City mice have cleaner clothes

And do less laundry.

Not really. But it’s a good headline, isn’t it? One thing about blogging: I think I’m getting better at headlines.

The reference here is to one of Aesop’s Fables: “The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse.” I always knew it, as many of you probably did, as “The City Mouse and the Country Mouse.” Without rushing off to re-read it, I think, basically, it is a story about culture shock.

I thought of it today as I was doing yet another load of laundry.

See, back when I was a city mouse, it took us a total of an hour and a half to do all our laundry. Now that I live in–what?–I don’t think this is the country, and I’m not sure it’s suburbia. We’ll call it the country, though, for purposes of this discussion. That’s fair, since one could argue that anyplace outside of New York City is, by contrast, country. (Unless you live in London, maybe, or Rome.)

So, I used to be a city mouse, and we’d take our clothes down to the laundry room in the basement of our apartment building once a week. We’d fill up all four machines, come back in about 30 minutes and transfer the wet clothes to, maybe, two dryers. About 40 minutes later, we’d come back, lug them upstairs, and put them all away.

Now that I live in the country, it takes about an hour and a half four to five times a week!

One washer and one dryer–and they’re on the small size. (We’re going to get bigger ones, eventually, but these work.) Plus, the dryer is electric where the NYC dryers were gas. It makes a difference.

Granted, I can write this blog post or mow the lawn or do other things while the clothes are spinning, but I did that kind of thing in the city, too, between elevator runs. Who’d have thought, as I moved away from museums and theatres and corner delis and world-class restaurants and public transportation, that one of the things I’d miss most would be laundry rooms?

If I’d known then…

Networking 101

Yesterday, I talked about discovering that my network is more diverse than I think it is. That reminded me, again, of the importance of networking and how so many of us don’t think we’re very good at it.

It has a kind of slimy connotation, doesn’t it?

Networking.

All those people handing out business cards and chatting with spurious energy the whole time their eyes are scanning the room for somebody better to approach, somebody with more “contacts.” <shudder>

I think we lose a lot of time and a lot of fun and a lot of valuable relationships because of that view of “networking.” My dread of the process began to disappear when somebody pointed me toward Keith Ferrazzi‘s Never Eat Alone. I wish they’d given it to me when I was in college (except it hadn’t been written then).

You can find some of Mr. Ferrazzi’s tips and suggestions on his website, but basically, he talks in the book about building your network before you need it and about how you should really be trying to find the ways you can help the people in your network.

Try going to your next event looking for a way to help the next person you meet.

Think about it.

It gets the focus off you, so you won’t be so nervous–if you’re given to those kind of nerves. It guides your conversation–which, if you are a person who hates small talk–is invaluable. It not only guides your small talk, it makes it bigger. (Whew!) The connection will be more meaningful if you bring something to it.

Never Eat Alone is one of those life changing books. If you’re a natural extrovert, maybe you don’t need it. I, on the other hand, found it invaluable.

I’ve got a pretty good network in spite of congenital shyness. But if I’d known then. . .my niece would really have been impressed!

Of course you do!

Who knew I had a network?

I did.

To a point.

I mean, I knew I had a network of theatre colleagues. Twenty-some years involved in New York theatre, and I’d better. If I don’t, I have been seriously wasting my time.

What surprised me recently is the realization that I have a wider, more diverse network than that. And I’m very thankful to have made the discovery.

Last week, I took a trip to North Carolina with my mom. We were going to meet my brother-in-law and my niece. The purpose of the trip from our end was to hand over a car which is being passed on to my soon-to-be-licensed niece. From theirs, it was to get the car and to look at several colleges. “Soon-to-be-licensed” equates in this case, as in many, to “contemplating college applications.”

So, great!

We took a look at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill–bustling, beautiful campus–and Duke University in Durham. Not so bustling. Equally beautiful. (The students weren’t back at Duke, yet, while they were already arriving at UNC.)

All that is kind of beside the point.

When we got back to the hotel, my niece and I decided to go swimming. (Also not really the point.)

Down in the pool, treading water and trying not to get our hair too wet–(Don’t ask me. It was something about air conditioning and hair dryers)–we were discussing the colleges and what she thinks she might want to study.

