Little Gifts Warm a Winter
20 Wednesday Jan 2016
Posted in With Friends
20 Wednesday Jan 2016
Posted in With Friends
13 Wednesday Jan 2016
Posted in Boston Moments
Tags
In my near two decades as an adult woman, I have suffered many fools irritations. You know. Run of the mill stuff: catcalls, wolf whistles, random grabs, assaults on my intelligence, backwards compliments, non-subtle demands that I be always pleasing in my countenance and manner. Hey, why don’t you smiiiiile?
These experiences, not unique to me, can be draining. They repress my goodwill, shake my faith in men, and erode my desire for humanity to continue past my brief time here. Sometimes, I’d prefer to dig a giant hole and just dump men everyone in.
Enter the Internet. Suffering silently alone has evolved into suffering loudly together, publicly. Hyper publicly. Enter fresh, new terms. I’m not super-hip, so I know only a few: mansplaining, man spreading . . .
Pausing there for a moment. I once saw a woman on the T get into a battle of wills with a man over the spread of his legs, blocking the seats to either side of him. Impressed at her unrepentant boldness, I was used to being squished between the tree-trunk outer thighs of dudes not so large as to need that much space. My experience of calling men on their . . . stuff has never been great, so I devised, over time, an understated but effective method: silently using my leg to intimidate their leg. Turns out, legs have their own language; plus New Englanders don’t like to touch.
So, tonight. Yep. On the Orange Line and the dude next to me was really, really into his smartphone. Sizing him up, I felt fairly certain that my leg could nudge his out of my floor space. Our knees leaned lightly together. Heat traveled noticeably from his person to my person and suddenly I was all awww, thanks, guy! A bitter night got less cold, literally, while Mr. Space Heater stayed glued to his device. Did not notice. Unwittingly provided a service for 3/4 of my ride home.
Fine. A boon. Justthisonce! Tomorrow, I’m back to annoyed.
06 Wednesday Jan 2016
Posted in Bloggin Noggin, Librarytour, Writing Life
For the first time in my (admittedly selective; and I don’t manage the selecting) memory, I’m juggling four major writing projects and this blog, which is a long-term effort in its own right. It’s a curious feeling like, at any moment, one project will tumble, ripe from the tree, and some force will pluck it up, cart it off. Well . . . one can hope. And work. And see what happens.

Learnin’ from the good ‘uns
05 Tuesday Jan 2016
Posted in Bloggin Noggin
As told, WordPress.com stats ‘helper monkeys’ (why not helper hamsters? honey badgers?) prepared a 2015 annual report. Very nice of them!! Also, Wednesday-postdays are now where it’s at. See you then.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,600 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 27 trips to carry that many people.
30 Wednesday Dec 2015
Posted in Boston Moments, Home
Some years it’s weather that prompts us to tarry longer than we planned before making the 280-ish mile trek to coastal New Jersey. Other years, a dip in health. Some, friends’ invitations to holiday engagements. Others, energy (or severe lack there of.)
This December, check ‘D.’ All of the above.
Christmas Day, instead of opening gifts in David’s parents’ ocean-edge, cliff-top home, D and I took a stroll in the record-setting warmth. The sunlight was gorgeous, so naturally I wandered with my camera.
We weren’t the only ones out and about. (Close, though.)

Run, squirrel!
We were among the few seated for a treat at one of our favorite Jamaica Plain restaurants, Cafe Beirut. Ah, well. More for us.

Baklava, I declare my love.
23 Wednesday Dec 2015
Posted in Boston Moments
Today I took the subway because it was raining.
I sat, reading my iPod among all the readers (and game players and early-morning conversationalists) on their devices, and beside me a large man in a heavy, tan hooded sweatshirt who smelled heavily of cigarettes and hard work, whose face I never saw. His hands were broad. He’d pulled a rumpled Metro newspaper from the floor of the car and, well-used ballpoint pen in hand, folded it to the page with sudoku. Whole ride, he sat, staring at the puzzle, scribbling a few numbers.
I became aware of the man’s breathing, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of the tan sweatshirt, beneath which a person, a pulse, a heartbeat, a heart. I became aware, in the seat on my other side, a different man whose details I can’t recount because I paid him so little attention. He was younger, smaller. How shockingly obvious his breathing suddenly seemed, the lift of his jacket keeping pace with the man in the tan sweatshirt. Then I glanced around the subway car and everyone was doing it. Everywhere, hearts. Lungs. Hands. Thoughts. Desires. Hopes.
You’d never know it. A year arrives and it departs. For us, I mean, the short-lived things who tragically fail to honor hearts on the subway. Who go along reading, talking, thinking, zoning out and, in our shared silence, believing the myth we are alone.
16 Wednesday Dec 2015
Posted in Boston Moments, With Friends
Tags
Way back when, my good friend Kelly and I had an annual tradition of checking out what’s new in the veggie-dom at the Boston Vegetarian Food Festival. Then she moved to Cali. I got distracted by other festivals, other learning spaces, other events.
Then Kelly moved back and we returned, two friends together, curious and delighted.
09 Wednesday Dec 2015
Posted in Librarytour, Writing Life
Jacqueline Woodson. If you don’t know her, you should. Not just because she’s one of the premier writers for young people (whose career I’ve followed since I was a high school student), who happens to be African American, who happens to be a New Yorker. Not because her memoir-in-verse, Brown Girl Dreaming, won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature in 2014. But because here’s a woman who can answer her some reader-questions.

