Bigfoot Blues

     My grandma and grandpa lived near Peckwan when I was a toddler.  If you aren’t one of the lucky folks who live in the far north of California, you’ve got no idea where that tiny community is. Unless you’re a fan of Finding Bigfoot, in which case you’ve watched Bobo and the team tramp through manzanita and salmonberry bushes, ford the jade-green Trinity River, and wade through primordial forests in search of The Big Guy.

     In the early 1950’s, Peckwan was a tiny community in the mountains populated by local Indians and by my white grandma and grandpa who were there because local Indian Bud Ryerson was Grandpa’s logging partner. If you’re A Believer, you’re ears ought to be pricking up about now.  Ryerson reported the first recorded Bigfoot sighting in the area and his wife, Vera, famous for her woven baskets, reported sightings no less than six times. She was also my grandma’s best friend.

     I spent a month or so each summer with Grandma. Grandpa was rarely home. He and Bud lived mostly in the woods, building logging roads and harvesting trees. It was mostly just Grandma and me in an old cabin on the side of a mountain. Vera lived just around the bend of a short trail, walking distance even for my short legs except for the sows that roamed free, rooting up acorns and occasionally eating some unwary child who got too close to their piglets. That’s the way Grandma told the story anyway.

     I grew up hearing tales of Bigfoot the same way I heard stories of black bear or cougar or wild hogs. One summer -- I must have been four that year -- a young male Bigfoot hung around and spied on the women as they worked in the community garden or hung up their clothes to dry in the hot, dusty air. The women whispered of “desires” and “kidnappings” and occasionally of “rape”; the atmosphere titillating and ripe as they giggled and compared notes of sightings until Grandma reminded them that, “Little pitchers have big ears.”

      The local children and I rode bareback through poison oak on stolen piglets, picked berries and even gathered acorns to store in wooden chests and bury in the creek for the cold water to filter so the women could make acorn flour.  But, I understood, even as a toddler, that the Indian world of my summer friends was different than my white world. Indians saw things I could not. They knew what roots to gather to make baskets, which mushrooms were delicious in stew and which gave you daytime dreams. Their world was both deeper and more narrow than my own. I don’t believe Grandma ever came right out and said so, but I understood that Bigfoot belonged to the Indian world.

    So, when my level-headed, German Grandfather returned wide-eyed from a logging trip with stories of road building equipment strung all over a mountain side and dozens of giant footprints – it made an impression on me.

     My newest novel, Bigfoot Blues, is the result of that impression.

The True Cost of War

Veteran’s Day is over for another year. For most of us. For my husband, Jack, and hundreds of thousands of this country’s warriors, the consequences of war never really end. These combat soldiers and sailors and Marines don’t want our pity.

A free lunch at Applebee’s is grand. Cards and cookies from school children go a long way to promote the healing of old wounds. But there’s a better way to honor these men and women we claim are so important to us and to our country.

Our politicians wrap themselves in a flag colored in someone else’s blood, call for justice and vengeance and plain ole love of country.  That’s fine. War is necessary from time to time. But the next time you have the urge to put a military boot in some countries ass, consider the true, the real cost of war.  All war.

You want to honor our veterans? Do it all year long by recognizing that there is no glory in war.  Not in any war. Ever.  Honor our veteran’s by thinking long and hard before voting for, before even thinking about, sending young men and women into a bloody situation from which they will, quite frankly, never fully recover.

Interview with Ruth Burkett Weeks

  

Interview with Ruth Burkett Weeks

Ruth, the first work of yours I read was your War Between the States novel, Soldiers from the Mist. I was blown away by the absolute authenticity of the characters. I’ve since heard part of your new book Dixie Dandelion and a section of your paranormal romance and you bring the same life to these characters as well.  So, how do you it?

Well . . . to be honest, I cheat. 

