MY HANDS AT 48

AROUND THE BLOCK MONDAY: AMARILLO AND THE BIG APPLE

Friday I grabbed a New York Times at the Albuquerque airport while I waited for a friend's arrival. What a nice surprise to see a full page article on my city. Jim Atkinson's piece will take you beyond my block, but it will give you a taste of the city where I hang my hat these days.


The Other Grand Canyon

QUOTE OF THE MONTH

"Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writer's job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible." --Stephen King, from his book On Writing

UPCOMING EVENT

If you are an educator that lives in the Texas Panhandle, I hope you will consider enrolling in my workshop day at Region 16 on September 16. I'll begin the day showing my journey as a writer. But this is also a hands-on workshop. We'll write in the morning and in the afternoon, I'll take you through my rewriting process-Whittle, Whittle, Whittle.

Workshop: WHEN KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT CAME TO TOWN
Tuesday, September 16
Region 16
5800 Bell Street
Amarillo, Texas 79109



To enroll: Workshop with Kimberly

For more information: Contact Susan Poteet at susan.poteet@esc16.net
or call (806)677-5182


Thanks! I hope to see you there.

HIDDEN TREASURES

When I gave Shannon my copy of The New Cookbook for Poor Poets, I replaced it, ordering a used copy online. A few days ago, I received the book in the mail and was delighted that someone had signed it. Not the author, but the original purchasers. The inscription offered me a glimpse into their lives.

It read:

To Tim,

May you have use for this cookbook
one day.

Love,

Grandma & Grandpa

Happy 19th birthday

Since the inscription was dated 2-9-87, Tim would be about 40 years old today. I doubt he ever used the cookbook. The pages are free from butter stains and soup drippings. They're immaculate. But I do wonder, did he ever cook?

Some of you may be thinking, who cares? I do. I'm a writer.




Another treasure I found was in a recent purchase from a local used bookstore. It's the kind of store where Doris Day music plays in the background and all the books are laminated. The book I discovered is titled Letters of Flannery O'Connor, The Habit of Being. When I brought the book home, I started to read and noticed a newspaper clipping, tucked midway through the book. The article was a review written in 1979 about the same book which was published the same year.

I could just imagine a woman who fancied herself a bit like Flannery O'Connor. Maybe she'd read A Good Man is Hard to Find. Or maybe like O'Connor, she owned a peacock that pranced around her yard. Or maybe she just awoke one morning, fetched the newspaper from her yard and read it while she sipped her first morning cup of coffee. The review sparked something in her, and she opened her junk drawer, dug out her coupon scissors and cut out the article.

When her cousin Harold called to see if she needed anything in town, she said, "Why yes, I do." She slipped on her navy skirt and crisp white shirt and waited for Harold to pick her up and take her to the bookstore. When she arrived there she was delighted to discover the book displayed in the store window. She bought a copy and when Harold dropped her off, she put on a kettle of water. A new book, she reasoned, deserved a cup of Earl Grey tea.

She became as fascinated as I did upon reading those first letters, but then somewhere around the middle of the book, she grew tireless. Maybe she'd wanted some man to sweep Miss O'Connor off her feet and marry her. And she could tell midway through the book that this just wasn't going to be a part of this story. Something in those letters made her sad. And she tucked the review between the last pages she'd read and never opened the book again.

At least that's what I think happened.

Who cares? I do. I'm a writer.

FALLING IN LOVE, SLOWLY

We've lived in this house for almost fifteen years. Our last two homes had not been mansions, by any means, but they'd been grander and in neighborhoods where housing associations dictated how often we mowed our lawn and the date we were allowed to put up our outdoor Christmas decorations.

Those houses had also caused us to feel strapped the day after payday. It was an uncomfortable existence. When we moved to the Texas Panhandle, Jerry suggested we purchase smarter this time around. "You've always dreamed of being a writer. Let's buy a one income home. Then if you want to pursue that dream, you can."

I agreed, but I started to doubt my decision during the house search. Back then, there wasn't much on the market and every house we entered held disappointments. Then we walked into a modest sixties ranch. Cookies were cooling on a tray in the kitchen, bicycles were stored on the screen porch, numerous flower beds had been carved along the fence. Someone loved living here.

We learned the owners had lived in the house for thirty years. They'd raised four kids within these walls. They'd owned numerous pets that had lived and died here. Months later, Kay, the previous owner told me her kids said they could never sell this house. There were too many dead bodies buried in the backyard.

It was not love at first sight that caused us to say, yes. The decision was more of a surrendering. We'd simply seen everything and though we couldn't quite put our finger on it, this house touched something inside us.

Though the large kitchen and backyard were impressive, the house had many shortcomings. The day we moved in, those deficiencies seemed magnified. I slipped the key in the doorknob at four o'clock in the afternoon. My daughter and I walked into the backyard and heard the nearby sounds of highway traffic. Since we'd originally toured the house in mid-morning, the nearby highway only registered at a faint hum. That first afternoon of ownership, I thought a semi truck might race through our backyard.

Now that the house was empty, I could plainly see the ugly aluminum framed windows. They were narrow rectangles that let in little light. The house seemed dreary.

Our bedroom was so tiny that making the bed was truly a chore. I'm sure dieting would have solved the problem of having to squeeze in the narrow space, between the walls and bed. But it was easier to gripe to my husband. During my first shower, the old plumbing christened me with cold water. Shameful as it is to recall now, I threw a tantrum after that brisk experience.

And I wanted to shoot the stove.

For six months I peeled off wallpaper and painted each room. We removed the heavy drapes and exchanged the old sliding glass door leading to the screen porch with a French one. At that time, we couldn't afford to replace every window, but we enlarged three. A bit more sunshine pouring into the living and family rooms made a difference. (Mainly in my disposition.)

Then June arrived. My decorating budget ran out. I picked up a pen and a yellow pad and headed toward the screen porch. Gradually, words on the page became more important and the flaws of my house concerned me less. So much so, a few years ago I realized in amusement that in ten years, I'd never changed the picture hanging over the fireplace mantle. What happened to the woman who rotated her pictures every season?

As my own books started to fill a shelf in our family room, we made house improvements. A few at a time, every window was replaced. Eventually, we enlarged the bedroom and built a walk-in closet. We bought a new stove. (Well, now it's not so new, but I still love it!)

Except for the fixtures, the plumbing in the shower is the same. But I've learned the trick. Turn all the way to the right, a minute or two, then a quarter turn to the left. There I find the desired temperature.

I don't want you to think this house had no attributes when we bought it. I've always enjoyed the charming courtyard entry, the screen porch, the large sunny kitchen. But something deeper happened along the way. And I would never have predicted it the day my husband and I signed the mortgage contract. I had not meant to fall in love with this house.

Yet with all its flaws, it afforded me a way to pursue my passion. And it offered more. Memories have been made in these rooms. We've had a first-snow-of-the-year picnic in front of the fireplace. The kitchen played host to French onion soup lunches for friends. The living room became our reading room and the place for my daughter's sleepovers. Though small, the family room comfortably held eight people for a private movie premiere. It's even difficult to hear the traffic from the backyard these days. I'm too busy listening to the birds chirping on the feeder and our neighbor's grandkids jumping on the trampoline.

Somehow in these fifteen years, I became a writer, and while I wasn't looking, this house had become my home.

LOUISIANA ON MY MIND