Short Story: Tree Farm Tuesday, Dec 15 2009 

Well, the tree stand that inspired this story has opened for the season, so I am posting this short story I wrote about Christmas trees. Hope you enjoy it.

Tree Farm

The air crackled in the cold December evening, little glitters of snow swirling around Emmett Beale and his herd of firry green giants. He rubbed leather-gloved hands together in anticipation. The parking lot was starting to get full and people were wandering into the corral areas. He took a sip of his coffee from the thermo mug – fully loaded with enough precious Irish Tyrconnell but not too much that would scare the kids – and pulled his hat down a little more firmly.

Buddy, the kid Emmett had hired to help this year, was busy turning on the holiday music and counting out the change in his apron.

It was going to be a good night.

A couple with two children, a boy and girl, were standing by the balsam firs, which shuffled docilely at one corner of the pen, every now and again rustling their branches. “Now, kids, this is the perfect tree for you. We don’t want anything too big,” the mother said, leaning down to the children’s level. “I think my first tree was a balsam.”

“It’s a good fifteen branches high,” the father said. “That’s just about right for you two.” The kids squealed, clapping their mittened hands.

Emmett smiled as remembered his first tree. A balsam, too.

When they paid, the father pulled Emmett to the side. “Now, I don’t really want to have to clean up after this thing for long,” he said. “Do you people come take care of the…remains?”
Emmett’s warm feelings turned frosty. It irked him that people don’t normally do their homework before they go bringing another living thing into their lives. Puppies, horses, plants – just grab and go nowadays, you can always “get rid of it” later.

“If you just keep it watered good, she’ll last you on past Christmas and if you don’t want to keep it and replant in your yard, give me a call. Just be sure you keep it watered,” he emphasized.  The man smiled, relieved.

“Thanks, man. I’d like them to be a little older before we have the where-trees-go-when-they-die talk.”

At the other end of the lot, an older couple and a young man smoking a cigarette stood contemplating the Alberta spruces, a lively stamping bunch nearly too large for the pen. Emmett chuckled to himself at the woman’s luxurious fur coat, glad she couldn’t see him roll his eyes in the dark.

He sauntered up to them. “Nice night to find a tree, eh?” he said, smiling, his breath foggy in the chill air.

The woman turned to him with shrew eyes. Emmett’s first wife had shrew eyes and he knew no good ever comes from a woman like that. He looked to the man.

“We need a few, um, larger trees,” the man said, gesturing somewhat apologetically. These city folks, Emmett thought, don’t know what they’re getting into.

Emmett took a sip of his coffee.

“Well sir, you look like the kind of guy who has a lot of experience with trees,” Emmett said. “What do you think of the Alberta here?”

Within minutes, Emmett had discovered this couple was a well-known neurologist from town and his wife, and their handyman. They wanted three large trees – two to plant on either side of the front door to their home and one for the foyer. “We’re having a Christmas soiree,” the woman said. Emmett but he just smiled and nodded. They’d never had Albertas before and Emmett could see there was a delicate situation brewing here – the wife wanted big interesting trees to impress her friends but Emmett didn’t think these were the sort of folk who could really handle a wild Alberta spruce, much less three of them.

“I understand your situation and I think I can help you out,” Emmett said. “Care to step this way please?” City manners, Emmett reminded himself as they moved through the corrals of Douglas fir and Scots pine. The ones he wanted to show them were in the back in the largest pen of all. Thank goodness they were generally good-natured or he’d have had to build the corral out of iron posts instead of wood.

The woman gasped. The man grinned in spite of himself.

“But they said nobody in town had these,” she said, eyeing Emmett. “Are they the real thing? I’ve read about them on the internet, you know.”

He ignored her. “The Leyland Cypress might be just what you’re looking for. These here are about nineteen branches each. They’re generally low-key trees, good for folks who don’t have much time to mess with ‘em. All wild-caught, of course. Looks great with lights—“

“We’ll take them. Two big ones and a slightly smaller one for the foyer.” She pronounced it ‘fwah-yay.’ “I’m going back to the car,” the woman said, pulling her fur closer around herself. The man shrugged and looked at Emmett as his wife crunched across the snow in high-heeled boots. They’d driven in their own BMW and the handyman had a flatbed truck. Emmett had Buddy help the guy while he counted warm crisp bills from the man’s pocket.

