BABE DIDRIKSON'S OLYMPICS & HER TRAIN RIDE TO INFAMY

It’s quite a thrill to be doing research for a book about BABE DIDRIKSON ZAHARIAS when there’s an OLYMPIAD going on. 

A lot has changed for women athletes in 80 years and Babe led the way.

When Babe Didrikson went to the Olympics in 1932, it was just two days after she’d traveled to Evanston, Illinois to become a one-woman wrecking crew at the National Women’s Track and Field Championships. Babe tallied more points on her own than any team who competed,  smashing records in javelin and hurdles, to baseball-throw. Babe also made her afternoon victories in the 100-degree heat look easy, (it was so hot, competitors took turns sitting on an ice block), but Babe was a whirlwind of energy and speed, running from one event to the next and easily winning the championship. Within 48 hours of her victories and as a newly-minted member of the U.S. Olympic Track and Field Team, Babe and her teammates left Chicago’s Union Station bound for California.

Traveling in their own Pullman car, the train journey was considered a luxury and many had never been in a “sleeper” car before. During the five day trip, Babe was said to have driven the other girls crazy with her talk of winning. While the others politely played cards and acted modest about any potential victories, Babe ran sprints up and down the passenger car and playing the harmonica while the others were trying to sleep. 

When they arrived in Los Angeles a week before the Olympics, the women stayed at a hotel since the Olympic Village only permitted male athletes.

 

Babe competing in the javelin throw in the 1932 Olympics

It was also just the second time in Olympic history that track and field events were open to women competitors, and they could only enter a maximum of three. There were still detractors (many of them sportswriters) who believed that women couldn’t physically handle competitive sports, and that it compromised their ability to have children.

FIND OUT MORE ABOUT BABE AND HER OLYMPIC EXPERIENCE IN MY NEXT BLOG POST.

WHY THE MAYOR OF TALKEETNA, ALASKA IS A CAT

“He’s honest,” says one resident.

“We have no sales tax, thanks to him,” says another.

“I’ve never seen a dog mess with him. Canines respect him, too.”

They were being given away in front of Nagley’s General Store–a cardboard box wriggling with litter of kittens, and one without a tail burrowing near the back. Lauri Stec, manager of the general store chose him to keep, and called the kitten Stubbs.

The fortuitous morning would bring happy changes to the Alaskan town of Talkeetna, population: 800 humans. It’s a town that people often pass through on their way to Mount McKinley, and where dogs are allowed to roam free and outnumber the human population.

It’s also a place where residents speak their mind, and though the town is designated a “historic district” they still very much need and want a mayor who represents them well.
Enter the kitten named Stubbs, who became a popular attraction at Nagley’s with the locals as soon as he made himself comfortable. 

So when the town voters weren’t content with any of the human candidates on the ballot in the mayoral election, Stubbs was written in as a candidate. Stubbs won.

That was 15 years ago and during that time the kitten (formality took over once he became the “fat cat” of the town, so it’s been “Mr.” ever since) has taken Talkeetna from anonymity to a tourist attraction.

But if you think voting Mr. Stubbs in as mayor was only some kind of prank or a huge publicity stunt, well, the resident’s couldn’t be happier with their tax-free situation, or the fact that their mayor (who has a Facebook following of over 6,000 subscribers) is the talk of the town. Yes, the cat brings in tourists who want to meet the town’s feline mayor and shake his han—I mean, scratch his back or say hello. But after they do, they usually also have lunch at Mountain High Pizza Pie or the West Rib Cafe & Pub, and shop at stores, well—like Nagley’s.

“He doesn’t raise our taxes-we have no sales tax, and he doesn’t interfere with business,” says Lauri Stec.

And like any good mayor, Mr. Stubbs also pays daily visits to most of the establishments in town. “He’s always in the restaurant,” says Todd Basilone, of Mountain High Pizza Pie. “Stubbs wanders into every place in town.”

And what about Mr. Mayor Stubbs himself? How does he feel about running a town since he was an infant, and about dozens of onlookers who come every day to Talkeetna, Alaska, just to see him? Rumor has it that some of this attention has made Mayor Stubbs as demanding at times as a human.

“Throughout the day I have to take care of the mayor,” said Skye Farrar, a clerk at Nagley’s. “He meowed and demanded to be picked up and put on the counter and taken away from the tourists. Then he had his long, afternoon nap.”

Well, wouldn’t you want to have a few special tax-free–and in this case, mostly dollar-free–perks while enjoying your dream job?

For Mayor Stubbs, that seems to be drinking water from a wine glass laced with catnip, and then curling up in front of one of the local businesses for a nice long nap afterwards–which seems to make both the town and its visitors very happy.

HOW REVISING A NOVEL IS LIKE GOING TO THE DENTIST

I once read that revision can be like having your teeth pulled. I would also add that it can be like pulling teeth. 

