January 2010 Archives

In France's Aix-en-Provence, nicknamed "The City of 1,000 Fountains," we tirelessly sought out their celebrated symbols of overflowing abundance & watery romance. And, after wandering 5 kilometers or so along the Cours Mirabeau, with labeled brochure in hand, we saw approximately 12 of them. Four of which worked. Or, anyhow, held water.

Yet & still, Aix did add to our fonts of knowledge - in the abstract form of spontaneous math exercises: Kids, what's the probability we'll see actual cascading droplets at the next one? "Mom, that's not a fair question," they figured. "Do trickles count?" "What about algae buildup?"  

But what we were really there for was Paul Cézanne. This was his hometown. His artsy, if brick paved & congested, turf. We saw the houses where he lived. Or visited. Or probably stopped in front of. Or even might have painted, had he ever felt like it. It was moving, all right... and just like Cézanna ho!, we were anxious to move out & into the surrounding Pays d'Aix to see the natural places that inspired him instead.

So we stopped at the city's L'Office de Tourisme, the sure way to save time & get the definitive answer to our pressing query which no internet site or guidebook seemed to know:    Where is Cézanne's studio?

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they informed us.

1 kilometer?  2?  3?   

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

Yet, after a couple of hours & the disturbing disappearance of those shiny Cézanne route symbols along the promenade, we astutely surmised "A little ways" required more than a stroll.

We slogged back to the car, drove out of the old city & stopped at the outlying regional welcome center. Again we asked,   Where is Cézanne's studio?  

"A little ways down Cours Mirabeau," they explained.

1 kilometer?  2?  3?

They nodded agreeably, "Oui."

So on we went, several more kilometers until the dense ville gave way to a last building on the outskirts of the suburbs. Ah, this must be it! After reversing & finding a parking spot about a half mile back, plus dodging oncoming traffic because apparently we'd also discovered Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends, we triumphantly walked in.  To a hospital clinic.

How Rue-d.

But, for the Lauves of Paul, we wouldn't give up! (We're so studio-us.)  

And, indeed, we eventually determined that they'd been right. It was a little ways back down Cours Mirabeau. Then turn right onto Boulevard Carnot, turn a slight left onto Cours Saint-Louis, hang another left onto Boulevard Aristide Briand, turn right onto Avenue Pasteur, U-turn onto Avenue Paul Cézanne and "Oui," there you are, a little ways down Cours Mirabeau. "C'est simple, non?"

Grateful to have finally arrived, we were only mildly disconcerted by the fact that there was no parking lot. Or that when Chris ran inside to ask, the staff directed us to the back of an apartment complex where we were, no exaggeration, greeted by an old woman tossing dirty water out of a second floor window (aha! more of those famous fountains?), a man in a soiled undershirt emerging from a rusty car resting upon two very flat tires and a premium, if unmarked, spot reserved especially for L'Atelier Cézanne customers, wedged between a dumpster & piles of broken glass.

We'll take it!

We then excitedly picked our way through littered shrubbery to dash across the highway & through the studio's gate just in the nick of time, deftly avoiding the rumbling trucks that sped around the curve and were about the only vehicles heading out of town down this otherwise empty road. Well now, this was excitement!

Once inside the yard's thick walls, we casually paused. Yes, to try to sense Cézanne, the Master's, presence. And/or to catch our breath while thoughtfully reconsidering the standing (loitering) offer of those friendly 10 year old security guards who'd circled round to attentively watch our car. No doubt well versed in foreign tourists' language barriers, they didn't bother to ask, but willingly accepted the self-appointed job as they'd been outside finishing off their cigarette stubs anyway.     

Ambling down the extremely well trod dirt paths of the garden, Katrianna was enchanted by its shady turns & twists & hide 'n seek possibilities. She delightfully darted behind brambles, trees, low stone walls, a tool shed, mounds of squishy mud, piles of exposed pvc piping, several extra large clay vases and a few forgotten & discarded crackedpots of various shapes and sizes (and nationalities) strewn about the garden. All waiting impatiently, like us, for timed admittance into the house.

