Wytheville and Fred First

Last Friday, I drove down to Wytheville with a writer friend of mine. It was the 26th annual Wytheville Chautauqua and writing contest. Both my friend and I placed in the essay contest. I was a little concerned about the title of the essay I submitted, "Balls," because I know the sensibilities of some of the people who coordinate the contest. But, since this had nothing to do with testicles and everything to do with juggling the various balls of life, I said, "what the hell" and sent it in. Took honorable mention.

The highlight of the day, of course, was getting to hear Fred First talk about eight years and 1,000,000 (yes, that is one million) words of blogging. Fred started with stray thoughts and images about the place he lives in Floyd County, VA. Very rural, gorgeous, and Fred's own special place. He read an essay from his first book, Slow Road Home, about how he hated canned, embalmed asparagus when he was a child. -- Hate to admit it. I still like canned asparagus, cold with wasabi mayo on a boat-nic. (That's a picnic on a boat.)

Fred's book is a direct result of his blog. He dumped his blog, formatted it for print, and self-published a few years ago. It's a hit and he's a wonderful speaker.

And I scored a promise to come to Roanoke and speak to the Valley Writers in 2011. Maybe I can get him on the same program with Jim Minick, who was also at the Wytheville event. What a day.

Cow in the lake

On Saturday evening, just as Terry and I were heading out to dinner, a neighbor called to report a dead cow in the lake just off the end of his dock. He wanted to know what to do with it.

I suggested he drag it ashore, butcher it, and stock his freezer. He was not amused. He seemed to think that because Terry and I are on the homeowner's association board, we should remove said dead cow. We thought not, gave the neighbor several numbers to call (Coast Guard Axilliary, Marine Fire and Rescue, Applachian Power (who owns the license for the lake), Virginia departments with varying degrees of responisibility for health, water safety, etc.). The Coast Guard and Marine Fire and Rescue eventually showed up and circled the dead cow. My neighbor went out as well. Everyone agreed that the cow was indeed thoroughly dead. And then they left. Cow remained in the water.

Cow was in the water on Sunday. Today, it's moved on or down, who knows which.

So, what is the story about the dead cow? Becky Mushko wants to know if it committed suicide. Looked like a young cow, so I don't think suicide is likely. Of course, it could be pregnant and not happy about it. . . .

Was it murdered? Did a jealous cow lure it into the water just as lightning was striking all around? Was this an act of a jealous god who decided that the cow was a bad influence on her herd and should be destroyed?

Without roping the cow and dragging it to a dock, we'll probably never know what happened. CSI wasn't called. The police were not interested, even if the cow was a murder victim. Alas, this inquiring mind is not likely to know what happened. Bet Sally Roseveare can do something with the cow in the lake in her next Smith Mountain Lake Mystery.

And no, I didn't take any pictures of the bloated corpse.

It's Time

Terry and I went to the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra's closing concert on Saturday. A tribute to Woodstock, the orchestra performed with Jeans and Cadillacs, a cover band from Canada. The music was wonderful and reminded me that Woodstock and the decades on either side formed the soundtrack of my life.

I haven't seen as much tie-dye, bell bottoms, love beads, head bands, and Birkies in one place in decades. It was wonderful.

The best moment, however, was unscripted. The leader of the cover band set up one song by saying this was an anthem of families waiting for vets to come home. He asked the crowd to give a round of applause to all Vietnam vets in the audience. We stood and cheered for five minutes. Unscripted, spontaneous.

We didn't thank our war fighters when they came home. It's past time, but it's never too late. Thank a veteran from any war or peacetime today. You'll feel better for doing so. (End of political comment.)

Re-emergence

The first signs of spring are here:

peepers singing at dusk and dawn
earthworms on the sidewalk
sun higher in the sky
warmth in the sun, chill in the shade
annoyed skunks letting the world know they are waking up
writers re-emerging from their dark caves of creativity

I set out to finish editing my manuscript, edits based on comments from my critique groups and from agents who were kind enough to tell me what was wrong with the opening movement while rejecting the book.

I hit the goal on Sunday. One final read for the remaining typos and then it's off to agents for their reaction.

I'm glad spring is here. I even missed the stinky skunks. Most of all, I am so glad my saint of a husband lived with the slug all winter while I muttered incantations over words, sentences, phrases and chapters. Thank you, Terry, for being here and being my sounding board. You are truly a saint.