A good night indeed.

“Sir? Are you Emmett Beale?” The girl was dressed in an expensive outdoor jacket and lots of makeup.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“I’m Rosie Parker from WLKY news. Care to chat for an interview? We’re just out visiting tree farm stands tonight, talking with folks, getting in the spirit.” Rosie Parks was probably new at this, Emmett suspected.

“Sure,” he said.

She gestured to the cameraman who flipped a switch on the bright lamp. Emmett answered most of the questions squinting.

“This is Rosie Parker coming to you live from Emmett Beale’s tree farm stand in St. Matthews. Emmett, how many trees do you have here tonight?” She might’ve been looking at Emmett expectantly but he was still blinking in the light.

“Well, this year we have about eighty trees, all varieties,” he said. “And some you don’t find too many places around here.”

“What kind of tree are most people looking for?”

“It depends. Most folks want a smaller tree, for the kids, you know, they aren’t used to handling the big buckin’ ones, the Grands and the Nobles and the like. But we’d like to find good homes for all the trees this year.”

The interview was cut short when a splash of green paint suddenly appeared across Rosie Park’s expensive jacket. Her mouth dropped open as she uttered an expletive that Emmett hoped the censors had caught before it aired on live prime time television.

The protesters had gathered just outside the main corral’s gate. Emmett whistled to Buddy who nodded and moved to check the perimeter – one year those darn kids had let a whole pen of Ponderosa pines slink off into the surrounding parkland. By the time they discovered the break, they couldn’t tell their wild Ponderosas from the ones already growing in the park.

“CHRISTMAS TREES ARE SLAVES TO THE AMERICAN CAPITALIST CONSUMER MACHINE!” a young man hollered from the edge of the group.

There were maybe five or six, college-age and high school, bound up in multicolored scarves and knit caps with ear flaps. They waved homemade signs:





Rosie Parks was now ignoring the splotches of paint dribbling down her chest and was hastening with her cameraman toward the knot of protesters, her microphone pointed right at them.

Emmett sighed. There wasn’t usually much trouble but these days, people get all up in arms about taking wild things and putting them inside, then letting them die, all for the sake of a holiday. Truth was that the people who bought from Emmett asked him to come back after Christmas and take the trees back, which he did and replanted them at his farm out in the country.

Emmett stood off to the side, watching Rosie question the crowd, an amused look on his face. Buddy was making rounds, checking the live stock.

“Sir, can you tell us why you’re here tonight?” Rosie’s voice was full of reporterly concern.

“That man,” he pointed at Emmett, “kills innocent trees every year, just so people can keep up this stupid tradition of the ‘real’ Christmas tree.”

A skinny young woman with waist-length blonde braids stepped forward. “I made a flyer with all the reasons you should use a fake tree,” she said, hiking up her shirt. “I wrote it here so I didn’t have to waste paper.” Her flat pale stomach was covered in smeary blue ink which Rosie Parks wouldn’t even try to read, but her cameraman was giving it the old college try.

The police car arrived shortly. Officer Flowers was a good friend of Emmett’s, always kept an eye out for him.

“Evening, y’all,” he said. Emmett smiled and shook his head, and went back to the lot as Officer Flowers strongly encouraged the protesters to find a better place to practice their first amendment rights.

Rosie Parker came back to where Emmett stood.

“Care to comment, Mr. Beale?”

“I think you all should know I will take back any tree that is unfit for your home, that is unstable or uncontrollable, that sheds more’n you’d like, or that has fulfilled its purpose for the holiday season, and I will personally replant it among its own kind on my two hundred acre farm.” He pushed his hat back a bit. “How many tree shop owners around here can say that?” He smiled.

“And this has been Rosie Parker coming to you live from Beale’s Tree Corral.” She froze for a moment, and then turned to Emmett. “Thanks, Mr. Beale. This will air again tonight at 11.” She walked off, the cameraman struggling with the piles of equipment.