Trying to find the optimal way of adding what may be missing information about a character or point of view without muddling up what’s already there that’s working, can leave you staring at the computer screen until you notice how dusty it’s become. You can try for a week or more re-writing the opening of a scene in several different ways, when all it takes is a sentence.(But it’s got to be the right one.)

I’m working on the revision of my new novel Muckers, and what I’ve found most helpful is to actually go back to what I did in kindergarten: cutting and pasting and working with magic markers.(Well, I used crayons back then and finger paint, but its magic markers now.)

What I’ve done is make a bulletin board order of all the scenes in my novel (I love to do this actually), and the color codes all mean something to me.

What it shows is the pacing of the novel and what scenes may be too cluttered before say, a game (my book’s about football), or how long it takes my characters to get where they ought to be. The push pins allow me to move things around, but of course when you do that you’re also in for a lot of trouble since when one thing moves you aren’t really just altering that one scene, you’re changing every reference and nuance that worked when that scene was in its original place. You need to move carefully, like a game of high-stakes chess. It also takes a ridiculous amount of time to move even an inch.

Of course, there’s also the objectivity factor when deciding what really needs to be revised. As the writer, you know everything about the story and everyone in it, yet you must try to forget what you know or at least, put that information in a state of suspension while you attempt to read the story like a fresh reader would. (Note: this is impossible, but you keep trying.)

If all this sounds really complicated, it’s because it is. Writing is a vocation that can be gut-wrenching. But if you start believing that a little too much, it can also derail the revision process, and you might start thinking about wanting to get your teeth pulled, instead. It’s at that point I also like to remember the other line I’ve read about revision from political cartoonist Tim Kreider:

“For a long time I imagined that the time after I’d finally finished this book would be a kind of indolent, well-deserved afterlife. It’s hard to accept that the part you had to make it through to get where you thought you wanted to be was where you wanted to be all along. The part you hated was your favorite part.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY E.B. WHITE: HOW THE AUTHOR SHAPED MY LIFE

HAPPY BIRTHDAY E.B. WHITE!

E.B. White was born today in Mount Vernon, New York, in 1899. As I’m writing this, a tiny spider has spent the past week living on my lampshade and crawling around my desk in stutter steps. Of course whenever I see a spider, especially a tiny one, I think of Charlotte’s little spiders in Charlotte's Web. Like Fern with the runt pig soon to be named Wilbur, I’ve already saved this spider from impending death a few times. First, from being swallowed up by my keyboard (a quick turning over of the keys and a few shakes brought the spider out, from which he landed upside down but somehow righted himself. I’m convinced it is a he). And second, from being killed by me. I confess that when I first saw him stutter-stepping in between the lined paper of my revision notes I grew frightened, took the paper into the bathroom where I dropped him in the waste basket, only to feel guilty and find him again, gently coaxing him back onto the paper (this took three attempts) and then back onto my desk where he could crawl up my owl lamp and onto the lampshade where he lives.  

                 THAT’S THE IMPACT E.B. WHITE HAS HAD ON ME. 

(Looking for the spider at this moment, I notice that ironically, he’s got a thread-like line between my illustration of a pig and my computer screen, and I quickly move my paperweight out of crushing distance.)

E. B White writing at his Brooklin farm in Maine.

E. B. White also taught me a lot about writing. Like a good beginning and how details matter--the kind of detail that editors might want to remove--the kind of detail you fight to keep in manuscripts so that readers like you and me can enjoy a line about the rain because it’s just, well … enjoyable. (Even though it doesn’t propel the story forward.) CASE IN POINT: the opening of Chapter 4 in Charlotte's Web: 

Rain fell in the barnyard and ran in crooked courses down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew. Rain spattered against Mrs. Zuckerman's kitchen windows and came gushing out of the downspouts. Rain fell on the backs of the sheep as they grazed in the meadow. When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.

Now doesn't that make you feel differently about sheep or at the very least, want to find out what pigweed looks like? 

As for how to write something in a grammatically acceptable way, I’ve also been carrying around a copy of The Elements of Style since I was a teenager. (White edited the definitive guide on grammar & style.)  And I know I should be reading it more often than I do.

In 1978, White was awarded a special Pulitzer Prize for his body of work as a whole. He died seven years later at age 86 of Alzheimer’s disease, which makes me sad. I wouldn’t have wanted him forgetting how much his work mattered to so many people, or how many lives he changed with his books. 

My love for animals grew because of him and does to this day. My love of Maine is also another thread that E.B.White wove into my life. 

And on the 60th anniversary year of Charlotte’s Web, and what would have been E. B. White’s 113th birthday, I encourage you to think happy thoughts about animals--including spiders--and to think about dusting off your copy of Charlotte’s Web and reading it again.

HOW TITLE IX CHANGED MY LIFE

TITLE IX was passed 40 years ago this week. The bill is an important reason why I was able to become an ESPN sportscaster in the 1990’s & how women’s professional sports leagues like the WNBA began.

That's me rinkside reporting on Tonya Harding's comeback. Remember that?