Buuutttt it wasn't fair, 'cuz we were there first! Followed by two pairs of straggling couples & some nerdy art lovers. We all bought tickets for the next entry. And then a busload of a tour group descended. Assuming that we weren't fluent speakers -- not exactly erroneously, btw, although a few tense (past perfect) moments don't necessarily preclude one's ability to comprehend others who can speak French well enough -- the tour leader conferred with the admissions' director who agreed to let the whole bunch, sans reservations, go ahead of the rest of us. She then explained to us that this was unavoidable since they'd scheduled their tour far in advance, "comprenez-vous?" Before retreating to the outdoor patio to continue a much more satisfying conversation française with Cézanne's cat, I thought 'En principe, oui, je comprends, bien sûr!' but elected not to say anything lest I garble a vowel & thereby risk losing her respect.

We'd experienced this sort of group mentality in Europe before and would again (and again). The interests of the many consistently outweigh recognizing the value or desires of individuals. Admittedly, theirs is nearly the antithesis of that stereotypically selfish American mindset. You know, like the American practice of allowing a person with 3 or 4 items to skip ahead of those with full carts in line at the grocery store... or stopping at an intersection to let someone make a left turn against heavy traffic. Quite often, we actually choose to inconvenience the majority, if necessary, to pay common courtesy to the few. (Yeah, yeah, I realize those are pretty trivial examples... but, evidently, what we Yanks might construe to be "grand gestures," like, say, lending a hand during WWI and II, don't really count all that much.) Thank goodness there are still places left in the world that don't cater to such blatant preferential treatment.

Moreover, I'm obligated to add, it wasn't fare either. Especially for us. At many tourist sites throughout Europe, we discovered that Americans have to pay a different, higher price of admission. We arrive on their welcoming shores with no European Union citizen benefit &, as they say, pay the price. Of course, we learned -- thanks to that additional thirty minute wait which provided plenty of time to peruse the tourist offices' informational pamphlets -- that Cézanne's studio wouldn't even be there if Americans  - two guys & the 114 donors they recruited - hadn't saved it in 1952, restored it and then donated it to the Université d'Aix-Marseille. Shouldn't that entitle us to some sort of discount? Or at least make them us pause before giving us them the Aix next time??

So, in the spirit of international cooperation, I'd like to propose that when people from the EU visit our Smithsonian Institution, for instance, which has always been free to all Americans & the rest of the world, too, we begin checking passports and assessing Europeans a reasonable 10 euros per room (600 sq ft) surcharge, generously applying the going rate at l'Atelier Cézanne. By my calculations, that would make a regular priced EU-exclusive-privileges-only ticket to see the National Air and Space Museum a very fair €5570 (or $7947 after converting for today's exchange rate of 1.4268, variable customary service fee not included). This equitable policy aligns nicely with their disdain for greedy capitalism & fits snugly into a socialist redistribution of wealth system, plus could very well be the US' answer to eliminating our national debt. (Remember, the Smithsonian alone has 19 museums!)  Oh, and they'd be let in promptly, as soon as everyone else, as a group, was done.

Meanwhile, back at Lauves studio, both the brochures & our esteemed directeur predicted the time to 'take it all in' when we ultimately ascended that stairway to art heaven: 30 minutes. They were absolutely correct, once you divide that number by 10. Three minutes & we were done. We lingered another 6 or 7, so as not to appear unappreciative, but fyi, for itinerary planning purposes, it's safe to allocate 5 minutes, give or take 30 seconds.

For what it's worth, the rest of our Route de Cézanne tour was très magnifique! Not only was it essentially free, minus several liters of gazole, it was blissfully empty of crowds & tourists. And was scenic, relaxing & fun. It seemed we'd gotten all of the hard times out of the way: A time to get lost, our time it did cost, a time to get had, a time to feel sad... plus all of those "Turn, Turn, Turn" refrains that just about drove me -- not to mention the car's gearshift -- crazy (ok, so perhaps I had a bit of an Aix to grind back there).

