – she’s doing really well. She used to love traveling all over the world – I know this because she used to take me with her in the airplane everywhere she went. My mom always said I should have gotten my own frequent flyer miles, I went back and forth to Germany so many times.

I hope my mom brings me back some cool stuff. Maybe she’ll bring me a big zebra bone. Or a stick from a baobab tree would be really awesome. I promise to be good while she’s gone. Daisy too. And we promise not to die, not while she's away. Not anytime soon. Promise.

I just want my mom to be happy. I want her to come home with a big smile on her face and some good stories to tell us, maybe even something nice about who she sat next to on the plane. And then I want her to not sit at her computer again all the time. I want her to remember it's a big (stick-throwing) world out there.

The Uniqueness of Pie...and People

Like a Miss America pageant, only pie.

I had forgotten what an individual expression pie can be. I get so used to making my same old classic apple pie, stuck on my soapbox preaching "keep it simple" and "I don't like to have to follow a recipe." Apple is certainly delicious pie, but when I attended a "First Annual Pie Palooza" yesterday I was reminded of just how many different pies are possible, and how those pies can reflect its maker. And, really, how variety is the spice of life.

The woman who held the party-slash-pie contest, Carolyn, lives in a neighboring town to mine. She and her twin sister Marilyn and their friend had stopped by my Pitchfork Pie Stand this summer and bought a few slices. Carolyn had been a regular follower of my blog, so when she discovered I was living close by she initiated the outing to the American Gothic House. And now, she claims, I was also the inspiration behind her pie party.

She even included a quote from me in her Pie Palooza email invitation prefacing it with "Why We Should All Bake Pies," leaving me to explain:

“Pie makes people happy. Happy people want to do nice things for others. When everyone is doing nice things for each other all the time there can be no war, and therefore pie can save the world.”

(She found the quote in Gina Hyams' "Pie Contest in a Box," and was using Gina's kit for the party.)

It wasn't until all the emails had gone out that Marilyn suggested to Carolyn, "Why not invite the pie lady?"

Carolyn replied, "She's so busy. She probably won't come. But okay, I'll send her an invitation." To Carolyn's surprise I immediately said yes.

She's right. I am busy. But I'm also home alone all day every day sitting at my desk in my bathrobe and taking breaks only to walk my dogs or, on a really good day, ride my bike. What Carolyn didn't consider is that while I love my solitude (it's essential for both my productivity and creativity), I am often very deprived of human contact. I get a little tired of having the same daily conversations with my dogs. Their part of the dialog is limited to "We want to go out. We want to come in. It's time for our breakfast. It's time for our snack. It's time for our dinner." Along with the occasional, "Could you please fluff up the sofa pillows?"

So to venture out on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of an Iowa winter -- an actual reason to get dressed! And brush my hair! -- came as a very welcome change of routine. And, hello? Eating pie with a dozen or so other women? This also sounded like great fun.

Having been a pie judge several times over (the National Pie Championships, twice at the Iowa State Fair, and once at the 52nd Annual Hedrick Iowa Barbeque Days), I knew how to approach the bounty: one bite at a time. I took only a small scoop out of each, circling the table like a pie-eating shark, my fork tines sharp and ready to dig in. I had learned my pie-eating capacity the hard way -- as in, all that sugar may not affect you immediately but it will eventually catch up with you. No matter how good the pie, you will feel ill. And you will regret pigging out. So I exercised this self-taught restraint.

A pie sampler. Also a sugar high. And potential ensuing stomach ache.

Everyone had brought a homemade pie. And not one pie was alike. Out of 12 pies I would have expected to see at least three All-American apples. But there wasn't one. (I brought a pumpkin pie, as I, in a rare twist, had no apples on hand.) I had never heard of some of the pies. One that was unusual but particularly tasty, called the "Mystery Torte," was made of Ritz crackers, egg whites, sugar and walnuts. It tasted like oatmeal cookies covered in whipped cream. It was sooooo good. But remember: Just. One. Bite.

Another was a "Spin-Off Boston Cream Pie" and I'm not sure what was the spin, though it may have been the sugar cookie crust. There was a Chocolate Mousse pie, a No-Bake Key Lime pie, a Rum Pecan pie, a Lemon Chess pie, and a Pumpkin-Pecan Streusel pie.  There was Carolyn's Sour Cherry pie with an all-butter crust, her mother's favorite. (Her mom is 92, living in Ohio, and Carolyn sent photos to her during the afternoon so she could see the festivities.) The cherry was my personal blue-ribbon pick. I ate a whole slice of it.

