Down to the River

A gentle rain dimples the surface of the river as I slither down the steep bank, bag of supplies in hand. The path, nearly overgrown with poison ivy, has not yet been soaked, so the dirt and loose stones shift under my feet. The leaves of oak, maple and ash trees gather the raindrops together before letting them sheet off; the rhythm of the rain under the canopy differs from what I see on the open water. Larger, more sporadic splashes land on my head and shoulders. Somehow this secondhand rain feels colder than the just-more-than-drizzle that falls on the river.

Every other week, June to September, I join a bevy of water testers to take samples on the Souhegan, Nashua and Merrimack Rivers. It’s a discreet bevy; each of us treks to a separate site, draws a few ounces of water, and delivers them to our assigned test lab. We’re lay scientists, if you will, volunteers in the ongoing study of pollution and nutrients in the environment. Our samples are pixels in the long-term image of the watershed, and we’ve had some success: the three rivers are much cleaner, and wild salmon are returning.

I undertake this minor inconvenience for the sake of the river, of course. It shouldn’t and doesn’t have to be our septic system. And I do it for selfish, human reasons. Better ways exist to handle all our wastes than mindlessly dumping them in the water we then drink. Water treatment costs have come down since the sampling and cleanup began; fewer swimmers get sick; more boaters, fishermen and hikers enjoy the river. Osprey, bald eagles, otters and other critters visit more often, delighting wildlife watchers.

But the real reason I get up early one morning every two weeks is for the brief, precious moments of communing with the river. The actual sampling takes only a couple of minutes, the routine observations of the area very little more. Nonetheless, I often spend half an hour or more at my site, noting things that don’t go into my report—the fall of sunlight on the leaves, the pattern of the ripples, the singing of the water over the rocks. I watch the progression of leaf to flower to fruit, sweet flag to meadowsweet to goldenrod. Sometimes raccoons, otters, or weasels leave their tracks.

On this rainy day I don’t linger. The rain is mild but soon seeps through my t-shirt; the river feels warmer than the air. I peer downstream toward the bridge, unseen in the rising mist. Shivering now, I climb back to my car and deliver my samples to the lab.

But when I get home, my clothes and my hair smell of the river. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll visit again.

River Bends

RIVER BENDS

You never know which way the river will go. You just slip into the water and hang on for the ride. 

 

For example, I went on a tree hunt last week. Since I live in the most heavily forested state in the union, you wouldn’t think this would be such a big deal. Heck, I don’t think I’ve been anywhere in New Hampshire where I couldn't see a tree. But I wasn’t just looking for any old tree. I was in search of a big tree. Specifically, a big hemlock. 

Anne Krentz, of the New Hampshire Big Tree Project, had emailed me and explained that the previous hemlock champion in my county was dying. She’d heard there were some big hemlocks in Sheldrick Forest, a property of The Nature Conservancy; did I, as a volunteer steward in the Forest, know of any?  

I confess that I’d never sought out big trees of any species. Sheldrick Forest hosts a magnificent yellow birch “candelabra” tree, a huge thing with six mossy stems. It’s one of my favorite trees ever, but because it is really a clump of trees grown together, it doesn’t qualify for the Big Tree designation. But, I told Anne, there certainly are some big hemlocks in the Valley of the Giants in Sheldrick. Sure, I’d help her look for a new champ. 

Anne  and another tree expert and I tramped around the Forest and measured a bunch of trees. The biggest hemlock we found measured eight feet in girth and 130 in height. As an afterthought, Anne had us look for a big red maple. We found one of those, too, seven feet around and 125 high. Two champion trees in one day—what could be better? 

Photo (c) Naturedigger

While Anne was finishing up her notes, I shuffled along the trail and came across some rather stunning white berries. They stood about two feet above the ground, on an attractive plant with astilbe-like leaves. I found another plant of the same type a few feet away. I’d never seen this species, so I took a picture and identified it from a description and sketch in a Peterson guide.  

Some people call it doll’s eyes, because of the black dot on the end of the white berries. But it’s more ominously known as white baneberry. Checking my guide to edible wild plants, I discovered that any part of white baneberry, if eaten, causes severe dizziness and vomiting. Darn, and I was going to see if I could grow some in my garden. 

