Writing Rare and Blue

Goodbye True Blue Friend

2012-01-05T14:54:00.000-08:00

This is the image of our dog, Jo, I want to remember. I'd rather not remember the hobbled gait, difficulty navigating stairs or wretched hacking she endured the last months of her life. In fact, the day this photo was taken was one I hold in my heart for several reasons. Let me set the scene...

The glass on our storm door broke and we didn't get it repaired for a couple of months. One of Jo's daily joys was going out to fetch the morning newspaper and after the glass broke she discovered she could simply leap through the opening not having to wait for the door to open, retrieve the paper, and zip back into the house--sticking a perfect landing in the narrow front hallway worthy of an Olympic athelete.

As the weeks went by that summer, Greg challenged Jo with retrievals of toys, shoes, training dummies... Whatever he threw out the door she happily found and returned to him with boundless enthusiasm and not a small amount of pure pride as she practically flew through the opening of the storm door--always clearing it with inches to spare and landing like a...well, a cat.

One evening my parents and my Aunt Willa came over for dinner. After dinner, we had Jo do some tricks for them--like finding a training dummy wherever we hid it in the house. But the piece-de- resistance was her door trick. We pushed the folks' chairs to one side of the door so they had a good view. Then Greg threw a small pink ball out into the front yard and had Jo retrieve it. Jo performed flawlessly flying over the door with the ball in her mouth and stopping on a dime in the front hall. I can still see my Aunt clapping her hands with glee and hear her saying, "This is better than watching the circus." Even my dad was laughing at her antics. Much to their continued delight, Jo leaped in and out of the door many times that night and seemed to have a smile on her face each time. Wish that I could relive that night and see all their smiling faces again!

Just a stupid pet trick some might say. Now that Jo is gone and her appreciative peanut gallery, too, I like to think of that evening as the time the circus came to Cheyenne Lane. Jo might have been the runt of her litter, but there was nothing small about her heart or her star quality. She touched everyone who knew her.

January 05, 2012

Not So Rare Ocean Worlds ???

2011-10-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

On the back page of the newspaper today--far away from articles about whether the Vikings will really leave Minnesota, fears that Asian carp are in the Mississippi River and the latest political squabbles, was a fascinating story about new research shedding light on the source of Earth's water. Ever wonder how water got here when Earth was once too hot to hold water? I have to admit I never gave it a thought until I read the article.

European scientists say they've discovered a region at the outer reaches of a disk surrounding a star 175 light years away. The star and the disk which holds very cold water vapor, are in the early stages of forming planets, in much the same way Earth was formed more than 4 billion years ago. The scientists have concluded that H2O came to Earth via comets and asteroids that originated in similar cold but water-filled regions, which are assumed to have been present when our solar system was forming.

The lead astronomer says observations indicate enough water exists in the disk they've studied to fill thousands of Earth oceans. The logical extension of this is that water has also been delivered to some of the billions of exoplanets now known to exist beyond our solar system--meaning there are likely to be many "ocean worlds" throughout the glaaxies.

Whew! Awesome stuff to ponder next time you're watching waves crash. Wonder if those flippin' carp exist on another planet in a galaxy far, far away?

October 21, 2011

A New Rare and Blue Critter (for me)

2011-09-22T10:27:00.000-07:00

Zoos make me sad. Always have. I find it difficult to observe animals pacing from boredom, waiting at a gate for food, skimming the edges of tanks in an endless search for openings... Even if their man-made homes are thoughtfully constructed, they're still prisons of a kind. And even if the creatures will lead longer and better lives in captivity, or maybe have a life at all if they were an orphan or a trouble-maker doomed to be destroyed--it still comes at a heavy cost. If you ask me.

But that doesn't mean that I still don't like to look at the animals. Recently, we took the toddler grandkids to the Minnesota Zoo. They completely loved the new exhibit of African penguins. Kids can climb on a rock viewing area and come nose to nose with curious black-footed penguins pressed up against the glass. Squeals of discovery from both species were abundant. I couldn't help noticing two penguins at the back of the enclosure. They had their backs to the glass wall. Why did they prefer to stare at a rock wall?

The next display we visited had sea dragons in it. I'm not sure I'd ever seen either a leafy or a weedy sea dragon before. Maybe on the back of a comic book years ago, something exotic you could send away for. I was mesmerized by these fairy-tail like creatures slowly and gracefully swimming around a tank of sea grass. The weedy sea dragon was my favorite with its long speckled snout, bits of bright yellow on its body and most striking of all--its iridescent blue bands.

I found out that sea dragons live on the southern coasts of Australia. They're a fragile creature, susceptible to damage from violent storms tossing them against reefs or stranding them on beaches.
Sea dragons grow to about 18" and are related to sea horses. Sea dragons don't use their tails for gripping as a sea horse does, they use them for steering. Weedy sea dragons are endangered due to loss of habitat in polluted waters and illegal collecting. You can imagine that this delicate Seuss-like critter is a popular addition to aquariums.