By the end of the night, Emmett had sold twenty trees. Buddy’d made a date with Rosie Parker to drive around and look at Christmas lights together, and Emmett was feeling the effects of his Irish coffee’s holiday cheer. The trees were resting quietly, having been fertilized and watered. He relaxed under the down comforter on the cot in the trailer he stayed in for the weeks before Christmas to keep an eye on the trees.

“Merry Christmas to all,” he said, drifting into dreams of scantily-clad lady-elves.

Writing, and some news Friday, Nov 14 2014 

I entered Brenda Drake’s Pitch Wars and was chosen as an alternate. You can see my pitch here. I got a couple of requests, as you can see by the comments. Even if I don’t end up with an agent at the end, this was fun and really good practice.

In other news, my good writerfriend Gail had this happen. If you’re in the market for a little MG fiction, check her out.

Alternating Current Thursday, Nov 6 2014 


I entered this contest with my YA manuscript and am an alternate. Out of almost 2,000 entries, I was chosen by the lovely and talented Virginia Boecker as her alternate. This week, we get a little spotlight of our own in the Alternates Showcase.

This has been a really fun experience, mostly because Virginia has been such a cheerleader. I’m not even her first draft pick but she’s super enthusiastic about my manuscript, which is awesome because…I’d been having a crisis of faith in it myself. (Shhh don’t tell the manuscript. I don’t want to hurt its feelings.)

If you’re a writer or a wanna-be writer or (even better) an AGENT, please go check out all the awesome entries. If this is the crop they chose, the original entries must have been incredibly difficult to pick from.

Books and movies Wednesday, Oct 15 2014 

There are VERY few instances when I will like the movie version better than the book. Sometimes, I might enjoy it in its own right, like the Harry Potter films. I like the books. I like the movies. But others? Not so much.

I won’t put any spoilers here, but I will simply say, I liked the first 2/3 of Gone Girl. The third part made me want to throw the book against the wall but I was reading on a Kindle and I can’t afford to replace it so I didn’t.

I liked the movie version. I really did. That’s all I am going to say. I think I have a GoodReads post about it so you can look it up there if you’re interested.


The Most Epic Slumber Party Ever Had Thursday, Sep 18 2014 

For a long time, I have used the slumber party as my standard of friendship, either offered or imagined. It likely stems from attending many slumber parties as a kid.

When I was growing up, it was typical for girls to have sleep-overs for their birthdays. There was usually pizza and cokes involved. By junior high, there was also an element of pranking – if you fell asleep first, you’d find your bra in the freezer. Once we poured water in this girl’s ear and she didn’t even wake up. I don’t know if she wondered how she got swimmers ear or not…

I went to a small private school and everybody was pretty much invited to everything. That’s how we rolled. You didn’t exclude even the weird kids or the shy ones or whoever – you either invited all the girls or you just had your one best friend. That was ok, too.

I saw my first R-rated movie at a slumber party. Her mom rented us two videos (this was back when people were just getting home VHS-tape players and you had to go to these special libraries full of movies that you would rent, watch, rewind, and return. It was crazy, y’all.): My Side of the Mountain and Chariots of Fire. If you haven’t seen these fine, fine pieces of cinema…well, you’re not missing much if you are an eleven-year-old girl in the mid-1980s. After her mom went to bed, we found a copy of Beverly Hills Cop in the back of the entertainment center and let’s just say that the strip club scene was enlightening.

I wasn’t a great slumber party participant, to be blunt. I have never enjoyed staying up late and I get cranky when I do but I never wanted a frozen brassiere so I fought sleep until someone else caved then I would crawl under the pool table with my sleeping bag and pass out. I was entirely too awkward to call boys and ask them who they liked.

But by high school, I had a lot of friends and we had some kick-ass slumber parties. I’ve been to and hosted my fair share of such events, plus I have read about them, being the bookworm that I am.

Over the last few years I have begun composing a guest list of the Most Epic Slumber Party Ever Had. Besides my friends (obvs) the list includes a bunch of celebrities who I just KNOW would come to this party and we would be besties, if the situation was different and I was also a celebrity as well.

