No ice for tourists in Saranac Lake



Saranac Lake was beyond crowded this past weekend when the annual Winter Carnival activities culminated with the downtown parade.

The skies had dumped more than three feet of snow on my hometown, which is nestled in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, and that made it even harder to maneuver the sidewalks and streets.

The natives had every right to blast car horns, shout expletives and raise their middle fingers in anger at the tourists who crossed streets in front of moving cars, stood in the middle of the road (in the dark) shooting photos of the lit-up ice palace and stopped them constantly to request that they take photos of themselves with their significant others.

But they didn't.

Sure, I heard the word "tourist" coupled with the word "idiot" breathed once and a while, but it was usually breathed lightly with a giggle or a hearty laugh and a beer in hand. Instead, native Adirondackers (and those who have lived there long enough to earn an honorary title), stopped their cars and waved on people were waiting to cross the streets.

They paused to let other drivers pull out in front of them. They paid their police force to set up a crosswalk in front of the ice palace along with reflective barricades that created a safe area in the middle of the roadway for photo opportunities.

Of course, they are smart people.

They realize that without tourists their economy would suffer.

That requires a certain level of tolerance.

But in Saranac Lake this past weekend, I saw more than tolerance. I saw a community that embraces its identity and prides itself in all that makes the Adirondacks so valuable in so many ways, and that has an intense desire to share that.

(Well, there were a few exceptions, like the owner of the upscale pizza place who berated his employees in front of his waiting customers. He doesn't count though. He's not from there and clearly has not acclimated. No honorary "native" title for him.)

My hometown is even stronger than it was when I left it 27 years ago and the only people who can take credit for that are those who stayed or moved back to uphold and strengthen its foundation, and those who fell in love upon visiting and made Saranac Lake their new home.

I don't want to move back. I am happy raising a family here in northern Pennsylvania (and much warmer). Saranac Lake is for a hardier and more durable sort than I have become (In other words, I am wimp now.). But I am proud --and always will be -- of where I am from.





The value of distraction

For the past two months, I've been so distracted by Christmas, that social networking job and freelancing, that I've no time -- none whatsoever -- to even glance at my novel in progress.
It was discouraging.
I had devoted all of November to writing the novel after dabbling with it for at least a year. By the month's end, I had reached 52,000 good, solid words and had set a goal of completing the first draft by the end of February. I was excited.
Thrilled.
Then nothing.
Two months and not a single word.
But, as the moment neared when someone else would take over my social networking job, my mind turned back to the novel. When I had stopped writing on Nov. 30, I was stuck. I'd reached the climax of the book too soon and I wasn't sure how to make the novel longer.
Something was missing.
Something serious.
So I thought and I thought and I thought for two weeks.
I didn't look at what I'd already written. I still didn't have time. I simply played it over in my mind again and again and again while I was showering, while I was cooking dinner, while I was driving -- whenever I was physically busy, but my mind was free.
And then it hit me.
I had been entirely avoiding the exploration of the mother-daughter relationship. The daughter, who is highly important to the main character's motivation, was nothing more than a place holder. And I know why I did it, even if I did it subconsciously.
Parent-child relationships are tough. They are a lot of work in real life and I was avoiding that same kind of work in my novel. I had to address it.
Monday was the first day since Dec. 1 when I had an entirely clear schedule. No more social networking. No articles due. Nothing. The twins were in preschool for five hours. After errands, exercise and a bit of cleaning, that still left me 2.5 hours.
So I wrote.
I finished a chapter and wrote another the next day.
I am now up to 57,500 words with no fear that I will reach my goal of 80,000 words.
If anything, I'll need to be careful that I don't write too long.
I am excited again. I feel like I've found my story back.
My new goal? The end of April.

Who needs money, right?

For the second time in a year, I let guilt over the lack of a steady paycheck get to me.
It's not like I've been lazy. I've written one novel and I'm nearly done with another. I've published a few short stories and I've started freelancing again.
Oh yeah, and then there are those four kids who need my love and attention.
But my novel hasn't sold yet, I got paid for only one of those short stories and I can handle only one or two freelance assignments a month while still working on my fiction. The twins are in school 16 hours a week and the older kids go full-time.
I wanted to make a greater financial contribution.
I wanted validation.
The first time I felt this way, I took a job moderating for a national online moms forum. It was great in the beginning. I was on the site often anyway, so why not get paid for it, I figured. I was the lead moderator only two shifts a week and simply had to help out during other times.
What I had not realized was that good moderators must be fully immersed, especially with this particular site, where the moms could get down and dirty, mean and nasty often. I was cooking dinners with my laptop on the counter, trying to ignore the personal attacks that came my way whenever I intervened.
The hours were long. The pay wasn't great and my stress levels were high.
Worse, I had no time to write.
I finally gave it up after a few months.
That was in the spring.
I'd forgotten the lessons I'd learned this December when a magazine/publisher I write for asked whether I'd be interested in social networking. I jumped at the chance, but I should have exercised restraint. I should have sat down and thought.
The job is a good one for someone who is interested in a career in social networking or who simply wants to earn a few bucks. It involves creating and posting nearly 50 tweets a day on 14 different blogs. Easily done with tools like hootsuite.com.
But doing it right, especially in the beginning, took me away from everything else.
Within a week, I realize that the job was far more involved than I had first believed. If I continued, in the limited work time that I have, everything else would have to end.
Little or no freelancing.
No fiction.
Less time for my kids.
I gave notice today, but said I'd hang in there until they find someone else.
I hope that next time this type of opportunity comes up, I think a little harder and I look back on what I've written here because I need to remember a few things:
I am not a moderator.
I am not a professional social networker.
I am not worthless simply because I don't produce a steady flow of cash.
None of things describe me.
I am a writer.
I am sometimes a teacher.
I am a mother and a wife, who needs to balance all those things to be there when the people she loves need her.
That's what I am.
And that's perfectly valid.

Allison, the mice and the mushroom

When I was a teenager, I accompanied a friend to an arts fair in our hometown of Saranac Lake, where she had rented table space. She brought an assortment of mice intricately crafted from construction paper and made durable with a clear coat of something that appeared to be shellac.
The mice were posed in various occupations with the instruments of their trades, but the one that impressed me the most was the rock band. She sold that set to a local music store that displayed the rocking rodents in its window. Not bad for a teenager with a bunch of construction paper.
But that was her.
Always creating.
I reconnected with my friend, Allison Moore, on Facebook last year and was thrilled to see that she had pursued art as a career. Allison lives in Seattle now, where she is a tile designer and a potter/sculptor. Her work is amazing. She makes a variety of detailed, high-relief clay images using intricately designed plaster stamps. Some of her designs require a good deal more scuplting to bring them to life and most of her pieces are one-of-a-kind functional art that is dishwasher and microwave safe.
They are original, just like Allison, and she was the first person I thought of when I recently experienced an art emergency.
It happened like this:
My sister had hosted a family reunion at her home outside Kingston, N.Y., this summer. She had lots of artwork on the shelves in the living room and my 3-year-old twins were immediately drawn to the ceramic elephant collection. By the end of the weekend, one elephant had lost its tail. The elephant had sentimental value. It had belonged to my sister's mother-in-law, a wonderful, kind, intelligent woman who died too young more than a decade ago.
There were other young children at the reunion and some of them possessed the same kind of destructive curiosity as my boys, but I think it would be a pretty fair assumption that one of my guys broke the elephant, given the attraction.
No, wait.
Knowing them, they probably broke it together.
My sister was wonderful about it.
She didn't get upset and she didn't ask for compensation.
Still, I felt bad.
I could not replace that elephant and the memories it triggered.
But I wanted to give her something that might someday hold equal sentimental value. I immediately thought of Allison. I told Allison that my sister has a backyard garden that she would like to fill with little surprises -- earth-tone creatures and faces peeking out from behind trees, from around rocks and from within beds of flowers. I wanted to give her something for that garden, something different.
Here is Allison's creation:

Awesome.
The mushroom is 13 inches high and 11 inches in diameter. She even made it extra heavy, so it won't tip. Allison just recently shipped it, so my sister hasn't seen it yet. Hopefully, it will arrive before she views the photo here. I'm guessing I got a friend rate because her work is worth far more than I paid her.
I feel like I did that day at the fair almost 30 years ago, like I am experiencing someone on the verge. Like something exciting is going to happen any moment. Maybe it is, in part, because she is a friend. Maybe it's because I am particularly drawn to her style. Maybe it's because I sense the complexity of the mind that could create such things, but that's what her art does for me.
For me, Allison and her work will always be on the verge.
And, in my opinion, that's a wonderful place to be.

Here is a little more information about Allison:
Allison is a member of the Moshier Community Arts Center in Burien, WA . Visits and order pick-ups by appointment. Allison is a crafts vendor at Seattle's Pike Place Market and also a 10-year member at the Redmond Saturday Market, which runs from May 1st through the end of October. New website link will be available at http://www.facebook.com/l/3c045hy0ZMwC7wHkVEKDkeqU0SQ;www.ArtisanTileNW.org. Send request to the above email address to receive email notifications of show dates. Photos of her work are also avaialble at www.facebook.com/AllisonMooreClayArt. Please include note indicating interest in her ceramic art with friend request.
Many thanks~ Allison