Happy Birthday, Beatrix Potter!

This week is Beatrix Potter's birthday--her 146th!--on July 28th.


Sure, I know. I've already done two blog posts on Beatrix Potter. But she is such a remarkable lady that I can't resist doing just. . .one. . .more. 


Really. 


Maybe. 


Oh, who am I kidding?

FUN & FASCINATING FACTS 
ABOUT BEATRIX POTTER

• Beatrix started a secret diary when she was 15 years old and kept writing journals until about age 30. She invented a secret code for her diaries that wasn't cracked until about 15 years after her death in 1943.

• One of Beatrix's early interests was mycology--the study of fungi. The Potter family lived near the British Musem of Natural History in London, where Beatrix spent a lot of time studying and drawing fungi. In her late twenties, she wrote and illustrated a book on the subject. Her uncle presented the book to the Royal Botanical Gardens, but they expressed no interest in her work. Potter was one of the first people to recognize that lichens were a symbiotic relationship between fungi and algae.

• When it came time to draw up the publishing contract for Peter Rabbit, Beatrix was not allowed to sign the contract. The reason? She was a woman. Duh. Maybe the flowered hat gave her away. Her father had to make the agreement on her behalf.

• There is a curious "co-incidence" about some of the names used in Beatrix Potter stories. In Brompton Cemetery near the Potter family home, these names were found in computerized records of tombstones: Mr. Nutkin, Mr. McGregor, Jeremiah Fisher, Tommy Brock, and Peter Rabbett. (“Cemetery clue to Potter animals,” BBC News, 27 July 2001)

Brompton Cemetery

• Beatrix had a mind for "merchandising" as well. She created a Peter Rabbit Doll and told her publisher Norman Warne that they should sell well at Harrod's, a London department store. She also envisioned wallpaper, board games, "painting books," and china tea sets, based on her work. She was so far ahead of her time.
• As Miss Potter got older, her eyesight became poorer, and her paintings became more impressionistic. Eventually she lost interest in painting and writing.

• If you're planning a literary tour of England, you won't be able to visit the burial place of Beatrix Potter. After she died, her husband William delivered her ashes to their chief shepherd, Tom Storey. Beatrix wanted to make sure that no-one knew where her ashes were scattered. Not even her husband. Tom did tell his son, but the son died suddenly and unexpectedly. Now no-one knows the final resting place of Beatrix Potter. Mwa-ha-ha.

Hyde Chapel

• However, if you've got your heart set on a grave site, the author's parents and grandparents are buried in Hyde Chapel, east of Manchester. In 2008, the chapel held a Beatrix Potter exhibition (pictured above).

• Beatrix left nearly all her property in the Lake District to The National Trust--more than 4,000 acres, sixteen farms, many cottages, and herds of sheep and cattle. When William died 18 months later, he left the remainder to the Trust. 

Glossary

A GLOSSARY OF BIG-TIME, BIG-BUCKS WRITER TERMS

By Patty Kyrlach

ADVANCE—Millions of dollars in currency, negotiable bonds, and gold bars sent to you by your publisher. . .right before the anesthetic wears off and you re-enter your body


AUTHOR OMNISCIENT—A know-it-all who once wrote a book


BLANK VERSE—A poetic form which usually signals the need to change the ink cartridge in your printer


BYLINE—Credit given to you, the author, after an editor has completely rewritten your piece


CLICHES—Old expressions, which like old shoes, wear well but smell bad 

COMPUTER—A device that reduces writing to electronic impulses and writers to tears


COPYRIGHT—Legal proof that I stole this idea before you did


EDITOR—A mail clerk in charge of attaching form letters to manuscripts and returning them unread


EDITORIAL GUIDELINES—The mail clerk's suggestions on how you can make her job easier


FEATURE ARTICLE—Any article that I write 


FILLER—Any article that you write


FREE VERSE—Poetry you send to a journal that PAYS IN COPIES

FREELANCE WRITING—A fail-proof weight-loss plan that reduces the amount of income available for buying food  (Caution:  discontinue if dizziness or death occurs.   Do not operate heavy machinery while on the diet.  Pregnant or nursing mothers should consult a physician.) 


