Tag: Florence Festival of Books

When in Doubt, the Couch Ate It

It was the last straw. In a month filled with so much grief and so many challenges, now I had lost the remote control for the TV. I had no idea what happened to it. I just had it. I was pretty sure I was losing my mind. Considering the events of the past month, I wouldn’t be surprised. 

But maybe I’m not crazy. Wait till I tell you what I found. 

First, a brief summary of the past month: 

  • My dog Annie died on Sept. 13. Age 15 ½. Cancer. I cried, keened and wailed for days, only able to stop by visiting the liquor cabinet, which was not a good plan. I poured the vodka down the sink.
  • When I took my beloved Honda Element in for an oil change on Sept. 21, the crew found so many needed repairs, it didn’t make sense to keep it. I traded it in for a new car, a Honda HR-V. I love it, but I still can’t figure out half the controls. Despite the Element’s 155,000 miles, they resold it for three times what they gave me for it.
  • At the Florence Festival of Books Sept. 23, I fell off a chair while trying to hang my banner and trashed my tailbone, leading to weeks of pain and walking funny. I still rose to sell books and speak on a panel about writing memoirs. But, ouch!
  • A cousin revealed on Oct. 1 that she had breast cancer.
  • A friend died on Oct. 3.
  • On Oct. 6, I played music at church, got my hearing aids tweaked and picked up Annie’s ashes. 
  • I worked day and night putting together Oregon Poetry Association’s annual online conference, doing tech things that were way beyond my comfort level, leading to an all-weekend migraine. But the Oct. 7 conference went well. My last board meeting is tonight, when I pass the presidency on to someone else. 

It has been a lot. I have been reorganizing my den and trying to get rid of everything that no longer gives me joy. I found treasures I had forgotten about, along with piles of “why do I still have this?” Anybody want an accordion, a knick knack shelf, a Casio keyboard that doesn’t seem to work but might be fixable, or an orange wall ornament circa 1974 that says L.O.V.E? It feels like a time of change, a time for a fresh start. 

As I was cleaning, I found a dead barn swallow in my wood stove. It happens every year. They fall in through the chimney, can’t get out, and suffocate. So sad. I moved her body out to the woods. I grieved for her, too.

But back to the missing remote. Where could it have gone? I was just sitting watching “Bob Hearts Abishola.” This green corduroy sofa is a soft mess of many cushions and pillows. I threw them all on the floor, and shoved my hand down the sides and backs, finding nothing but dirt and dog fur. Surely it had gone down the crevice between the seat and the back. I pushed my hand down as far as I could, getting it stuck a couple times. No remote. 

Then I thought of looking from the back of the sofa. Maybe it fell all the way through. Nothing on the floor. But wait. I reached under and felt along the cloth at the bottom. Something was in there. The staples in one section were loose. I pulled them apart. I’m planning to buy new furniture anyway. We bought this couch with the house in 1998, and it’s time. 

I reached my delicate piano-playing hands in and felt . . . all kinds of stuff. Reach, reach, what??? I pulled out a children’s book, three little rubber balls, shoestrings, a Newport Middle School student ID card for a kid who must be almost 40 by now, three pencils, a plastic ruler, a receipt for repairs on a Chevy Lumina, a string of plastic pearls, a dowel, and a remote. Not the one I just lost, but the one I lost over a year ago and had long since replaced. It worked! 

I kept reaching in for more, even after I cut my hand on a staple. I got everything I could feel with my hand or push out with the dowel. But I know there is more. I know that missing remote lurks somewhere in the bowels of the green sofa. I wonder what the matching loveseat is hiding. I will not be able to resist tearing them both apart. It’s fun finding things, and the hunt is cheering me up.

All these years, I have blamed Annie for most missing objects. After all, she did eat checks, pens, pencils, handkerchiefs, socks, my hearing aid, and more. But she did not eat the remote control. The couch ate it. Bad couch!  

Do you have furniture that eats things? Like what? Please share in the comments. Are you tempted to pat the bottom of your sofa now to see what might be lurking there? 

***

Annie, my beloved companion, is a huge loss. She has appeared many times in this blog and in everything I write. As I told her often, she was the best dog ever. She will live on in our memories now that she is forever unleashed in Oregon. 

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Don’t Shoot! Oh Wait, I Need Photos

Some cultures are said to believe that when a photographer takes your picture, he is stealing your soul. I think my dog might believe that, too.

It was time for new author photos. I had been using the same ones for years. My hair is grayer now. I have a new book, Seal Rock Sound, to sell, and I didn’t want people looking at my photo and saying, “Is that you? You look different.” I hired local photographer Chris Graamans because he does terrific work. We did the deed last week.

For me, getting author photos taken is on a par with getting my teeth cleaned. I’m going to have to live with these pictures for years. They’ll show up online, on the back of my books, in articles about me. They have to be good, and I’m all too aware of my imperfections. When I asked Chris if he could shave off 20 years and 30 pounds, I wasn’t kidding. He just smiled.

As Chris brought in his light stands and umbrellas, backdrop and camera and commenced to take pictures, Annie acted very strangely. She usually says hello to visitors then lies down, but she kept walking around him and brushing against me. I don’t know if she was trying to protect me or begging for attention, but it was strange.

I wonder. Humans (and some monkeys and apes) are the only animals who bare their teeth when they’re happy. For most critters, it’s a sign of aggression when they’re getting ready to attack. Again and again, even though it felt strange, I forced that smile, showed off my massive choppers. I have seen myself not smiling and don’t like the way I look.

We all want to show up with perfect skin, perfect hair, a slim figure, a perky nose and maybe some dimples. I’m going for “friendly.” Or maybe “interesting.”

We don’t see ourselves the way other people see us. I know that. Other people may not even notice things that look terrible to me. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I’m horrified. Do other people see that? How can I show my face in public? Of course, it could be the other way around, too. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

You can’t photograph a soul, a spirit, the essence of who you are, and no, the camera does not kidnap one’s spirit. It only captures the outside shell that holds it.

But if you’re going to be a writer, you have to have photos.

As a reader, I always look for the author’s photo. I want to know what the person who wrote this thing looks like. Frankly, if they’re too attractive, I don’t trust them. So maybe this will work out all right for me.

People are drawn or repelled by pictures. Sitting at my table Saturday at the Florence Festival of Books, I saw very clearly that the front and back covers are the most important things when people are strolling around with a few dollars to spend on books. If the front cover doesn’t grab their attention and the description on the back cover doesn’t make them want to read more, they’re moving on. They’ve got 40 more booths to visit.

If they pause long enough to talk to you, you need to be able to tell them what kind of books you write and what they’re about in just a few words. Do not make people stand and listen to the whole story when they didn’t even ask for it. The man at the next table was great at this. He writes “Humorous murder mysteries” about a professional wrestler turned private detective who runs into Big Foot in the woods while on a case. Who wouldn’t want to read that?

One author said her books are like Clan of the Cave Bear but rated PG. Another said he writes “biker poetry.” Another offers “inspirational nature photo books”.

With my many different kinds of books, I’m still working on how to sum it all up in a few words: true and fictional stories and poetry about childless women living alone on the Oregon coast? No, that’s still too long. Suggestions?

Have you had your picture taken lately? How did it go? Feel free to share your stories in the comments.

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