I don’t remember who the first one on the list was, but I know who the first person who would NOT NOT NOT be invited. Old goopy herself. I actually like Gwenyth Paltrow movies, but in interviews and stories she strikes me as really snobby and I don’t think we would be best friends at all. Not even a little. I think I would just feel inferior all the time with her.

Others on the list:

Emily Blunt: I like her sense of humor and I think she’d be really good at Charades, which we would play at my slumber party.

Ann Curry: Man, we would prank call the HELL out of Matt Lauer. “Is your refrigerator running? It is? Well you ARE AN ASSHAT! HAAAA!”

The Jennifers:

Jennifer Lawrence: Because duh. Also, she’s from Louisville so she’s definitely cool. She’d probably do anything in Truth or Dare, too.

Jennifer Garner: She’d be the one everyone would talk to about their relationship problems and she would nod sympathetically and braid their hair.

The Emmas:

Emma Thompson: Again, awesome at Charades and maybe we could prank call Hugh Grant and make Emma talk like Queen Elizabeth.

Emma Watson: I won’t even ask her about Harry Potter.

The newest addition to the list is Mira Sorvino. I have always liked her movies (Mighty Aphrodite was awesome, despite the Woody Allen thing, and Romy & Michelle!!), but I heard an interview with her on the Nerdist. I think we would be friends. Even though she is vastly smarter than I am, she is a normal and very interesting person. And she likes Star Trek so, check mark right there.

I tweeted about adding Ms. Sorvino to this list and you know what? SHE FAVORITED MY TWEET. That is the second time a Famous Person has acknowledged my tweets. The first time was when Susan Orlean (whose work I also enjoy) liked then RETWEETED a tweet of mine. I’m @thwritingspider, by the way.

I don’t know if you know this but…I am kind of a big deal.

Pitch Wars pew pew pew Wednesday, Sep 3 2014 

This is about Pitch Wars. Read more about the contest here.

I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning and this happened:

A baby is sad. Why is baby sad? Baby will calm down. Probably.

What time is it? 5 a.m. is too early for sadbaby. He’ll settle down in a minute.

Oh, I have an email. MUST CHECK THE EMAIL. It’s from one of the Pitch Wars mentors telling me she’s not choosing me to be a PitchWar mentee and there’s a bunch of stuff about how she hates me and thinks I’m fat.

(Ok, not really but that’s what I interpreted in my brain because that’s how my brain works.)

Clearly I suck and will never be published because I keep writing weird unpublishable quirky books that nobody will ever want to read, let alone pay for to read so I’ll just QUIT. Yes, I will QUIT.

Ok, so Baby is not sad anymore. I should go back to sleep like Baby.


Can’t sleep.

Get up, watch Dr. Who and contemplate suckiness as writer. Consider career as professional seat-sitter or floor-stander because I can do those LIKE A BOSS.

Get another email from another mentor saying she’s declining me as a mentor, too, with reasons about why but it’s pretty vague so…whatever I’m quitting anyway so it doesn’t matter. Assume Mentors three and four will also tell me I suck.

Consume cold pizza in manner of grumpy college student.

Have conversation with Husband as he’s ironing scrubs about situation and after reassuring in Husbandly fashion, suggests self-publishing the weird unpublishable books. Halfhearted grumble about why I probably won’t do that but I might but whatever. I’m quitting writing so WHO CARES.

Wallow in self-pity and watch half of Dr. Who and check email again. Twitter has blown up over Pitch Wars mentor/mentee list. Oh…wow…I’m an alternate?

Ok. That’s cool. I can deal with that. There were a thousand submissions, right? All right. Well, maybe I won’t quit. Yet.

Consider stalking Mentor’s First Pick in way that encourages First Pick to drop out of contest and go somewhere else because CLEARLY I need Mentor’s help more than First Pick.

Ok, no. I’m not going to do that for reals.

I kinda feel like this inside:


A little bit.

(Seriously, thanks to Brenda Drake for arranging this whole situation and to all the mentors for their time and effort. Good luck to all y’all!)

After the Workshop Tuesday, Aug 19 2014 

You might not know this about me but I am a graphic facilitator. That means…it means a lot of things. I facilitate meetings (i.e., help the meeting get where it’s going) by using large-format paper and markers to draw out the conversation. You can see more here.

