World Tour – The Final Two Days

By the end of our day at the zoo–and walking around Portland, window-shopping and stuffing ourselves with great food–I was more toast than human. We’d planned on driving the three hours of Bend, OR that night, but Ed and I were both so wrung out we opted to spend another night in the City of Roses. Morning had us on the road bright and early, bidding a tearful goodbye to my friend Wendy, who had to head home to Delaware.

If you’ve never driven from Portland to Bend, I heartily encourage you to do so. It’s a windy trek of road, and often a bit congested depending upon the time of year, and one can become caught behind a laboring big rig. However, there are compensations:

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Mount Hood, taken by David Mark from Pixabay

You watch Hood from a distance, then begin the climb up its flank. Suddenly, you round a turn in the road and the mountain is right there, in your face: miraculous, immense, ancient, and breathtaking.

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By Harry Wegley for Pixabay

Before you know it, you’re over the mountain and heading into the high desert country of eastern Oregon. I had little experience of desert before coming to Bend the first time, a couple of brief visits to Arizona was all. Against all expectation from this water-loving, Scottish-weather sort of girl, I fell in love with the high country. Maybe my love of Westerns fed it, at least in part, but there was something comfortable about the feel of the place against my skin and against my mind. I can’t explain it any clearer than that. I’ve never been in a position to pull the car over and get out to snap some pictures (there’s precious few places wide enough to pull over and the road can be busy), but thanks again to the folks at Pixabay, I can show you what it looks like. (Photos courtesy of ArielJ and Ally Laws.)

Sunriver - Bev & DonSo, we at last landed in Bend, one of my favorite cities, at the home of Don and Bev Henneous (Roger’s brother and sister-in-law) who were generous enough to save us from yet another hotel room. I’ve stayed with them before and it’s always a good time.  Poor Bev had fallen a few days earlier and broken her kneecap which prevented them from attending the big launch event in Portland. But Bev, being Bev, wasn’t about to let something as significantly insignificant as a broken bone deter  her when the events to come were practically in her own backyard.

That evening’s event was held at Roundabout Books, an independent shop in Bend owned by Cassie Clemans. If you’re in the area, go. This is a nifty, nifty bookstore; small, but packed to the gills with so much wonderfulness that I was disappointed I didn’t have time to browse. (That time constraint likely saved my bank account.) Cassie and the other women who run the store were unable to be there, but left the program in the capable hands of their spouses Andy, JD, and Jonathan, who are terrific guys all-around and managed to pack about 40 people into the exhibit space. Because Roger’s hands are quite afflicted with arthritis, his daughter Michelle was thoughtful enough to provide a signature stamp so he could add his name to mine. The audience was engaged, enthusiastic, and so much fun to be with. Plus, their questions were terrific.

(Beginning top left: Roger and me with some of the wonderful crew from Ooligan Books: Vivian Nguyen, Julie Collins, and Emma Wolf; the Roundabout events board; signing the author table; during the presentation; the book display; Roger and me signing books; Roundabout interior; connecting with Roger prior to the event; and Roger gets to sign the table, too.)

Our last event of the World Tour was held at Sunriver Books & Music (Fact, Fiction, and Flights of Fancy) in Sunriver, Oregon. I jokingly say that Deon Stonehouse, who owns the store with her husband Richard, accosted me at the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association Trade Show last October, but that isn’t far from the truth. I’d no more made my way from the podium after giving my seven-minute presentation, and sat down at the table where I’d be signing ARCs (advance readers copies) when this whirlwind of a woman appeared and breathlessly announced, “Your book is the only reason I came to this!” (What writer doesn’t want to hear that?) She inquired whether I could be induced to come west again to appear at her store and of course I said yes. Now here we were at last, face to face once more, with the added delight of meeting Richard and the rest of the Sunriver Books & Music team (including a German shepherd puppy that near-about stole the show.)

(From top left: the presentation, showing a picture of Roger taken on his last day at the zoo (he always expresses gratitude for those sunglasses, so no one could see his tears in taking leave of his girls); Q&A time; Roger signs books while I get to wear the famous hat (he was a complete chick-magnet); two Sunriver Books interior shots; the after-party with family and friends; the crowd begins to gather; two shots of the book display.)

This crowd gave me some of the best, most thought-provoking and insightful questions, opinions, and observations of the entire trip. We could have easily slipped into a brainstorming session on how best to secure the survival of elephants … which is precisely what Roger hoped the book might do, inspire others to use their resources (mental, physical, financial) to carry the elephants into the future. I could not have been more pleased.