KILL FEE—A large sum of money, usually in foreign currency, paid by an editor to a professional hit-man when a writer really ticks him off


MAINSTREAM—A teensy trickle running off the river of Romance, Fantasy, Gothic, Mystery, Sci-Fi, and all the stuff people actually read 


MS.—A lady writer (MSS.—Two lady writers  MSSSSSSSS.—A lady writer being swallowed by a cobra)


NOM DE PLUME—A false name used by writers who malign living relatives with Mafia connections

PAYS IN COPIES—An ingenious editorial ploy whereby they pay you with your own product  (Warning:  don't try this in the grocery store.)


PAYS ON ACCEPTANCE—A post-Machiavellian plan of economics whereby a writer is paid during her lifetime


PAYS ON PUBLICATION—For those dear saints who do not want to lay up treasures on this earth where moths corrupt and thieves break in and steal


RIGHTS—Your rights as a writer:  First Rights—You have the right to remain silent. . .  Second Rights—You have the right to an attorney. . . Last Rites—see FREELANCE WRITING


SASE—An acronym for the Publishing Imperative: Stiff the Authors, Save the Editors

SUBSIDY PUBLISHING—The one publishing system that always results in prompt payment—since you pay. . . (Oddly enough, these people rarely accept PAYMENT IN COPIES or even PAYMENT ON PUBLICATION)


UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPT—Writing that is totally uncalled for


WORK-FOR-HIRE—An arrangement with a publisher whereby you sign away copyrights, movie rights, oil and mineral rights, and your first born child

WORKING ON SPEC—A 12-step program for writers who are compulsive gamblers   


WRITER'S BLOCK—An economically depressed district of Greenwich Village


WRITERS CONFERENCE—Unbridled revelry in the name of educational enrichment

Guerrilla Grannies?

We-e-e-et! When the warning whistle pierces the night, Sarah shakes off her covers and prepares to do battle. At her post, she punches the secret code on her buzzer: “Grandma Vigilante reporting for patrol.”


Sarah soon learns the cause for the alarm. “There are sleepstealers on the prowl.”


Grandma Vigilantes: by day, they are homemakers, scarf-knitters, and cookie-bakers. Ah, but when danger looms near, when the cry for help is heard, who can you call? The grandmas set to work immediately by dropping down on their stiff, bony knees with a mission. They pray, keeping vigil over the city.

The Tales of the Kingdom books by David and Karen Mains tell the story of Scarboy, an orphan who escapes from the Enchanter's minions and joins the underground resistance movement. And one of my favorite stories is "Grandma Vigilantes," the story that opens Book Three, Tales of the Restoration.


The Grandma Vigilantes may look harmless, perhaps laughable to some, but “the Enchanter’s legions had learned to fear their blitz attacks….” For the vigilantes know a secret: “those who practiced deep knee bends at night became filled with Kingspower.” Go, grannies!

They may look harmless,
perhaps laughable to some. . . .

Grandmothers are undervalued in today's youth-oriented culture. But many of us wouldn't be here today if Granny hadn't stepped up to the plate to raise a second family when parents abandoned their posts. Or to babysit while mom went to work. And we may never know how often Grandma's prayers have kept us from harm's way.  

The Grandma Vigilantes show the very heart of the Kingdom of God—a topsy-turvy, counter-intuitive kingdom where the weak say “I am strong,” where the first are last, the meek inherit the earth, harlots are honored, poor widows give the biggest offerings, a giant is killed by a boy with a slingshot, and a little child can lead. 


I have loved this story for many years, but now that I am a grandma, it means even more. I may not "drop down on my stiff, bony knees"--since I prefer the comfy couch cushions and a glass of tea close by--but it is still my joy and my privilege to pray on behalf of my family, my friends, my country, and my world.


And did I mention that I have the cutest grandkids ever? I'm pretty sure I have a few (thousand) pictures here somewhere. Oh wait, there's the oven timer. The cookies are ready!

