Something so simple.

With fingertips resting motionless on the scattered alphabet and my eyes unfocused but locked onto my laptop’s screen… this is how I find myself sitting… often.
Just now I was able to pull myself from this blankness by turning away and around towards the shelves behind me. I collect things, symbols of my affections. It is happiness, these shelves.

“I will collect children’s books. But only ones’ with well done illustrations! I’ll keep them high on a shelf so kids can’t reach them. They will have to ask to hold or read them. There will be NO dirty fingerprints or creases, or tears!”
I was pretty much still a child myself at the time I said these things but I remember feeling adamant. I’ve never meant a book *not* be shared, read and held… But books are not toys. I have always known this. (or, certain special books anyway)
Never sure if the adults I shared my intentions with understood this, I don’t remember anyone saying much in response. But I do remember not caring whether they understood or not.

I haven’t changed…

The Scholastic Press Pass I have propped against a row of books had begun to curve instead of leaning straight and proud. I snapped out of my daze and laid it down flat so it would go back into shape.
I got to stand in the same room with J.K. Rowling. I wasn’t a local grade school student who got to meet her. But I watched her greet and look at the face of every child that passed. She can sign her name inside of a book with barely a look.
I admirably noticed she took care to look at every child’s face, and speak to the one’s eager to greet her. (There were hundreds of children of all ages there that day.)
I burned with envy. But I also felt lucky to have even been in the room.
Something so simple.

She’d read aloud from her book then answered questions… I scribbled notes on things she said as best I could. While she did this only students and teachers had been allowed in the auditorium. The Press (me) were watching from waiting rooms outside set up with video feed on large lcd monitors… but I was mesmerized and still thrilled.
…”there is no substitute for reading and writing, the more you do the more you will learn.” (in reference to having an advanced education or not one at all)
…”You must persevere.” (if you ever choose to write)

I came out of my daze as I sat just now  looking at my Press Pass. I smiled and began to feel more positively towards my day. Such a good memory, and it was real thing that happened… Perhaps this is what actually pulled me from the daze. Just to remember a real experience that I love. It’s always such a savored experienced to be able to (even sort-of) meet someone you admire and respect. 
She may mean little or nothing to many of you but you know of course that’s not what I care about. It isn’t my point in sharing this… what has been my point? Oh… that a memory token sitting on a shelf made me happy today just to look at it. The memory, the correlation it has to a person I admire. That admiration alone, fuel for the day.

I got to stand in the same room as J.K. Rowling.
I got to stand in the same room as J.K. Rowling.
I got to stand in the same room as J.K. Rowling.

(CLICK LINK to see a small slideshow of photos I took of the event)
‘Harry Potter’ Author Reads In New Orleans – Photos – WDSU New Orleans.

Good Witches.

Mono...

Cold weather. I *think* I like cold weather, right? (to those of you who actually know what cold weather is) I get a chill, snuggle into a sweater and long for Scotland.

I daydream of living there in a castle next to J.K. Rowling and writing stories.
(ok, maybe not *really* a castle, but I would visit them, and write stories about living in them.)
I would change my last name back to Callaway (three a’s) and ponder giving up my U.S. citizenship. (I probably wouldn’t do it. *sigh* But I would look into it!)
I would read books by fireplaces and have dinner parties that lasted the weekend.
I would go out during the day to libraries and read stories to children who wanted to listen. Adults too.
I would invite my parents to come and live in Scotland very very near to me.
They would of course decline, but travel across the ocean as often as good health allows
and visit for months at a time maybe.

I would miss my friends.
But I would leave them.
I would bring my cat… and consider getting two big dogs.
I would probably live alone with my animals (and ok let’s face it…
also a maid, gardener, and dog trainer/groomer…they would become my friends.
I would write the names of their children into stories.)

I would drink more tea than coffee and wonder why it was ever the other way around.
I would take pictures of everything, still.

I would probably be too picky, too busy, have too many dreams to focus on finding love.
I would long desperately for it though.
I would have woolen socks and wear fun hats that covered my ears.
When I got too old for my scooter I would ride a three-wheeled bike
with a large basket on front.
One day my Gardener would put a little motor on it and I will motor down the road
going all of 25mph and I’ll insist on wearing an old fashioned leather helmet with goggles.
Locals will laugh a little when they see me buzzing loudly by
or when I stop in front of their shops,
but they will always wave with outstretched arms and large genuine grins.
Then they’ll turn to a visitor and say quite seriously,
“Ohhh, that’s Ms. Callaway, she comes into town often. If you’re lucky,
or ve-ry un-lucky, she’ll capture your soul and rewrite your fate into a story…
She’s a witch, that one, don’t ever cross Ms. Callaway. Nooo, don’t cha’ dare it.”
(it’s best to have heard that in your head with a Scottish brogue)

I would illustrate my own stories.
I would curse the cold like an old woman, but love it still.
I would write spooky stories for Halloween and read them at bonfire parties.

Spring would warm my soul… and joints and bones.
I would miss New Olreans.
I would buy a small home right on the outskirts of the Garden District
and when my bones get really old, live there through the winters.
I would throw Christmas parties and ride the streetcars sipping hot tea
in a covered paper cup. No particular destination in mind.
Sometimes I would stay in Scotland for the Holidays just to have white Christmases.
I would pay for friends and their familes to spend Holidays there too if they could get away
for a week… or more.

I would change my mind a lot,
and not worry that I do.

I would be oft invited to parties, some in castles, even well into old ladydom.
I would be so happy, and miserable sad sometimes.
But I would snuggle into a sweater and be thankful for my life, the whole of it
and all of the characters in it, real and fictitious.

I would wear many kinds of boots.
As I got older they would become sturdier.
I would always, always feel like a superhero when I wore them.

One beautiful crisp morning I would spend finishing a book that I’d spent years
off and on, writing.
It would be called, ‘You, Me, and Burnt Toast.’
I’ll cry happy tears and sip hot tea, and watch the morning turn to afternoon.
Then I’ll take a nap, and not wake up.

In my will I’ll have left almost everything to a young woman of a family who,
since the age of three, always liked my stories.
She will have a detailed imagination… and have quiet, polite charm about her.
She will ache to do something creative with her life but will have to have a regular job like everyone does.
She will jokingly lament often, “Where’s my wealthy benefactor?”
She will like cats.