Sunday brought us early to the Portland airport (watching the sun rise over the desert and illuminate Mount Hood is an image I’ll never forget) and a long flight home. There aren’t words enough to thank everyone involved: Roger’s family and friends who came out in force to support him and me; the folks at Powell’s, Bob Lee and his team at the Oregon Zoo, Roundabout, and Sunriver who believe the book has merit (I agree!); and my wonderful crew at Ooligan (with a special shout-out to Abbey Gaterud, Julie Collins, Melinda Crouchley, Vivian Nguyen, and Emma Wolf. Special-special kudos to Sydnee Chelsey and Faith Munoz, who jumped into a car and drove three hours from Portland to Bend with extra books because we were afraid we’d run out).

Particular thanks to the Henneous clan, who welcomed me so warmly into their home and their lives; to Wendy Carofano, who wildly decided to hop a flight and come 3,000 miles just to provide support to a friend; and particularly to my husband Ed Everett, who kept all the loose ends (including this author) from flapping in the wind. I love you all.

And then there’s Roger–muse, mentor, friend, father, ally, and partner on this journey. There’d have been no book without his trust in me, his willingness to tell his story, and his bravery in facing down the dark days of the past. I love and admire him beyond words. We drive each other crazy sometimes, as often happens in the very best of relationships, but we always have each other’s back. I love him immensely, and can’t imagine a world without him in it.

Me and Roger (taken by Bev)

Photo taken by Bev Henneous

Okay, So This is Cool

Belle and RogerA local gentleman I know — Stan Malcom — is an award-winning nature photographer as well as being an entomologist with a Ph.D. in evolutionary biology. He’s been honored with both a species and a genus named for him. Yesterday, I received this from him:

“I think you’ve earned the title Dr. Crandall. Considering your years of data gathering from Roger and other sources, plus the context you’ve developed about elephants and elephant keeping in general, plus the engaging non-fiction prose, plus steering the book through reviews and publication…if that’s not a Doctoral Dissertation, I don’t know what is. Congratulations!”

Thank you, Stan.

World Tour – Intermission

I’m sorry to have been away for a couple of days. Like the rest of you, I’m dealing with the Corvid-19 threat as best as possible, but refocusing my efforts into wiping down surfaces, taking an inventory of what we have, what we need, what’s an indulgence, and what we don’t need (like hundreds of rolls of toilet tissue; what’s up with that?) has taken up quite a bit of my time.

The reason I’m calling this post an intermission is not so much because I’m taking a hiatus from reporting on the World Tour, but because I want to focus on something a bit more closely.

Signing at PowellsAfter my talk at Powell’s, we opened the floor to questions, followed by book signing. The questions were great–thoughtful and well-expressed.

There was a young woman in the audience who, from her questions, the polite and slightly tense tone of her voice, and the flyers she placed on a table advertised her affiliation with a Portland-area animal rights group called Free the Oregon Zoo Elephants or FOZE, which describes itself on its website as “compassionate citizens from all walks of life, committed to freeing the five remaining Oregon Zoo elephants from the harsh realities of captivity. We bring to light the suffering they, and all captive elephants, endure, creating a groundswell of public pressure to end the Oregon Zoo’s breeding, acquisition and importation of elephants. Our end goal is the gradual phase-out of the elephant exhibit and the relocation of the elephants to sanctuary.”

I was asked by Powell’s staff if I wanted the flyers removed and I said, “No. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.” Shutting one another out/off is part of the problem in the volatile arena of elephant preservation (and elsewhere in the world), but I’ll get to that in a moment.

There were those in the audience afterward who referred to this woman as my “heckler.” I want to stress that she in no way heckled me and was, in fact, polite in her questioning. Judging from her expression and body posture, I think I frustrated or annoyed  her, but that was never my intent. I was trying, in a limited venue, to answer her questions as honestly as I could. In truth, I’d have appreciated the time to sit down with her and hear her at length, without judgment, provided she would do me the same courtesy. Unfortunately, there wasn’t the opportunity.

But I’d like to touch on what she asked me, because I think the questions are important. (In fact, I thanked her for bringing them up.) Please bear in mind that I did not record her questions verbatim, but can give you the gist.

