The Biggest Snowman

It's another snow day here in New Hampshire, and the neighbourhood kids have been playing in it since before nine o'clock this morning. Their favourite part is traipsing through other people's yards, seeing who can claim the first prints in the new snow. Our dog, Lucy, has been barking like crazy all day, policing the front and back lawns as best she can from the inside, making her rounds at each window perch and giving the panes new nose prints.

I finally venture out a just before noon, to make sure our mail man can make it safely onto our porch.

"Where have you been?" Dennis, the fourth grader, asks me. "The snow pile's gotta be twenty feet high by now." I hadn't seen him or the others for at least a week. That is, in person. And the snow plow pile is at the end of our cul-de-sac, rising up like a giant snow cone and sprinkled with purple and green sleds.

"Guess I've been stuck inside," I say to Dennis. "But I've kind of wanted to, working on my next novel."

"Is it about animals, too?"

"No. It's historical fiction."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a story inspired about things that happened sixty years ago, in an Arizona town I used to live near."

"So that's where you lived, sixty years ago?"

Great. Now the ring leader of the neighborhhod thinks I'm at least 60 when I'm not even nearly eligible for AARP, yet.

"No, I lived there 10 years ago. I'm not even close to sixty."

Dennis shrugs and walks up our porch with his snowboard and boots. They look like they might ahve crampons on them. "I know what's historical fiction," he says, poking at the statue. "Your duck. It still got his Santa suit on. And it's not even Christmas."

I decorate the metal duck my husband gave me as an anniversary present, and the kids always like to remind me if I've missed a holiday. Like say, Shrove Tuesday, or Dress Silly Day at school, or, if I've let a holiday linger for too long.

"Shouldn't you be making a snowman, or something?" I ask Dennis, taking off the duck's Santa suit and freezing my fingers.

"You mean you haven't seen it?" Dennis says, jumping off the porch and telling me I better follow. When we turn around the corner I can't believe what I see. It's a giant snowman, bigger than any kids have made before, at least around here. Soaring 8feet high with two tennis balls for eyes and a black plastic storage bin for a hat.

"My dad helped us."

No kidding. But still, pretty impressive.

"Looks like it'll last all winter."

Dennis frowns.

"Don't you want it to?" I ask.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I wanna make a new one." He runs to the end of the street where the snow pile's got at least a half inch of new fluff to slide over.

My First Blog Interview

Slowly but surely, like the steady stream of snow that keeps accumulating out my window, I am navigating my way into the social media arena, and yesterday, I had my first blog interview. You can catch it on iamareadernotawriter.blogspot.com and get the chance to win a copy of LITTLE JOE, too.

The mix of questions were both lighthearted and thought-provoking and it was a joy to sit back and really contemplate not only the writing process, but who I am as a writer. Many novels that I devoured as a child have influenced and inspired my writing, but also helped shape my world, so I know how important a dedicated librarian and bookseller can be.

But what I'm enjoying most from the blog interview, is connecting with readers. It's what bonds us. And there are so many voracious and enthusiastic readers out there who truly value what authors do and the often arduous writing process. We all have compelling stories. Telling mine is how I connect to the world around me. It's how I connect with you. My goal this year is to be as much of a reader as a writer, to connect even more.