It would be a lie if I told you I sit for hours developing my characters—what they look like, where they live, their strengths, their weaknesses, etc, etc.. The truth is my protagonists come to me with their stories. All I need to do is listen and type their words. Soldiers From the Mist, for example, was told to me by the ghosts of the Civil War soldiers that haunted my house.  Their dialogue and personalities are so real because they were real.   My character, Dixie Dandelion was me in a past life, so she’s easy to bring to life.  And Raven and Roark in my paranormal romance, The Rook and the Raven, exist in a higher dimension and are quite alive. 

So, now everyone knows my secret—I “channel” my characters. However, I’m not alone. I think every writer that gets into that groove we writers love so much—the times where our fingers fly across the keyboard trying to keep up with the words and thoughts of our protagonists, when time disappears and we type for hours without fatigue, and when we sit back and say to ourselves, “where did this come from?”—is a form of channeling.  

I know you are more attuned than most of us to the supernatural. You read tarot cards. The inspiration for Soldiers in the Mist came to you, as I understand it, from the ghosts of the historical characters in that book.  I’m fascinated by your ability to see through the veil. Tell us about that gift please.

  I’m not sure if “gift” is the correct word. Everyone has the ability. Some choose to ignore it, others embrace it, and some just forget they have it. 

In my efforts to become more spiritual I attended quite a few guided meditations that took me through quiet meadows, crystal streams, and dark caves to find my spirit guides. I enrolled in the School of Metaphysics and tired to conform to their teachings. None of these things worked. Then I went to a Tarot card class. The instructor told us to keep things simple.  That the secret to communicating with the other side and to card reading was the mental pictures we got when we looked at a certain card. So, I started to just look at the cards and say the first thing that popped into my head. That opened the gate. My guides talk to me through mental pictures. I don’t have to physically see anything.  However there are occasions, when I do see a misty or shadowed figure materialize before me and as well as auras.  I also learned that what others call “imagination” is actually communication from the other dimensions and worlds.  So, don’t pooh-pooh your child’s imaginary friend as it well could be their guardian angel standing beside them.

You have an acting background, right? How are acting and writing the same and how are they different in the channeling of creative energy?  And how has that background helped you in writing and in promoting your books?

Acting and writing are kissing cousins.

In drama you literally step into your characters shoes and take on his/her personalities.  In writing this is called, POINT OF VIEW.   In acting the stage crew builds a town or set with nails, glue and wood.  In writing this is known as, SENSE OF PLACE.  An actor studies his character trying to find the reason he was motivated to do what he did.  In writing this is called, INTERNALIZATION.  Many times when I get stuck on a scene that I’m writing, I act it out. The only difference between the creative energy is that in drama you act out the words the writers thought up.  A writer can exist without an actor but an actor is dead in the water without words to interpret.

 My acting experience gives me a HUGE advantage in promoting my books. I’m not afraid to speak in public in fact I look forward to it.  I know how stand. How to enunciate.  How to “read” an audience and grab their attention. How to never, ever let them see me sweat!

This is a question for Ruth Burkett Weeks the person more than the writer I suppose, but you grew up in North West Arkansas before the rest of the country discovered it for the beautiful place it is.  How has the area changed since you were a kid and do you feel a bit like your home is being occupied by outsiders?

I was born and raised in Fayetteville, Arkansas.  I loved my home town and when marriage took me away to other states and cities I was terribly homesick.  I used to ride my horse on what is now the by-pass, grandma’s house stood on MLK boulevard, it was safe to walk the streets at night. But the quiet little town of Fayetteville has gotten too big for its britches. The University has always played a huge part in Fayetteville’s growth and the politics connected with it have tarnished the town. Hwy 71 looks like the Vegas strip with signs and the god-awful traffic.  I won’t live in Fayetteville now.  I can’t blame people for wanting to move here but I do long for the good ol’ days.

I’m going to steal this question from you because you posed the query but never answered it yourself. If you could spend an hour with anybody in history, who would it be and why?

Oh,not fair!!!!!  Anyone?????????    Hmm . . . God.     I just got to know what HE was thinking when he started all of this.

Describe yourself in ten words or less. Good luck with this task.  I’d take me 1,000 words just to tell how funny you are.

I just laughed out loud. Glad you think I’m funny.