She mentioned one possible career path, and I said, “You know, I know somebody who does that. If you want, I could ask him to talk with you some time.” She mentioned another possibility, and I said, “I think I was in a play with somebody once who is doing that now. I bet she’d be glad to talk to you.” A little bit later, she mentioned that she and her dad might stop to see Wake Forest on the way home. I said, “I know somebody who went to Wake Forest–” and she said, “Of course you do!”

It was funny–although maybe you had to be there–but it was also an interesting lesson.

Most of us are well aware that networking is important. A lot of us don’t think we’re very good at it.

But our networks are bigger than we think.

You know more people in more places and in more circumstances than you can possibly imagine.

Of course you do.

Owl Schedules

No, I’m not talking about Harry Potter.

I’m wondering about owls. Can they tell time? Has anybody ever studied this?

I can’t find anything on Google, but we have an owl that’s been coming around for the past few weeks and, honestly, she has been arriving at almost exactly the same time every evening.

Now, why is that?

Okay, so she lives in the neighborhood. Why shouldn’t she come around?

No reason at all. I would expect her to hunt around in the yards of the houses surrounding wherever she has her nest. I’d even expect that she might come nightly. What I don’t expect is that she lights in that same tree every night at 7:42 pm.

Is she punching a time clock? Do her eyes register some specific shift in light that indicates it is time to begin her appointed rounds? And are they such creatures of habit that she travels the same exact route every night? Two minutes to fly from the oak down the street to the pine tree next door. Another 20 seconds to flit to the top of the sweetgum tree.

Maybe.

But even if the route is identical night after night, doesn’t a mouse or a mole ever appear? You’d think there’d be some variation in the schedule to allow for hunting.

I haven’t seen her for a few nights, but for a while there, we could have set the clock by her.

I’m just wondering why that was.

Advice from Agatha Christie

Be a tradesman

I’m reading Agatha Christie’s autobiography. Now, let’s not kid ourselves. The Dame has got some game.

Dame Agatha Christie is the best selling novelist of all time. She is the most translated individual author, and her works are the third most published books. Whatever criticisms may be leveled at her literary skills–deserved or not–we’d have to agree she knew something about building a career as a writer.

There’s a fascinating passage in the autobiography about the necessity for a writer to take “account of the market for his wares.”

If you were a carpenter, it would be no good making a chair, the seat of which was five feet up from the floor. It wouldn’t be what anyone wanted to sit on. It is no good saying that you think the chair looks handsome that way.

She goes on to say,

It’s no good starting out by thinking one is a heaven-born genius–some people are, but very few. No, one is a tradesman–a tradesman in a good honest trade. You must learn the technical skills, and then, within that trade, you can apply your own creative ideas; but you must submit to the discipline of form.

So, what is the point of me quoting this?

Take a couple of Tuesday Tips from Dame Agatha.

I’m about to embark on another round of play submissions. So, I’m going to read the guidelines carefully and adhere to the rules for each submission. My chair–or play–can be as handsome as you please, but if it doesn’t fit the rules, why bother to submit? And if it doesn’t fit any rules. . . well, I suppose a miracle might happen. But, it’s probably going to involve self-producing or self-publishing. If you want to market your work, you have to know the market.

The other tip — “It’s no good starting out by thinking one is a heaven-born genius.” I thought of this recently when a friend reported on a play reading that was less than wonderful but for which the writer and director wanted to hear no criticism. It seems to me that Aaron Sorkin (another writer who knows something about building a career) had it right when he had a character say, “If you’re dumb, surround yourself with smart people. If you’re smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you.”

A whole lot of praise and approval is nice for the ego. Constructive criticism and a mind open enough to hear it is better for the play.

Minn-Kota and Manatees

Waterfront living.

We’re finally getting our waterfront lifestyle together. We’ve had a small boat for a while. And our house has a boat ramp. It’s not so easy, however, to put the boat in and out of the water, since we don’t have a truck with a hitch (and since I don’t really want a truck running over my labyrinth several times a week).

So, we had to put up a boat lift.