And there was one that surprised the hell out of me because I liked it so much: a Pineapple-Mango pie with....drum roll....a gluten-free crust! I am a person who flees in horror from the sight of anything marked "GF." But this crust had a slightly sweet and crunchy texture reminiscent of a crumble topping. And I love crumble topping. And I loved this pie. I had at least four bites.

After sampling all the pies we were asked to write down on a scrap of paper the number of our one favorite. This is always a challenge to choose only one. They were all good. Excellent, in fact. Outstanding. And none had a store-bought crust! They were all made at home. With love. And sugar.

And the winners are....The envelope please.

Pictured left to right: Mary took third place with her Key Lime. Bev holds the blue-ribbon for her Cranberry Raisin with a lattice top. And Claudia is happy with her second place victory for her Lemon Chess -- made with 3, count them, sticks of butter.

I understood why Bev's Cranberry Raisin won. It was one of those anomalies, not love at first bite, but you found something compelling about it so, curious, you went back for a second bite. And then a third. Maybe it was the mouth-puckering tartness followed by a pleasing aftertaste of sweetness that caused the "I want more, I need more" reaction. It's the same thing that caused me to vote for a Strawberry-Margarita pie at the Iowa State Fair one year. I wasn't sure I liked it at first, and then I couldn't stop eating it. And now I am STILL thinking about it. Those kind of pies don't come along every day. Kind of like people. Or boyfriends. Or books.

Speaking of books...

Note that everyone removed their shoes.
I was so relieved I had worn socks with no holes.
That closet cleaning project over Christmas paid off.

It turns out a good way to digest all that pie was to sit down with a cup of hot tea and listen to me read from my book, "Making Piece." This was an impromptu reading, I had only brought the book for Show & Tell, not to hold court, but it was good practice for me. It was the first time I had read to a group from my book. Ever. And the ladies were a gracious audience. It was especially reassuring to hear them laugh in all the right places. Fitting for the Pie Palooza contest, I chose part of the chapter on being a pie judge at the Iowa State Fair. In this section I describe how tasting Lana Ross's French Silk pie was the pie equivalent of having an orgasm.

I have a feeling the Second Annual Pie Palooza won't have the wide variety of flavors they had this year. But my guess is, seeing how everyone expressed their own individuality in their slightly exotic, beautifully decorated, gorgeous and delicious pies, when they all show up next year bringing the same "Lana Ross's Better Than Sex French Silk Pie" each one will have its own unique style and taste. And they will all be winners.

A Good Reason to Wear Orange

Jack & Daisy. "We're dogs, not deer. Please don't shoot us."

I used to live in Venice, California in a neighborhood referred to as “The Hood.” A transitional neighborhood, this is an area where young hipsters can afford to buy fixer-uppers, nudging gang members out of their dwellings, one half-a-million-dollar house at a time. Even Whole Foods invested here, knocking down Big Lots and opening up (in a brand new LEED certified building) one of its high-end health food stores. (This location has become so popular – read: crowded – there’s even a rap song about the battle for parking. It’s also known for its pick-up scene for singles where yoga babes and filmmakers cruise the organic produce aisles for dates not vegetables.)

In The Hood, it is a regular thing to hear gunfire. Marcus was staying with me one weekend (when we were temporarily living apart for our respective jobs) and we were on our way to the dog park at 8 on a Sunday morning. “Pop, pop, pop!” we heard as we were leaving the house. I can still remember the look Marcus gave me as we ducked back inside for cover – “What made you choose to live here?” his face expressed. I’ll tell you what: It was an affordable cottage within walking distance to the beach. (Affordable in LA translates to $1,250 a month for a one-room guest house.)

Now I live in rural Iowa (where I rent a whole 3-story house for $250 a month.) I moved thousands of miles away from the Crips and the Bloods. And yet, I am not safe from getting shot.

That's because in Iowa it’s hunting season.

Don's hat. My field of dreams.

Every day I walk my dogs in the hay fields next door to my house, hiking through a corner of the 1,300-acre unpopulated parcel of rolling hills and open space. I look forward to this daily walk, regardless of the weather. It is my therapy, my thinking time, my church. Pulling on my rubber farm boots signals to the dogs we’re ready and they start bouncing up and down with happy anticipation.

A few weeks ago I had just finished my hour-long loop of the hay fields late on a dark, rainy afternoon and was met at the gate by an SUV, parked there waiting for me. A man dressed head to toe in green and brown camo raced out, making a beeline for me.