Happy Anniversary in Heaven, Grandma

My grandmother passed away a year ago this week. In a small farming town in southern Ontario, with both my mother and sister holding her hand.
I missed her passing by an hour-- my husband and I were airborne circling above Detroit. After we'd landed my sister found it hard to tell me the news over the phone, and I didn't think I'd be so devastated. My heart sank and my husband stopped the car,turned into a parking lot and let me cry.
The reason I didn't think I'd be so saddened was because my grandmother had lived to be 95 and in my life for 47 years-- more time than most grandchildren are fortunate enough to have. My friends kept reminding me of that before I got on the plane. And I was hoping that fact would somehow make the loss easier, but the truth of it was, my grandmother has been such a part of me, knowing she was gone left a gaping hole in my heart.
My sister said Grandma never let go of her hand at the end, that when she finally blew out her last breath, half an hour later, Grandma's fingers were still warm in my sister's palm, and that she left this world with her eyes wide open. Which was so like my grandmother.
When anyone hears what she experienced in her long life, their eyes either fill with tears or they grow wide and the conversation slows to a pause-- even a halt. But my grandmother rarely did either. She fought back.
Widowed at 26 when her husband's car collided with a hay truck along a wooden bridge in Yugoslavia, my grandmother took over the family farm and tavern, raising her six-month-old daughter, alone. It was the second World War, and soon after, she was sent to a concentration camp along with my mother and great-grandmother.
She kept her tribe alive, and many other women, too. When the Red Cross finally found them, they called it a miracle.
I'm the first generation who isn't a prisoner of war, my husband points out, but what I remember most is my grandmother's sense of humour, and her zest for life. How she would arrive on weekends at our house by bus, with a giant bag of cheesies nearly as tall as herself. She had weekends off, working as a live-in housekeeper. With her slim wages she refused to have more than two of anything-- two dresses, two purses, one pair of shoes for working, one for weekending. She saved her extra quarters to eventually buy a small house, no bigger than most people's living room's, and got up at dawn every morning to make cakes and goulashes and to tend to her garden. She never drove. Grandma thought cars were a waste of one's heard-earned money and that walking was the way to go anywhere. She walked to the cemetery every day. To visit friends, or those she didn't know. She watered their flowers, or swept the snow off their tombstones. She told me it was what you did in the old country. Pay your respects. She had her own funeral and cemetery plot bought and paid for many decades before it was needed. And when she was buried, it was snowing quite hard, like it was this weekend, one year later.
I'm not there to sweep off her tombstone. And I wish that I was. But I read that the sun came out today by mid afternoon. I'm hoping it found its way to her spot.

First Pages From Little Joe

2010 Goodreads Choice Awards Official Nominee: Best Middle Grade & Children's Books Vote for this book!

Little Joe

CHAPTER ONE

A Special Delivery

Little Joe came out on Christmas Eve, when he wasn't supposed to. Larger than most and trembly, with only Eli there and Grandpa. Pa had gone to fetch the in-laws and some ice cream to go with the pies.
"Fancy's been like this for over an hour, son," Grandpa said to Eli, stroking Fancy's matted hair. "She's gonna need some help with this one."
A nervous hen fluttered a wing, then clucked. One of the barn cats purred. But their movements were blurred by the darkness. All Eli could see in the barn was what stirred beneath the pen's only lightbulb: two little black hooves no bigger than Eli's wrists, peeking out of Fancy. Then a head, black and furry and shiny, with two slits for eyes shut tight.
Eli stared at the hooves just dangling there. He'd seen calves being born before-- even twins last year, back when he was eight. But they were little Holstein heifers, not Angus like this one. And they'd come out right away, splashing slick as a waterslide onto the bedding and bawling for their mama.
"Push against Fancy's side," Grandpa told Eli. Grandpa took hold of the tiny hooves and pulled while Eli pushed against Fancy. But the calf stayed put.
"Looks like you're gonna have to pull on a hoof with me, Eli, just like you would a wishbone. You pull thataway and I'll pull this way," Grandpa said. "Now make a wish and when I holler three...pull! On a count o'three. One..."
Eli clenched his teeth, grabbed hold of a hoof and shut his eyes tight as he could.
"Two..."
Then he wished for the calf to come out right.
"Three!"
Eli yanked on the hoof. Grandpa tugged hard on the other. Then Eli heard a plop and the rustling of straw.
"You can open your eyes now," Grandpa said, grinning. "It's a fine bull calf, Eli."
Lying on the straw bed was a shimmering black clump of a calf. Perfectly shaped and nearly as long as Eli, he'd come out right and big.
"Your pa says this one's yours," Grandpa said.
"Pa said so?" Eli looked down at the newborn and fought back a smile. His own calf! And Pa was giving it to him.
Grandpa stopped smiling. He got down on his knees again and stroked the bull calf's side. Its eyes were closed and it wasn't moving. Not like the heifers. The heifers moved, Eli remembered. The heifers tried to get up, raise their heads. The heifers tried to do something--anything--to get a feel for the outside. This one did nothing.
"He's not breathing." Grandpa knelt closer and felt the calf's nose. "It's too late to get Doc Rutledge. Breathe into this nostril while I close off the other. Now, Eli!"
Eli grabbed hold of the bull calf's head, took a deep breath and blew into the shiny gray nostril, hard as he could. The nostril was slippery cold, and Eli was sure it hadn't moved.
"Again!" Grandpa shouted as he felt for the calf's heart. "And through the mouth, too."
Eli drew in another deep breath and forced it into the gray nostril. This time he pressed his lips against the calf's mouth, too, blowing through a tiny row of baby teeth.
"Keep going!" Grandpa yelled.
There was pounding in Eli's ears now. He was sweating and sure his face must be red as a summer radish. His hands had gone all shaky, too. Eli worried they might not be any good to the calf. His calf. Still, he took another gulp of air and fed it into the bull calf's nose.
"He's got a heartbeat," Grandpa said.
The bull calf coughed and sputtered, then spit up a big wad of goo into Eli's face.
Eli didn't know what to do so he swiped at the goo and just sat there, leaning against the wall of the pen until the coolness came back to him. Grandpa always said those stone walls held history and the stories of all the Stegner seasons. That they soaked up the cold and kept it there, year-round, soothing you in summer and forcing you awake in winter to get your chores done. Eli couldn't imagine going to sleep now. He shivered as the stone's cold bore through his chore coat.
"Feel the heart, Eli." Grandpa took Eli's hand and placed it under the calf's left foreleg, below the rib cage. The heart was warm and restless. It kept fluttering, just like the monarch butterfly Eli'd cupped in his hands last spring.
"It's beating because of you, Eli. You got it goin'!" Grandpa smiled and looked at Fancy. "Come, Mama," he called. Fancy got up, turned around and smelled her calf for the first time.