Survival rate for sea dragons in captivity is about 60%. I don't know how many years they can live in an aquarium or even what their lifespan is in the wild. I wonder though, would they choose life in the tempest-tossed waters of the ocean or life confined in a tank with blurry human faces staring back at them?

09-21-11

The Briefcase in Blueberry Inlet

2011-07-16T06:36:00.000-07:00

Look carefully at the photo. Can you spot a leather briefcase above the left side of the big rock? The case belonged to my dad. Last week I brought it "home" to Canada a few days shy of what would have been his hundreth birthday. I placed the well-used case in one of my dad's favorite places on Lake of the Woods.

My dad passed away five years ago, but I haven't been able to part with his briefcase. The briefcase was always close to him, often open. It was filled with plenty of freshly sharpened pencils, vitamins, paper clips, but mostly letters and papers scribbled with his ideas. The briefcase was given to dad in 1977. A metal plate inside the case is inscribed with his name and the date. Dad never liked to replace anything unless the old one totally wore out. He used this case for almost thirty years.

For the last few years of his life, the case sat on a chair in the apartment Dad shared with my mother at their senior residence. When Dad was well enough to leave the nursing care area and spend time in the apartment he liked to work on his papers. After he died, the case sat on the same chair until my mother passed away four years later. It was as if the case was simply waiting for him to return.

For the past five years the briefcase has rested at my house. Nobody in the family really wanted it with its broken side, worn and stained leather, rusted hardware. But I couldn't bear to just throw it in the trash. And then I found a photo of my dad sitting on an island in Canada at lunch time with his briefcase open on a rock. I knew then that an island on Lake of the Woods would be the last best place for this iconic remnant of my dad's life.

We've come upon other memorials out on the lake like inukshuks, placques nailed to trees, trinkets placed on rocks. I don't want to litter, but believe the old leather will disintegrate in time until only small pieces of metal remain. And those will soon be covered with a carpet of moss and pine needles.

So, on a perfect summer day with an eagle leading the way, we headed down the sun-sparkled waters of the Sunset Channel, took a right at Beacon Island and headed into Blueberry Inlet. It's a magical place off the beaten path of most fishing boats. Some years it's only accessible by canoe. Dad loved to come to this inlet in early June and cast against the shoreline for bass and walleye.

Ancient rock walls line the narrow entrance. The bays are calm and quiet. Time almost stands still in these pristene waters. That old Dan Fogelberg song, Longer Than, drifted thru my mind. Stronger than any mountain cathedral. Deeper than any forest primeval. No church I've ever been in can compare with the Cathedral of Blueberry Inlet.

A pair of loons watched as Greg clambered up a boulder to gently tuck the briefcase between two trees. I felt a deep sense of peace. I don't enjoy catching fish the same way my dad did, but I can think of no better way to spend precious summer days than in the quiet beauty of Lake of the Woods. God feels close in Blueberry Inlet. The world feels right again there.

Sometimes saying goodbye is a very long journey.

July 15, 2011

A Rare Day

2011-05-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's not every day that we have something to howl about. Author copies of my new book, HELLO, MINNESOTA! arrived yesterday. While it's a twenty-page board book of Minnesota opposites with only forty-five words, HELLO, MINNESOTA represents more effort than you would imagine. The cover of the book simply says, "Words by Constance Van Hoven." "Creative ideas and words" would be more accurate.

My part of this project was to create ten pages of kid-friendly, Minnesota-related, easily illustrated opposites that represent as much of Minnesota as possible. The editor wanted a selection of opposites related to places that toddlers can appreciate. It was up to me to choose the favorite places and, by the way, get as many animals as possible into the book. And still work the opposite theme ...

I put my whole Minnesota heart into this puzzle of a project. I hope it shows! Now I'm busy creating a puppet show to go with the book. Using puppets is a great way to demonstrate opposites like "up and down," "open and closed," "hello and goodbye." I'll premiere the puppet show for my grandkids next week. Stay tuned for reviews.

May 19, 2011

Rare Imagination?

2011-04-28T13:05:00.000-07:00

My three-year-old granddaughter has a new favorite book. It's a blank journal. I think Snoopy is on the cover, but Snoopy doesn't play a part in Audrey's delight with the book. She likes to open the journal, turn the pages and "read" a story. Usually it's a story made up of things that have happened that very day, bits of other stories from published books, and plenty of random gibberish that only she understands. Her stories are "read" with great drama and purpose.

When Audrey's finished with her story, she wants me, or Poppa, or her parents, to "read" her a story from the same blank book. And we have to turn the pages at the right time or she does it for us. I have to be honest and say that our stories are nowhere near as entertaining as hers.

I've been dismayed lately at the barrage of articles about the demise of books as we know them. The world is going digital. Computers and electronic devices are replacing traditional books. Don't get me wrong, I own an e-reader and Audrey likes her share of gadgets, too. But, at the moment, the blank journal is her favorite thing. Holding a book in her hands, opening and closing the cover, and turning real pages of paper is what captures her fancy and sparks her imagination. It gives me great joy to see her imagination at work and it inspires me to fill the blank pages of my journals with wild stories.

