Author Archives: gretchenwing

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About gretchenwing

A high school English and History teacher for 20 years, Gretchen now lives, writes, and bakes on Lopez Island, Washington.

My Kingdom For a Tree: Why Texas Scenery is Like a Giant Strawberry

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Road Trip IV, Days 11-13, Scottsdale, AZ to Dallas

Here’s a little secret that I seem to need to re-learn every year: the maps in our US atlas are NOT to scale.

Duh.

Still, when Washington occupies the same amount of paper as Vermont, you’d think I’d get a clue.

Texas, though? Texas gets SEVEN PAGES–and that does NOT include the extra pages showing only cities.

And I STILL forget, every year, how freakin’ huge it is. Still, the more there is, the more there is to love, right?

Hmmm, gotta be careful here. I know Wing’s World could be read by several Texans, including Social Media Maven WANAmama Kristen Lamb, who lives here. So I don’t want to incur any Texan wrath with what I’m about to say, but…

It occurs to me that scenery in Texas is analogous to flavor quotient in a strawberry. My theory? There’s only so much flavor a given strawberry can have. The bigger the berry, the blander the taste.

In the case of Texas, all the flavor seems to be located in small, specific bites of berry. Or, to put it another way, I think someone must have picked up Texas and shaken it, so that all the scenery rolled into a couple of corners.

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Big Bend National Park, down in the southwest, got the most. That place is STUNNING. The south-central hill country, with its limestone ledges and graceful oaks, is pretty. (As I write this, The Mate and I are tooling along I-20 near Pecos, and I would give my kingdom for a graceful oak. Or even an ugly one. Trees….gasp! I need…trees…)

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The bayous near Houston are cool, and–though I haven’t been there yet–I hear the Padre Island National Seashore is well worth a visit. It’s part of Texas, all right. But it’s also 600 miles away from here.

I know, I know, I know. Every state has its boring parts. It’s just that here, they’re–well, Texas-sized.

So now it’s your turn. What beauteous corner of Texas have I missed? What other hidden gems of supposedly “boring” states should I go visit?n

Till Mileage Do Us Part: Hunting Down, I Mean Keeping Up With, Former Neighbors

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Road Trip IV, Days 10-13, LA to Scottsdale, AZ

Warning to all my current neighbors: don’t move away from the Wings. Or if you do, make sure you have a big fight with us first. Otherwise we’re more than likely to come stay with you on one of our road trips…and in the process, become closer friends than we ever were when we lived, well, closer.

Right now we’re inflicting ourselves staying with our former neighbors from Tacoma. Looking for a sunnier climate (than Tacoma? Come on!), they moved to the Phoenix area, 1,500 miles away. Not far enough. During our first year of retirement/graduation (The Mate is retired, but I am NOT!), on Road Trip I, we stopped and spent the night with them.

Not long enough, they said. Next time, stay two nights! We’ll go hiking.

Suckers! Oh, okay, we said innocently.

Did I mention that these folks had only lived in Tacoma for a couple of years, and during that whole time we had only had dinner with them twice? But they are super-nice and super-hospitable. And so we did stay two nights again the next year. And the year after. By now, on our fourth visit, we’ve shared all those life stories. Since our hosts grew up in Czechoslovakia and Ecuador, respectively, their stories are more exotic than ours, but then there are all those commonalities: how we met our spouse. Becoming parents. Worst Jobs Ever. I have a feeling we’ll be moving into Most Embarrassing Moments on one of these trips.

They’ve visited us back on Lopez, even though we keep threatening to steal kidnap adopt their ADORABLE daughter. So they must like us OK. But with our road trip habit, they are MILES ahead in hospitality points.

Our favorite thing to do with our friends is hike in the desert, where I have become dangerously addicted to taking photos of cactus. To wit:

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OK, OK, I’ll stop.

Our next trip leg takes us to Dallas, where we’ll be staying with…you guessed it. Current neighbors, you have been warned. There is one bright spot, however: I always make our hosts a pie.

What about y’all? Do you have any ongoing former-neighbor friendship stories to tell? Or are you hiding from those former neighbors in a witness protection program?

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When California is Even Better than the Dreamin’: America’s Incredible Backyard and the joy of hanging with your adult kids

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Road Trip IV, Days 5-9: Oakland to Los Angeles, via Santa Cruz and Big Sur.

I have only two points to make, then I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

#1: Even with all the movies and car ads and calendars I’ve seen in my life, I was not expecting Big Sur.