  1. The first question had to do with my own feelings about elephants being kept in zoos. I’m generally not what I would call a fence-sitter, but I definitely straddle the idea of elephants in zoos versus elephants not in zoos particularly after writing ELEPHANT SPEAK; not because I’m wishy-washy, but because I’m still forming my opinions. I don’t like the idea of animals in zoos, but can’t deny that those in zoos are not only ambassadors for their wild cousins, but provide valuable biological and psychological information to researchers who (to mention only one case) are striving to eradicate Elephant Endotheliotropic Herpesvirus, which can kill an elephant in 24 hours. Caring for them is the big issue, and that encompasses everything from diet to exercise to stimulation to the preservation of herd dynamics … and so much more. Even Roger, who cared for them for 30 years in a captive environment, feels torn. These days, he concedes that if not in a zoo, then where? “When did you last see enough wild to accommodate elephants?” he asked me. “We’ve eaten up their range territories.” Sanctuaries have their place (there are several–three here in the U.S. and three in Thailand come immediately to mind), but can be limited in scope due to available land and, in truth, are far from “wild” since the elephants are still cared for, vetted, and provided with food by humans. And, like zoos, they are only so good as the people (and finances) behind them. A well-regarded wild-animal veterinarian recently shared a horrific story about being called in to consult on an elephant at a North American sanctuary and arriving to find the animal’s feet in deplorable condition. Despite his recommendations, nothing was done. (The facility vet called him, sobbing, because they weren’t allowed to do anything.) In the end, the elephant was euthanized. So the upshot is that broad statements are dangerous: there are facilities (and people) which are good, and others which are not.
  2. Her second question was more of a comment. In my talk, I’d mentioned the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee and she informed me there were other sanctuaries in the U.S. I responded that I knew that, however, the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee was one with which I corresponded quite a bit in my search for information. It their credit, the PAWS Sanctuary at ARK 2000 also provided information and generously gave permission to use a photo of one of their elephants.
  3. Her third question was in a slightly confrontation tone, which is when I realized I was somehow  upsetting her. It had to do with two elephants at a sanctuary in California having been rescued from the Oregon Zoo. She asked if I knew about them and I said that I did, but I did not go into detail at the time and should have.
    Chang Dee 1

    Chang-Dee/Prince as a calf

    A bull elephant by the name of Prince resides at ARK 2000. He was born at the Oregon Zoo on May 24, 1987 to Me-Tu and Hugo, and his original name was Chang-Dee. In 1988, ownership was transferred to Ringling Bros/Barnum & Bailey in an exchange deal for his sire. (You can read more about Hugo, the “Master of Disaster” in ELEPHANT SPEAK.) In 2010, Prince was retired to Ringling’s Center for Elephant Conservation. From there, he moved to PAWS in 2011. So, yes, he has been rescued (although I might hesitate to use that word), but not from the Oregon Zoo. (You can see a picture of the adult Prince on the PAWS website.)

    Tina and Judy

    Tina and her half-sister Judy

    The second elephant is a cow named Tina, who was born at the Oregon Zoo on April 26, 1970 to Rosy and Thonglaw. At the age of two, she was sold to the Vancouver Game Farm in Aldergrove, British Columbia, where she spent most of her life (apart from a brief move to African Lion Safari in Cambridge, Ontario, in 1989). In 2003, Tina’s owners donated her PAWS. Sadly, she died a year later. A necropsy showed the underlying cause to be heart disease, very possibly a genetic defect. So, as with Prince, Tina was rescued (or, rather, given) to PAWS, but not taken from the Oregon Zoo. (You can see a picture of the adult Tina on the Elephant Sanctuary website.)

    The topic of elephants in captivity is an understandably volatile one, but as I pointed out during my talk at Powell’s, unless the different camps are willing to sit down and actually listen to one another in a non-judgmental way, our hopes of finding a solution to the elephants’ survival dwindles. There are many viewpoints. Some are usable, others not so much, but we must come to understand that there is no one answer, no one solution, no one way to solve this problem. And we are throwing away an important opportunity if we don’t step back from our deeply and rigorously held beliefs in order to hear one another, consider another’s perspective, and display a willingness to compromise. Without that, we and the elephants will lose.

World Tour, Part Two

Powells PresentationBy the time my Powell event began, we were 130 strong (or more). Staff had to bring in more chairs, and even then there were people standing in the back. I was delighted that so many came out to wish the book Happy Birthday and learn about Portland’s elephants and the man that cared for them all those years. Thank you.

For those who are interested, here’s a copy of the talk I gave, minus any extemporaneous remarks. (The words in bold is where I showed a particular slide, and I’ll include those here as well.)

Belle and RogerBack in March 1997, I spent several hours in the Oregon Zoo elephant barn with senior keeper Roger Henneous and a remarkable animal named Belle. She was recuperating from surgery and I was one of several volunteers assigned to keep an eye on her for the next few days.

The barn was quiet when I arrived; no clang of hydraulic doors opening and closing, no chatter or bustle of visitors or staff; everyone gone home for the night except the man dressed in keeper brown, wearing a battered campaign hat, who stood beside the elephant in the front exhibit room, her left front foot wrapped in thick bandage secured with gray duct tape.

I watched for several minutes, until Roger noticed me and came out to introduce himself. Belle turned away, face to the wall, and rocked from side to side. I could sense she was in pain, but so was Roger; it was clear on his face, though it was a different sort of pain from hers, one that had nothing to do with surgery and everything to do with his heart.