I don't think Audrey is all that rare with her love of blank books and her conversations with dolls. After all, she's a child and she lives in the world of imagination--where the paper that wraps a box is as interesting as the gift, where a blank page is as intriguing as a touch pad, where a fluff of dandelion floating past your eyes is a whole world ...

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." Pablo Picasso

April 28, 2011

Rare and Blue: It's out there waiting for you ...

2011-04-20T09:15:00.000-07:00

"My soul can find no staircase to heaven, unless it be through, Earth's loveliness."

Michelangelo

We came across this couple last July in the Gravelly Mountains near Ennis, Montana.

What a way to revel in the beauty of wildflowers, plop down right in the middle of them!

Here's hoping you find your staircase to heaven.
(Now feel free to sing a rousing chorus of For the Beauty of the Earth)

Happy Earth Day 2011

Goodbye Winter of the Blue Snow

2011-03-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

The winter of 2010/2011 has been a long one. Tomorrow, spring officially arrives. As the enormous piles of snow in my yard begin to melt away I am reminded of some lines from a favorite childhood book of mine about Paul Bunyan. The title is Ol Paul and it was written in 1936 by Glen Rounds.
"It seems that some years before the winter of the Blue Snow (which every logger remembers because of a fall of bright blue snow which melted to ink, giving folks the idea of writing stories like these, so they tell) Ol' Paul was logging on what was then known as the Whistling River."

I'm about to embark on a new book project and I sure hope that my melting blue snow gives me lots of ideas for writing. After spending the winter finishing a young teen romantic comedy, I'm excited to begin something new. New projects and story ideas always feel as sparkly as the snow I saw in Yellowstone Park last week. Snow so dazzling and bright it hurt my eyes to look at it, even with sunglasses. This photo doesn't begin to capture its allure.

Spring, with all its sense of wonder and possibility is a great time for me to delve into a new middle grade novel set on a farm in Nebraska. The farm in my story is similar to the one I spent lots of time at when I was young. I have to be honest though, and say this isn't a totally new project. It's one I started in 2008, but had to put aside for when the time was right. "To every thing there is a season." Indeed!

Goodbye, winter. Goodbye, white-tailed jackrabbit we loved to watch in our backyard. Goodbye swales, piles, mounds, drifts and most especially parking lot mountains of snow!

Hello, spring. Hello, mountain bluebirds. Hello, fresh stories. Let the chorus begin...
03-20-2011

Rare and Blue Christmas

2010-12-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

You may have tangible wealth untold;
caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be,
I had a mother who read to me.
Strickland Gillilan

This is my first Christmas without my mother. The picture above was taken a few months before she passed away last December 29. We are sharing my first book, The Twelve Days of Christmas in Minnesota. I'm so grateful she lived long enough to see it in print, as it was her love of children's books that inspired me.

Below is an essay I wrote two years ago after what would be our last real Christmas together.

Reading to My Mother

“Take another bite of steak, Mom. It’s your favorite.” My mother stops staring at the centerpiece of evergreens and cheery wax elves. She picks up her fork but she doesn’t do anything with it. She stares again at the candles. My mother has begun what President Reagan once called “the journey that will lead me into the sunset of my life.” My mother has Alzheimer’s disease.

I start to think that taking my mother out of her senior residence and bringing her to my house for Christmas Eve dinner was a bad idea. She has said almost nothing all evening—answering "yes" or "no" to questions, but showing little interest in anything except our dog who dozes at her feet.

My son and my husband have given up on conversation and concentrate on eating the dinner we have prepared with all her favorites in mind. Steak, wild rice, and orange-glazed brussels sprouts grow cold on her plate.

Brussels sprouts… I recall childhood days when I was expected to eat everything on my plate and Brussels sprouts held the number one position of most despised foods. One evening when my parents were distracted, I slipped three of the awful orbs into my glass of milk. After finishing the rest of my dinner, I asked if I could be excused to go outside and play.

“As soon as you drink your milk,” Mom said

I could not drink that milk! Not in a million years could I swallow milk tainted with Brussels sprouts. Clearly, I would have to grow old at the kitchen table. Tears dribbled off my chin and into the glass.

Finally, my mother picked up the glass and said, “You can be excused. Don’t try hiding food in your milk anymore, okay?” And then it was time for bed and a bedtime story. My mom wasn’t about to let a few Brussels sprouts jeopardize our evening routine.

I’m one of those lucky children who had a mother who read to me. She read to me almost every night, perhaps because she enjoyed children’s books as much as I did. Make Way for the Ducklings, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, Curious George, Ferdinand the Bull… We had our own impressive library of picture books. My mother had been a kindergarten teacher before she had her own class of eight children.

Years later when I became a parent I read to my children. And now as a new grandparent, I have a pile of books waiting to be shared.