I let Anne know about my identification. Next thing I knew, I got an email from a woman who is writing a book about poisonous plants. Could I guide her and her photographer husband to the baneberry? I never object to a visit to Sheldrick, so the following day we braved the tail end of a rain shower. Tara and Mark Johnson were fascinating people to know, and they got some terrific photos of the white baneberry, like the one above. And of the poison ivy rash on my ankle. No, I’m not sharing that picture. 

From big trees to poisonous plants to meeting four fascinating people.  You really never know which way the river will take you. But if you're open to the possibilities and willing to go down a few dead ends, you’re bound to end up someplace interesting.

Today I’m pleased to host Holly Hunt, author of The Devil’s Wife and Scale and Feather from Champagne Books. Holly is a delightful personal with a devious and subversive mind. Her books are great reads. Welcome, Holly!

Tell us about Scale and Feather. How did it come about?

Scale and Feather was a book that's gone through about 7 different drafts, and ended up being the combination of 2 different stories. I love reading dragon books, and wanted to try my hand at it. Somehow, though, it ended up being a bit fairytale, with a princess, a rescue and a civil war. But, hey, what can you do?

I love genre mash-ups, especially when they work as well as yours. What/who influenced or inspired your writing?

Generally, my books come out of reading something, and not liking where it ends. So I reconstruct it, put my ending in, then go back and make it my own. It's the simplest way to do it. The Devil's Wife was my take on the end of Lucifer's fall. Blood Moon my take on all the soppy werewolf stories going around. Scale and Feather is just me goofing around with a book I did like, and it slowly evolving into its own world.

I haven’t gotten to Blood Moon yet. I’m looking forward to it. Do you have a regular writing routine? I know you have a busy schedule with your job and school; how do you fit writing in?

Regular writing routine? What's that? I write as much as I can Mon + Tues (my days off), and research every odd evening after work. And when that's done, I get to work on my school stuff. Sometimes I write a lot, sometimes I find myself spending 4 hours on Facebook instead of doing what I should have.

Ah, social media. The great time drain.  What do you like best about writing? The least?

The best bit? Finishing a story. The worst? Finishing a story. Finishing a story, you're ending everything you've done. You've spent years (or weeks) writing this thing, and all the characters are there, and you don't have anything to o with them anymore. I always feel like I'm losing family when I finish a story. And I can't usually bring myself to start a new one. Who needs the pressure of sticking to the rules you've already created?

Finishing a book is like empty nest syndrome. You’ve done your best with these characters and now it’s time to turn them loose in the world. It’s a bittersweet moment. Tell us about your favorite non-writing activities.

Wait, there's something other than writing? Well, I watch a lot of cartoons (Batman, Spiderman, Young Justice, the newer stuff), movies (Batman, Spiderman, Avengers, Prometheus, all that) and looooove wandering through the pages of history. Working on a time-travel, fossil-filled book at the moment. But I don't want to say any more, or I'll jinx myself!

Any advice for newbies?

I'll pass on the best advice I ever got - "You can't edit a blank page." Also, once you have that contract, promote your butt off.

Holly, it’s been a pleasure having you here today. The Devil’s Wife is available now from Champagne Books; Scale and Feather, also from Champagne, is due out in October. Blood Moon is available from Amazon Kindle.

MUSSEL WRITING

There are thousands of mussel species in the world, most at sea but hundreds of them living in fresh water, and at least ten in my home state of New Hampshire. (I’m told freshwater mussels are edible, but not as tasty as saltwater ones. Being too squeamish to catch and eat my own specimens, I’ll leave that judgment to others.) All mussels spend most of their time clinging to a rock or burrowed under sand or mud. They’re all filter feeders; they siphon in water and eat any organic matter they find. They don’t tolerate pollution well, so if you find mussels in your local lake or brook, you can rejoice in the purity of the water. When the season is right, they release their eggs and sperm en masse; the resulting babies drift along the currents in huge numbers until they become prey for larger animals, or after a rather complicated maturation cycle, find a nice bit of real estate, secrete a shell, and settle down for the rest of their lives. Depending on species, they grow to as little as one and half inches or as much as eleven inches. Sometimes, if the currents change and again depending on species, an individual mussel might seek out new hunting—er, siphoning grounds. 