Covering the first few years of the basketball league during its infancy was both an honor and a thrill. To be honest, I'm not sure of any of us fully thought that it would fly after being told by so many detractors that it wouldn't, and seeing the stands half-full. But we were more than eager. Reporting on Lisa Leslie (who was born a few weeks after the bill was passed) making history by becoming the league’s all-time leading scorer (now it’s Tina Thompson and nobody works harder than Tina), then watching Leslie have enough success to become co-owner of her team, the L.A. Sparks, is remarkable. It's the result not just of Leslie's hard work, but of the collective endurance from countless women coaches, athletes & reporters over four decades.Catch Leslie’s interview about how TITLE IX shaped her life here. http://bit.ly/MtiTp8

LIFE OF AN AUTHOR: When Nature Has Other Plans On Your Writing Day

Today was supposed to be an all-out writing day. I’d had it all planned.   

I’d get up early and dig right in (putting the window fan on before the heat made things too sweaty to focus).

I was going over how it would all play out, lying under the thinnest covers in the late hours the night before, listening to the remnants of a violent thunder storm that had swept through our New Hampshire town. The rigorous cloud burst had left our dog Lucy shivering a few hours before it even began. Rich and I had decided to read by a lamplight expecting the electricity to go out, but it only flickered. We listened to the rain, which sometimes came down in sheets that drenched any windowsill beneath a sash that had been left open just a crack. But I’d checked my computer twice and it was functioning fine. I was still on track for my mega-writing day.

A few hours later, after it had long gotten dark, we’d still heard the rain. Checking the backyard before heading to bed, we scanned the lawn with our flashlights for any signs of collecting pools—we live about a 100 yards from a brook that can overflow---but we’ve never seen it happen.

But then the fire department’s pick-up truck zoomed down the streets and we heard voices at 3 in the morning. The brook had gone over its banks further down from where we live, and some of the streets had flooded.

Our backyard started pooling toward the forest but luckily, nothing major. Still, the anxiety of the wetness and the newness of it brought out weird behavior in some animals. (Did you know that squirrels can dive into puddles of water and swim to the other side?)

Our sudden "vernal" backyard pool.

Ground hogs wriggled in the grass of our yard, disoriented, as robins hovered at the edge of the temporary, grass-fed pools. And chipmunks frantically dug to see if their acorns were still safe where they’d buried them.

On the streets, I could tell some of the neighborhood kids were scared. It’s one thing to don your billy boots to jump in puddles, but not when the puddles are twelve feet long and deep.

Heading over to the post office, we started hearing the sound of pumps siphoning out water from basements and water-logged streets. The day soon became full of stories--just not the one’s I’m supposed to write about for editors who go by deadlines. But the weather has a way of disrupting schedules, and also pulling people together—the closer the pools of water come to a neighbor’s house, the closer you become to them, reaching out to help. Rich is talking about getting Kentucky Fried chicken for supper and having the neighbors come over to nosh on the porch and get away from the thought of water.

If it were any other day, I’d say no to a deep-fried supper. But there are times when something greasy can be comforting, and when writing what you’re supposed to can wait.

Inside Out And Back Again

One of my New Year's resolutions was to make time every week to read more books, which I tend not to do when I'm fully absorbed in my own writing. Being a finalist for this year's South Carolina Children's Book Awards, (it's still thrilling to say that), and seeing so many titles on the list that intrigue me, I'm determined to read most of them before the winner is announced in March of 2013.

While I usually don’t gravitate toward novels told in verse like Inside Out And Back Again, Thanhha Lai--the first-time author of this National Book Award winner--composes such beautiful, vivid prose, I feel as if I could taste the papaya tree fruit  “middle sweet, between a mango and a pear,” and feel the warm breezes of Saigon just before South Vietnam crumbled.

Told by 10-year-old Ha, who navigates her place in a community left cautious, frightened, and rationed at the cusp of Vietnam War, Ha feels helpless both as a child, and as a girl in a culture favoring boys like her 3 older brothers. Ha’s bursts of random thoughts riddle the calendar of the novel (which begins and ends with Tet, the first day of the Vietnamese Lunar New Year), like sharp staccato notes on a keyboard. Her two anchors are the papaya tree that has grown serendipitously in the yard from discarded seeds, and her beloved mother.

The family manages to escape just before Saigon falls, and journey by boat to become refugees. Finally ending up in America, the tone and pace abruptly changes, and Ha’s disappointment with her new world is palpable. As Ha pronounces: “No one would believe me but at times I would choose wartime in Saigon over peacetime in Alabama.”  

I preferred hearing about Ha's life on the run (I suppose I was hoping things would then get better for them in America, somehow). Yet the language of the book is so unexpectedly stunning, I spent the day away from my writing and read it in one sitting. 

I won’t soon forget my favorite line in the book where Ha writes about her mother: ”She’s wrong, but I still love being near her even more than I love my papaya tree. I will give her its first fruit.”