Apologies, Ms. Woodson. This photo is . . . lacking.
The first time I saw Ms. Woodson on a tour for her then newly published picture book Show Way, children lined up to ask questions. I was amused. Impressed. A toddler approached the mic in her mother’s arms.
My second experience was at the Cambridge Public Library as part of Cambridge Reads. Children waited patiently in two lines and spoke with bravery, curiosity, clarity, humor, and the desire to know. Be known.

Here we see a fan reading along in Brown Girl Dreaming. No KIDDING.
Okay, I thought, this is a thing. In all the author talks, book signings and panels I’ve attended in my 30+ years, I’ve never seen such thoughtful and relentless interest from children as at Woodson events. Is it because Jacqueline speaks to them as she would any person, child or adult? Is it because the first child asked a question that didn’t even touch the perennial ‘where do you get your ideas’, and broke some kind of good-question seal?
In my experience, in mixed groups of adults and children it’s usually the adults who dominate. Not here. Adults stand back: the true creatives have arrived.
Reading #1: Monday, March 12, 2007, 6:30 PM
Jacqueline Woodson’s Author Visit at BPL Connolly Branch (JP) 2007
“This celebrated author of children’s and teen books will discuss some of her work, including her new novel Feathers. The event will include a question and answer session and a book sale and signing (courtesy of Jamaicaway Books). Co-sponsored by the Foundation for Children’s Books. For ages 5 and up.”
Questions (items in parenthesis are my notes):
Reading #2: Wednesday, November 18, 2015, 7:00 PM
Cambridge Reads, November 18, 2015, Fitzgerald Theater, 7:00 PM
“Brown Girl Dreaming—a memoir of the Woodson’s childhood written in verse—is the recipient of the 2014 National Book Award, the Coretta Scott King Award, a Newbery Honor Award, the NAACP Image Award, and the Sibert Honor Award.
Jacqueline Woodson is the author of over two dozen award-winning books for young adults and children, including The Other Side, Each Kindness, Coming on Home Soon, Locomotion, Miracle’s Boys, After Tupac and D Foster, Feathers, and Hush. She is a four-time winner of the Newbery Honor Award, a three-time finalist for the National Book Award, and was recently named the Young People’s Poet Laureate by the Poetry Foundation.
Cambridge READS, the Cambridge Public Library’s citywide book club, promotes the love of reading and facilitates community conversations about books. It includes book discussions at the Main Library and its six branches, and culminates in an appearance by the featured author.”
Questions (items in parenthesis are my notes):
Jacqueline concluded here, but there were more kids who attempted to join the line. They could have gone all night.
So. I look at these two lists of questions and my first thought is: whoa, Cambridge. My second thought: these children (thankfully) have not yet perfected the unfortunate art of long-declarative-statement-masquerading-as-question. Third: I didn’t mean to spend the evening typing out questions (with my thumbs, on an iPod) but I couldn’t help myself. They were too good.
And you, faithful WHL reader, get to share the bounty.


Look to photo’s center. See all those kids? Now double that number.
03 Thursday Dec 2015
Posted in Green Life, Writing Life
Eight straight years of intensive writing instruction in high school and college make me shy of writing exercises. I’ve been there, wrote that.
However, on the occasion a member of my writer’s group suggests an exercise, I put on my big girl pants and I make good.
Below is a dot of fiction, based on a song (Deb Talan’s “The Gladdest Things“), which follows a poem (Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Afternoon on a Hill“). Fast on the heels, and interspersed, I’ve included photos of the location I had in mind while working on the exercise. Turns out, this a piece I quite like, so thank you Megan.
For a Song, for a Poem
He touched my hand. It wasn’t to make a statement. The touch felt light, as though he was attempting to tell me, without disrupting the moment with the sound of his voice: hey, this is where we’ve been.
On the hill we biked up, we sat not on the boulders placed for lounging, sharp edges that jabbed into your hip. Instead on the grass, trodden and pokey with sticks and branches torn down by the same late summer winds that kept the trees on the hill growing only-so-tall.
In the far distance, our city. In the near distance, hazy and harder to make out, our neighborhood. Houses that fit well in either city or town; where we grew up being some sweet in-between.
In less than two weeks, the two of us would leave. No longer come to this spot where tussling dogs forced their owners to interact. The crab apples dropping, and rotting, without us. Each chipmunk feeling that much safer with two fewer humans.
I to my West Coast college, and my friend to the Navy. We laughed about his new white suit. How hot he was going to be when he came to shore on the occasion like a sea-mammal up for air. The girls passing by who would turn their heads without realizing they’d looked. Some boys, too.
We used up our laughs, and smiles. Just tears left that neither of us felt brave enough to spend, so we stood, dusted our butts, and started down.
25 Wednesday Nov 2015
Posted in Bike Life
Late November is one of my favorite times to bike commute.
There’s something about starting out crisp; covered from head to toe in wool and sporty synthetics. Just one layer to start, before December and January demand more.
My favorite little urban woods between Jamaica Plain and Cambridge are similarly dressed for cool, but not yet snow or ice. 
And fellow commuters, they’re still out there. Not yet chased to public transit.