These stories are a good marriage of fantasy and a Christian Aesop's Fables. They bring narrative, sight, and sound together to tell a convincing story with excellent moral fabric.
          -- Walter Wangerin, author, Book of the Dun Cow, American Book Award

Mythic Places

I recently reconnected with a high school friend on Facebook. She told me that a few years ago, she and her husband had moved to Benton, Kentucky.


So you're thinking, that is just too (yawn) interesting. Please tell me more.  


Or not. 


But here's the thing.


She might as well have told me she had moved to Never Never Land. Or Camelot. Or Flatland. Or Tatooine. Or Oz. 


In my mind, Benton, Kentucky isn't the sort of place that a real person can move to. It doesn't exist in the same universe as say, Chicago, London, and Yellowstone National Park.


When I was growing up, my dad usually took his vacation to paint the house or work on cars. Boring, responsible stuff. But two or three times we took a mythic journey in the green Oldsmobile to visit my brother's family in Benton.

Happy memories. Eating watermelon with my nephews and niece down in the creekbed, so we wouldn't get hopelessly messy. (We did anyway.) Visiting a crazy, colorful, and wonderful assortment of aunts and uncles. Splashing in a washtub outdoors.  Picking blackberries. Eating catfish at the Pelican in the Land Between the Lakes. Riding a horse. Lazy summer days and sparkling nights with singing crickets and shooting stars. Shopping in Padukah. Aunt Wid's best-ever bean soup and Aunt Luna’s pies with golden curls of meringue. (Even the names are crazy and colorful.)

And through the years there would be other Benton memories, not all happy. Funerals for many loved ones who died. The day my boyfriend found my college class ring in Kentucky Lake after it had slipped off my finger. Making my wedding dress on the sewing machine from hell, while I stayed with my dad in Benton for a few months. A baby shower my sister-in-law gave for me, where people I didn't even know knit booties and brought gifts. And for funerals, they came with pies and cakes and sandwiches. A neighborly place, Benton.

Dad with Cousin William's tractor, in Benton

Benton memories are few and far between, but they are all special, all infused with an other-worldliness, with great sorrow or great joy. Whenever I went to Benton, I left this world behind. 


I suspect that we all have mythic places in our lives. Places that loom large in our imaginations. Places we can never quite explain to "outsiders." Sometimes we long to return, as Adam must have longed to return to Eden, but the entrance is barred. The house has been sold. The people have died. The landscape has forever changed. 

Most places we've visited, most places we've lived, are stored in our minds, but mythic places are stored in our hearts. We can visit them only in dreams and memories. And yet, no bulldozer or tornado--not even the slow but certain ravages of entropy--can destroy them. 


In mythic places, the dead still walk and talk in all their endearing quirkiness. What we felt is more important than the facts. What we remember matters more than what really happened.

At Dad's house in Benton,
my brother and sis-in-law with my first baby

And though we can never really return to a mythic place, maybe we don't need to. We carry it with us always--it becomes a part of who we are. And likewise, we become a part of the place, a part of the story.


As King Arthur sings to a boy at the final curtain of Lerner and Lowe's Camelot:



     Don't let it be forgot
     That once there was a spot
     For one brief shining moment
     that was known as Camelot.


We remember, and we share the stories. That is how mythic places live on.

The Fates

                                   Because I could not stop for Death,
                                            He kindly stopped for me;
                                            The carriage held but just ourselves
                                            And Immortality.

                                                                         --Emily Dickinson

The Three Fates

They’re old. They’re ugly. And they want to run your life.


No, not your in-laws.


The Three Fates of Classical Greek Mythology, of course.

Atropos loses again.

Their names? I like to call them Spool, Tape, and Shears, but more accurately they are. . .

•  Clotho – spinner of the thread of life
•  Lachesis – the one who measures the thread
•  Atropos – the one who cuts the thread.