Several days earlier, Belle had undergone a procedure to remove necrotic tissue and infected bone brought on by pododermatitis, the technical term for what elephant keepers graphically call “foot rot,” a condition to which captive elephants are prone. Zoo personnel came together with several local businesses to convert an area of the barn into HS.Belle.1.be.2-22a surgical suite complete with a sling to help lift and position Belle during the operation, and a team of surgeons from the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine had generously donated their services. Belle’s prognosis was good, but guarded. A procedure such as this was a rare thing, and no one, not even the doctors, could guess its outcome.

Roger was gruff, gravel-voiced, and disinclined to 3 - Belle1conversation, so we sat in silence as time passed. Belle continued to shift from side to side, an unnerving thing to watch when you aren’t familiar with elephants. At times, she leaned so far to the right that I was afraid she’d keel over. Roger assured me she wouldn’t fall, but I perched nervously on the front edge of my chair ready to jump up if she did. What did I expect to do? Catch her?

Two hours into my shift, Roger excused himself and disappeared into the back area of the barn. He emerged in the exhibit room carrying a large plastic garbage can with fronds of bamboo sprouting from the top. He offered a stalk to Belle. She accepted it, moved it around in her mouth, and dropped it on the floor. He next offered a banana, then some hay. Nothing seemed to tempt her. Finally, she ate an apple, bits of pulp dropping from her lips, but refused anything else. Roger put the can away, brought out a hose, and waited while Belle drank her fill.

When he rejoined me, his expression was glum. “She’s got no appetite,” he said.

“But she ate a little,” I replied, “because you asked her to.”

Roger shrugged, unwilling to take credit for that minor success. He thumbed back the brim of his hat. “Belle and me, we’re like an old married couple,” he said. An unexpectedly sweet smile curved his lips. “We respect each other,” he added. “But neither of us is terribly impressed anymore.” He chuckled. “Although she did save my life once.”

The name Belle means little to zoo visitors these days, but for decades she was a fixture 4 - Packyin the elephant barn, a matriarch famous for the birth of her son, Packy.  As the first successful elephant birth in the Western Hemisphere in 44 years, Packy’s arrival generated a frenzy of interest and ushered in the era that transformed Portland from the “City of Roses” to the “City of Elephants.” The zoo received hundreds of phone calls, telegrams, and bouquets of flowers, even baby bibs and blankets. Zoo Director Jack Marks fainted while telephoning the momentous news, and LIFE Magazine devoted an unprecedented 11 pages to the event. The crowds that descended on the zoo broke every attendance record. By the end of that year, more than one million people from around the world had visited the celebrated newcomer and his mother.

5 - Roger's rookie year - Les Barker, RH, Denny Robbins, Wes Peterson, Gordon Noyes, Harold Meeker, Paul Pentz, Dale Brooks - CopyThese days, no one remembers Roger either, though he carried his own brand of celebrity back then, serving up caustic wit and homespun wisdom in equal measure to anyone that wandered within earshot. (That’s him, second from the left, during his rookie year.) He was unfailingly polite around children, choosing his words carefully so as to not swear in front of them, and completely the opposite with the reporters who dropped by the zoo whenever there was a slow news day hoping for a colorful remark. Roger was always happy to oblige. His Midwestern work ethic made him a legend among keepers, and he alternately delighted his coworkers or drove them insane. And there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his elephants.

Roger Henneous in 1998. Stephanie Yao Long/StaffFor 30 years Roger devoted most of his waking hours to caring for what became the largest and most successful breeding herd of elephants in North America. Sometimes as many as 11 animals tested the seams of the old barn. To give you an idea of what that means to a zoo keeper on a fundamental level, a single healthy adult elephant can produce 250-300 pounds of manure every 24 hours. Multiply that by 11 animals, and we’re talking a ton and a half of excrement needing to be shoveled and hauled away every single day.

What many people don’t appreciate is that there’s more to elephant care than food, 7 - Roger weighing elephantwater, and shoveling. Elephants need to be scrubbed to loosen dry skin, and weighed to keep them from straying into obesity. Particular attention must be paid to their feet, which require, among other things, the regular trimming and shaping of toenails and removal of debris they pick up while walking. Some elephants require medication or physical therapy. In Roger’s time, a few even needed to be rescued when tomfoolery, a misstep, or an argument in the herd caused an elephant to tumble into the dry moat that surrounded the yard back in those days.

8 - Tamba falls in moat

Zoo visitors are generally a bit starry-eyed about the so-called “glamour” of being a keeper, so they often don’t realize there’s a degree of danger to the job. Any animal can have a bad day, and elephants are no exception. Roger survived being kicked, shoved, and swatted with trunks. He earned bruises, scrapes, broken bones, and even one or two close calls with the Grim Reaper, but he never once considered giving up on his elephants. In an era when the standard procedure for dealing with these uncommonly intelligent and potentially dangerous animals might include confinement, physical abuse, isolation, and starvation, Roger chose instead to create a compassionate and rewards-based environment grounded in mutual respect that continues to this day.