Mussels—at least the ones I’ve seen—also do another thing. They write. Don’t believe me? Check out the picture below. This guy is clearly practicing his cursive e’s in the sand, though he got a little sidetracked there at the end. Or maybe the e’s are the sidetracking until he figured out where he wanted to go and set off to get there. (Don’t ask me how I know it’s a guy; I’m using the generic masculine here, folks. The only way to sex a mussel is to dissect it, and my curiosity didn’t extend that far. Besides, I wanted to read the rest of his book.) When you consider that mussels crawl at a cracking one to two inches per hour, and that the track in the picture is about 16” end to end not counting the e’s, you can only conclude that this guy had a lot to say.

Going down to the lake early every morning while I was on vacation last week, I saw a lot of mussel writing, mostly scrawled lines, quick scribbles and enigmatic traces. The strange hieroglyphs would appear overnight and then wash away under the force of powerboat waves, so they were only visible for a short time. They were hard to photograph, given the refractive power of water, the low angle of the sun, and the constant rippling of the waves. I took about thirty shots before I got this one. When something is so fleeting and furtive, I figure it has to mean something. 

So what does this mussel writing mean? Some would say it means nothing; it’s just the random wandering of a hungry mollusk. But, I ask, what about those weirdly regular e’s? Are they a sign of mussel madness? Magnetic disturbance? A message from the Ineffable? Sheer joie de vivre? 

I don’t know what it means to this particular mussel, but here’s what this writer finds in it: Keep going. Keep writing. Even if you’re going around in circles, it’s okay to keep writing. Maybe if you’re going around in circles, eventually you’ll get dizzy and stagger onto the right track by accident. And who knows? Maybe the circles will give you glimpses into other tracks. After all, every curve has an infinite number of tangents to explore. At the very least, you’ll build up your writing mussels.

DICTIONARIES

The other day on NPR, Diane Rehm rebroadcast a conversation with the editors of The Dictionary of American Regional English (DARE). The fifth and final volume of this massive work was published in January, but I’d missed this interview. It became another “driveway moment.” You know, those shows or stories that are so interesting you sit in your car to hear the end of it. Except my husband and I weren’t in our driveway. We were at a rail trailhead, and we left the radio on and our car doors open while we hoisted our bikes down from the roof rack. 

Now, I could listen to a discussion of language shifts and regional slang for hours. It’s just so fascinating to watch English evolve. What do you call meat or other fillings in bread? A sandwich, sammidge, sangwich? If the filling is in a roll, do you call it a hero, sub, hoagie, torpedo, grinder, spunky? Of course, hubby and I wanted to call in with the little quirks we’ve come across—“all” used to mean “all gone” in Pennsylvania Dutch country, or the variations of “ayuh” (yeah) in New England. My grandfather’s dramatic pronunciation of “Gawd.” Or the odd Mennonite custom of dropping “to be” in phrases like “the car needs fixed.” Even my DIL’s addition of “the” to road numbers: the 309, the 202.  

Ever since My Picture Dictionary dropped into my five-year-old hands, I’ve loved dictionaries. I often get carried away when I go to look up a word, and find myself five columns down from where I started. I never throw one away, even when I buy an updated one; I still have my dad’s big old Webster’s from 1949. The gold title on the binding is nearly gone, and the dark blue fabric has faded to gray, but I won’t let it go. It carries the scents of my early home, the memory of my father’s big rough hands turning the fragile pages, and the mystery of words. 

Earlier this summer, a friend gave me a wonderfully strange lexicon: The Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, by the Rev. E. Cobham Brewer, LL.D. The version my friend found at a yard sale is a 1978 facsimile of the 1894 edition, complete with random ink blots and lacunae. Given the good reverend’s interest in religion and literature, it includes many entries on assorted heresies and often goes into detailed discussions of minor characters in classic literature. But there are also some colorful terms and phrases from ordinary life: going by the marrow-bone stage, i.e. walking. (This expression is listed under “Bayard,” a horse of incredible swiftness, and is an alternative to the ironic “ride bayard of ten toes.”)