We spent 10 days biking around islands in Greece last fall and never saw anything this beautiful. It is RIGHT HERE. It costs almost nothing to get to. There is no admission fee (ok, a $10 day use, but we saw plenty of cars avoiding that by parking on the road). There is no platinum class that gets to cut ahead in line. Everyone can walk and look, or just drive and look.
It is beauty on a huge, American, democratic scale.

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#2: Even though they were great guys growing up and everyone says nice things about them as young adults, The Mate and I are still overwhelmed by how wonderful it is to camp with our adult sons.

All we’ve done is walk or drive or sit around the picnic table together, eating and drinking, playing guitar, playing Farkle, and we’ve been about to bust into tears of joy the entire time.

My conclusion: family love is like the scenery at Big Sur. Sometimes just being there is enough. More than enough.

I would love to hear from you. What place of simple, accessible beauty has taken you by surprise? What simple, accessible joy has done the same?

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The Power of Tree-hugging (Seriously)

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Road Trip IV, Days 1-5:  Lopez Island to Oakland, CA

You’re going to hear me say this a lot: I love road trips. But I’d also better confess right off the bat: these days road trips induce almost as much guilt as joy. Across the U.S.? All that fossil fuel! A carbon footprint the size of Missouri. And for what?

Well, for love of friends and family and America the Beautiful. OK, we do have good reasons. But until I fall into the rhythm of the trip, my mind roils a bit. With those thoughts…and, these days, others, like…

Where are the proofs of my poor novel? I paid extra to have them shipped “expedited” last week. They said they’d be here Friday, so I figured Saturday was safe. Well, I gambled and lost. The Mate and I left Lopez Sunday, proofless. Next day my buddy Steve collected them from our mailbox and sent them on…to my son’s house in California. I’ll get them this weekend. But what if I don’t? What if my proofs just keep chasing me across the country? How will The Flying Burgowski ever get launched?

Or…

When am I going to get time to practice my guitar? I’ve set myself some ambitious musical goals, but our evenings on this trip are pretty social. Can I practice in the car without bashing The Mate’s shoulder, or driving him nuts with scales?

Or…

Is Duke going to cream destroy beat Carolina tonight? Will we be able to hang onto our good moods if they do? (Answer: the game was postponed due to snow, so stay tuned!)

Anyway, you get the idea. Apparently I’m a pretty shallow person, and road trips don’t seem to deepen me any.

Cue my favorite Transcendentalist, Ralph Waldo Emerson: “In the woods we return to reason and faith.”

Yessss. Trees. I need trees. Big trees. I need to walk among them, gaze up at them, and yes, hug them. So The Mate and I stopped to hike at Prairie Creek State Park, north of Eureka, one of our favorite stands of redwoods. It was POURING, but hey–what’s a better umbrella than a bunch of 200+-foot trees?

Sorry, I'm not much of a photographer...

Sorry, I’m not much of a photographer…

Have you ever had the chance walk among redwoods? Oh, I hope you have, or you will. Redwoods aren’t only grand, they’re grandly impervious. They heal themselves.

But at least you know I didn't just pull these pics off the internet!

But at least you know I didn’t just pull these pics off the internet!

And in healing themselves, they heal my thoughts back to quiet wholesomeness. Like church, without the fidgeting. I walked, I gazed, I hugged.

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So, if your thoughts are dwelling in the shallows and you just want to get back to reason & faith, my advice? Go find the nearest, biggest tree, and…well, you know what to do.

...and when I get to North Carolina, I'll hug an oak! (Especially if the Tarheels lose)

…and when I get to North Carolina, I’ll hug an oak! (Especially if the Tarheels lose)

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It’s OK. No one’s been hurt. She made it quick and clean. But for the next few weeks, there’s gonna be a new sheriff in town…

GRETCHEN WING, TRAVEL BLOGGER

You have three people to blame for this disaster: my husband, my writer friend Iris Graville, and Social Media Maven Kristen Lamb.

I’ll start with my husband. Former professor at the University of North Carolina, therefore HUGE Tarheel basketball fan. When we moved to the Pacific Northwest 23 years ago, he continued to fly back every March to watch the ACC tournament with his fellow crazed fans friends.

During our sabbatical in New Zealand…yup. You got it. He still flew back. And when the underdog Tarheels WON that year, my husband became a legend among fans.

But he always hated the hassle of flying. So when he retired in 2010, he declared, “That’s it. From now on, I’m driving to Chapel Hill.” Then he uttered the fateful words: “You’ll come too, won’t you?”

And thus was born the Great Annual Cross-Country Road Trip. We are now about to begin our fourth. Along the way to NC and back, we’ll catch up with family members and long-lost friends, visit some national parks, and discover byways we never knew existed in places like, I don’t know, Oklahoma.

