Graduation (Redux)

I walked in the "big" ceremony for Fairfield University's graduate programs today, celebrating—once again—the completion of the MFA program. There were six of us from the first cohort representing and it reminded me of the very first residency, when the original 27 gathered together at Enders Island.

We wanted to be writers.

Over the next two years, we read about writing, we talked about writing, we argued (sometimes quite heatedly) about writing. We wrote. Some of us wrote poetry, some wrote short stories, novels, memoirs, essays. We all wrote craft essays. Most of us wrote monthly missives to our devoted mentors. I think all of us, at some point, wrote a few emails to one another in which we wondered why we were writing at all.

We gathered together for 10-day residencies on that magical island (and it is magical). We ate three meals a day together. We negotiated those showers (oh, those showers!). We "workshopped" the poems and short stories and novels and essays and memoirs. We partied. We listened to our peers and our faculty read.

We became writers.

It was nice to be reminded, today, of the special journey we shared.

Google Self

Once in a while I conduct a Google search of "Elizabeth Hilts," just to see what I've been doing. Normally I find a link to this blog, a number of links to the Amazon pages for my books (here's my Amazon author page), LinkedIn, Twitter, etc.

Tonight I found links to a Dr. Helen Hilts in Scottsdale, AZ whose middle name is Elizabeth and the obituary of Elizabeth W. Hilts. Frankly, that was a little unsettling (even more unsettling to learn that she had a daughter-in-law with the same name as one of my sisters-in-law).

Then I read the obituary and I felt better. This other Elizabeth Hilts seems to have had a good life: a family and friends who loved and admired her, she accomplished things, and had community connections.

I have to admit that, even though I took an active role in the snark about this whole Rapture non-event, I have been reflecting on the quality of life—just in case the world did end, how would I be judged by the Universe? My hope is that my efforts to live as authentically as I can—to be as kind as I am able, to act out of love as much as I possibly can, to bear witness and support the people I care about—would be recognized and my frequent failures would be forgiven (or, at least, understood). I guess what I really hope is that, like the late Elizabeth W. Hilts, I would be remembered kindly.

Now that we know that the world continues, what are you hoping for going forward?

An Oldie But (I Think) A Goodie

I originally wrote this for "Pimp My Wry" and would have forgotten about it completely if I hadn't gotten notice of a comment (that was certainly spam). Anyway, I liked it when I wrote it and I like it now so I figured I'd repost it here. Hope it doesn't attract more spam. Hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and just for the record, I feel the same way now as I did when I wrote this.

Alice Waters, What Are You Thinking?

I’m a little bit annoyed with Alice Waters.

Oh, sure, she deserves her props for her food advocacy, for helping to raise awareness about the value of organic foods, yadda yadda yadda. I admire all that.

It’s her smugness that’s bugging me.

Did you see the segment about Ms. Waters on “60 Minutes”? The one where she cooked breakfast for Leslie Stahl?

The steps involved in preparing this "simple repast" go something like this:

• Open a restaurant in Berkeley
• Pretend it’s a co-op, but retain the majority share
• Make a couple of million bucks
• Build or renovate your kitchen to include a wood-burning hearth—conveniently at standard counter height
• Pick up some hand-forged iron spoons with really long handles
• Stock up on firewood
• Buy eggs, tomatoes, olive oil and herbs (organic, of course)
• Have your assistant build a fire in the hearth about an hour before you want to make breakfast—for me, that would be at 7 a.m., so my phantom assistant would have to get up before 6
• Chop up some tomatoes and herbs (are they organic? If not…), allow the mixture to marinate
• Slice some bread bread bread*
• Grill it
• Spoon the tomato mixture on the bread (which has been placed on a hand-painted plate that you got in Italy—part of a set of 40)
• Take a nap
• Coat an iron spoon with the olive oil (did I mention that the olive oil should come from your good friend’s grove and be organic?)
• Crack an egg into a bowl, slide the egg into the oil-coated spoon
• Walk across the kitchen to the fire shove the egg under the flames gently fluttering from the log and stand there until the egg bubbles up and cooks through
• Walk back to the counter where the plated bread/tomato thing is
• Scoop the egg on top of the tomatoes
• Serve
• Repeat as needed

This is the kind of every day food that’s perfect for a family of four or more because, really, making it creates an oasis of calm amidst the panicked searches for the missing homework and the right pair of black shoes. Those family members who are not sweating it out at the fire can make brown bag lunches at the same time. (You did include a separate lunch prep area in that kitchen redesign, didn’t you?)

“And you don’t really have to do it in the fire,” says Alice. “You can do it in the cast iron skillet on the stove.”

Well, thanks for that tip, Alice! Because, honestly, that never would have occurred to me.

The flaws in Alice's thinking are, in my (extremely humble) opinion, these:

Not everyone lives in California, with access to farmers and their foodstuffs—the only locally-grown organic tomatoes I can find right now look like they're made of styrofoam and they cost something like $20 a piece

Organic food costs a LOT—and I've got other expenses, like my mortgage

Shopping carefully for each ingredient takes time—I love meandering through my local farmers' markets (which operate in my neck of the woods from late May through November; the only food in stock after September being turnips) but since I have to also make a trip to the regular grocery store, shopping turns into a day-long event

But the worst part is, her serene self-satisfaction creates anxiety. Who can live like this? Do you live like this? Or are you wedging a trip to the grocery store in between work, getting the kids to their activities, going to the gym, doing a load or two of laundry, finding the lost homework, and refereeing arguments about who's turn it is to set the table with the chipped plates you inherited from Aunt Thelma?

