In addition to wanting to run my own newspaper, I was stagestruck almost from birth, so Sheila, from Judy Blume’s Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great was a character I totally identified with, even though she annoyed me to no end. I, too, wanted to be the ultimate MarySue in my own life, at least in my imagination.

In reality I’m pretty quiet and bookish, situationally shy, and extremely guarded until I’ve been around people for an extended length of time.

But you know what? Most of Judy Blume’s characters were just like me, at least to a degree, and I think this is why her books were so popular among those of us who grew up in the ’70’s and ’80’s.

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Rehena at OpenDiary asked me to clarify the tech I’m using today, and since I need a break from booktalk, I’m making it a post.

First, at home I have a desktop computer that is hardwired to DSL and has wifi access to my husband’s cable modem as a backup.
I also have a laptop that connects to the home DSL via wifi from within the house, as well as subscriptions to the wifi networks at Barnes and Noble and Starbucks, which, as most of my friends and readers know, are two of my most frequent haunts.

But this is DFW not Silicon Valley, so wifi isn’t available quite EVERYWHERE yet. So I ALSO have an aircard cellular modem that is attached to my Cingular account. It’s a pc-card but instead of using wifi it uses the GSM and EDGE networks. Pretty much if there’s a cellular signal, I have access.

But there are some places where popping open a laptop just isn’t practical. Like this morning at the salon, so for that I use my normal cell phone and a service provided by HipCast, which used to be AudioBlog, and should NOT be confused with the similar service provider AudBlog. My HipCast account allows me to essentially record a voicemail coded with a pin number, that is auto-posted to my blog as a link to an mp3. (It also has pod-casting setups, but I’ve yet to play with them.)

My next post will probably be a MoBlog (audio) post from the car.
In case you were wondering.

Any questions?

My friend J in Colorado raises and trains Rottweillers, so it should come as no surprise that it was she who introduced me to the Good Dog, Carl series of picture books about a Rottweiller who ends up in Lassie-esque situations. These picture books are painted pretty realistically, and come in a baby – or DOG-proof version that defies the most intrepid chewer.

Short, sweet, and uncomplicated, they show dogs that many consider scary in a positive and helpful way, and some of them are pretty funny as well.

(It should also come as no surprise that I’ve given J one or two of the indestructable kinds as Christmas gifts over the years.)

(This post dedicated to Zorro and Miss Cleo who are ‘helping’ with the Blogathon.)

I couldn’t limit Little Women to one post.

One of the things that I liked about Jo, was that she was always her own person, which is why it annoyed me that her writing was put aside for the entire duration of Little Men as if her entire identity was now wrapped up in being Mother Bhaer. True, Alcott made her a successful author in the fourth book in the series (Jo’s Boys), but it wasn’t the same.

Even so, I’d have given anything to be one of the only girls at Plumfield. Daisy’s cooking lessons had me laughing, but also made me realize that even if you never cook, you should know how (men and women both) if only so you can survive. And I’ll admit, when I was nine, and had just started cello lessons, I had a bit of a crush on Demi and Nat.

Mostly, though, this book brings me back to my mother’s voice, soft lamplight, snow outside the window, and a single chapter each night NEVER being enough.

“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels as if Papa was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing., — Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

The winter of ’77 was the coldest of my childhood, but my mother managed to bring a warm glow to my bedside every night, despite the three-foot thick ice on the roads outside, by making sure I was curled up, with my dog nearby, and a glass of water on the nightstand. Once I was snuggled beneath cool non-pilled sheets, she would read to me, turning the thin pages of the book softly, and doing all the voices.

This was my introduction to Jo March, and her sisters Meg, Beth and Amy, and though they may be fictional, they have been close friends ever since. Jo, of course, is who I wanted, not just to meet, but to BE. When I developed my own literary aspirations several years later, I found an old black velvet beret, stapled a red bow to it, and wore it as my writing cap, just like the cap SHE had in the book. When she refused to marry Laurie Laurence, I was outraged, the first time I read it. Re-reading the book for a class years after, I was still outraged, but this time it was because Jo was right and Laurie couldn’t see that. Apparently, love really is blind.