“I almost shot you!” he barked as he approached. He looked panicked and ashen, his adrenaline clearly pumping. His eyes were wide, his breath short. “You could have been killed! Don’t you know you need to wear orange?”

I looked at him blankly, as my dogs sniffed around his pant legs. I had never considered how my outfit -- a gray raincoat, black fleece tights and brown hat -- blended right in with the drizzly gray dusk. I had also never considered that all those deer I came across during my walks, let alone me, had guns pointed at their heads.

“And you need to watch your dogs,” he continued, intense and breathless, his dark eyes fixed on me as if to force the seriousness of his message to sink in. “We set coon traps out there in the timber.” My two terriers, one brown and black, the other as blond as the hay, could have passed for raccoons or rabbits or any small mammal who might stumble upon a trap.

“Thanks for letting me know,” is all I said and left him to deal with the decline of his adrenaline.

His message did sink in as I went home and searched for all the orange and red and bright and fluorescent wearable items I could find. I came up with two red bandanas to tie around my dogs’ necks and an orange bike jersey for me.

Then I went to my neighbor Don’s house and borrowed his hunter-orange cap. Don is the same neighbor who towed my Mini out of the mud, tilled my garden plot, and rescued me from the snake who had invaded my house. And now I can add to the list: saved me from getting shot.

My lucky orange sweater.
A happy day with Marcus in Germany, 2007.

In spite of being required to dress for safety I don’t mind wearing orange because the color makes me think of so many positive things. I was wearing an orange sweater when I met Marcus – a bulky Ecuadorian wool cardigan with giant daisies on it. Orange was Marcus’ favorite color. He had lived in London when the British cell phone company came out with its catchy slogan, one we used to repeat to each other: “The future is bright, the future is orange.” Orange makes me think of sunny California and all those citrus groves. Orange is healthy. Orange is Vitamin C. Orange is the color of pumpkins and that means pumpkin pie!

And, according to Precision Intermedia’s definition of the psychology behind this shade, orange is “the most flamboyant color on the planet. It's the color tied most with fun times, happy and energetic days, warmth and organic products. It is also associated with ambition. There is nothing even remotely calm associated with this color. Orange is associated with a new dawn in attitude.”

So with my “newly dawned attitude,” now I don’t just walk the fields in my eye-popping garb, I yell out to the tree line as I’m walking, “Coming through. Put your guns down. I’m walking with my dogs. Don’t shoot.”

Wearing orange seems to be the best rule for safe field-walking in Iowa – where, happily for me and my dogs hunting season ends in three days. But I doubt it would do much good in The Hood in Venice, where “hunting season” seems like it will never end. Not that I’ll ever move back there, but if I did, I might invest in a bullet-proof vest. For my dog walks to the beach. And to Whole Foods.


(If you missed it above, you have to watch DJ Dave's rap video. I too have been cut off by a Prius -- with Save the Whales license plates, no less -- in that same Venice parking lot! He captured it perfectly. Except for the background noise, that is. Pop, pop, pop.)

Happy 75th Birthday to the Hippest, Coolest Mom Ever

Today is my mom’s 75th birthday. I would be in Los Angeles celebrating with her, but instead I am in New Orleans attending the American Booksellers Association Winter Conference as a guest author. I feel very privileged to have been invited to this conference, but I feel even more privileged to have been raised by such a great mom. I probably wouldn’t even be at this conference – hell, I may not even still be alive – if not for my mom and all the values, wisdom, strength and grace she instilled in me.

Can you even tell which one is my mom? Didn't think so!

I write a lot in my book, Making Piece, about my relationship with my dad. That’s mostly because my book centers around pie and my dad and I share a love for pie. But in this blog, I find I write a lot more about my mom. That is because as I try to make sense of this confusing life by writing these soul-searching essays, I constantly hear my mom’s helpful, calming, sensible voice as my guiding force.

Which is why, for my mom’s birthday, I am giving her this gift of a “Birthday Card Blog” to let her—and the rest of the world—know just how amazing she is and share a few of the invaluable tools she taught me. And I believe I speak for my four siblings too.

Dress Well – My mom is one of the hippest people I know. She has outstanding taste in clothes, she puts them together well, and she always looks “smashing.” Her wardrobe is so covetable I always raid her closet when I come to visit, borrowing something cute, like a BCBG sweater or a Banana Republic skirt. Lucky for me we are about the same size. And, on occasion, when falling in love with some piece of her clothing she will utter my favorite four words: “You can have it.” I don’t know anyone who gets and even begs for hand-me-downs from their 75-year-old mother!

