Archives for category: clarity


Autumn has been a long run. Mostly it’s been beautiful, if a little on the wet side. We consider ourselves lucky. For the first time, we’ve actually finished the necessary outdoor chores, before being challenged by winter. Not that there isn’t more to do…there always is. But the wood for our winter’s heat is cut and split and stacked. Rick is just finishing up the wiring for the barn.  The bees are set–and the chickens. Today we even emptied one of the composters, giving us an empty to take us through winter.

Every day, we think it may be the last day. Winter is on the horizon (and clearly in the forecast for later this week.) So we’re working to be productive. The weather has been a pleasure, cool, and graced with the last bits of color. It’s been so nice, we’re tempted to keep going–to prep and plant some of the new garden beds, even once it goes cold on us. It’s hard to let go. And yet, every day ticking by has been wonderful and productive.

Maybe this is really the way to live. Plan for every day to be the last day. Pack your time, full to the last minute. Feast your senses on whatever the season has to offer. Spend your evenings tired, and satisfied with the events of the day. We may be on to something.


Admittedly, I have not been actively blogging. That’s because I’ve been back to writing. It’s been a pleasure. What with building and planting and gardening, there’s been precious little “writing-headspace” in my life for a couple of years. This winter, the frenzy has diminished enough that I’ve been spending lovely days, in front of the fire, banging away on the laptop. It’s been fun. And I expect that by fall, there’ll be at least one book launch, and that’s fun, too.

Every now and again we look up from our activities and realize that this, this moment, this experience, is why we’ve done all of it, anyway. We’re here, now.

My current book project has something I’ve not done before. It has actual villains. And that’s a different kind of thread for me. But this week, I read an opinion piece in the Washington Post that set me back a bit. It was about laziness in writing about villains. The author is a woman who suffers from a facial deformity. Her complaint is that movies and books frequently use non-standard appearances–disabilities/scars/disfigurement–in a short cut to describe villains. To her, it adds insult to injury, and increases the levels of suspicion she encounters in her day to day.

Nailed. I’d been doing just that. It’s easy in a manuscript of Prohibition Era thugs to make the villain visibly different. That way, one needn’t tediously show, by his actions, just how depraved he is. And it is lazy. It reflects a “lookism” world view that I generally reject. So this week, I’ve been re-writing. My villain is still a thug, but no longer an ugly thug. I appreciate the viewpoint and it’s timely connection to my own project.

I think the comeuppance will result in a better book, one that better reflects my values.

In-box Exhaustion

Oh, will it ever end? I make excuses–oh it’s the end-of-quarter reporting period, or the end-of-the-month, but that’s really not it. In fact, the constant alarm, the never-ending solicitation for funds has become the new normal.

Not that there aren’t very real and important issues. There are. I am alarmed by the rapid and dramatic changes in our climate. I am overwhelmed by the abdication of civility and procedure in government. I am heart-broken at our nation’s apparent devolution into bigotry and racism. I am undone by the damage done to our democratic institutions. Sigh.

But, my inbox is overflowing. I often get upwards of two hundred emails a day, most bearing a plea for help and an “opportunity to give.” There is just not enough of me. I have to pick my battles.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to walk my talk. I keep a low-carbon footprint. I minimize driving. We keep the house on the cool side, and eschew air-conditioning. We garden and seasonally grow much of what we consume. We recycle and, more importantly we exercise our buying power to match our values–minimal packaging and basic.

So many of our elected representatives have gone to the dark side. They serve the interests if the ‘donor class’ instead of their constituents. (Then they run against the very institutions they occupy!) We live in a constant state of faux-alarm. It’s exhausting. Meanwhile, in the brouhaha, we lose precious time to bring ourselves back into a sustainable equilibrium. And the emails just keep coming.

I am old-fashioned. I still write actual letters to my representatives. Like any good old hippy, I protest, standing shoulder to shoulder with other aging environmentalists, taking solace in the cold that we can still muster a crowd when it counts. I could pull the plug on my news. I have friends who have done just that. But it seems that removing thinking people from the mix just leaves us with a runaway train.

My primary coping mechanism is to spend time in the woods. I gather firewood, I forage–sometimes I just walk about noting what wildlife is active and leaving its mark. Beyond that, I do what I can, and take comfort in the fact that I am older. Caring is a young person’s sport. It’s some relief to see some of them step up to save the planet that they will inherit. Perhaps it’s enough to be a good steward to the things under my control and to enjoy the simple beauties of season and nature as I go about my day.


A.V. Walters–


I am trying to return to writing. I have at least two novels to finish, and ideas for several more. Finally, we have moved into our home, and though there’s plenty left to do, our energies are not completely devoted to the building project. Tangents are the problem.

I’m currently working on a Prohibition era tale based, in part, on my grandfather’s rum-running days. I try to be historically accurate–which leads me constantly down the rabbit hole. In the current chapter, Trudy, our protagonist, hands a sheaf of papers outlining liquor distribution channels, to Red, who’s an overly ambitious rumrunner. Those papers, how are they attached to each other, physically?

A quick foray to the internet reveals that, though the stapler had already been invented in ’31, (the novel’s setting) it was still not a common household item. So, it’s not likely that these papers would’ve been stapled together. I suppose they could be folded, or rolled, and tied neatly with grosgrain ribbon, but that seems a bit precious in the context of this exchange. Paper clips. Hmmm, another not-so-quick trip to the internet… Yes, by all means, the paperclip was already in wide use at the time.