But now we were left with only the good times to be had in the rolling Pays d'Aix & could finally appreciate the unencumbered beauty of the fall-ing for Cézanne. Now there was a time for cordial chatting with Le Tholonet's mill-turned-art gallery curators and a time to pause at the crossroads of Beaurecueil, a time for exploring up & around Mt. Sainte-Victoire and ample time to easily locate his other favorite painting haunts. Mostly, there was time to absorb the sights of the pines' deep green needles stretching into the sky's cloudy blues, contrasting in sunlight-refracted rectangles with the meadows' oranges & the rocky reds. All within view of his beloved mountain, which he described, with each painting of its changeable nature, as the expression & illustration of his own soul. Enfin, we'd caught up with Cézanne's spirit & Victoire was ours!

January 17th is my son-in-law's birthday. He'll be 304. Oh, that's right, you probably didn't know about our son-in-law...    OK, ok, ex son-in-law.

Actually, it was Mikaela's second marriage.

Her first relationship lasted only a few months, a steal-your-heart-away, whirlwind romance with a wild fella by the name of Tigger. The nuptials were surprisingly staid, infused with ceremonial pomp, striped of oozing sentimentality. Yet, soon enough, Mikaela would learn that old lovers' lesson the hard way: An affair with just another pretty face can't sustain itself forever. Sure, even if he makes you laugh...



It wasn't long before she sought truer substance (& less fluff). Someone with standing, as opposed to bouncing. A Frank kinda gent who you could build a real future past with...

And that's when she met Ben.  Eventually, they'd go their separate ways, but, oh my, it was something to behold while it lasted!


The initial attraction was typical: she was drawn to his senior letterman [book] jacket. She fell fast for his rags-to-riches story, in its accessible, easy-to-get-to-know-you, abridged autobiographical style. Here was a guy who wasn't afraid to communicate, plus his doing so in 240 pages allowed her to boast she'd read him like a book in only a week. Thus, they'd formed a hard-binding commitment - for who can resist someone who sets you up to achieve a new personal best?
 

After that, she began seeing him constantly. And she wanted it to be exclusive, willingly dropping friends or dates if they (playgroup) threatened to interfere. So much so that Chris & I discussed limiting their time together to just 30 minutes a day. Precisely from 4:00 to 4:30, because, after all, PBS' strict curfew also had to be taken into consideration. As far as Mikaela's loyalist devotion was concerned, it was Give me "Liberty's Kids" or give me "But I'll die if I have to miss a single episode!" Of course, we encouraged her to see other shows... as if there was a remote chance that it was within our control.



So, once again, we watched a rerun: Mikaela walked down the aisle (hallway) to the chapel (playroom) to vow eternal love until death do they part (?). As you Mikaela might imagine, it seemed a match made in Heaven. Her dad & I tried to be receptive to her wishes and set the right tone... Whosoever has just cause that this occasion should not be joined in music, click now or forever hold your peace:

Regrettably, only later did it occur to me -- I should have hired a professional armonica band!

It's with sincerest compunction that I admit it now, but at first we parents were skeptical. We predicted the numerous potential problems that life would bring this unConventional couple, yet their united Constitutions were resilient in the face of such adversity. For instance, we reasoned, her young man had quite a reputation. Was she aware of his previous activities, like when he was 18 (-th century) and quite the lightning rod about town?
Yes, yes, she countered, he'd told her every electrifying detail (excerpt what the Kids' Classics editors left out to make room for illustrations), &, besides, she wasn't naïve. She'd read the other tail-all accounts penned by his hangers-on, like Amos (that rat), or poor, pithy Richard Saunders (who notoriously suffered from an Almaniackal complex). Moreover, if she gave us a piece of her opinion, we would Do good to Silence our Mrs. reservations! (Ben suggested we could Master them Posthaste if we followed his General example -- he had such a humble way of stamping out mailstroms.)