On this Christmas Eve though, as my mother’s mind melts away like the wax elves’ smiles, I think I will start to sob if I don’t do something. I will not let what might be her last Christmas with us become a sad memory. I will read a story I decide, a children’s story with pictures. I select Great Wolf and the Good Woodsman by Helen Hoover. The book is a reprint of a story we read together when I was a child.

“Mom, how about if I read a story while you finish eating?” My mother looks up and her blue eyes that don’t sparkle much anymore suddenly flicker with interest. “That would be nice,” she says.

I don’t say, “Remember this story?” I have learned not to ask that question anymore. I tell my mother the book was written by someone born about the same time as her, and that this woman came to live in Minnesota just as she did many years ago. “The author liked to write about birds and animals,” I say. My mother’s eyes twinkle then. She was once an avid birdwatcher.

“Once, long years ago, Great Wolf stood on a high ridge and looked down at a deer, a squirrel, and a chickadee gathered together beside the log cabin where lived the Good Woodsman.”

I show my mother several illustrations—simple woodcuts depicting the efforts of woodland creatures to help an injured friend. She nods and says, “Oh yes, look at that.”

With each page turn she eagerly looks at the illustrations and utters soft “oohs” and “aahhs.” This is the most responsive she has been in weeks. I read with more and more enthusiasm. Finally, with all the gusto I can muster, I perform the wolf howl which ends the book:

“Some people say if you listen very closely to the howling of a wolf on Christmas, you will hear him call Noooooooooo-elllllll! in memory of Great Wolf and the Good Woodsman.”

Our dog jumps up and looks puzzled by this wild outburst. My mother laughs—really laughs at my crazy howl. For those few precious moments we are mother and daughter enjoying a good book again. It is her Christmas gift to me. I pop a Brussels sprout in my mouth and savor the bitter and sweet flavors.

Long ago my mother introduced me to the magic of stories. Now, at the end of her life, a child’s picture book story is still a means by which we can share pleasure. Books will always be magic to me—they have the power to triumph over disease. They are the last beautiful rays of light in a fading sunset.

A Partridge in a Pine Tree

2010-12-15T15:17:00.000-08:00

A partridge in a pine tree just in time for Christmas! Actually, make that eleven partridge in a pine tree...
What a treat to have birds to watch in our back yard. The purple finches, chickadees and nuthatches are draining our bird feeder on the deck on a regular basis. And then there's the fat flicker that lies in the tray of the feeder and wallows in the seeds that have spilled. Fat flicker’s beak is too long and curved to fit in the holes of the feeder. He doesn't seem to mind though--he's in hog heaven.

The real show is further out in the yard where two coveys of grey partridge wibble wobble from pine tree to pine tree in search of seeds. They mostly travel in a line bravely following the bird in front to the safety of the next tree or bush. They tromp through fresh snow like they are on snowshoes. They motor up and over drifts and then schuss down the other side. It's all very amusing and entertaining to me. For them it is survival.

The neighborhood hawk patrols a large area from a tall poplar tree next door. Suddenly, he will zoom across the yard sending the line of partridge scurrying for cover. I've yet to see him nab a bird--but no doubt he (or she) will. Many of the partridge are young birds spending their first winter with their parents.

Gray partridge, also called Hungarian partridge, live year round in the Northern plains. They are chunky, chicken-like birds with feathers that look especially lovely against the stark white of a winter landscape.

I wonder if they see me scurrying from window to window to get a better view and my husband trying to get his tripod situated for a perfect photograph. In the lovely blue light of a new day, it's a rare treat to watch a partridge in a pine tree!

"A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." Anon.
December 15, 2010

Rare and Happy Coincidence

2010-11-16T14:02:00.000-08:00

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

Emily Dickinson

This was the view out my front door early Saturday morning. The first snowfall of the season had arrived and it wasn't going to be less than predicted. It was going to be more! Undaunted, Greg and I set off for Red Wing, usually an hour's drive south of the Twin Cities. I didn't want to disappoint the bookstore in Red Wing where I was scheduled to do a reading, sing-a-long and signing for The Twelve Days of Christmas in Minnesota.

Our drive was your basic white-knuckle event. More cars and trucks seemed to be in the ditches than on the road. But I really wanted to make it as I had canceled an appearance at this store last year when my mother was hospitalized. And I had another reason too...

More than a thousand miles away in balmy Alexandria, Virginia my good friend Candice Ransom was signing her book, The Twelve Days of Christmas in Washington, DC. It's a holiday book from the same series and publisher as mine. Who would have guessed eight years ago when Candice and I met in the airport in Philadelphia, nervously waited out a monster summer storm at the end of the runway and even more nervously landed in Vermont for the beginning of a master's program in writing for children, that we'd be signing sister books on the same day? That we'd still be fast friends sharing the writing road and our life journies.

Well, it's hardly surprising that Candice would be signing a book eight years later. She was already an accomplished author when she came to Vermont College seeking new directions for her writing. Me? I was a newbie eight years ago overflowing with plenty of hopes and dreams but not enough knowledge of the craft and business of writing.