1.       I am a child of God and strive to reflect HIS goodness.

2.       Witty.

3.       Sarcastic

4.       Opinionated

5.       Full of laughter

6.       Intelligent

7.       A little ditzy

8.       Compassionate

9.       Talented

10.   One of a kind

Occam's Razor

In an earlier blog titled “Don’t Tell Ruth” I wrote about a peculiar happening in the downstairs bathroom of the famously haunted Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs.

Well. Now I’m really freaked.

See, a friend from out of town wanted to see the Crescent.  This past Sunday she and I drove up the mountain from Fayetteville and, being as how we’re both ‘woman of a certain age’, our first priority when we arrived at the hotel was to locate a bathroom.  Just as in the original event, the upstairs bathroom was unavailable.  This time it was being cleaned.  Last time the doors of all three seemingly empty stalls were locked.

So this Sunday as on the previous Sunday several months ago, I trooped downstairs to the bathroom in what was once the morgue. It’s now a high-class, perfume-scented spa, which should either exorcise any ghosts or, at the very least, make them sneeze.

Well, but this time the moment I opened the door to the bathroom the hairs on my arms begin to stand at attention. See last time when I stepped in the room, a cold breeze washed over me.  I attributed that to an air-conditioning unit coming on just as I opened the door. Also a yellowing lace curtain fluttered at the window. Again I attributed it to the air-conditioner.  Then, when I flushed the toilet it made a noise like the groaning of a…well…ghost.  Afterward as I tried to leave the room I mistook a permanently walled up door for the actual door, had a moment of panic and then finding the correct door, found it momentarily swollen from the rains and stuck shut.

Okay.  Are you still with me? See this time the entire bathroom was different. First of all, I took a close look around. There is no air-conditioning unit in that room.  Secondly, there’s no lace curtain and no window where I remember it being from last time.

No curtain. No window.

There is a walled in door but the actual door is the sort that swings freely with well over a half inch of light showing at both the top and bottom.

So what the Sam Hill happened?  I admit to having an extremely overactive imagination.  But I’m not so far gone that I don’t know the difference between what I invent and what I actually experience.  So? Ghosts or some hallucinatory experience which occurred only during the time I was in that bathroom?

Which brings me to Occam’s Razor.  I could give you the Latin, but frankly if you’re the sort that’s impressed by that sort of thing you’re probably not a follower of this blog. The jest of the principle is “If you have two equally likely explanations for a situation, the simplest is most likely to be true.”

Therefore, with a heartfelt bow to Ruth Burkett Weeks, I conclude – there are ghosts at the Crescent Hotel.

Dirty Little Secret

We all have our dirty little secrets. The funny, the uniquely human aspect of these small vices is that they’re generally not near as secret as we think and, as a rule, there are about ten thousand others privately behaving the same way.

Me? I eat when I’m bored. Or fighting with my husband, or mother, or dog. I graze because I’m sad. I indulge to celebrate a victory. Or to drown my sorrows over a defeat. I nibble when I read, mindlessly munch while watching TV.

You get the picture.

Now.  Since I weigh forty pounds more than I should, there is no way on God’s green earth this behavior is a secret to anyone and yet part of my enjoyment in this activity is the guilty pleasure in pretending no one suspects that the majority of my kick-around-the-house clothes are stained with dribbles of chocolate, and that all my pants are two sizes bigger than they were ten years ago,

Seriously, who do I think I’m kidding?

I’ve tried any number of diet plans. The problem is they stress me out and we all know what I do when I’m stressed. Or, I lose a pound or two and, in celebration…well, you see where this goes. So I’ve come up with a new plan.  I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.

I’m training a service animal to help me with my eating disability.

When I overeat, snack endlessly, frantically tear apart the cupboard looking for those last two Ritz crackers and the jar of peanut butter – the dog will bite me in the ass.

Hey. This might be my last hope.