I spent three days last week at the Grove Consultants’ Advanced Visual Facilitation Workshop. It was phenomenal. I’m a pretty advanced graphic recorder (I’ve done lots of meetings where I just make the drawing and someone else facilitates the meeting) and I went in hopes of bolstering my facilitation practice.

I won’t spend a lot of time on it here, but I’ll definitely be putting up a more extensive blog post on my website soon.

The workshop was in San Francisco, which was awesome since I’ve never been anywhere in California. I didn’t get to do too many touristy things, but it was still an amazing experience.

And for those of you wondering, YES I am really  behind on my Summer of Snail Mail letters!

School Dayz Monday, Jul 21 2014 


My nth class reunion was held over the weekend. I am a proud graduate of du Pont Manual high school, class of A Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far Away from you, most likely.

The day started with lunch with my best high school chums, then on to the school for a tour. Ten or so of us showed up for the self-guided walkabout through the hallowed halls. The gothic building had been hit by lightning and repair work was going on, the front lawn littered with bits of broken spire.

For about the last ten years, I periodically have dreams that I’ve gone back to high school. Not that I’m back IN high school, but that there’s some kind of special alumni program where we come back and go to classes for a week or something. Invariably in these dreams, I am late to school or I end up in a math class where I either haven’t done the homework or am simply lost in the equations. So it was really strange to literally be back in the building wandering around. A very strange flavor of deja vu. Lots of little cosmetic things have changed but it’s still the same place.

Driving to the reunion dinner that evening, I was struck by how much this school affected my life. Maybe it’s the nostalgia talking but maybe not.

I went to the same school for kindergarten through eighth grade. With a few exceptions, I spent nine years with pretty much the same group of kids. By the time I hit eighth grade, I wanted OUT. Because I never quite fit in there. I was too bookish, too awkward, too whatever. If this was a nature program, the lions had found the weakest zebra in the herd and had gone in for the kill. Fifth and sixth grade involved a lot of what would likely be called bullying today – lots of stupid name calling and mean girl playground shenanigans. The ridiculous thing was, I was actually all set to go to the same school as most of those girls: an all-girls Catholic school. So that what….I could continue being an outsider? Until my mom said, “What do you think about Manual?” The school had been getting a lot of press lately and had been awarded National School of Excellence, which was kind of a big deal.

I went with my parents on a tour of the school. It’s a sprawling gothic building downtown, far from my suburban bubble. Walking up the sidewalk to the massive place, I was in awe and maybe a little scared. This was back when magnet schools were first becoming popular and this one had five: visual arts, communications, math/science/technology, performing arts, and one called high school university, which is kind of a catch-all for kids like me who didn’t fit into the other magnets. As we toured the visual arts wing, we saw a student with a bright orange snood on. My dad asked me if I, too, was going to wear pantyhose on my head if I became a student here. (He was kidding. He wouldn’t have minded if I’d literally worn pantyhose in my hair though.) After that, I was in. I wanted it. Kids apply to get into Manual, unlike other public schools. I was really lucky to get in, considering I was pretty average in terms of grades and stuff.

What followed was one of the most profound experiences in my life. Yes, of course high school is always a time of profound change, development, growth, but I still feel luck to have ended up in a place where I finally felt at home. I had friends for the first time ever. I did well in school and that was okay, nobody teased me for being brainy. In fact, I wasn’t really brainy enough at Manual. (To give you an idea, I went to school with a Teen Jeopardy! champ, twelve national merit scholarship recipients, and we had six valedictorians.) I fit in because we all fit in there. I found my tribe.

Last Saturday night, I saw people I haven’t seen in years but it wasn’t awkward or strange. It was delighting to see my peers, hear their stories, see their grown-up faces. And I felt lucky, blessed, and happy. I don’t want to go back to being sixteen, but I love that I was happy when I was.