10 - Belle situp with RogerMore can be achieved with kindness than with brutality,” he told me. “Abuse is the lazy man’s solution to a problem. Maintaining control is an exercise in intellect.” Barn rules required that he carry a bull hook or ankus, the traditional tool used by elephant keepers, but more often than not Roger got chewed out for misplacing his or purposely leaving it behind. He told me, “The less an ankus is used, the better for both elephant and keeper, because not using it forces you to work harder at communication.”

After that night in the barn Roger and I crossed paths once more, briefly, but the experience of being with him and Belle never left me. Eighteen years later, I finally tracked him down to ask if I could tell his story. He didn’t remember me, and wasn’t sure he wanted to relive those years, some of which were indescribably painful. But it meant a lot to him that I’d known Belle, however briefly, during that anxious time in their lives. In the end, Roger agreed to share his story not for his own sake, but because of the animals he loved. “I don’t much care if anyone remembers me once I’m gone,” he said. “But I’d like it if they remembered the elephants.”

11 - Samudra, Lily, Rose-Tu, Chendra, ShineThe Oregon Zoo herd is smaller these days, but the accommodations have vastly improved and the dedication of its keepers is just as strong. Miraculously, two of Roger’s original elephant friends are still there. Sung-Surin, better known as Shine, born in 1982 and shown here on the far right, is herd matriarch just like her grandmother Belle. Rose-Tu, in the middle, whose rare birth as one of a set of twins Roger witnessed in 1994, is the successful mother in the herd. Her children, Samudra and Lily, on the far left, are fourth generation elephants whose lineage can be traced all the way back to their great-grandmother Rosy, who in 1953 became Portland’s first elephant.

Samudra meets SamsonToday, there are five elephants in the herd—females Shine, Rose-Tu, and Chendra, second from the right, and males Samudra and Samson. Sadly, on November 29, 2018, Lily died unexpectedly from Elephant Endotheliotropic Herpesvirus or EEHV, a swift-acting and deadly disease that resides latent in all elephants, but for reasons unknown may suddenly become active. Research is underway to develop a vaccine, but until then keepers everywhere remain vigilant, ready to battle for the lives of the elephants they love. Disease, however, isn’t the only threat that elephants face.

Two hundred years ago, the population of wild Asian elephants was estimated at around 200,000. Today the count places it at around 35,000 or less. Dense vegetation, difficult terrain, and outmoded survey techniques make an accurate census difficult, but the indisputable fact remains that elephant populations are in steady decline worldwide. The three greatest threats to their continued existence are habitat loss, inter-species conflict, and predation. The root cause of all three is us.

But we also have the potential to be the elephants’ salvation. I’m not talking just about keepers and scientists, but all of us. No one can do everything, but each of us can do something to help elephants survive into the next century. For instance, we can purchase elephant-friendly products and avoid buying items that contain palm oil, ivory, or elephant parts. We can contribute to organizations like Asian Elephant Support, the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee, and the Elephant Reintroduction Foundation which has released over 100 former working elephants into three forest sanctuaries in Thailand to live, breed, and raise their young without interference from humans.

13 - Belle and Roger 3Over 50 years ago, Roger Henneous pledged his life to the survival of elephants. To this day, he remains dedicated to their preservation. “We have to do something,” he told me. “To try and fail is forgivable, but to be so indifferent that you never try is immoral.”

 

Roger Henneous

Roger reacquaints with Rose-Tu after 20 years apart.

 

World Tour, Part One

Okay, so maybe not the entire world, but let’s not get too picky here. I did cross an entire continent for these events, and it’s a grand thing I’m a morning person, because I usually have to get up at something like o-dark-stupidly early to catch a flight to Oregon. This trip turned out to be far more civilized, with a departure time of 10 am. What luxury! Usually, I’m up at 2 in order to eat, shower, and drive to the airport because I’m one of those obsessive people who doesn’t like to challenge the notion of being there two hours before flight time because God knows I MIGHT MISS THE FLIGHT!!!!!!!! (I’ve been known to arrive at the airport as much as three hours in advance of my flight if I’m not sure of how to get to the airport. Also, I don’t much like to drive in the dark–blame my cataracts–so that’s an added thing.)

I heard that. Shut up.

We left Hartford on time and landed in Chicago without incident. (That’s what you want on a flight, isn’t it? No incidents. The lady sitting next to me as a tad on the bitchy side–she griped at the edge of my jacket straying over onto her section of seat–and then talked about nothing but her family, although I hadn’t said a word to engage her in conversation. Turn-around in The Windy City was brief (just under an hour, during which I fielded a series of emails regarding an additional television appearance to promote the book and my appearance at Powells) and then we were on our way again. I spent this longer leg of the flight trying to read, failing abysmally at Sudoku, and working on my presentation.