Beyond its obvious value in deciphering outdated or archaic terms and characters, Phrase and Fable provides a fascinating insight into what constituted the world of a well-educated Englishman in the late nineteenth century—a thorough knowledge of classical Greek and Roman literature, plus Moliere, Milton, Shakespeare, Scott. The book is also invaluable for tracing the origins of words—though sometimes the origins Brewer gives are suspect. Take, for instance, London, which he claims comes from the Celtic Luandun, City of the Moon. Two lines later, he admits “it would take a page to give a list of guesses made at the derivation of the word London.” So dip into this dictionary with a box of salt (skepticism) at hand. 

Above all, Phrase and Fable is a glimpse into the inquisitive, eclectic mind of a man of his times. I would love to eavesdrop on a conversation between him and another great scholar of language, J.R.R. Tolkien. Wouldn’t you? 

Either DARE or Phrase and Fable would make a wonderful gift for any writer. Put them on your wishlist and see what happens.

Seven lines from Julie Eberhart Painter

From time to time I'll post a few lines from a new or upcoming book. Today it's seven lines from page seven of Medium Rare, by Julie Eberhart Painter. Enjoy!



To be released in December from Champagne Books, MEDIUM RARE the sequel to KILL FEE, Book of the Year 2011, by Julie Eberhart Painter

            Celeste Holler had accumulated a large following since she hung her shingle out in the town of Cassadaga, a Mecca for psychics. Thank goodness no one knew about Preacher Barney's upcoming trip. He was only doing it for his co-workers' own good; he'd check her out, and expose the fraud.
            What a weird place, Cassadaga was. He’d never forget the first time he drove out there to offer his spiritual comfort to his hospice family. Why would anybody go there if they didn't have to? On the other hand, the predictions that she talked about were coming true. He tried not to think about what this Celeste woman might discover about him, but he had to know if she had him figured out.

Guest blog: January Bain

Please welcome January Bain, author of Forever Man, released today by Champagne Books (www.champagnebooks.com). January is a talented new writer, and I'm delighted to have her here today.

Hi Everyone!

I am very pleased to be visiting Nikki’s Blog today to talk about writing and my novel, Forever Man being released by Champagne Books this month. It’s the first in the Forever Series.

My name is January Bain and I love to write. There, I’ve confessed my addiction! And now my first book is about to be released and I would dearly love to share my storytelling journey with you. It all began a couple of years back when I thought…

“What if you had been given the gift of healing and could save those you loved? And furthermore, discovered you could save the one you love from a vampire’s kiss. There is a catch, of course; the cost of such a healing could mean your own death…

Ellie Hightower is discovering such gifts in my first novel, Forever Man. She is telepathic, young and bright and has been running from these new found gifts all the way to Nome, Alaska where she encounters the man of her dreams, Mike Stone, and an ancient evil force out to take him away from her. Will having goodness and light on her side be enough to save them from Katrianna, a newly resurrected vampire that looks to enslave Mike in her nefarious web?

To find out the truth you will need to read, Forever Man.”

Muse behind Forever Man:

Where did the idea come from? I remember it as clear as if the moment had just happened: I was watching The Green Mile, and was mesmerized by the idea that the gentle giant, imprisoned unfairly in jail for a crime committed by an another, could heal others by taking on their illness and then just letting the evil flow back into obscurity by exhaling through his lungs. I coveted that gift with every fiber of my being. I had just lost two beloved brothers to cancer and had to stand by and watch it happen. My heroine, Ellie Hightower, was going to have it so much better than me! She was going to have the gift of healing and save those she loved. I know why I write romantic stories—the guaranteed happy ending.

It’s been an interesting journey, this getting a book polished and ready to be published. Though the learning curve has been pretty steep, I have had the blessing of working with great people who have made the journey a whole lot easier. I wish the same blessing on all aspiring writer’s out there!

First Excerpt from FOREVER MAN:

Prologue

Pure evil waited, hushed and cold in the perfect darkness. The steady drip, drip on the coffin lid above was soundless next to the crashing waves of the sea. But the creature within was aware and knew what the substance was: life-giving nourishment.

The blood was pooling, seeking a way into any tiny fissure that it could search out with thin hungry fingers. The resurrection was painstaking. Each life-giving drop dripped onto the needy beast which absorbed each molecule like a monstrous sponge as it built up, layer by layer. The vampire waited patiently—certain of its imminent resurrection.

After all, it had already waited centuries, what were a few more hours to recover what had been lost.

Excerpt Two:

While I waited for her to return I looked out the window, admiring the view of snow-peaked mountains when I heard the screeching of brakes and a thud, then realized someone had hit a dog with a half ton truck right in front of the restaurant. The driver, a young woman in obvious distress, jumped out and cradled the animal’s head in her lap. In an instant I turned and rushed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

As I reached the woman she looked up at me with stark pleading in her eyes. “I didn’t see him! Please, I need help!”

Crouching down beside them, I carefully laid my hands on the whimpering dog. It looked like a husky, probably a sled dog. He or she was still breathing, but it was labored and loud. I could also see blood on its soft white fur. My heart instantly melted and reached out to the poor creature with its pain-filled, whiskey-brown eyes that seemed to beg me to do something. Despite the gut-wrenching plea, I felt helpless, sheer happenstance had brought this poor animal to this end and I had no power to save it from its fate.

Hesitantly, I reached my hands out and laid them on the poor dog’s head and its eyes seemed to tell me that it knew its fate. Tears flowed and the image of the dog blurred. I felt its pain as my own as I closed my eyes in sheer anguish.

Please God, let this beautiful creature be okay. Suddenly, something came alive inside me like a dam bursting its banks, and a great tidal wave of energy flowed through me from my very core. It was so strong it made me shake and my legs, cramping in the crouch, almost gave way.

A surge of pure power seemed to drive through my hands into the dog as I concentrated my thoughts on it and then all I could see and feel was hot, white light surrounding me for a few brief incredibly thrilling seconds. The light blinded me, its power as strong as the noonday sun. A sense of pure aliveness electrified me, as if I was at the pinnacle of my strength and could rise up and fill the world with goodness and healing. Then, just as suddenly, the floodgates in my mind closed and the white hot energy retreated back into my hands that began to shake violently with the excess energy.

The sensation left as abruptly as it had come and I fell back exhausted from the effort. The dog whimpered, shook itself and sat up. It looked at the two of us as if nothing had happened, its brown eyes shining and its tail wagging as if it didn’t even remember the last few minutes of its life.

The woman, her eyes huge in her round face, looked at me with complete wonder. “How could this be? One minute I thought it was dying, then you came along and now it’s up and fine? It doesn’t make any sense.” The woman shook her head, unwilling to believe her own eyes.

I knew exactly what she meant. Under the sense of complete exhaustion I was now aware of lurked the feeling that the world had slid sideways and then realigned itself in a new configuration.

Standing up, I felt immediately light-headed and woozy and stumbled forward from severe vertigo, catching myself from falling just in time.

“I don’t know—I guess it wasn’t—as hurt as you thought—it must have just been stunned.” I tried to put a sensible spin on recent events, my tongue feeling wooden and clumsy in my mouth. My slurred words made me sound drunk or slow, I realized from a muddled distance, my voice echoing in my head.

“But didn’t you see the bright light just before the dog got up?” The woman was not to be deterred from her new sense of wonder.

I knew I had to get away, but an overwhelming sense of fatigue was slowing down my reaction time and was it was like being forced to move in deep, heavy water.

“Who are you?” The woman asked, her tone blunted by suspicion now.

Best regards,

January Bain

Storyteller

www.januarybain.ca

www.ChampagneBooks.com

http://thewritersvineyard.com/

http://january-bain-science-fiction-musings.blogspot.com/2012/03/planet.html

The Forever Series

Forever Man

Forever Woman

Forever Clan