So, where does my friend Iris Graville come in? She talked me into attending the January Residency of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. I got so much out of it, I attended a second year. And that’s when I took Kristen Lamb’s class on blogging for writers. Not only did she teach me to enjoy blogging, she convinced me that good bloggers blog REGULARLY. I.e., no excuses.

Road trip? Get out that iPad, girl, and tap away.

So I figure…if I’m blogging from the road…and I really do mean from the ROAD…I might as well make the road part of the blog. OK? Fair warning, though. I’m still getting the hang of this Device iPad. So I can’t blog in pretty colors, and you’ll probably notice a few more typooooos than usual.

But hey, I’ve learned to do this:

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So, kids, buckle your seatbelts. I’ll check in every few days and let you know where we are and what we’ve seen. And meanwhile, you can tell me…

How do you feel about road trips? Love ‘me? Get carsick just thinking about ’em? Want to meet me in St. Louie?

The Proof is in the Putting-it-out-there: When “Writer” Becomes “Author”

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I’m waiting for my proofs to arrive. If that makes no sense to you, don’t worry–three months ago it meant nothing to me either.

Proofs? Thought I left those behind in geometry class.

Turns out proofs are the kinda-sorta first draft of printing. I guess this term works for photography as well. You get your picture taken, you check out the proofs, you choose the ones you like, and those proofs get printed.

In the next couple of days, I’ll receive my book, The Flying Burgowski, in the mail. I’ll comb through it, looking for any piece of missing punctuation or indents or chapters cut off in the middle of the page or….ANYthing wrong that needs to be fixed before my baby is ready for her debut before the reading public.

My baby!

My baby!

To while away the nervous hours until my proofs arrive, my brain keeps running loops around the word “proof.”

“The proof is in the pudding.” Now my brain imagines a scene at Hogwarts:

(Courtesy Flikr Creative Commons)

(Courtesy Flikr Creative Commons)

Wonderful-sounding aphorism, but what does it mean? Yes, you with your hand up? Miss Granger? 

It’s actually a misstatement. The real saying is, “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” It means, the dessert may look pretty, but you can’t really tell how good it is until you eat it.

Ten points to Gryffindor. Yes. And how does this aphorism apply to the present case? … [sigh] … Yes, Miss Granger?

Your book may look wonderful, but you will only know how good it is once people read it.

Another ten points.

Thank you, Brain, for this amusing illustration. What’s that? You want to talk about another meaning of the word “proof”? Fine. Go ahead.

“Proof” means you have proven something. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the proof has been laid before you! I rest my case.”

So what’s being “proven” here?

That I am no longer just a writer; I’m an author now.

Come again? What’s the diff?

Think about it. If you’re a painter, you paint. If someone asks you what you are and you say “Painter,” the next question is never, “Oh? And have you sold any paintings lately?” No, people want to know what medium you paint in, or do you do landscapes or portraits, or how you learned to paint. But when you tell someone you’re a writer, the next question is inevitably, “Oh? Are you published?”

So…aha. A writer writes. An author is a published writer? Is that what you’re saying, Brain?

I think that’s what I’m saying. But what do I know? I’m just a brain.

So, what do you guys think? Do you agree with my brain? Do you think writers are thought of differently than other artists? My brain and I are very interested in your answers.

Madrona Branch Press: Lessons in Logos, Publishing, and Humility

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I thought this was the equation: carefully-edited manuscript + self-publishing tools + a lil’ bit o’ cash + a lotta time = BOOK. I thought I was all set to launch my YA novel, The Flying Burgowski, out into the world.

Turns out I was missing a few variables.

“What’s your publishing name going to be?” my book designer, Bob Lanphear, asked me about a week ago, over the phone.

“Umm, you mean, like, a pen name? I wasn’t planning to do that…”

“No,” he explained patiently. “The name of your press. You know, what you want it to say on the spine of your book, on the back cover, on the copyright page, under the title.” He named three other books he’d designed, books by friends of mine: Iris Graville’s Hands At Work, Lorrie Harrison’s Kindred Spirits, and Holly Bower’s With Love and Butter. “Look at those books and you’ll see what I mean.”

“But I don’t have a press, I’m self-publishing,” said Gretchen, Queen of Obvious.

“Yes,” Bob said. I couldn’t actually hear him rolling his eyes over the phone, but if he wasn’t, he sure had a right to. “But there’s no need to advertise that fact to the world. Your book will look much more professional with the name of a press, rather than” (here he named a fairly well-known  corporation associated with chewing up small bookstores and spitting them out book company. “So you should choose a good name. Then let me know what kind of logo it should have.”