Expectations

My friend Ruth tells me that people and experiences come into our lives at a time when we need them.  I suspect learning, growing opportunities are always at our fingertips.  We just don't reach toward what we can't yet use.
Most of you know that my husband, Jack, has mild dementia. You may also remember that I am taking a class at the UofA on Indian Philosophy.  You've got to trust me here.  I'll weave all this together before we're finished.
See, here's the thing -- I've been having a rough time dealing with the changes in my hero, my husband.  Yeah, I know.  He's been having a few issues with the new limitations too.  The thing is, it finally hit me, I've been making life more difficult for both of us by mourning for what-used-to-be instead of enjoying what is.
Buddhism teaches that we can never stand in the same river twice.  What I've come to understand is, while I'm in the river, at each moment, I can, and am in fact required, to find pleasure in this transitory experience. This enjoyment of the moment is only possible when I release all expectation.  Because with expectation comes dissapointment which blocks my joy.
It's hard to live in each moment.  Part of me, a big part of me, is surprised at each new change that comes along, wants to scream and rant and fight against the flow.  So, pray for me people.  Light the incense.  Whisper my name in the ear of Jesus and Buddha and the universe. 

Jumpin' Jehosophat!

A long time ago a Paulist priest told me an allegorical story about and an elephant and six blind men.  Yesterday I discovered that the legend originated in India among the Jainists. Funny how universal truth is not limited by creed.
Here's the story:
Six blind men stumble through the jungle and run smack dab into an elephant.
(Okay, may as well fess up right now.  This tale is going to be told in redneck-ese because, well, because I'm a redneck and I'm the one doing the telling this time around)
So.  Back to the hot, sweaty jungle and the six lost blind men.  Earl reaches up and runs his hands over the elephant's ear.
     "Jumpin' Jehosephat," Earl declares.  "This creature is like a leathery fan."
     "Not a chance," says Bubba from the back of the elephant.  "This animal is like a snake with a tuft of coarse hairs where its head should oughta be."
    "What's the matter with you two?" asks Billy Bob from his position at one of the elephant's back legs.  "This here critter is like nothing so much as a pillar."
      Beau, the oldest of the group, strokes the elephant's trunk and declares with authority, "This animal is sinewy and strong and it's movement is like that of a python."
      From the side of the pachyderm, Jimmy John exclaims, "When I lay my head against it's surface I hear the rumbling of a far away train."
      With his hands wrapped firmly around a tusk, Tiny, the largest of the group, insists, "The animal is like a sword.  Hard with a strong point at the tip."
      The six blind men begin squabbling among themselves, each insisting that the other's have missed the very essence of the animal and only they understand the true nature of the creature.  Before long, the elephant, bored with the process and one suspects a little sad too, wanders off.  When none of the men can convince even one other to see the animal in the 'correct' way, they resort to fists and teeth.  The six men roll on the jungle floor, do their best to show the others the true vision of the newly discovered creature.
      Finally a local priest or monk or, in this story, bartender comes along and finds the bloodied and broken men. 
      "Hey y'all!  Whatya fighting 'bout?"  he inquires curiously.
      The six blind men dust themselves off, wipe away the blood and explain to the newcomer about the animal they've only just discovered. The bar keep shakes his head and tell them, "That was an elephant.  And just 'cause you just stumbled on one that don't mean their kind ain't been around for the ages."
       When the blind men discover the bartender knows about this animal, they insist he enlighten them.
     "Settle our agrument," they beg.  "Which of us is correct in his knowledge of this animal?"
     "You are all correct," the sighted man tells them.  "And none of you is correct."
      At that the blind men fall upon the sighted man and beat him to death.
     Okay.  I just made up that last line, but given the current political environment in this country, that did seem the logical conclusion to the story.
    Here's my point.  We are too often the blind men.  What if Fox and CNN actually listened to each other?  Would our knowledge of the truth be expanded?  What if Christians and Muslims agreed that each of their religions had a small piece of the knowledge of God and that, if they listened to each other, they might all know a little more.  What if men stopped insisting on the strengh of the trunk and women quite criticizing the little tail and instead they came together to learn more about the relationship.
 Ah well.  I can dream can't I?