No sooner did we get that done than all kinds of things got in the way of excursions. We had company. We had to go on a series of trips. The weather has been god-awful hot, and who wants to be out on the water in the baking sun under those conditions? We had other house projects that needed work. And then, it rained. Day after day. (The grass is looking good–but then, you have to mow the grass.)

All of this is leading up to today’s Monday Miracle–which is the latest improvement to the whole boating thing.

We got a trolling motor. A Minn-Kota Edge. Yesterday, we took it on a shake-down cruise.

It works great!

It’s bow-mounted, and so easy to put in and out of the water. Five speeds, forward and reverse, so it can get you moving pretty fast–if that’s what you want. And it’s so quiet.

This is how I like to travel by boat. I prefer the slow speed. And the quietness is great. We came right up on some manatees just hanging out in the back part of the creek where there are no houses. Because the motor is quiet, we could get fairly close. Because it is slow, we were in no danger of injuring them.

I love having manatees in the back yard. (The alligators–not so much.)

(Speaking of alligators and manatees, you can check out the Manatee Web Cam. It’s off-season for manatees at Blue Spring, so they are alternating live manatee-less streams with some videos. I like the one where the manatee chases the alligator out of the water — althoug, at my house, I’m hoping they just leave them in the water.)

Domestic skills

I don’t have them.
It is a long-established fact that I don’t cook. It’s not that I can’t cook. I’ve been known to manage a mean Thanksgiving dinner. I can bake things. If I set my mind to it, I can probably cook just about anything.

It’s just that I don’t often set my mind to it.

My mind is busy with other things.

Like–at this point–sewing machines.

Sewing. Another area of domestic dysfunction.

I have a Girl Scout sewing badge. I made an extremely ugly jumper once in Home Ec. There are buttons that owe their existence as functioning fasteners to my needle. I’ve hemmed things.

Recently, I made some curtains for the Casa.

And therein begins my tale.

Once upon a time, my mother bought me a sewing machine. It was a simple, straightforward thing. A needle, a bobbin. A couple of tension adjustment settings. A handful of different stitch lengths and types. (Zig-zag!) Forward. Reverse.

I’ve tried to use it a handful of times over the years. Something always goes wrong. Adjusting the tension is extremely tricky on it, for some reason. In addition, the needle always breaks. Always! I don’t think I’ve ever completed a simple seam on less than two, usually three needles. I’ve had it overhauled once, and the problems still continue.

After finally completing the curtains in way more days than it should have taken, we came to the conclusion that perhaps, just perhaps, it was not the operator but the machine.

At that point, my mom announced that there were three sewing machines sitting unused over at “the old house.” (The house which my mom inherited, with all its contents, from my grandmother.)

So, now we are embarked on another odyssey of trying to get one, at least, of these machines to work.

Machine #1 requires significant intervention with an oil can, if not a sledge hammer. It appears to be frozen solid. The needle won’t go up. It won’t go down. Set that one aside to take to the repair shop.

Machine #2 actually runs. It runs so well that we can’t seem to disengage the needle the way you are supposed to do in order to fill a bobbin. Set that one aside to take to the repair shop.

Machine #3 also runs. The bushings, however, that hold the spindles that hold the spools of thread, had disintegrated with age. Set that one aside. . . .No! Wait!

It turns out you can order those parts.

So, we did.

They came yesterday.

Today, we put the new parts in, and I brought the machine home to test it. I’m up to page 5 in the manual. It will sew straight lines and zig-zag lines and overcast stitches and hems and buttonholes and buttons and monograms and I-don’t-know-what-all. It beeps and buzzes and lights up, and I will need a degree in advanced programming to figure it all out.

While I’m studying it, maybe I can get the machine to cook dinner? I wouldn’t put it past it.

Divinity

Pecan, that is.

I’ve just come back from a road trip to North Carolina involving kin, cars and colleges. (And let me tell you, that was a stretch to get that alliteration into that sentence.)

My mom has a new car. She wanted to sell/give her old car to my niece. There’s just under 1200 miles between them.

Road trip!

We met in the middle to do the car hand-off and so my niece could look at a couple of colleges in North Carolina. (UNC and Duke, both gorgeous campuses!)