Clotho is sometimes pictured with a spindle or a scroll. Lachesis carries a staff (a measuring rod), and Atropos frequently carries a pair of scissors.  When these girls were in grade school, Atropos would invariably lose at Paper, Rock, Scissors. Somehow the other two could always guess which she would choose. Go figure.

Together, they are known as the Moirai.

According to myth, three nights after the birth of a baby, the Moirai would appear and decide the fate of the child. This girl will be a raving beauty. This boy will excel at sports. This child will have seasonal allergies and marry a used car salesman. And nothing could change your fate. Think of poor Oedipus, doomed to murder his father and marry his mother, even though he worked so hard not to fulfill the prophecy.

The Fates show up in Shakespeare’s play Macbeth as the Weird Sisters. You remember—the witches who are cooking a can of Cream of Creepy Soup, while chanting. . .

Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Banquo and Macbeth meet the Weird Sisters

(Remind me not to invite these ladies to the church potluck.)

The Weird Sisters meet Macbeth and Banquo on the road and deliver a juicy-sounding prophecy:

           All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!

The Weird Sisters do "the wave" for Macbeth.

Wow! This was the very thing Macbeth wanted to hear. He would be king.

I’m sure it was an oversight when the witches forgot to mention that, somewhere between soliloquies, Mr. & Mrs. Macbeth would commit murder and mayhem in order to get the crown. Or that they would wind up dead and disgraced, not necessarily in that order. 


Ooops.

The Weird Sisters, by Johann Heinrich Fussli

When I was growing up, my brother had a catchy retort to shield him from any suggestion that he might have done something wrong: “I didn’t ask to be born.” This argument did not impress my father. 

No one asks to be born. And surely, if we could choose the hour of our death, we’d all just want to live indefinitely. The real point is that life is a gift. It has a beginning and an end, and we need to make the most of the middle.

Ancient Zodiac from Beth Alpha, Jezreel Valley

My advice? Don't let warty witches or horoscopes or even well-meaning busy-bodies try to dictate your life. We have choices to make for ourselves. Search your own heart. Pray for guidance. Use common sense. Consider the gifts you have been given. And don't be afraid to work hard.


The Fates don't run our lives. The stars are there to give us something to reach for! Some things are beyond our control, but destiny is there for the taking. Carpe diem!

The Man Behind the Curtain

Illustration by W. W. Denslow

The Tin Man wants a heart. The Scarecrow wants a brain. The Lion wants to find his c-c-courage. And Dorothy? She just wants to go home.


We know the author L. Frank Baum because of his big success--The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. But for most of his life, Frank seemed to fail at everything he tried. And not just little boo-boos. We're talking epic fail.




Once upon a time (well, May 14, 1856, to be precise), Lyman Frank Baum was born to rich parents, who lived on a rose-covered estate in New York state. Great beginning to the story, but then those pesky plot complications beset our hapless hero.


At age 18, Frank decided to try acting as a career. One company took him on—but only on the condition that he would bring along a trunkful of very expensive costumes. The cast members kept “borrowing” his costumes, but Frank still didn’t get to act in any of the plays. 

So he started his own theatrical company. He wrote the plays and played all the lead roles. Only one production was a hit—The Maid of Arran. But first his bookkeeper stole all his money, and then the props were burned in a fire.


Frank raised poultry for a while. Then came another disaster. He tried being a traveling salesman, selling lamps and oil. One day he returned to the office to find the head clerk dead. He had shot himself after gambling away Frank’s money.

Baum's Bazaar, 1888

When he was 26, Frank married Maud Gage. The Baums moved to South Dakota, where Frank failed first at operating a store, "Baum's Bazaar," and then at running a newspaper.


Frank and Maud had four sons, and Frank spent a lot of time playing with them and making up stories for them. Soon the children were inviting their friends over to hear the stories their dad told. Frank noticed that the kids paid attention when the stories had action, but they weren’t as interested in sissy stuff like romance between princes and princesses. 


Eventually Frank’s mother-in-law suggested that he should write his stories down, and he wrote a book of stories (Mother Goose in Prose) and a book of nonsense rhymes (Father Goose). But what to do next? 