Portland, Oregon at last! Oh, frabjous day, callooh callay! (As Lewis Carroll put it.) Ed, my brilliant husband and chief member of what he called my entourage, made our  hotel reservation for literally minutes from the airport, so a quick drive deposited us at Hampton Inn. Ten minutes later, we joined company with one of my oldest and dearest friends, my heart-sister Wendy Carofano, who I’ve known since seventh grade. She flew all the way from Delaware to offer moral support and serve as my “roadie.” How’s that for devotion?

We met up with Michelle Henneous for dinner and then called it an early night because the next day was

SHOWTIME!

We arrived at television station KATU for their morning show, Portland AM Northwest, and were directed to the Green Room where we met the other guests and generally hung out talking and sharing news until it was time for each of us to be outfitted with a remote microphone and take our turn in the hot-seat with show host Helen Raptis.  (That’s me with Wendy on the left, and with Ed on the right.) If you’d like to watch my segment, just click here.

I’d never done a television interview before, but Helen and her crew made the entire process a breeze. I wasn’t the least bit nervous, probably because I’ve been immersed in this subject for five years. What was there to be afraid of?

Once we were through, we had a few hours lag time before returning for the KATU afternoon program, Portland Afternoon Live, so we tooled around Portland. We grabbed lunch at a small but amazing salad place (kale! Yes!) and made a brief visit to Powell’s City of Books where I saw ELEPHANT SPEAK on a store bookshelf for the first time, Powells Shelf Presencequite a thrill I must say. Wendy immediately went into sales mode with a gentleman who was looking at it, and the next thing I knew, he was asking me to sign his copy.

Back we went to KATU’s Green Room for my afternoon piece. (Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a link to that on their website, but the interview was much the same as the morning one.)

By the time we left the studio I was … how shall I put this? … I believe toast is the correct word. Some of it was due to travel the day before, but the greater part of my fatigue was because I am, at heart, an introvert. I have to work very hard to engage with people, particularly strangers, and find it difficult to be “on” for protracted lengths of time. We had several hours to spare before the evening book launch (!!!) at Powell’s, so I opted to return to the hotel, climb under the covers, and close my eyes. I didn’t sleep, but did rest some, and spent part of that time zoning out with the new Godzilla movie.

Ed chose an awesome Italian restaurant called Allora, at 504 NW 9th Avenue. Wendy went exotic with rabbit ragu, and Ed had cioppino (a seafood stew), but I opted for down-home, stick to your ribs goodness with their house-made polpette (essentially spaghetti and meatballs). Wine and panna cotta rounded out the meal, and by the time we arrived at Powell’s, I was raring to go.

Let me tell you a bit about Powell’s City of Books, the ultimate book mecca for anyone who loves the written word. They’re the largest independent bookstore in the world and have been serving the city of Portland since 1971. They employ over 530 people in five area stores (and Powells.com) and their book inventory (take a deep breath) exceeds two million volumes. (The main store takes up an entire city block.)

To quote in part from their website, “Powell’s roots began in Chicago, where Michael Powell opened his first bookstore in 1970 … Michael’s dad, Walter Powell, a retired painting contractor, worked one summer in the Chicago store. He so enjoyed his experience that upon returning to Portland he opened his own used bookstore. Walter swamped his original location by buying every marketable used book that came through the door, finally pushing the whole operation into a former car dealership on Northwest Burnside … In 1979, Michael joined Walter in Portland, creating a bookstore with a unique recipe that, though viewed as unorthodox, worked: used and new, hardcover and paperback, all on the same shelf; open 365 days a year; and staffed by knowledgeable and dedicated booklovers. Four decades later, Powell’s Books is a cornerstone of the community and continues to operate as a third-generation family-owned business with Emily Powell at the helm. Says Emily: “My grandfather taught me that our job is to connect the writer’s voice with the reader’s ear and not let our egos get in between. My father taught me not only the love of the book itself but also how to love the business of bookselling.”

Powells Event BoardSmall wonder that walking through the door left me feeling like I’d just come home. (I’m there in the small print, on the left, fourth from the top.)

And what a time it was! The Powell’s staff was energetic, engaging, and serious about their work. They had me set up in no time, and I watched is something like disbelief as the crowd gathered … and gathered … and gathered … until more chairs had to be brought in. And with that, I began. (More to follow tomorrow)

Powells - 130 strong

130 strong. I was blown away

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March Events

As the ELEPHANT SPEAK launch date approaches, I thought I’d give everyone a run down for the month of March (so far):

March 4 – KATU “Afternoon Live” appearance (to air between 2-3 pm)

BOOK LAUNCH – Powell’s City of Books, 1005 W. Burnside Street, Portland, OR                      at 7:30 pm.

March 5 – Elephant Lands Keeper Talk – Oregon Zoo, 4001 SW Canyon Road, Portland, OR                    at 12:30 pm. Book signing to follow at Gift Shop.