The thing about a road trip–aside from all the usual adventures and the rest stops and service stations, the breakfast buffets and sudden rain storms, the testily recalculating GPSs and the stiff joints–is the opportunity to revisit regional cuisines. (Or visit them for the first time, I guess, if you didn’t spend your childhood summers driving up and down I-95 like we did.)

So, there’s barbecue and country-fried steak and what have you. But. . .if you’ve never had Divinity. . .you have missed out.

We stopped at Smith’s Fireworks (no relation–just a long-standing business in South Carolina and a long-standing tradition of stopping there). And, as always, they had Pecan Divinity on sale.

Mmmm-mmmm.

Divinity consists mostly of sugar, corn syrup and egg whites. It’s not about nutrition or health in any way. It’s about melt-in-your-mouth sweetness.

My recommendation, if you buy it, is to buy the smallest package you can find. If you make it, give most of it away. Quickly.

There are very few things that taste as good.

Someday, when I’ve managed to buy a new candy thermometer and if the humidity around here ever drops below 50% (not that many recipes actually have weather requirements, you know), I am going to try to make some Divinity myself.

I might have to pick up some pecans, but I usually have the other ingredients on hand. Now, some people put candied cherries in their Divinity instead of pecans. You may do this if you like. Just don’t bring it around my house.

Pecan Divinity. That’s the ticket.

The Gammage Cup

The other Muggles

Once upon a time, there was a children’s book that resonated with adults. It was full of humor, adventure and whimsy, and the author’s imagination concealed some profound truths about humanity.

It was not by J. K. Rowling.

The Gammage Cup by Carolyn Kendal was published in 1959. It won awards: a Newbery Honor book and an ALA Notable Children’s Book. It’s about being yourself and following your heart and how those in charge could be totally wrong and how doing things just because they’ve always been done that way can get you into a whole lot of trouble.

Mostly, it’s a lot of fun.

With heroes called Minnipins, how could you go wrong?

Add in some misfit Minnipins–Gummy, Mingy, Walter the Earl, Curly Green and the aforementioned Muggles–banished from Slipper on the Water because of a refusal to paint their doors a proper Minnipin green (among other things), and an inability to conform to the standards of behavior laid down by the ruling class of Periods (so-called because Fooley the Balloonist had a list of abbreviations among his things when he crash-landed years ago, and his descendants have been named things like Ltd. and Co. ever since) as well as a contest among Minnipin villages for possession of the Gammage Cup just at the point when the Minnipins’ mythical enemies, the Mushrooms, reappear, and you have a gentle, very clever fable that entertains as well as enlightens.

This book, although well-loved by those who know of it, was never a blockbuster, as far as I can tell. It’s still in print, though, and available from Amazon if your local library doesn’t have a copy.

Check it out. I think you’ll like it!

Punctuality is. . .

. . .the politeness of princes.*

And something that eludes me when it comes to birthday presents.

This Thursday, I am thankful for nieces and nephews who seem to forgive me even though I never get their birthday presents to them on time.

Honestly, I really don’t know why that is. I must have some deep psychological block, because I am very organized and prompt about other things. It’s not like I forget their birthdays. Often, I think of the birthday a month in advance. I think, Oh! Look! Nephew A’s birthday is next month. I wonder what he would like? Then I do absolutely nothing about it.

As the impending anniversary of Nephew A’s nativity impends a little closer, I think, Golly! Nephew A! I’ve got to get him a present. I think of possibilities. I ponder toys and books and–I don’t know–drum sets (because you never actually have to forgive your siblings for hogging the sofa during The Mary Tyler Moore Show). And I do absolutely nothing about it.

About a week out, I think, I absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt must get that present off to Nephew A.

And. . .I do absolutely nothing about it.

At a certain point, short of FedEx or other overnight delivery options, it’s just too late. It’s not going to get there on time.

At that point, it turns into a phone call. An I’m-sorry-but-your-birthday-present-is-going-to-be-late-please-don’t-hate-me phone call. (And maybe that’s the point? An excuse to talk to those long-distance, too busy with the Wii or the iPod or the iPad or the television kids?)

I don’t know.

I’ll try to do better, although I’ve been saying that for years.

Meantime, I’m really thankful they don’t hate me.

* Louis XVIII

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants