Trying it on for size....

This quote with my own brand of mishmash around it keeps popping up in my brain:  Writing is such sweet sorrow, why don't I wait to write, until tomorrow? But alas, I've spent over six years plugging away on my book and it does not deserve my lack of attention, even excitement. It tackles timely and universal issues and relates an arresting story. Some have called it a page-turner.

I hope so. Last week my published friend tells me: It's all about the title, Kathy. I open websites, peer through blurred eyes at titles. Duplicities is too bland. Even if I followed it up with "The Other Side of BB Mountain", how many people would stop in their tracks?

Here's my new very tentative title:  Sex, Lies and Roman Collars: One Woman's Journey to Hell and Back.

Tell me what you think. The second part, is it too common? I welcome suggestions.

Adios to our beloved Saguaro

When we first discovered our lovely home in the Tucson desert, we especially loved the idea of having a giant saguaro--perhaps eighteen or twenty feet high, complete with three sturdy muscled arms, as the focal point of our garden. Because the previous owners had installed a spotlight, we could enjoy its awesome majesty even in the dark of night. That was 2003.

Soon we noticed that our saguaro had become a cozy bed & breakfast inn for several birds, who used its cavities for spring birthing rites. We often talked of raising the rents, but we never did. Each year the birds returned, without complaint, enjoying their high rise apartments complete with nurseries. They even took pleasure in the little red blossoms which bloomed annually atop our giant, garlands on  its rounded head.

In the last two years the unthinkable happened: our beloved saguaro began to lean. At first slightly, then
more so, teetering to the right, hovering dangerously over a tree and a hot tub. Alarmed, we called an expert. "It's going," he said. "But maybe if we cut the farthest leaning limb we can prop it up."

My husband wanted to take it out immediately. I winced. Oh, no, please. Let's try the prop.

The ugly prop bore a strong resemblance to a mop. We tried to ignore its pedestrian look, hugging our majestic cactus. We were just happy that our saguaro was still standing.

But not for long. In the last few months the heavy winds and rains of the monsoons have sealed its fate. Today I witnessed three strong men, scaling very long ladders, preparing to take out our dear saguaro. When they first arrived, their blades in hand, I ventured out. "Oh, dear," I said, "I am so sad.
Does it really have to go?"

The wide smiling man dressed in denim jeans and blue shirt, turned to me. "This is happening all over town. We've got another one later today if we have time."

It was no use. I padded back into the house, put in my ear plugs, and spent the next three hours writing.
I did not want to hear the saws or see our old guardian's limbs torn down and transported across the lawn and into a truck bed. I could not bear it.

Just now I slipped outside. The recently vacated spot seems glaring in its emptiness. But we have hope. We're ordering a new cactus, very strong, very sure of itself, the man says, in the desert. It's called a
senita.

Senita, you can't arrive too soon.

Pilgrims' Progress: Exploring the Roundabouts in the U.K.

England and Scotland

In our first class seats (only a few dollars more than second, why not?) aboard a Virgin train to Glasgow, we were well fed by extremely good-looking young men: two meals in five plus hours. We love the trains in U.K.  What sheer delight to ride along in comfort, devouring the natural beauties. Scotland, as I had heard from several reliable sources, is splendid. It's all gentle sloping hills, green like no other, densely forested areas, small quaint towns tucked into valleys, waterfalls hidden among leafy trees. 

 Our dear friend Kasia, whom we first met at the Grand Canyon ten years ago, met us at the station. She wasn't sure she'd recognize us (she'd only known us a few days back then) but Paul is a bit of a standout, and we were the last ones to disembark our train and head for the main station. We enjoyed her warm welcome and did a quick catch up over a cup of tea, and then she drove us through Glasgow to the university where she is doing graduate work and her husband, Stephen, is a professor of applied mathematics. And what a university! Founded in 1700s, it retains many of its original stone structures.

 Onward to K and S's sweet apartment, tastefully appointed. We soon discovered that our dear friend has an eye for home decor--and handsome men. Stephen is a prince, and the four of us began what was to be a three and a half day marathon--sharing our personal stories, sightseeing, meeting Stephen's parents, wolfing down scrumptious carrot cake  baked by Stephen's lovely mom, and trying to get to sleep in the almost-land of the midnight sun. It was still light at 10:30 p.m. and we were so hyped up to be in such good company we rarely slept until after midnight.

 Kasia piled her sweaters and coats upon me and after being in England 11 days, at last I felt sufficiently warm!  Still, the next two days we tiptoed among the showers, touring the home of Bobby Burns (two new facts: they slept in teeny tiny beds, and I'd forgotten what a lothario Burns was; perhaps his adventures gave him grist for his poetry) and hiking through the woods to the falls of Clyde near Lanark. We wended our way past rows of beech trees, stopped to do some bird-watching and took great delight in discovering the hidden gems, the gushing waterfalls. Another day we toured a grand house whose name we could not pronounce, strolled down a mile or so, and voila! a tiny beach--complete with brilliant sunshine and yes, even warmth. I shed the coats I was wearing and enjoyed leaving my footprints on the sandy shore on a totally isolated beach.

 The following morning, sadly, we left our friends, promising them a merry welcome in Arizona. Kasia remembers fondly the brilliant sunlight here, and longs to see it again after her years in sun-scarce Scotland.