As the years passed since we completed our amazing MFA program, Candice has published more books and I've been writing, writing, writing, submitting, submitting, submitting. Then, thanks to Candice and her recommendation, I got a shot at writing The Twelve Days of Christmas in Minnesota. The success of the book has been exciting, gratifying and heart-warming. My mother passed away last Christmas, but not before she saw the book and was able to share my joy.

Now back to last Saturday... We reached our destination on time and wondered if any kids would brave the icy snow in Red Wing to visit the bookstore. In a few minutes, we had the answer. I spotted a boy and his parents trudging through the slop and going into the store. They were followed by another family and then another. Bless the parents who bundle their children on a snowy day to go hear an author read a book!!

The bookstore was located across the street from what looked like an old furniture store turned into a church. Through the large front display windows we could see a flag-draped coffin and people in line to pay their respects. Clearly a funeral was going on. So, on one side of the street, the end of a story. On the other side of the street, stories still to be written--my own and that of the little visitors who came to listen.

In the cozy bookstore with its glowing fireplace we sang, we read and we chatted. And the boy in the front row made faces at me by pulling his eyes down and pushing his nose up, and the little guy next to him told me he has seen bears and wolves and eagles--absolutely everything in the book, and the baby bopped to the guitar music and the sweet curly-haired toddler gave me a puzzled stare the whole time, but listened intently to every word. Magical! This is the payoff for long hours at my desk and years of hoping.

11-16-10

Dreams do come true with a little help from your friends.

PS. If you want to read Candice's version of this story check out her blog.

http://candice-ransom.livejournal.com/39549.html

Blue Farewell

2010-11-07T09:19:00.000-08:00

The years teach much which the days never know
Ralph Waldo Emerson

We've had bluebirds in our neighborhood this year. We first noticed them while out walking in the spring. Chipper and friendly birds, they added lovely moments to many of our walks through the summer and fall. And then one evening in late September, three of them were in our backyard and entertained us while we sat on our deck and took some pictures.
The last warm sunny days of fall are slipping away and so are the bluebirds. We haven't seen them for several weeks.
It's a melancholy time of year. A time of several difficult goodbyes this particular fall. Goodbyes are hard. They just are. Like Mr. Emerson said, sometimes it takes years to put things into perspective.

November 6, 2010

A Rare and Sad Day

2010-10-31T13:02:00.000-07:00

FEQ: Nobody owns land, we borrrow it from nature. Anon.

It's not every day that one sells an iconic piece of your past. But life has a way of steering us into tough choices.

My great-grandfather Daniel came to Nebraska in 1872 and homesteaded land along the Republican River. Daniel loved the prairie. He felt about it the same way Willa Cather did. (Willa grew up in the same area.) Daniel especially loved his orchard of fruit trees, his vegetable garden, and fishing and trapping. He passed on his love of the outdoors to his gandson, my dad. My dad passed it on to my siblings and me.

I'm in the grainy photo with two of my brothers. We loved spending time in the summer on Daniel's farm, though he was long gone by the time we arrived on the scene. Our widowed grandmother lived on the farm and ran it with the help of one of her brothers and hired hands. The unbridled freedom to roam and explore more than a thousand acres was a rare and wonderful gift. Grammy would tell us to be home for supper at five o'clock, beyond that we were on our own with the luxury of a whole day to do as we pleased.

We often left on horseback, Grammy had one ancient mare named Queenie and one unruly buckskin named Tony. Queenie and Tony would take us to buffalo wallows, chalk cliffs with fossils, a country cemetery that was next to the boarded-up one room schoolhouse where our dad went to school and the banks of the muddy Republican River. We climbed barns inside and out, rummaged through old sheds full of tools, ran until we collapsed and then did it all over again the next day. And we got into trouble--dipped in a full grain silo where we could have drowned, got gashes from climbing through barbed-wire fences, entered abandoned farm houses with caved-in roofs...

We didn't have a cell phone to call if there was trouble, we had to figure out things for ourselves. We knew if we got lost to climb to a point where we could see the line of cottonwood trees that led to the farmhouse.
I wish that I could provide that kind of freedom for my grandchildren, but I think the window might be closed forever on such unsupervised and unprotected play. The world doesn't feel like the same kind of place as it did back then.

Daniel's farm belongs to a new family now, a good family who has tended the land for two generations. Long years ago my Aunt found a dinosaur bone on the farm. She gave it to a museum in Omaha. I'm thinking about that bone now and it reminds me that we never really own land, we just care for it for a time.

These are tin cups that hung on a windmill near the house where Daniel lived. An abandoned house that we would poke around in, mindful of snakes and spiders and what else might live in the various holes under the wooden floorboards... A tornado took away the rest of Daniel's house not so long ago.

Daniel probably used the cups as my brothers and I did to have a cool drink of water. Water will never taste so cool or delicious as it did on those sultry summer days when I was young and the world seemed very wide and very free. I won't sell the cups, ever.