Dine Well – It was my mom who introduced me to high tea, the very elegant British tradition of drinking tea and eating scones at a table set with delicate china and shiny silver. But my mom also taught me that high tea must be enjoyed properly by wearing a hat and gloves and a flowery dress. (Kudos to my mom for being able to get me out of my overalls!) My mom also knows the art of gourmet cooking. When I was in grade school she and her friends formed a food club and took turns hosting elegant home-cooked French meals. She once sent me to the store to get pearl onions for her Coq au Vin and I came home with the smallest yellow onions I could find. She didn’t get upset. She made do with the “wrong” ones. To this day whenever I see pearl onions I appreciate my mother’s culinary skills, her lessons to me about fine dining, and her flexibility in ingredients.

Mind Your Manners – I wish that kids today were able to be raised by my mother. I see so many rude, inconsiderate little monsters running wild in restaurants, screaming at the top of their lungs, and whining to their parents. Parents who think their kids are perfect. My mom would not tolerate bad behavior and for that I recognize that I am so very very lucky. She taught us to say please and thank you. And send thank you cards. She taught us to hold the door open for someone or help an elderly person to cross the street. She taught us that if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say it at all. And she taught us table manners – something that seems to have vanished in our society – basic functions like chew with your mouth closed, don’t talk with your mouth full, and push your knife and fork together to signal you are finished eating. She wasn’t following Emily Post to the letter, but pretty close. If only that “Book of Etiquette” could be handed out in hospital delivery rooms today.

Don’t Whine– When I was 22, living in Chicago and complaining to my mom about not being qualified for a certain job I wanted, she said, “If you don’t have the skills, go get the skills.” It may have seemed a little tough love-ish at the time, but these words have propelled me forward again and again over the years, resulting in quite an eclectic and useful set of skills. Now, whenever I hear people whine (including myself) I realize how unattractive it is and how blessed I was to have a mom that wouldn't indulge me in my self-pity.

Be Considerate – My mom didn’t just teach manners, she also excelled in teaching the lesson of being considerate of others. Having awareness of those around you is an all-important life skill. When you are mindful of others that means you are paying attention. And when you are paying attention, you are absorbing everything life has to offer. You are also doing things instilled in you by your mother, like calling when you are going to be late and checking in when you arrive at your destination after a trip to say you made it safely. Or else! So many people don’t realize how important these little gestures can be. Think about this the next time you walk into a building and the person coming out not only doesn’t hold the door to let you pass, they don’t even acknowledge your existence. You will be wishing that there were more moms out there like mine.

Be Yourself – When I was 19 and everyone but me seemed to know what they were going to be when they grew up, I cried to my mom, “Why can’t I be like Liz?” Liz was my best friend who even at 19 seemed steady and sure of her course. To this my mom replied in the way that only the wisest of mothers could, “Because you’re special. Your life is going to be more difficult than Liz’s but it’s going to be so much more interesting.” I guess she was prescient because Liz went on to become a drug addict, then a born again Christian, and eventually unhappily married. My life has indeed been challenging (though apart from Marcus’ death usually due to self-inflicted reasons). And my mom was right, my life has also been infinitely interesting. And still is. I credit this to my mom who didn’t insist I follow the crowd and always take the “safe” path. She encouraged me to step to the beat of my own drum, no matter how wild the rhythm.

Be Independent – I am more fiercely independent than may be good for me, but then…maybe not. I think “self-reliant” may be a better term here. And there is nothing wrong with that. My mom let me and my siblings have free run of the kitchen, allowing us to make cookies and no-bake cheesecakes on our own. Taking it a step further, she let me and my sister take the bus downtown to shop for our own school clothes. We were not older than 8 or 10, but we were granted both freedom and trust. She granted me an extra dose of that freedom and trust when I wanted to run away to the Oregon coast at the age of 16. Instead of me having to flee without permission, she took a deep breath and said, “We trust we’ve done a good job raising you. It’s time for you to test your wings.” She didn’t exhale until I returned home safe and happy a month later. I don’t know of any other parents who have that much faith in their children. I credit my mom and her confidence in me at that tender young age as one of my greatest life-shaping moments.

Be Creative – My mom signed up all five of us kids for just about every lesson and activity known to mankind. We had lessons in ballet, tap, gymnastics, jazz, tennis, golf, swimming, diving, cello, violin, guitar, piano, pottery, painting, knitting, sewing. We (well, my brothers) competed in sports of football, track, baseball, basketball, wrestling. We were cheerleaders. We were in school plays. We were camp counselors. We were busy. My mom not only encouraged us to try everything, she also drove us there. I am grateful for being so well-rounded, exposed to such a variety of activities, and for being given the opportunity to choose which, if any, I wanted to pursue. She didn’t push, she merely offered the path. This alone makes me acutely aware of how privileged my upbringing was and how dedicated my mother was to making sure we had a good life.