Little Women is often lumped in with lesser childrens fiction, but it’s really a special novel because its one of the first that depicts girls of that time period as real people, not just one-dimensional characters in skirts. It lets us see the child within the woman who emerges, and the woman within each girl. It shows us their playtime as well as their work, and represents a world that isn’t ideal, but is still home.

I now re-read it once a year, and each time, I get something new out of it.

Having lived in two places now, where it seems that it is always summer, and never midwinter, the concept of a wintry landscape 24x7x365 has it’s temptations. Or it did, anyway, before I spent three years in SoDak, where there are only two seasons: winter and road construction. Winters there are ridiculously cold. You know this because it is possible to walk outside on a sunny winter day, with the thermometer at zero and think it’s positively balmy because at least it’s not windy, or below zero.

But when I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe for the first time, I was unaware of the temperature differences betwen Sioux Falls and San Francisco, just as I was unaware of the intense amount of Christian mythology within the story. To me, it was just a good story. In some ways, it still is.

The notion of secret worlds is one I’ve always appreciated. My grandfather’s basement held both terror (with it’s Freddy Krueger-esque boiler in the center) and joy (watching my words form wavy lines on the oscilloscope), and there really was a wardrobe in the room I slept in during my endless summers there.

I enjoyed the tales of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy and their adventures because, no matter what else the Narnia books are, they are great stories, with believable children, who aren’t perfect or beautiful, or gifted with otherworldly powers – they even bicker the way normal kids do – if comedy comes from truth, doesn’t fantasy have to, also?

Of course, when I saw the movie last year, I had to confess to my good friend Bripadme, “I felt really really sick and wrong in the theater, because I was going, “Lucy, adorable, woods, glorious, Mr. Tumnus: So. Damned. Hot.”

Yes, you now know my dirtiest secret. I lust after fauns.

So I’ve just inhaled an order of peach French toast at Denny’s. I ordered it on a whim (note to Fuzzy: you still owe me a cheeseburger), and wow, it was fragrantly peachy. Would have been better with vanilla ice cream instead of maple syrup, though.

Speaking of peaches, as a second-grader at Georgetown Elementary School in teeny Georgetown, CO, we still had story-time. GE was an open school, with places to sprawl and read, and hex tables instead of individual desks, and I learned more in that school than in all of my other education combined. (Well, not really, but it was my FAVORITE school.)

One of the books I first encountered during story time was Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach, which I think sparked my love of fantasy and science fiction, because what could be more fantastic than living inside the pit of a giant peach? I wasn’t all that thrilled with the talking insects James found himself spending time with, but then, I got the creepy crawlies from reading Charlotte’s Web the first time, as well. I don’t DO insects. Or arachnids.

Anyway, I have special memories of lying on my stomach, with my Buster Brown-shod feet kicked up behind me and a small pillow wrapped in my arms, for resting my head while we worked our way to the center of the story, and the center of the peach, one chapter at a time.

I get impatient, now, when people read to me, because they take too long, but as a seven-year-old, I was still completely a thrall of the human voice.

In an hold house in Paris
that was covered with vines
lived twelve little girls
in two straight lines
— Ludwig Bemelmans

I didn’t actually really like the Madeline books as a child, but a few years ago, searching for inspiration to help design a dragon for a MUSH, a dragon for a small spunky redhead, a dragon from a clutch with a theme of children’s stories, I found Madeline and fell in love.

She’s a little French orphan who gets into the worst possible trouble, and always ends up a heroine, thanks to her intelligence, ingenuity and charm – how could you not love a character like that. More spunky than actually cute, she’s precocious, a trait I’m more than a little bit familiar with, and vivacious – a trait I wish I had more of.

While I don’t generally like picture books, in these books the drawings are worth bending my rule for, because they manage to be almost minimalist, and yet full of detail at the same time.

A study in contrasts, like the main character herself.

(Posted from Denny’s where my peach French toast is getting cold.)

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