10-31-2010

Blue German

2010-10-15T11:24:00.000-07:00

First book signing of the 2010 holiday season was at The Country Loft in New Ulm. New Ulm is home to Hermann the German--a statue honoring Minnesota's largest immigant group. Hermann is mentioned in my book and I had never seen him in person, so I had to stop by and say, "Guten Tag!" Hermann is the 3rd largest copper statue in the United States and was refurbished a few years ago after too many Minnesota winters took their toll. We can all relate to that!!
The gift shop where I signed books had delicious home made fudge for sale. Customers were lined-up out the door for a sample of salted nut roll fudge, carmel apple fudge and cookies and cream fudge. I'm a purist where fudge is concerned--the plain old chocolate was calling out to me all afternoon.

And because it was Oktoberfest in New Ulm and eighty degrees, we had to stop for a cold beer at the German restaurant across the street. And then we had to sample the bratwurst, the rye bread, the hot potato salad, and the bread pudding. Uff da!

Future TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS book signings on my schedule:
Best of Times Bookstore in Red Wing Nov. 13 at 10 AM
General Store in Minnetonka Nov. 26 at 11 AM-1 PM
St. Thomas More School in St. Paul on Nov. 29
Micawber's in St. Paul TBD

Rare and Possibly Blue

2010-09-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

FEQ: The dinosaurs disappeared because they could not adapt to their changing environment. We shall disappear if we cannot adapt to an environment that now contains spaceships, computers — and thermonuclear weapons. Arthur Clarke

Last week scientists discovered the fossils of two new dinosaur species in the desert of Utah. One of the paleontologists said, "It's not every day that you find two rhino-sized dinosaurs that are different from all the other dinosaurs found in North America." A rare day indeed!!
One of the new dinos, Kosmoceratops, (pictured above) had one horn over its nose, one over each eye, one sticking out of each cheek bone and a row of ten across the back of its head--the most ornate-headed dinosuar yet to be found.
As for Kosmo's blue skin in the artist rendition--it's impossible at this point in time to know what color any dinosaur skin was. Scientists can only guess using today's reptiles as models. Reptiles are relatives of dinosaurs. Typically, larger reptiles are gray, but smaller ones can be brighter colors like blue. So, it's possible Kosmo could have sported pebbly blue skin that complimented his audacious array of horns. Dinosaurs have always captured our imagination. It's exciting to keep learning more about them and maybe learn from them as well...

Remembering Collin

2010-09-17T21:02:00.000-07:00

There's a blue sky way up yonder,

there's a blue sky over my head.

There's a blue sky way up yonder,

that's a cover for my head.

And wherever I wander

and wherever I roam

there's a blue sky way up yonder,

that's calling me home....

Traditional Cowboy Song

A shooting star, a calling loon, a blue ox...

2010-09-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

FEQ: In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous. Aristotle

Some things I was happy to see and hear on a recent trip to northern Minnesota:

A shooting star zipping across the night sky. Ever wonder how rare shooting stars are? Not very! Shooting stars are actually bits of rock and dust falling into Earth’s atmosphere and burning up. The trail of light we see is called a meteor. At certain times of the year meteors are more prevalent. But for people like me who live in the city or aren’t up late most nights, seeing a shooting star is a rare occurrence!

A last loon call of the season. The loons on the lake were mostly quiet, but finally one lone call cut through the stillness of the night. It makes me sad to consider how the loons might fare when they migrate to the Gulf of Mexico and encounter oil in their deep dives. Minnesota is estimated to be the summer home of about 6,000 loons. Half of them will travel to the Gulf in the coming weeks. Let’s hope that loons don’t become rare in the near future because of the oil spill.

A famous blue ox named Babe. I always liked Babe, maybe more than Paul Bunyan. Did you know that Babe was born in the winter of the blue snow? It was so cold, words froze as soon as they were said; folks had to thaw them out just to hear them. And because it was extra cold the winter Babe was born, his hide was permanently stained by the blue snow. Didn’t seem to stunt his growth though—you could fit 42 axe handles and a plug of tobacco between his eyes. Yep, it’s always nice to say howdy to big Babe and thank him for making all our lakes.

Goodnight stars, goodbye loons, and good grief, let’s not have another winter with blue snow!

Tubing with Tumbleweed

2010-08-30T15:02:00.000-07:00

The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare to let go.

Our true work is this voyage, this adventure. Richard Bach

All summer long we’ve passed people tubing on a four mile stretch of the lower Madison River outside Ennis, Montana. On a recent August weekend we decided it was time we had a go at it.

Sunday morning dawned cool and windy. But we were hopeful warmer weather was on the way. We rented six heavy duty tubes, plus another one for a cooler of water and yes, a few beers. We drove to the put-in site on the river and got ready to launch. Thankfully, another party of tubers had just arrived from further upriver and gave us a helping hand to getting ourselves situated in the river.

