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One month after my 43rd birthday, I became a full-time freelance writer. It was October 1, 1987. I mark that as my starting date because that was the first day after the last day that I received a salary from a full-time job with benefits, an office, and support staff. My first-born child--Jonathan--had graduated from high school in June and my second- and third-born children--David and Stephen, identical twins--were seniors in high school.I had been writing on and off for years and published some articles and a one-act play, but I had never really focused on myself as a writer. Instead I had concentrated on being a mother, a community activist, a wife. I had also compiled a diverse resume as a teacher, a speaker, an executive director of a social service agency, and founder of an art gallery. But as I moved into my 40s, I became aware of an increasingly insistent internal need to write. So, twenty years ago, I took the plunge.
Although I have written fiction, my passion is nonfiction--real stories about real people, events, things, and ideas. In my quest for true stories I've paddled a raft through whitewater rapids; hiked out of the Grand Canyon; tracked down grave diggers; walked across a high wire strung between two trees: interviewed interesting people; spent countless hours at archives, libraries, and historic sites immersing myself in the lives and words and deeds of historic women; and etc.--all amazing adventures!
The picture is of the gorgeous gladioli we bought yesterday at a fall festival in Mays Landing, NJ (we happened upon it as we were driving a let's-try-a-new-route-home from a research trip in Washington, DC)--$5 for ten stems--yellow, red, purple, lavender, white, and coral. We've dubbed them the twenty-year-anniversary-flowers. I love the array of colors. I love the way a gladiola unfurls and opens from the base to the top. Twenty years ago I could not--did not--imagine the challenges facing full-time writers, especially writers who hope to earn a living. But I'm so glad I couldn't & didn't because I might have gotten cold feet and missed twenty years full of fun and adventure and satisfaction and the opportunity to get to know many marvelous people! Thank you to everyone who has cheered me on, including my three sons who said--Go for it, Mom! and Charlotte who never doubted that I would make it & who buys multiple copies of my books, and Dot who is full of information and stories, and, of course, Linda who is always here and there and everywhere.
Back to my home-base in Englewood to teach two classes at Queens College tomorrow. This picture was taken at Island Beach State Park, ten miles of beautiful dunes and wide beaches at the south end of Barnegat Peninsula (really an island). My favorite beach walk is the mile from where the road ends to the Barnegat Inlet, the channel of water between Barnegat Penisula and Long Beach Island, the other long barrier island of the coast of NJ.
It was a chilly night and I worried about the Monarchs (see previous post and picture 9/15).But they appearedfine whenI arrived about 8 am. There were more than a hundred butterflies roosting in the trees. They left during the day--off on their long journey. What a thrill--I saw a sight I had never seen but will always remember!
During a bike ride today, I saw many Monarch butterflies flying in the air--like a cloud, I thought. Awestruck, I stopped and watched and then noticed that some were heading for a row of trees, including two pitch pine, growing on the shore of Barnegat Bay. Walking closer, I saw a large group* of Monarchs resting, i.e. with their wings closed thus the tan color. Others, as you can see in the picture, had their wings open. Mid-September is when the Monarchs migrate along the Atlantic coast past the section of the Jersey Shore where I've been for a week working on a book. They come through on a north or northwest wind (and today there was a strong northwest wind) on their way to the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico. I took this photograph at 6:45 p.m. I'll go back tomorrow morning and see what's up.*Not knowing what to call a group of Monarch butterflies, I did a search and it appears that a group of butterflies is called a Kaleidoscope, also a swarm and rabble. I discovered that the American Butterfly Assocation is holding a contest to select a name for a group of butterflies. Think I'll do some more research on this issue, but, for now, back to my book project.
I'm in the middle of a writing-week at our Jersey Shore bungalow & spend my days and nights working on my bio of the friendship between Elizabeth Cady Stanton & Susan B. Anthony. However, when I need a break, I paddle my kayak to check up on the black swan.
Grand Canyon Magic continued from 8/18 post
May 4, 1987, Flagstaff, Arizona
The night before we started on our raft trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon we met the head guide, Dave Edwards, in a room at the Holiday Inn in Flagstaff. Arizona for a pretrip orientation. Anxiety and excitement played tag inside me while I listened to Dave, a tall, lean, intense man with years of experience as a river guide. (Here's a picture of Dave rowing a raft. Arlene is the "peep" sitting in the front of the raft.)
Quickly I scrounged a pen and paper (actually the back of a postcard Bob found in his pocket), and took notes: "first thing in the morning is coffee call . . . do approximately twenty miles a day . . . six hours on the river . . . hike in side canyons . . . drink lots of fluids, and not just when you're thirsty . . . carry out all waste for proper disposal except urine (this experience prompt me to write my first nonfiction book, Toilets, Bathtubs, Sinks, and Sewers: A History of the Bathroom). . . water is very cold because it's released from the bottom of the dam . . . everyone gets a waterproof ammunition can (army surplus) for personal belongings . . . for your sleeping bag and clothing you get two heavy rubber bags slightly bigger than a grocery bag (formerly used by soldiers to carry radio transmitters) . . . in an emergency you'll go out in a helicopter (a prospect I vowed to avoid).
Dave repeatedly characterized waterfalls, canyon walls, rapids, stars, clouds, etc. as spectacular. "I use that word a lot," he interjected a bit self-consciously, "but it's the way I feel." The next day, after a three-hour bus ride to Lee's Ferry on the Colorado River where the rafts and rest of the crew waited for us, we began to find out why Dave frequently said--"spectacular!"