Me: “Logo?”

Bob: “eye roll”

So I got right to work on that. Unfortunately, I have a terrible horrible non-existent poor eye for design. (I think that’s why I write: since I can’t draw the picture, I need the thousand words.)

Fortunately, I have a great sense of metaphor and a beautiful landscape to live in. As soon as I started thinking of a good name for Gretchen Wing Press, Inc., the image came to me: that self-supporting madrona branch. Remember that? My metaphor for independent publication.

Fortunately again, I have Bob. He took my madrona branch from this…

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to this:

Isn't she lovely?

Isn’t she lovely?

So–phew. Thanks, Bob. Got that taken care of.

Two days later I met with my  guardian angels of all things literary writing group to go over my Marketing Plan for The Flying Burgowski.

“Do you have your author web page set up?” they asked me.

“My blog? Yeah–all set!” said Gretchen, Queen of Oblivious.

“Noooo….” my group replied kindly. (I’m paraphrasing, ok? But they were kind.) “An author page is a static page where people go to learn about you as an author, or about your books. It has a link to your blog. But it’s not the same.”

“I need one of those too?” I whimpered said. “I thought I was all ready…”

Again: no visible eye-rolling. (I chose a great writing group)

But once again, with the help of web-maestra, Adrienne Adams at Cloud Islands, I got my author web page set up and linked to Wing’s World.

Don’t believe me? Click here.

So NOW can I make a book? Tune in for the answer on February 7, right here!

But meanwhile, I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever designed or imagined a logo for yourself? What did you choose, or what would you choose, and why?

Teachable Moments: What Richard Sherman Said To Me

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I’ve jumped on a bandwagon and I’m not embarrassed to say it. Richard Sherman, you’re cool in my book. And I’ve learned a lot about myself from thinking about my own reaction to your post-win rant after the NFL Divisional Championship.

For those of you who a) lack Seattle or San Francisco ties, b) couldn’t care less about the NFL, or c) are very smart, thoughtful people who get outside more than the rest of us and enjoy freedom from the death-grip of American capitalism don’t own a TV, let me briefly catch you up.

The 49ers were moments away from beating the Seahawks and heading to the Superbowl. In the end zone, Richard Sherman caught the ball intended for 49er receiver Michael Crabtree, and Seattle won the game. In the immediate-post-game interview conducted by Erin Andrews of Fox, Sherman yelled, “I’m the best corner in the game. When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that’s the result you gonna get. Don’t you ever talk about me. […] Don’t you open your mouth about the best or I’m gonna shut it for you real quick.”

Don’t worry if you missed the video of that interview. You’re probably going to see plenty of replays between now and the end of the Superbowl.

I watched the game–uncharacteristic of me, but hey, I love my town! To me, Sherman sounded angry and childish. I remember turning to my husband and saying, “Well, that’s a shame. That really leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” I went on to say something about being Sherman being a poor role model for kids.

If my reaction had been all that immediately lit up Twitter, it still would have created a Teachable Moment. But of course the Twitterverse was far uglier. Hiding being anonymity, people posted horrible comments comparing Sherman to an “angry monkey” and calling him a “thug.” To my horror, I realized my own distaste was magnified a thousand times by those who saw the issue as one of race rather than simply maturity level.

The very next day, a former colleague whom I respect put a Huffington Post article on her Facebook page.  It went into detail about Sherman’s background, from growing up poor in Compton, CA to graduating from Stanford with 4.0. More powerfully, it challenged those who decried Sherman to think about their own reactions.

I did. I’ve read a lot since then, and watched some interviews. And I’m going to hand the mic over to the Huffington Post on this one:

Sherman suggests being labeled a thug is another way for a segment of the white media to call African-Americans like himself the N-Word. He feels a segment of the media contingent has unfairly labeled him something he’s not.

Is Richard Sherman really a thug?

By definition a thug is a person who engages in violent and/or criminal behavior.

Interesting.

Did Sherman kill someone?

Did Sherman rob, deceive or steal from someone?

Has Sherman served anytime in prison for acts contrary to the law?

I characterize his behavior as a display of passion. Sherman was exhibiting behavior in sports that few African-Americans having the platform are willing to use. He was simply talking trash about an opponent whose game he does not respect.

Period.