Improv and writing Thursday, Jul 17 2014 


About three years ago, I felt the need to do something with performance. I minored in theater in college – my biggest role was the Old Sheep in Charlotte’s Web, rocking a cane and some granny glasses with a baggy fleece jammies-suit. This was before I had the twins, but I didn’t want to do a play because it would take too much time. I’m ok at singing but I didn’t feel like that was the avenue I wanted to go. I started peforming in Louisville’s Moth story slams and that was fun, for sure. I decided to get into improv.

For those of you who don’t know, “improv” (short for improvisational theater) is the performance of unscripted scenes based on suggestions from the audience. I googled “Louisville improv” and came up with a couple of hits. After an email to the coordinators of one group, I started practicing with them the winter of 2011.

The team I play with is called Project Improv and it’s been around for about ten years, the cast rotating in and out as people join and leave. We do what’s called long form improv, which is different from the short form games you might have seen on TV shows like Who’s Line is it Anyway? I won’t get into the technicalities of long form, but if you feel like learning more, you can always ask the oracle at Google or the YouTubes.

It may seem that there are no rules in improv, when actually there are several rules. You just…say whatever, right? Well, sort of. Successful scenes happen when you follow the rules. The cardinal rule of improv is “Yes, and…” Sounds easy, right? It boils down to: when another player states a fact, you go with it. “Writing Spider, your blue hair looks so nice!” If I say, “I don’t have blue hair…” the scene dies and I’ve killed the energy. If I say, “Yes, and it goes with my orange dress that I’m wearing to an alien tea party!” a whole world of possibilities opens for the players and the scene. Now, you don’t literally say, “yes, and…” every time but it helps if you are a beginner to practice it this way.

I don’t remember when I started to see connections between improv and writing, but it might’ve started with friend and For Real Published Author Patrick Wensink. Pat taught a class on this subject, in fact, which I did not attend but I’m sure was amazing and brilliant because it’s really true. Improv can be used by writers and improv absolutely makes me a better writer.

When you start looking at scenes, at your life, at your world with a “Yes, and…” perspective, you let in energy. You open to possibilties. Say yes and you’ll figure it out after, according to Tina Fey. Jump and the net will appear. Leap and learn to fly on the way.

Improv has made me a better storyteller and more confident in lots of storytelling aspects – creating characters, building tension and conflict, and just playing around without boundaries.

You must be careful, though. Don’t try to “yes, and” people who won’t get it. A guy in Project Improv told me once that he had to be careful about “yes, and-ing” on dates because sometimes it doesn’t go very well. I can understand that. Luckily for me, Mr. Writing Spider is FABULOUS at the Yes, And and we have had each other in stitches at times because we are free to say (and sometimes sing) all kinds of hilarious things. But it has to be used sparingly in Real Life because some folks just can’t take a joke.

What does the fox say? Friday, Jun 27 2014 


I’ve read a few articles lately about foxes and hedgehogs. The fox knows many things, they say, and the hedgehog knows one big thing. You can read an excerpt from the original fox and hedgehog essay here. It’s being applied to business in most of the occasions I’ve seen it, but it’s gotten me thinking about whether I am a fox or a hedgehog.

I’ve decided I’m a fox. I’m decent at many things: writing, dancing, telling stories, cooking and baking, etc. But I’m not PHENOMENAL at one thing. The problem is, I’m not sure I like that but I also don’t want to feel limited.

Keep reading if you want to come along with me as I think this through.

I know people who are great hedgehogs. They’re really focused on that one thing they are passionate about. It’s what they DO. Free time is spent being a hedgehog. Maybe their day jobs are related to their hedgehogginess. They forgo things like exercise, social events, housework…all for the focus of passion.

I think about writing a lot, but I think about a lot of things, too. Food and when I’m going to do the laundry and the size of my bottom and how exercise would reduce that bottom so I should do some instead of writing.

On one hand, I want to be a writing hedgehog. G, I know you’re reading this, and you are a model writing hedgehog. G worked really hard at writing – she does all the Stuff like going to conferences and getting up at 5 a.m. to write. And it paid off because G is published (and awesome and you should read her books or purchase them for someone who might).

On the other hand, LOOK SHINY THINGS THAT ARE NOT WRITING. Like exercise or housework or a nap or the twins or Husband.