Funny how the river looked so lazy and peaceful on the warm sunny days we drove by in June and July. Now the water looked dark and swirling, wind whipped my thin shirt that provided precious warmth over a swimsuit. And then there was nothing to do but wade in the shallow water, hop into our tubes and let the river sweep us away. The river doesn’t get more than a few feet deep all the way to our take-out and that was reassuring. But slippery rocks waited just below the surface to wreck havoc….

After a few minutes of frantically paddling and trying to maneuver on my own, I grabbed on to the safety of the beer cooler raft which my daughter and son-in-law had tied themselves to. Feeling more stable as part of a flotilla, I relaxed. The skies brightened for just a bit, rays of sun warmed my back. The gusts of winds abated for awhile. Only a sip of beer would do, I couldn’t manage to hold a can and my tube!

We had a delightful time bobbing downriver, enjoying the majestic sights—mountains, osprey, wildflowers. (Sorry I haven’t got photos to show, we couldn’t risk taking a camera along and having it get wet) It felt wonderful to do absolutely nothing except let the river carry me where it wanted.
And then a tumbleweed rolled past us—walking on water as it were. An ominous sign in old western movies, but a happy occurrence that day as it roly-polyed its way downriver, keeping us company.

So, what is rare and blue about all this you might wonder? Tumbleweed on the water was a new thing for me and a day spent with my kids doing something out of the ordinary—well, that’s a rare thing.

And the havoc I mentioned earlier? After a successful float we arrived at the takeout and promptly dumped out of our tubes trying to navigate the slippery rocks. Well, some of us dumped anyway… Soaked to the skin, and my towel in the vehicle back at the put-in, it was a cold blue end to a fun experience.

For our post-tubing dinner in Ennis we enjoyed elk steak my son-in-law prepared. Sitting at his kitchen table we saw a tumbleweed blow across the back yard that was the size of an inner tube. It wasn’t the delicate-looking variety of tumbleweed that we had seen on the river—this weed ball looked like a blob of brains, “alien tumbleweed” if I had to give it a name. I checked the Internet and couldn’t find any images that looked like it. Rare, I guess…. I also discovered that in Nevada where nuclear weapons were tested above ground, tumbleweed, or Russian thistle, was the first plant to start growing again. Tough stuff!

Rare and Blue in Virginia City

2010-08-24T09:57:00.000-07:00

FEQ: If you want to understand today, you have to search yesterday. Pearl Buck

Under a big blue Montana sky last week we took a stroll down the Virginia City boardwalk. In 1863 gold was discovered near Virginia City and the town soon became the capitol of the territory. Today, it’s real living ghost town—now is that rare or what?
I’ve found that western ghost towns come in several varieties. There are ghost towns that consist of nothing but a few rotting boards. There are ghost towns that consist of broken down buildings inhabited only by varmints and spirits. There are ghost towns that are part of state parks where the buildings have been carefully restored. And there are a few rare ghost towns that have many empty dilapidated buildings but remain home for a few stubborn souls. Virginia City is an even rarer combination of abandoned but restored buildings set among operating shops, restaurants and even county government buildings. It’s truly a town frozen in time. I found it fascinating, and a tiny bit eerie. In the 1860’s more than ten thousand people called Virginia City home, today just over one hundred people are permanent residents.

Besides the bright blue sky over Virginia City, we found a patch of pretty Mountain bluets, a candy store selling tasty blueberry saltwater taffy, and a blue truck with a big friendly passenger. I plan to visit Virginia City again soon and take more time investigating the buildings, cemetery and shops. We had our eighteen-month-old granddaughter with us and while she loved running up and down the wooden boardwalk, she didn't have much patience with old west artifacts--which the town boasts is the largest collection outside of the Smithsonian.

Rare and Recycled

2010-08-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

FEQ: “What will you do to change how you live?” Nomkoo

Yesterday we paid a visit to the Bozeman Public Library to see Nomkoo, the global elephant ambassador for sustainability. Nomkoo’s full name is: Nomkhubulwane (Zulu for Mother Earth). Nomkoo is a nine foot tall, one ton elephant made out of braided recycled tires. She comes from Africa where she was created by Andries Botha, a South African sculptor, elephant advocate and human rights activist. The sculpture is touring North America to encourage creative projects and discussions about a more respectful and sustainable relationship with planet earth.
It was fun watching little children interacting with Nomkoo on the lawn of the library. Not so fun listening to a man grouse about the fact that hauling a one ton elephant around the country requires using a lot of resources. I say its a good thing to use donated funds to transport an elephant with an important message.
What will you do to change how you live? That is Nomkoo’s challenge and plea.
On our way home, my granddaughter sitting next to me, looked out the car window and watched the clouds swirl over the Bridger Mountains. She said, “the sky is moving.” Her comment caused the adults in the car to go, “ohhhh...” Yep, the sky is moving and shifting, and hopefully, so are our opinions and behavior regarding the environment.