Because that's the life most of us live—and we're the lucky ones who don't rely on public transport, aren't trying to stretch the food we can buy with food stamps, haven't had to visit the local food pantry...do I need to go on?

So, yeah, I admire the woman, but I don't think she lives on the same planet I inhabit.

* This is a completely gratuitous inside joke.

Kudos

My friend Phil Lemos finished the first draft of his novel yesterday. In blogging about it he wrote something that touched me deeply (for reasons both obvious and not-so-very-obvious):

"I may never get this puppy published. But at least when I'm on my deathbed I'll be able to say I wrote a novel."

To start something is easy. To prevail to the end (even if it's only the first end) is, I think, heroic when the only "reward" of which one can be certain is that the work will matter just because the work has happened.

Bravo, Phil. "Bravo!" to all of my writer friends who have finished the things they have started. And "Bravo!" to all who are still making the work happen (which is, as you all know, each and every one of us).

Check out his post here. And tell him I sent you.

Mother's Day

On Facebook, many of my friends have posted photos of their mothers in honor of Mother's Day. For days I've been reading posts about mothers who inspire, mothers who are present, mothers who are gone.

As a mother, I appreciate this. As a daughter, I am filled with longing. Rather than post about my mother, I figured the best way to deal with this longing is by sharing this snippet from my memoir.

There are days when, encountering a woman my age out in the world with her mother, I am struck by a tsunami of envy, grief, anger, sadness, bitterness (!) and I tumble, taking shallow breaths and refusing to weep until I can get my feet on the solid ground of survival, until I can grab hold of remembering that I am okay now.

Laughing, bickering, walking together in silence, even arguing. The daughter, my peer, says, “Mom!” or “Mother!” or (sometimes) “Mommy!” and I am submerged in a longing so deep I know I will never touch bottom. One look at them and I can see what these daughters have learned from their mothers, see the ways they cannot help carrying all their mothers have taught them, see that there are some things they have taken on by choice: a certain flair, the habits of grooming, the legacy of caring and guidance.

I am standing in the shoe aisle at Marshalls, surrounded by the hodgepodge of footwear from last season, the season before, the overstocks of the latest fashions cast off by a ritzy department store. A woman in a Chanel jacket, crisp white blouse, black trousers, tasteful gold chain gleaming against her Florida tan set off with the just-right-shade of red lipstick reaches for a pair of flats. She drops them on the floor, wiggles her right foot out of the shoe she is wearing, revealing manicured toes under a veil of nylon. As she slips her foot into the new shoe, the fingers of one hand pressing lightly on the edge of the shoe rack for balance, she says, “What do you think of these, Liz?”

“Um,” I say, startled that she knows my name.

“Let me see, Mother.” Her Liz steps into the aisle. They look at the shoe, considering it carefully and so they do not see me looking at them, considering them carefully. The daughter is wearing a nearly identical outfit (though she has on jeans), her hair is slightly more modern version of the mother’s bob, the diamond on the daughter’s left hand set in platinum rather than mother’s gold, both have short rounded nails with French manicures. “They look just like the one’s you’re wearing,” this other Liz says, and they lift their heads in mirror image timing and laugh.

I leave the store and when I get into my car I have to take ten deep breaths before I can even think about turning the key, starting the engine, maneuvering out of the parking space, driving myself home.

Exhale

Today, everything was something other than I anticipated.

When I got to the grocery store, expecting a crowd, instead I found a parking spot immediately and hardly anyone in the aisles. Once I was done, however, two drivers played chicken with their big SUVs, inching forward and angling toward the space as I loaded my bags into my car.

My usual source for cooking gadgets and paraphernalia did not have the one thing I needed; I had to go to the paper goods store that I don't particularly like instead.

A phone call I'd planned for never happened.

Then my internet and phone modem failed. Five hours of my day was spent on this.

There was also this, however:

When I pulled in to the parking lot of the cooking gadget store, my mind registered some oddness that made me pause, let go of that one thing I needed for a moment, focus on the world around me.

At curbside, where the road met the parking lot, just by a small island of grass and dirt, was a bird of prey. Feathers streaked with muted gold, fierce beak, sleek head scanning and, clutched in its right talon, a rather large bird of some sort. Feather and down scattered, tumbling over the asphalt. Other birds swooped and clamored. The bird of prey—a hawk? probably a hawk, though those golden feathers...—noticed but didn't seem bothered at all.

Just as I aimed my phone to take a picture, a pickup truck pulled into the lot, stopped a few feet away. The bird took off, flying low, its catch dangling. The guy driving the truck rolled down his window. "I wanted to take a picture but I guess I scared it away!"

"But we saw it," I said. "We both know we saw it. How cool is that?”

Multimedia Blogging

As an experiment I decided to post a selection from the reading I did at my graduation residency. My impulse is to apologize and explain and make self-denigrating comments, but I'm going to resist that impulse and just let the words stand.