But, that lead me to the myth of Norwegian invention. Norwegian, Johan Vaaler, filed paperclip patents in both Germany and the United States in 1901 (Norway had no Patent Office then) for a similar but less workable product than the unpatented Gem paper clips already in common use in England since the 1870s. Vaaler’s patent described a single wire loop–a design that never made it to common usage. Other paperclip patents were filed in the United States, one as early as 1867–but none of these early patents describe the common Gem design still used today. And then there’s the role of the paperclip as a symbol of anti-fascist resistance.

Several countries had identifying pins which became symbols of national pride during the WW2 occupation of Europe, notably: some pins of national flags; a pin showing exiled Norwegian King Haakon VII’s cipher; and the Danish King’s Mark. The Germans made such displays of national unity illegal. In France, a simple paperclip worn on a collar, cuff or lapel, became a symbol of “unity” and resistance. The innocuous paperclip as a symbol of resistance spread across the occupied countries until, predictably, this too became illegal.

Learning this, it only took me a minute to locate a paperclip and to affix it to my jacket collar. It seems to me that we could use a simple unifying symbol for our own resistance to the current racist, fascist and anti-democratic trends in governments, everywhere. At least, we could use it to project our own disavowal for hate, and fear driven policies: We Do Not Agree!

There is a sculpture of a giant paperclip in Sandvika, Norway, celebrating Norwegian ingenuity in the invention. Unfortunately, that sculpture is of a Gem clip–and not Vaaler’s patented version. Sometimes “story” eclipses reality.

Except, of course, at my house, where the tangents of history lead me far from my intent to get on with the story. In this one, at least I’ll have the paperclip right.


The Ugly Tree

A.V. Walters

Tom Tree

Even before I was born, my parents moved their young family to a new home on a site that had been a farmer’s field. Not one to miss a trick, the developer first scraped and stole all the native topsoil, and cut any and every tree that he could. (Then he sold the topsoil back to the new residents, at a premium, knowing that they couldn’t grow anything in the heavy clay he’d left behind.)

My parents immediately began planting trees—any tree they could get on their meager budget—knowing full well that they were planting for a future that would likely exceed their stay on the property. We had an area just northeast of the house that we called “the forest,” though it was really just a collection of hopeful, spindly saplings. The forest was visible from the kitchen window, where my mother did dishes. It was her view. There were cherished trees, (mostly hardwoods) free trees, and then “filler” trees—planted too close for the long haul and whose only task was to make the more desirable trees grow straight and tall. From time to time, we’d thin the fillers and then add more trees to the outer edges of the expanding forest of sticks.

My father liked the oaks. My mum favored the hard, red maples. Most of the fillers were soft maples, but there were some others in the mix. One was an unruly locust that my mother called the ugly tree. I thought all of us knew which tree she meant.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Decades later, my friend, Tom, emailed me a photograph he’d taken on one of his “walk-abouts.” Whenever Tom was blue, he’d disappear out into the wilds to recover his equilibrium. His photo was of a misshapen, “flag” tree in the foothills of California. He loved that tree. It had been topped and was leaning and bent by the winds. He saw its scars as a tribute to its survival. That battered tree spoke to him. I had the photo framed for his office, to serve as inspiration in tough times. Not everyone saw the beauty that Tom saw in that tree.

Tom and I had a falling out. It started as a misunderstanding—but Tom was bruised by it, and he gave me the cold-shoulder and cut off all communication. I had no idea why—I tried calling and emailing, to no avail. Later, I learned that he’d cut me off because of a rumor he’d heard—inaccurate, as it turned out; but hurt, he’d wasted no time in spreading it, and others. Then I was angry. Though I fully understood his emotional state, I was flummoxed that someone who was a true friend (and he was) wouldn’t come directly to me with his concerns. Clarity and communication would have completely avoided our pain and distance. Still, even when we cleared the inaccuracies, Tom would not apologize or acknowledge his role in the problem. He was too deeply entrenched in his hurt to see my position. Though I was angry, I thought about our falling out in the context of that tree in the picture, and figured he’d come around in time. One doesn’t walk away easily from a decades-long friendship.

We didn’t get that time. Within a year, Tom died suddenly of heart failure.

Clear, direct communication is a gift. It isn’t always easy. Sometimes, clarity is undone by our assumptions. One day, as my mother pondered the forest while doing dishes, she called out to my brother, who was mowing the lawn.

“While you’re out there, could you chop down the ugly tree?”

Chopping down a tree, even a spindly one, is a lot more fun than running a lawnmower. He got right to it. In fact, my mother was still standing at the sink when my brother came out with the axe, and in one stroke, severed one of her cherished trees. She cried out, but it was too late. She knew, in the flash of the axe blade, that she had not fully communicated. Beauty is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.

Since then, in my family, the expression “the ugly tree” is code for miscommunication. That’s all you need to say to fully explain whatever the bollix.

After Tom’s death, I spent a good bit of time looking at the picture of the Tom tree. It was Rick who pointed out that that lovely, twisted, solo tree was the lone survivor of a clear cut. I’m left to ponder the meaning of that observation.