Rare and Blue (and Brown) Visitor

2010-08-08T15:42:00.000-07:00

FEQ (Frequent Earth-Celebratory Quote) "There are two ways to live your life: one is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle." Albert Einstein

It’s rare to observe a bird at close range for an extended period of time. At least for me—I’m not a St. Francis type that birds typically choose to hang around. This common nighthawk landed on our deck railing late one afternoon and stayed motionless for more than an hour while we watched it and photographed it.

From the sliding glass door just a few feet away I could see his muted but intricately patterned feathers, his small dark eye watching me and his delicate tiny blue beak. I never would have known that common nighthawks have blue beaks—none of the guidebooks I have show this feature.

In his hunkered position, this nighthawk looked more like Jabba the Hutt than the acrobatic and elegant flyer he really is. On summer evenings nighthawks swoop through the dusky sky devouring insects funneled into their extra-wide, bristled mouths.

Nighthawks aren’t really hawks at all. They are part of the Nightjar Family that includes whip-poor-wills, Chuck-will’s-widow’s, nightjars, and several species of nighthawks. And common nighthawks are much less common than they once were. Their numbers have declined drastically in some areas for unknown reasons. If they were to disappear forever from our night skies, would we miss these plain brown birds? Certainly we would miss their pest control!

Rare and Black???

2010-07-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've just begun this blog and I'm already deviating from my theme of "rare and blue." How could I not share this great photo though of a mother black bear and her, count 'em, five cubs? My niece's dad took the photo in the back yard of his home near Superior, Wisconsin a few weeks ago.

Doing a bit of research, I discovered that black bears typically have two cubs, sometimes three. Five cubs are rare, though up to six have been recorded. So, it's possible that all these cubs belong to this mama or perhaps she adopted a few along the way. Either way, she has her paws full!

Estimates of black bear numbers in the United States range around 300,000 and they live in forty-one of the lower forty-eight states.

Did you know that black bear fur comes in many colors from black to cinnamon to blonde? The Glacier Bears of southeastern Alaska have silvery fur with a blue lustre on their flanks. Thus, a "blue" black bear is on my Rare and Blue Must See List.

Meanwhile, back in Superior, Wisconsin, that Mama deserves the "Bear-giver of the Year" award.

And what is so rare as a day in July...

2010-07-26T14:33:00.000-07:00

FEQ: We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.

June days are rare according to the old poem, but in Montana where summer can sometimes be slow to arrive, a warm, blue sky day in July spent floating the Madison River with my sister and my son-in-law is a rare treat. It was my first time in a rubber raft boat and I loved bumbling and tumbling our way through the shallow sparkling water. Our ride was a quiet one except for the occasional rub of the raft on patches of rocks and the background of birdsongs: trills, chitters, cheeps, peeps and the kirrrrrr of a golden eagle.

What a joy to be out in the early morning and observe more than forty species of birds. My sister is an avid birder, so I didn't even have to take my eyes off the trees or shoreline to page through a bird book. Mary identified most of the birds by sight, and the few she had to look up she quickly found in her well-used book.

My favorites? We skimmed past a trio of American avocets working a slice of sandbar. I had never seen one so close before. They are sleek, graceful shorebirds with soft cinammon necks and heads, and long, slender upturned beaks. A single white pelican spilling downriver with a broken wing brought to mind the plight of the brown pelicans in the oil-stained Gulf of Mexico. And flashes of orange, black and white turned out to be Bullock's orioles, which I'd never known differed from Baltimore orioles.

Yep, James Russell Lowell's famous poem about June fits July in Montana like a well-worn boot.

"Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay...

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky..."

Night Shining Clouds

2010-07-03T13:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon a dark and ominous sky skirted the edge of our neighborhood. The clouds were deep midnight blue with gaping jaws of gray and white. My husband and I watched the fast-moving storm for a few minutes before he got his camera out. In a few more moments though, the mass spun itself over the mountains and out of view. I went to the Internet to learn more about cloud formations and stumbled across a type of cloud that is rare and blue, and perhaps a harbinger of global warming.

I’d never heard of night-shining or noctilucent clouds before, possibly because they were once only seen at the earth’s poles, but in the last twenty-five years have been creeping ever closer to the equator. Their precise nature remains a mystery, though it is known that they are high atmosphere formations made of ice crystals, not water droplets. They are only visible during twilight hours and are apparently becoming more prevalent and much brighter than they used to be. Scientists speculate that global warming and an increase of methane gas in the atmosphere may have something to do with why we are seeing more of these clouds.

Night-shining clouds can be awe-inspiring according to those who have seen them—they range in color from silvery-blue to glowing acid blue. Prime time for seeing streaks or knots of these clouds is just before and after the summer solstice. (Now!) You can check out the link below for actual photos and lots more information.

I always feel lucky to see the northern lights in Minnesota and Canada, now night-shining clouds will have to go on my "Rare and Blue Must See list" (my personal bucket list). In the meantime I’ll be checking the images from Russia, Scotland and Denmark on www.kersland.plus.com