A friend once said that she wished her parents had pushed her more in tennis. She’s a good tennis player but she’s an English professor at a university and perhaps she could’ve been her generation’s Serena Williams or Steffi Graff (or whoever, I’m not a sports person). My dad, maybe six months before he died last year, said, as we passed a high school tennis court, “I should’ve stayed with tennis. I was a damn good player. But I played football, just like .”  Both of these conversations were tinged with a unique flavor of regret. I don’t want that for myself, or my kids.

The dilemma for me maybe hinges on what the kids are calling FOMO. Here’s a funny video about it. Like, maybe I really am super good at baking and if I just stuck with it a little longer I’d be the Best Baker in All the Land. Or maybe I’m two workouts away from my goal weight. I know the FOMO people. They’re never just at home. Their calendars are booked months in advance. They are always DOING something. Foxes, I would say.

I think I might be a hedgehog who’s too scared to be a hedgehog and is, instead, a mediocre fox. I shall endeavor to work on my inner hedgehog.

Yesterday, on NPR, they had a woman talking about jargon of her job. She’s a captain of a whale watching boat. Her jargon was “flying pickle.” Listen to the piece here (it’s only like 3 minutes long). Something she said caught my mind. Baby humpback whales (referred to here as ‘pickles’) have to practice breaching. They will fling themselves out of the water 20 or 30 times in one practice session. And I thought, that’s because they’re not born just knowing. They have to practice. The pickle practices then becomes a hedgehog that’s really good at breaching.

Are you a fox or a hedgehog?




Centre Dear We Offer Thee Naked Bums and Nudity Tuesday, Jun 24 2014 

Perhaps you read this article about strange college traditions. That’s my alma mater coming in at number five. Centre College in Danville. You might’ve heard of Centre from one of the past vice-presidential debates. Or perhaps a story from a higher-education publication about how much money alums give every year.

There’s no denying the top-notch education Centre offers. But the catalog failed to mention all the campus traditions that involve degrees of nudity.

The tradition mentioned in the article above concerns this sculpture. flame

This is The Flame. It sits in front of the library on campus. The tradition is, you drop your clothes on the college seal, which is embedded in the sidewalk across the street in front of the administration building, then run around the Flame, preferably before campus security can catch you. (The article says three times but I don’t think we ever did that three times part…maybe the new generations of Colonels have been upping the ante?)

Why? It’s a bonding activity. It’s exhilarating. It’s a little naughty but it’s harmless.

Typically, people ran the Flame in celebration. Finals are finished! Or you came off three hours of strike and two hours of cast party after a Drama Centre show. Or it’s Tuesday. I saw a guy ride the Flame – he circled three times on a bicycle. In the rain.

I’ll address the elephant in the blog now. Yes. The sculpture DOES look like down-swimming reproductive proteins.

Oh, wait…

The answer is yes, I ran the Flame. More than once. More than once AND sober. Once I ran it in the middle of February with four inches of snow on the ground.

Another quirky tradition at Centre is serenading the president. The senior women stand on the president’s lawn in their bath towels and sing the alma mater (what’s underneath the towel is up to the singer).

My senior year, my work study job was in the president’s office. I mostly did calligraphy for him. I addressed all the Christmas cards, invitations to special lunches, and so forth. I also did filing and some phone calls, etc.

We had an interim president that year, who was also a professor.

The night of the planned serenade, we senior ladies gathered – how many? Less than 200 but more than 50. Campus security actually stopped traffic for us to cross the street to the presidential residence and we belted out “Centre Dear.”

Centre dear we offer thee love profound and praises free

After an amused round of applause from Acting President and Wife, we went back to campus where we kind of went bananas.  First we ran the Flame THEN went frolicking in the fountain in front of the arts complex. Thank goodness we had bath towels! Amirite?

The next day at work, the president stopped by my desk. In his trademark gravelly voice he said, “Writing Spider, where did you ladies go after you left my house last night?”

Our intern, a Centre grad herself, happened to be walking by at the moment and without breaking stride said, “They jumped in the fountain and ran around naked on campus all night.”

I shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

He just said, “Ah. All right.” Then proceeded into his office and that was that.

Good times, my friends. Good times.


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