March 6 – Roundabout Books – 900 NW Mt. Washington Drive #110, Bend, OR at 6:00 pm.

March 7 – Sunriver Books – 57100 Beaver Drive, Bldg. 25C, Sunriver, OR at 5:00 pm

March 14 – Bank Square Books, 53 West Main Street, Mystic, CT from 1-3 pm.

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Breathing the Past

I don’t know where the old tin came from. Maybe it held cookies once upon a time, a gift to my parents. I suspect it was found in the old house when they first moved in. (A lot of things were left behind by the previous owner(s), much of it junk, but a few treasures like the full-sized pedestal mirror I still have, a handful of antique clothes irons (the sort that needs to be heated on the stove before using), a quilting frame, and old ice skates that tied on to one’s boots.)

My mom was a great one for keeping tins and reusing them; it was the Yankee in her. In our home, the adage “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without” was a rule to live by. An old toffee tin held bobby pins and those plastic picks to secure curlers. A large rectangular cookie tin held the curlers themselves. There was one for paperclips, one for rubber bands, one for spare bobbins for her sewing machine.

And one for my crayons.

I started drawing at an early age, and Mom encouraged it; partly for the artistic aspect, I suppose, but mostly because it kept me quiet and out of her hair. Give me enough paper and that collection of crayons and I would entertain myself for hours, and I became a purist early on. It must be Crayolas! None of those cheap crayons with their anemic colors, thank you very much! I wanted vibrancy! Ardor! Passion!

Back then, color names were sensible and understandable, none of today’s “Macaroni and Cheese,” “Neon Carrot,” “Inch Worm,” and “Timberwolf.” Instead, we had “Turquoise Blue,” “Violet,” “Melon,” and “Red Orange.” And, heck, we didn’t need names, we knew what they were, and what we wanted when we drew.

“We” here means me and my bestie, David Micklas, who I recently reconnected with (and wrote about) after something like 50 years apart. Dave and I mostly made Christmas cards together, four-square folded 8 1/2 x 11 paper drawn with reindeer, holly, snowmen, candy canes, fireplaces with stockings, trees…whatever images personified Christmas for us. I remember he also drew a lot of cars, which didn’t particular interest me, and I drew far too many horses, which likely didn’t interest him, but what was important was the act of creation and the fact that we were doing it together, often in silence, but also punctuated by bits of the sort of conversation experienced by only the very best of friends.

One year, Mom brought home a Christmas-themed coloring book, and I was over the moon! There was something special about that book – the line drawings inside were intricate, not childish, and I spent hours pouring over it, coloring in each one just so, endeavoring to stay within the lines, to create on the page what I imagined in my head. I loved that book and was sad when I’d filled it with color cover to cover. Mom hung on to it for years afterward, but it eventually went into the trash when she and Dad moved house. In fairness, she did ask if I wanted it, but I said no. I wish now I hadn’t.

Though I no longer have that much-loved book, I do still have the tin of crayons. A few are more modern, bits of color purchased for my nephews, now grown, who used the tin after I’d left my parents house. But some of the crayons are from when I was a kid. Like me, they’re a bit old and battered, their paper torn, some of them worn away to a nub. “Salmon.” “Yellow Green.” “Gray.” The coveted “Silver” and “Gold” we saved for Christmas. And precious few reds and greens, those having been sacrificed long ago to the holiday.

Every so often, I take the tin down from the shelf in my office where it lives just to lift the lid, bend down, and inhale that unique, heady odor; a big breath of the past.

Red Letter Day

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The Pink House on Plum Island

It wasn’t my intention to be absent from this blog for so long, but I was waylaid by a vestibular migraine, something I’ve experienced most of my life, but was actually diagnosed last April. For those who don’t know (and who would, unless they had them?), vestibular migraines (in my case at least) present with no headache pain, but with debilitating vertigo and motion sensitivity, as well as sensitivity to bright light and sound.

Fun times, no? Decidedly no.

The after effect is bone-deep exhaustion, making it difficult to do much of anything for several days. Again, no fun.

But I’m back on the horse, as they say, and although I’m having some residual minor side-effects, overall I feel pretty well. Well enough, anyway, to announce that yesterday  was amazing.

How so, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

First came the news that ELEPHANT SPEAK received a wonderful review in Publisher’s Weekly! If you’d like to read it, click here, but be aware that there are spoilers. (And one teensy error. Where “Crandall” shows up about half-way through, substitute “Henneous.”) I’m honored that they felt my book merited a review.

The second bit of news is that I’ve been chosen to be a guest at the Newburyport Literary Festival in Newburyport, MA on April 24-25, 2020. I’m a huge fan of Newburyport and have been visiting there, and on Plum Island, for decades, so I’m really looking forward to spending time in one of my all time favorite places, put in some hours on the beach, and get to know lots of writers and readers. Plus, Newburyport is home to Jabberwocky Books, and they don’t get much better than that. Oh, and let’s not forget the infamous Pink House on Plum Island, long may it stand, and at least one meal at Bob Lobster. (Best fried clams ever.) This is a great honor, and I’m so appreciative.