And, as it turned out, those two crazy kids were right! Theirs was a remarkably productive partnership. Certainly he was inventive and, with time, his Franklin Institute-ion proved that he was an experiment that would last. He was a brilliant mathematician (further confirmation he was a total square, magical as he was in our daughter's eyes) who prompted Mikaela to accelerate the pace in memorizing the multiplication tables, thereby raising her expectations for a happy future -- as well as her math grades -- exponentially. (Finally, evidence he's not a D-ist?*) True, we did discover that he was a player, but his Morals of Chess merely entreatised us to make the next strategic, and simultaneously altruistic, move.

Indeed, he was the ideal checkmate for our girl. Following his example, she acquired a requisite "little book" to chart her progress (nifty graphing practice) & then allotted one week per virtue in her quest to expeditiously attain moral perfection. But, as the weeks wore on, she tired of it, experiencing such easy mastery over them all -- "child's play," I think she called it -- that she felt no need to continue past week 12. (Really, who orders a Baker's dozen of virtues anyway?)
     
1. TEMPERANCE. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
2. SILENCE. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
3. ORDER. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
4. RESOLUTION. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
5. FRUGALITY. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.
6. INDUSTRY. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
7. SINCERITY. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8. JUSTICE. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
9. MODERATION. Avoid extreams; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.
10. CLEANLINESS. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation.
11. TRANQUILLITY. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
12. CHASTITY. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dulness, weakness, or
                        the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.
13. HUMILITY. Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

But their most prolific collaborative effort was the stuff of legends (which they thoroughly investigated & only then reported in their newspapers). His Pennsylvania Gazette was the journalistic inspiration for her Texas Gazette. Further, he served as her opinions' column editor and certainly provided as much valuable input in that capacity as do most advisory committee board members. (What'choo talkin' 'bout, Michael Moore?) So, she began building her publishing empire -- as a community service, you understand -- which soon led to her wanting to scope (scoop?) out the competition. A field trip was arranged to tour a small, local paper where she compared typing wpm speed with the owner-managing editor, took turns interviewing & being interviewed by staff reporters, and laid out - as straightforwardly as she could - headlines on the copyeditor's light table. (Unfortunately, Ben was unavoidably 'otherwise indisposed' on that particular day, but he went with her, as they say, in spirit.)
 

Yet then love accomplished the impossible! It was Ben, alive & in person! (And, if I may be permitted to acknowledge, their supportive mother-in-law had a lot to do with it.) Leafing through a Houston Kids' magazine, it was as if an arrow struck. For what was on the agenda February 14th? Hold onto your heart, it was a lovely surprise rendezvous at the Museum of Printing History! I'm still not sure why Ben Franklin made an advertised appearance on that particular day... not that a print museum isn't the first place most people think of for romance. And back then, it seemed, he'd be Imprinted on her forever...  


But, alas, rekindling
an old flame, even
with a candlemaker's son,
can be wicked. There came a day -- right after that Valentine's Day, actually -- when she told us that she'd simply outgrown him.  


So we no longer celebrate the Printer's birthday in the old (Goudy?) style. Not after she threw Benny over for Robin Hood, anyhow. The attraction of an older man - roughly 400 years that young whippersnapper's elder - and a British accent was too much for her to resist...


*Some recent biographers have purposefully mischaracterized Franklin, both historically and intellectually. His family attended the most liberal Puritan church in Boston, Old South Church, home to many rebellious spirits who later led the American Revolution. As a young man, he advocated Deism & throughout his life stated that "the most acceptable service of God was the doing good to man." Although even he took some liberties with his autobiographical image, it's inaccurate to rewrite history to fit a religious agenda (I mean, that ain't Right). Franklin, like the majority of Americans today, held that belief in God, virtue & patriotism are inalienable rights for all Americans, Left for each of us to value & express in a "liberty of conscience." Now that's a founding, Father!

From The Call of The Wild's chapter 6, "For The Love of Man"  ~

"Now, MUSH!"

Thornton's command cracked out like a pistol shot. Buck threw himself forward, tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was gathered compactly together in the tremendous effort, the muscles writhing and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His great chest was low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet were flying like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in parallel grooves. The sled swayed and trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped, and one man groaned aloud. The sled lurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks, though it never really came to a dead stop again... half an inch ... an inch... two inches... The jerks perceptibly diminished; as the sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.

Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.