I agree. And in a later interview, Sherman calmly taught me what I should already have known, if I hadn’t gone solely with my gut reaction in those post-game moments:

It was loud, it was in the moment, and it was just a small part of the person I am. I don’t want to be a villain, because I’m not a villainous person. When I say I’m the best cornerback in football, it’s with a caveat: There isn’t a great defensive backfield in the NFL that doesn’t have a great front seven. Everything begins with pressure up front, and that’s what we get from our pass rushers every Sunday. To those who would call me a thug or worse because I show passion on a football field—don’t judge a person’s character by what they do between the lines. Judge a man by what he does off the field, what he does for his community, what he does for his family.

Reading that makes me feel like the childish one. Thanks for the reminder, Richard. I may not be rushing over to the mainland to buy myself a #25 Seahawks jersey like the rest of Seattle, but I’ll be rooting for you, in the big game and in general. 

OK, gonna open it up now. Want to share your own reactions? Talk about the use of the word “thug”? Make a prediction for the Superbowl score? Share your favorite guacamole recipe? I’m listening!

Where Have All My Heroes Gone? R.I.P., Pete Seeger

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Uncle Pete is gone. I miss him already.

He lived to 94, but considering what he packed into those years, I’d say he was really more like 188 when he died the other day. Consider these facts:

Pete Seeger wrote, co-wrote, or adapted all of the following songs:

  • We Shall Overcome
  • If I Had a Hammer
  • Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
  • Turn! Turn! Turn!

All the royalties from We Shall Overcome go to the We Shall Overcome Fund of the Highlander Center, which provides grants to support the organizing efforts of impoverished Southerners for improved conditions.

He and his group, The Weavers, were called before the House Un-American Activities Committee in the 1950s, then blacklisted for their Communist ideals (i.e., the shocking notion that people ought to be treated and paid fairly).

Later, when The Weavers recorded a song to advertise Lucky Strike cigarettes, Uncle Pete left the group, not wishing to support the tobacco industry.

 

Uncle Pete traveled the world with his guitar and banjo. Twice, he came to my town, Durham, North Carolina. One of my earliest memories is of him bounding around the stage as he enacted the chorus of a song–something about a giant named “Abayoyo.” “Aba-yoyo…Aba-yoyo…” I must have been about six years old, but I can hear him now.

Uncle Pete was married to the same woman his whole life. They lived in a modest cabin in upstate New York where, in his 90s, Uncle Pete still split his own wood.

I won’t even go into all his efforts to stop the war in Vietnam, to support the Civil Rights Movement, to clean up the Hudson River, to bring Israelis and Palestinians together…You may already know. If you want to learn more or spend some time remembering, you can read about them in his New York Times obituary.

For now, I just want to say: Thanks, Uncle Pete. Thank you for lending your voice to the voiceless. Thank you for giving your boundless energy to the poor, the desperate, the war-weary, the polluted waters. Thank you for your beautiful example, living your life with such humble simplicity.

What’s your favorite Pete Seeger song? What does it evoke for you?  Please share–then take some time to hum or sing it to yourself as you go through your day.

Teen Slang Contest Results: And The Sick, Epic Winner Is…

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Winners, actually. Several classrooms of ’em.

I got some great responses in my last post’s Teen Slang Contest, What’s current slang for “good”? Some folks just dived in with their best guess–some as hopelessly out of date as my attempts. Others asked their kids. But the winner did the smartest thing: she asked a WHOLE BUNCH OF KIDS.

Easy for her, because this week’s contest winner, Marie Muai Laban, happens to be a teacher at Ford Middle School in Tacoma ! So she just asked for responses from three different classes, 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. Here’s what she got:

Swag, dope, oohh kill ’em (?), filthy, fine, crunch, awesome, clutch, that’s dipped, boss, sick, tight, beast and a few that’s bomb. 

Did I mention that Marie used to be my own student, once upon a time at Franklin Pierce High School? I’m so proud.

(Courtesy slideshare.net)

(Courtesy slideshare.net)

Still, I can’t help but notice a few things in this list.

“Awesome” has been around since the 80s, so it’s nice to see there are still a few kids in middle school who listen to their parents.

Likewise “clutch”–or maybe it’s making a comeback.

And speaking of comebacks, “boss”? All the way back from the 1950s? That’s–well, that’s just boss.

“Sick” was seconded by Nate Drew, the 13 year-old son of my friend Gianna Drew, and by my 21 year-old son, so they are Runners-Up.

Honorable Mention goes to Christi Angermeir, who came up with “epic”. Duh! Epic is awesome. Clutch. Dare I say boss?

So, a swag prize will be heading down to Tacoma this week. Since the quarter has just ended and Marie won’t be seeing those exact classes again, I’m just going to send a big batch of chocolate chip cookies, which she can distribute as she sees fit…or keep ’em all herself. Either way would be just dope with me.

Thanks for playing! See you at the next contest!