Spring is shaping up to be busy, but a lot of fun. Stay tuned.

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The beach at Plum Island, my heart-home.

Happiness is a Warm Paperback

Especially when you wrote it!

Just had to share the smiling faces of my friends at Ooligan Press when they unboxed copies of ELEPHANT SPEAK the other day.

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I can’t speak more highly of their great team. We are exactly five weeks out from launch, and I’m so excited. As a bit of surprise to myself, I’m not all that nervous. I guess I expended all that getting ready for the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association trade show in October. Now I’m ready to send my baby out into the world with these, my loyal midwives.

 

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Isn’t this pretty? Many, many thanks to Linda Reifschneider and Janie Chodosh for the pull quotes.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

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Circa early 50s

So begins the gothic novel Rebecca, written in 1938 by Dame Daphne du Maurier. My own version might begin, “Last night I dreamt of the house in Clifton Park.”

The old farmhouse on Plant Road wasn’t much to look at when my parents purchased it, the barn and garage across the road, and the surrounding acreage in the early 1950s for what was then the princely sum of ten thousand dollars. The house was old even then; how old, I don’t know although certainly in excess of one hundred years. A covered porch ran across the front in the years before I was born, ultimately torn down and a raised cement slab erected in its place. (I think Mom had some ideas of a patio, but that’s as far as it ever got and I don’t remember us using it for much of anything.) Dad and a friend, George Carley, built the chimney and fireplace that adorned the west end of the living room and became a central hub in winter, the place where we huddled on the coldest of nights.

An immense sycamore grew just outside the kitchen window, a tree so large that it took at least three adults, arms extended, to circle its trunk. It grew much too close to the house and its root system eventually invaded the foundation, slowing tearing the structure apart and precipitating my parents’ move to Saratoga. Dad hung first a tire and then a wooden-seated swing on a limb and I spent hours spinning myself to fall-down dizziness. (Mom hated the tree, with its propensity for shedding bark everywhere, but I loved it, and used the bark like parchment, scrawling messages.)

Each season in that house brings its memories: wet springs when the meadow would flood and the frogs appear; baking summers playing outdoors while Mom listened to her beloved Yankees on the radio; autumns of leaf piles made only for jumping; winters sailing down the hill out back in a metal saucer, the bottom of which Mom had polished with Pledge. (I think she harbored a secret desire to kill me; she once used Pledge on my metal slide, too. I shot down it so fast–and off the end, clearing several feet–that it scared me to tears.) I remember nights playing outdoors beyond sunset, rolling down the hill in the long grass and catching fireflies in a jar.

IMG_3122I best remember the house at Christmas, when I draped my pajamas over the hearth screen to warm before putting them on and Mom hung the cards we received against the brickwork. The fireplace had a raised marble hearthstone custom made for sitting, where I placed Santa’s plate of cookies and mug of hot chocolate on Christmas Eve. (Much later, Dad installed a matching mantelpiece that Mom festooned with garland.) The walls were an ugly pale gray/brown wallboard that Dad eventually replaced with the warm, golden glow of knotty pine. Mom was forever rearranging the furniture, so the Christmas tree might end up anywhere, so long as it wasn’t too near the fire. The windows were hung with red cellophane wreaths with electric candles, and a two-candle art deco piece I still own (which my husband is  rewiring so I can use it).

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That horrible wallboard

This was the house of my growing up; the house I was brought to after being born at Albany Medical Center in 1957; the house I learned to crawl in, then walk, then run. The house where I learned to ride a bike and enjoyed the pride of having my training wheels removed. The house where dogs and cats sprawled (and my mother once–under protest–housed a few gerbils overnight.) From there I set forth in late October to trick-or-treat with my then best friend, David Micklas, returning with plastic sacks bursting with swag. From there we set out together on bike adventures, or to roam the woods, play baseball or play pretend. On one memorable occasion we beat his older brothers, Tom and Bob, at war, ambushing poor Bob from inside a culvert that ran beneath the road, then ruthlessly hunting Tom with our plastic guns. This was home from kindergarten through high school graduation, and beyond. I married my first husband in that living room, and played with my first and second generation of nieces and nephews.

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Dad’s knotty pine

The house is gone now, torn down to make way for a Stewart’s. (For those of you unfamiliar with the franchise, it’s a chain of convenience stores.) The sycamore is still there, grand in its old age and, I hope, protected. (If the house was old, the tree is far older.) There’s a poignancy to visiting the old place in dreams, walking through those rooms. I see them so clearly, though its been well over 40 years. Each has its echo, a sound I will always hear.

 

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Circa 1970s