But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and lovingly.... Buck seized Thornton's hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth. As though animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back to a respectful distance; nor were they again indiscreet enough to interrupt.


But we were never the kind to let a little indiscretion stop us. "Whoo-Hoo! Buck did real good, right?!" cried Katrianna, relinquishing her grip on the dining table's edge & jumping from her chair to race about the living room in a fury of exhilaration.  While pushing the table 3 feet back to the original position from which Katrianna had propelled it while listening to this last scene (her moving response to rising action), I had to agree. "Yep, Buck was fantastic! And Jack London's pretty amazing, too, isn't he?"

"Well," declared Mikaela, from where she stolidly sat, "he's no Louisa May Alcott!" But at least she was in the room when she said it.

Knowing that the girls wouldn't have the heart to embark upon manly man Jack London's writings on their own, for the first time in a very long time I was reading aloud to the kids (and to Chris). Just a few pages or a chapter at a time, usually when we were finishing up with lunch or dinner. In the last few days I'd even found the book waiting on the table for me, placed there by Katrianna, instead of the usual preceding groans from both girls.

Indeed, there had been progress since page 1 when Mikaela literally ran from the room. That was OK, she didn't have to listen, I told her, fully accepting of her literary discernment and autonomy. I read just loudly enough for her to hear from the hallway, yet softly enough that she didn't catch on it was intentional. Worked! She had to strain mightily to catch each word and, as soon as we stopped, would reappear so the rest of us might patiently endure her long-winded explanations of how superior Alcott's Eight Cousins is in every way. Finally, she saved herself the trip, sometimes even forgetting to grimace, and excused her presence by citing a desire to leisurely enjoy dessert... before summarily assessing London his just desserts. (Eh, her bite is worse than her bark?)


We were answering London's Call of the Wild for two reasons: 1) to expose the girls to a recognized classic in a "boy book" genre that I knew they'd otherwise try to Pass the Buck on, and 2) because we were then in California, not far from Jack London State Historic Park. That's right, I was plotting for an imminent visit to Wolf House  -- cuz, ya know, The Buck Stops There.



And Jack's Ranch really was a Beaut! A mix of oaks, redwoods, meadows & vineyards, with pretty views all around. There were gardens growing the practical & experimental plants he cultivated, such as Luther Burbank's "spineless cactus," which never completely lost its spines, a thorny non-development for the evolving gentleman farmer (and his hungry cattle).... And thick groves of imported Australian eucalyptus saplings that he planned on harvesting to sell as pier pilings or hardwood lumber, an unforeseen technicality being that their wood was deemed "too soft" (poor JL, always barking up the wrong tree... actually, 81,000 of them... turned out to be a shady business at best... he couldn't hardly stand it). But he did manage to reap record-setting oat hay crops from the previously over farmed acreage, plus personally design palatial pigpens that enabled one man to feed 200 swine simultaneously, a feat that would understandably inflate any male ego. Hmm, he found success sowing his wild oats & going hog wild - guess those accomplishments speak for themselves...

In the House of Happy Walls, built by his "mate woman" (aka, second wife) after London's death & now a museum, we saw many of his papers & letters, photographs, boots and a grand piano roarin' with vintage '20s tunes thanks to a genuinely genial volunteer (no, his name wasn't Charles, but he was a ton of fun, plus had an easy speaking style, was ready to Lindy an ear & didn't make no flapper about our rather Raggedy foxtrot). Throughout the mansion were numerous souvenirs that he & Charmian had acquired on their South Seas sailing adventure, an around-the-world trip for which he'd allocated 7 years but ended after only 27 months due to health issues, a disappointment which made him sea-sick. (He'd always adored the ocean, even in his earliest days as a reputed "Prince of the Oyster Pirates" who, under fear of incarceration, suddenly morphed into a prodigal California State Fish Patrol deputy.)  In the dining room, beside a long, narrow table with pine benches & chair seating, were the white china dishes that London acquired secondhand in Samoa, after learning that they had belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson during his stint on the islands. Artifacts were abundant, including statues displayed at nearly every turnon the wide staircases, featuring a recurring motif of the couple's entrusting to well-endowedments (?). Charmian's bedroom & bathroom also revealed a procleavity for noteworthy busts, such as those of Venus de Milo & Nefertiti.  