Born on Christmas Eve

When I began writing LITTLE JOE, I knew the calf would be born on Christmas Eve. I wanted the barn to be filled with hope and the opportunity for renewal-- and the chance for Eli to connect with his father. I was living in northeastern Pennsylvania at the time and had been in stone barns during winter while the cold bit through my fingers, and the waterers crusted over. Yet, it was magical to hear the straw being swished around by the animals, the toddler "mooing" coming from the days-old calves anxious to suckle. How one could find warmth and love and light in between the silence in such cold, dark places stuck with me, and I knew what could occur under a lonely light bulb-- a birth -- in this case a difficult one for a calf -- would bring understanding and a chance for deeper love in a family frayed by its struggles to keep their farm alive. By the end of the novel, I hope I have showed that the possibilty is there-- for Pa and Eli to grow closer, for Eli to make his own decisions about farming, and for Grandpa to realize he's not done yet, that he can still raise livestock in his own way. There is astounding beauty in between the harshness of Nature, which can often make suffering worthwhile. And like the tiny glass unicorn Pa sifts out for Eli's little sister Hannah at the county fair, such things may be fragile and cost more than they might be able to pay, but those rememberances are just as important as winning the blue ribbon.

I will post the first pages of LITTLE JOE on my next blog, and I hope you enjoy it!

Sincerely,

Sandra

All Sold Out at Borders

Saturday was an exciting afternoon for Rich and I. We signed our books at Borders in Keene and was it busy!Right by the checkout line, we were visited by many local teachers and librarians (thank you!) and got a chance to meet so many sweet kids like Desi, who loves all animals, and Spencer, (pictured with Rich), who's read some of Rich's books already and is getting Sports Camp and Kickers- The Ball Hogs for Christmas. I also met a travelling large animal vet's assistant, who lives the James Herriot life here in New England, and I can't wait to trek along with her sometime next year. Thanks to so many visiters who stopped by, including Sharon from Fast Friends Greyhound rescue and Gilbert, the retired greyhound. Borders actually sold out of copies of Little Joe! What a thrill that was. New Englanders really know how to support their local authors and artists. From parents in the neighborhood, to the USPS mail attendants, New Englanders are buying our books.

Knowing we live in such a nurturing, supportive environment warms my heart. It's the best Christmas present I could ever receive.

Speaking at the Monadnock Writers Group

This weekend Rich and I were guest speakers at the Monadnock Writers Group, a cast of nearly three dozen burgeoning writers who get together once a month at the Peterborough Library in southern New Hampshire. They exchange ideas, sometimes listen to guest speakers and give encouragement. What I liked most about the experience, was that regardless of whether or not they have guest speakers, one member of the group gets the opportunity to read an excerpt from their work at the beginning of the gathering.
It can be pretty daunting stepping behind a podium and reading your work to a group, whether you know them or not, but it's essential. Not only does it force your psyche to accept that you are, indeed, a writer, but it's also important to get feedback from others, as well as their support.
We're all vulnerable and perhaps even more so when we're pouring out our souls on paper, then giving the books to someone and hoping for a connection.
A Writers Group can provide us with an instant sense of belonging, a warm blanket over our shoulders as we struggle or triumph in our work.
I enjoyed reading Little Joe aloud and having a few librarians in the audience who were also raised on farms, comment that my work resonated with them and felt authentic. It's such a thrill to have someone who's read your work comment on specific chapters and characters. Experiences like these buoy you for weeks on end.
Thanks to Laura for inviting us, and to such great questions and feedback from our fellow writers. Happy writing!