I could go on and on about how much I learned from my mom and how grateful I am to her. But I have to go autograph some books now. And while I’m here in New Orleans talking to book store owners about my forthcoming memoir, my mom will be riding in the back of a limousine with my siblings and my aunt and uncle. They will be on their way to her birthday dinner in Los Angeles. And if all goes according to plan, my sister will open my blog on her iPhone and read this story to my mom. The greatest, hippest, most generous and caring mom in the world.

Happy Birthday, Marie Howard. You rock.

My parents on their 50th anniversary last year.

The Birthing Process of a Book

Get this thing out of me already!

I've never had a baby but I can only imagine it is similar to getting a book published. You conceive the idea, the seed is fertilized, and after some weeks of development, you are shopping around the proposal. Once it sells and you have the book contract it's as if you have moved into the second trimester, that safe zone in which can show off your ultrasound images of the growing little bean with some confidence and pride. Or in the case of a book, announce your excitement over your book deal on your blog and on Facebook. Then, after the writing phase and completing the manuscript, now begins the editing phase, the equivalent of having ongoing check ups with your gyno, who is in this case is not a doctor but your editor at the publishing company.

I'm in the third trimester now and I can feel that damn baby--I mean, book--kicking and screaming inside my womb. LET. ME. OUT. No amount of ice cream will soothe this little monster. It is impatient and ready and wanting to see the world. It wants to go on a book tour. It wants to climb onto the book shelves in stores across the country. It wants to be read and praised and told it is such a good little baby. Oh, what an adorable thing. Aren't you so cute and funny. You are the best baby--er, book--ever. Coo coo coo.

This time last year I was sitting in my bathrobe and Ugg(ly) boots at my kitchen table for days on end, click-clacking away on my laptop, my story spilling out onto the pages. (Ask anyone in Eldon, I rarely ever got dressed.) The only thing I was anxious about was meeting my deadline. I needn't have worried; I delivered a month early. One year later, I am sitting in my office in front of my gorgeous new Vermont Castings fireplace, and I am experiencing a new kind of anxiety. It's called "What if no one likes my book?" Which must be akin to "What if my baby is born with six fingers?"

My latest ultrasound came in the form of an email from my author friend Leigh Michaels. (She is the author of "The Wedding Affair" and "On Writing Romance.”) She had just read an advance copy of my book and said,  “I honestly can't remember the last time I read any book through at a sitting, but I could not put ‘Making Piece’ down. It's wonderful. It's poignant and painful and honest and funny and unexpected and absolutely gripping. And after reading the book I dreamed about pie.”

I was buoyed beyond measure by her glowing report. Very up. But a few days later I heard from my book publicist that several key bookstores had declined having me do book readings, because I'm "unknown." It's like the kid isn't even born yet and is already getting turned down for the pre-school wait list. Very down.

These ups and downs are surely only the beginning. Wait until the official book reviewers get their cynical, scathing paws on this thing. "That is the ugliest baby I've ever seen," they might say. "Just look at that weird patch of hair above her eye [i.e.: glaring typo] on page 89."

What do I do with myself during these last ten weeks of gestation? What can I do to keep the fears and doubts--and imaginary bad reviews--at bay? What do pregnant mothers do when the final stage approaches?

You know what? As long as I was stuck on the theme, I actually looked it up!

Here's what they say:

1. Buy any baby items still needed
2. Prepare all baby first aid and emergency items
3. Print and fill out emergency sheets
4. Get a low-maintenance haircut
5. Finish painting nursery
6. Get car seat inspected
7. Pack hospital bag

So now I have a check list to keep me busy until my book is born. Seriously. I actually do need to buy some champagne (to celebrate my newborn's arrival). I just printed out my list of passwords (been meaning to do a computer back up too). I'll schedule a haircut for the first of March. I'm going to buy some paint (I was already planning on re-painting my bedroom). Get car (and RV) inspected. Check. And pack. Yeah, okay. I will be traveling the entire month of April--introducing off my offspring--and it's not too early to get organized.

Like any expectant mother, I'm sure I will forget I ever experienced this period of madness once I've given birth. I will be so overjoyed by my new arrival that I won't remember the labor pains. And the good news about having a book instead of a baby is....no diaper changing required.