After that, we were anxious to get some fresh (or perhaps less fresh) air & began a half mile hike to see the ruins of London's 15,000 square foot Wolf House. Moss-covered walls and deteriorating bricks are all that remain of his dream, creating an atmosphere very much like that at Tintern Abbey. Dampness, steeped in the towering Redwood trees, imbues a natural mist & mystique pervading the foundation of the gutted 4-story, 26-room, 9-fireplace structure with its once indoor, but now open-air, rainwater-harvesting swimming pool. Nearby, his gravesite, marked by a lichen-sprouting boulder & surrounded by a gray weathered picket fence, holds his & Charmian's ashes. Before leaving, M&K whispered their Secret Club password to them both, as they had to the spirits of Eugene O'Neill & Robert Louis Stevenson, two more authors with northern California connections who shared such an honor.

We walked back through the woods and past the London-made lake where he liked to swim & canoe with his many invited guests, that is when he wasn't too busy playing pranks on them. And then on to the cottage where he lived and wrote during his eleven years at Beauty Ranch. He couldn't afford to fulfill his promise to rebuild Wolf House after the fire (hard to believe, but he'd made just 750 bucks for Buck's tale spin), so he added a study annex on the groundskeeper's cottage where he'd first started out at Glen Ellen.

There, his sleeping porch was the most intriguing place of all, for it was where he spent his nights after staying up late with the company he kept (Charmian had her own bedroom) and where he woke early to complete his "profitable chore" writing allotment for the day.



Strung across the small, sun-drenched space was a thin wire dangling slips of paper clamped on with wooden clothespins -- his novel filing system for jotted phrases & story ideas -- the original post-it notes? Nearby was his study, adjoined by another nook filled with books, a gramophone & a typewriter, the space often used by Charmian while she typed + edited + added descriptive passages to his manuscripts (sorry, Mr. Whipple, it seems he couldn't help but squeeze the Charmian).




Which leads to a 3rd, unanticipated reason that Call of the Wild was such a special book for us: It spurred conversations and memories of our own family's wolf-dog. Though in appearance he resembled White Fang much more than Buck, we couldn't help but get taken in by London's (or Mrs. London's?) description. The story's violence and dogs' poor treatment are, as expected, very difficult to take. But since we'd already studied a lot of historical accounts about the Gold Rush & learned about London's own trip to the Yukon (where he got such a debilitating case of scurvy that the doctor forbade him from working his claim & promptly sent him home), the truthfulness and reality of the experience helped offset, a little anyway, the brutality and inhumane aspects. Yet, it was the portrayal of Buck & his transformation that got us -- his depiction is so well done and provides such comic relief at times. When Buck finally finds Thornton, his last, nice owner, London shows his stuff by perfectly capturing the our dog's character, playfulness, and pride & nearly redeems himself for all of his 'dhishoom - bhishoom' author sins. As a result, long after we'd finished the novel & trip to California, thanks to Jack London & much to M&K's delight, we continued the ritual of sharing stories about our lauded hero - in the form of a family dog - while finishing up dinner desserts.

There were a few other, lingering effects on the kids, as well. Three days after our visit to Jack London State Park, Katrianna lost her first front tooth. She hopped around clutching her tooth fairy pocket, filled with hopeful prospects of the "gold" she might discover under her pillow the next morning. And for two or three months, inspired by London's next dog adventure story, she proudly referred to herself as "No Fang."

And the following Christmas, Grandma gave the girls sweaters. A bright, multicolor, striped one with a hood for Katrianna, but a light gray-green, "old-fashioned, ladylike Louisa" cardigan was Mikaela's pick. The aspiring author then began waking very early in the morning, when it was still a bit chilly, to don her sweater & take pencil in hand to write 1,000 or so words before breakfast. Mere coincidence, certainly, that she settled on that number... For she'd never readily admit that Jack London could offer any good writing tips.