L. Frank Baum

For a long time, Frank had been telling stories about an imaginary place called “The Emerald City,” featuring a little girl named Dorothy and her dog Toto. One night a girl asked Frank where all of these characters lived, and his eye fell on a filing cabinet labeled O—Z. He announced that they all lived in the Land of Oz. He turned his stories into The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and it was published in 1900.

Movie poster

One year at Christmas time, the Baum family was in need of money. Frank stopped by his publisher’s, hoping to get a check for $100 to help them with holiday expenses. He popped the check into his pocket without looking at it and went home. 


His wife was ironing when Frank handed her the check. Smoke rose from the burning shirt as Maud stared at the check for several thousand dollars! At last Frank Baum was a success.


The Wonderful Wizard of Oz topped the charts in children's books for two years, and Baum went on to write thirteen more books about the Land of Oz. Eventually he retired to Hollywood, to a mansion called Ozcot. He still told stories to children who came to visit. He died of a stroke in May of 1919, just nine days before his 63rd birthday, and other authors continued writing books in the Oz series.

Theatrical, musical, and movie adaptations have been made of Baum's work. The book and Broadway musical versions of Wicked are based on Oz. The main character’s name-- Elphaba--is derived from LFB, Baum’s initials.


Frank Baum was not an overnight success. He worked hard throughout his life--sometimes failing, sometimes being cheated--but in the end, his persistence paid off, and--like his heroine Dorothy--he found the right path, the one that leads home.

"There's no place like home."

The Stark Raving Mythopath recommends The Dreamer of Oz, a made-for-tv movie, starring John Ritter as Frank Baum, and The Road to Oz: Twists, Turns, Bumps, and Triumphs in the Life of L. Frank Baum, by Kathleen Krull.

The Real Super Heroes

Look, up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. Oh never mind. . .it’s just Dad cleaning out the gutters.


He can’t fly. He can’t morph into the Hulk. He can’t spin spider webs with his wrists. Some mornings, he can’t even find the car keys.


But Dad is a super hero, nonetheless, and he does have super powers. Some of which may include. . .

• Leaps from bed in a single bound--to go to a job he hates, to provide for a family he loves
• Walks the floor with a collicky baby
• Fixes a clogged toilet, armed with only a wrench, a plumber’s snake, and duct tape (Sure it might take him three tries, but he gets 'er done--clean-up is optional.)
• Gives his newborn a baseball glove, a soccer ball, a hockey puck, and a hunting rifle--and that's for a girl!
• Tells bedtime stories, complete with character voices and alternate endings
• Adds marshmallows to Cheerios--voila!--instant haut cuisine!

• Gives up his poker night in order to see his son as a singing porcupine in the school production of “Forest Creatures Are Our Friends”
• Comes home from work dog tired but still works on the car (aka "the money pit")
• Takes the kids to church, instead of just sending them
• Stays up all night Christmas Eve putting the dollhouse or bicycle together--with parts to spare!
• Wears a feathered hat while hosting a tea party for three little girls and a stuffed walrus

So maybe he can’t fly, but when you’re little, he can lift you up in his arms and help you fly.


He may not use “church words” when the hammer hits his thumb. But sometimes he knows just what to say to make the monsters disappear from your room at night.


He may not always know the answers to the "stupid questions" on your homework, but someday you’ll be amazed at how smart he really was.


A good dad is someone you never forget. Even when you grow up and become a dad or a mom yourself. Even when he’s no longer around, he will speak to you from beyond the grave:

     “You’re not hurt. Get back on that bike and ride.”

     “Look a bully right in the eye.”


     “Always wash out your brushes when you’re done painting.”


     “Because I said so.”


     “Hey, you’re not gonna leave that mess for your mom to clean up, are you?”


     “Don’t worry, Honey. I can fix it.”


     “I love you, Son.”


The Stark Raving Mythopath salutes the unsung super heroes, dads all around the world. You guys are freakin’ awesome! You are the stuff of legends, Warrior Dads on the battlefield of  family life. Happy Father’s Day!