 Paul handled our rental car deftly as we motored back to England across a great swath of gray skied rainy Yorkshire (which we toured in 1998) to disembark in Durham, a darling university town. We ducked into the cathedral (sets high above the town in iconic splendor, called the best loved cathedral in England) just before it closed, but with time enough to appreciate the striking Norman architectural features of the edifice dating back to 1093. Awesome. Durham streets were full of school kids dressed in navy blue uniforms reminding me of my high school days. Enjoyed marvelous fish and chips (the fourth time Paul ordered it, and the place highly recommended by Rick Steves) and people watched as we wickedly indulged in all that crispy topping--fat--mmmm, good.

As dusk dropped its veil on us, we pulled into yet another village, Weatherby, where we lodged in a B&B (rather ancient but warm enough in the chilly rain) called the White Rose.

We drove along accompanied by intermittent heaving rain. Our Cotswold's plan began to look less viable. In Lincoln once again we visited the grand 12th century cathedral dedicated to St. Hugh (never heard of Hugh but we were told that the choir, named for him, was likely a place where he'd prayed. Lots of carvings of seated angels playing harps, pipes, drums). Here I was reminded of Ken Follett's intriguing novel about three-hundred-year project of constructing a cathedral called Pillars of the Earth. Happily we got in on a wonderful tour by a guide passionate about the church.

 For our next overnight we happened upon a lovely B&B called Kimber's Ark (apropos to all that rain), in Banbury, run by a couple (Nancy and Harold) from Australia whose hospitality made us feel right at home. Exploring the little village, we found it was much more than that--behold: a Costco to gas, and a grocery to buy some cheese and crackers for a dine-in supper. Nancy even prepared us pots of coffee and tea and a place to sup in her cozy dining room.

Our third cathedral visit (guess we could be pilgrims by now, wending our way from Canterbury) was in Wells, another majestic church. This time we made it in time for Matins, and we were directed by a balding gowned cleric to sit right in back of the choir.  Great seats!  Great music. Choir comprised of little boys so tiny we could barely see their eyes over the pews and men older than Paul (can you imagine?).  Delicious harmonies. We were fortunate to tag along on tour that had already started, from a guide passionate and knowledgeable about the cathedral.

 Again we weighed the options for our next resting place. I'd wanted to take long walks in the Cotswold's. But the Rain had shown up again, along with his buddies Cold and Damp, and it showed no signs of abating. So I gave up my dream of Burford and the Lambs Inn for a few day hours in the famous village of Broadway. Nothing like the "real" Broadway, this village was such a pleasant surprise. Not only did we find a few hours of half sun but I got to indulge in a couple of mile walk, taking in both sides of the main street (just one) and farther out into the country while Paul happened upon a fiesta of sorts with costumed performers dancing and singing in the streets.

 And so it was we boogied on down to Devonshire, the home of Thomas Hardy. A cozy well appointed three story house down a glen, T and his wife Emma had the home built after he became rich and famous. I spent most of my time there, in the two rooms on the third floor, both small and cramped, where Emma spent the last 27 years of her life and their marriage. From my reading I learned that she had literary aspirations when she met Tom Hardy, and obviously neither he nor anyone else paid much attention to them. If I were writing a dissertation today, I'd dig up all I could on Emma (and the many young women Tom enjoyed flirtations with) and resurrect her cause.

 On the lawn outside we chanced upon a jolly troop of musicians (banjos, violins) making merry with folk music from Hardy's day. They were happy to welcome us, allowed us to eat the lunch we brought, right there, while we delighted in their performance. As the Brits say, what brilliant luck.  After we discovered a wonderful luxury hotel in downtown Dorchester called the Casterbridge after Hardy's famed book The Mayor of Casterbridge.

 Then to the south:  Bournemouth, a sweet seaside stop where we found all the hotels booked with veiled women and dark-skinned men. We lucked out, found a huge lovely room a block from the ocean and ran down to walk another beach.  And yes! sunshine. These days in the south of England, all sunshine and warmth. We also strolled a sumptuous park in downtown Bournemouth.

And onto Portsmouth for two days. Our luxury B & B, run by a ebullient Irish woman who told me her whole tragic life story (inquire on email for further details), was quite lovely and only a stone's throw away from the Portsmouth beach walkway. It didn't quite live up to West Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz, but we savored our stroll there anyway. Paul toured a Navy Museum, and I walked farther. Found the downtown area quite charming and a small intimate restaurant (name eludes me) where we ended up dining both nights.

The second morning we took a four-plus mile trek across the city to explore the early childhood home of the Dickens' family. Not too shabby for Charles' father who'd be sent eventually to Debtor's Prison. By the way the signage was so bad that, had I not asked a scruffy kid playing in the street, we would have entirely missed the place. (not the only time we were challenged by the Brits' poor signage).

 

On our way to Windsor it began pouring again but by now we were accustomed to English weather and waited with equanimity for a space of dry. Then we took to the puddled streets, strolled around Eton, had dinner in a 300 year old pub we'd eaten in on our 1998 visit, all by ourselves in a dining room right out of a Renaissance play (heavy dark wood, maroon colored drapes, dim lights), and a lovely maid hailing from Poland who served us. A fine finale.

And then homeward bound. "Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong..."

Springing Out

I'm about to finish my book. My readers advise me to truncate the title, and I wonder if the one word
that seems to fit will be snappy enough. How does Duplicities sound?