Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s home is now part of a Florida State Park.

When I assigned “Traits I Share with my Mother” as a Mother’s Day writing prompt, Bill opted to write about his stepmother. His essay starts decades ago, when he first came up with the expression “Good Betty/Bad Betty” to describe her behavior. Betty is 102 years old now, and Bill says the moniker still fits.
“My stepbrothers and I have used it ever since in our post-mortems on Betty visits,” he wrote. ”As in, ‘Which Betty was it this time?’” He conceded that the bad/good moniker could be applied to most of us. “But Betty’s ‘badness’ has always seemed particularly infuriating,” he wrote, following that statement up with this example:

A few years ago, she and I made a pilgrimage to the woodsy home/museum of Marjorie Rawlings, author of the wonderful book The Yearling. The museum is a few hours north of Orlando, the journey up was uneventful. We both loved the house and grounds, but the return trip was a different story. Betty questioned my driving, claimed I’d made one wrong turn after another, argued we were going in the wrong direction.

I finally snapped at her, and that’s when I noticed the problem. “Betty,” I said. “You have the map UPSIDE DOWN!”

An apology of some kind? No way. “Ok, Bill, you’re on your own. I’m taking a nap. Wake me up when we’re back. And good luck.”

Another Bad Betty example in that essay comes from a conversation Bill had with her recently about the atomic bomb. When Bill mentioned the first target was Hiroshima, Betty insisted the first target was Nagasaki. “No, Betty,” Bill corrected her. “I am pretty sure it was Hiroshima.”

That unleashed what Bill describes as a classic Bad Betty Barrage: “Bill, how would you know? You weren’t born then! I was a war bride, and my husband flew B-29s over Japan. This was OUR war!”

Bill surrendered.

The rest of Bill’s 500-word GoodBetty/Bad Betty essay describes Good Betty. “Happily, there is a Good Betty, too, who is intelligent, curious, adventurous, willing to listen and fun to talk with (okay, as long as you agree with her).”

*********

A week or two ago Bill sent me an email from a visit to Cleveland to see Betty. “I took a lot of my essays with me, figuring I would read some of them to my stepbrother and his wife.” Bill reported that his writing got a positive response. The only part of the “Bad Betty/Good Betty” piece his stepbrother took issue with was the very last line: At 102 she is mellowing a bit.

”No she is not!” he insisted.

Bill hadn’t anticipated reading many of his essays to Betty, but said she did listen to four or five of them with interest. “It’s possible I will not see her again, or that if I do, she won’t be very attentive or with-it,” he said, letting me know how glad he was to be able to share these memories with her now — especially the stories about his father and the trips they all went on together.

“At some point she interrupted me to ask,’ Is this some kind of therapy thing?’” he said. “I told her no. But of course, in a way, it is.”

The 2018 baseball All-Star game is over now, so on to more important things: retired White Sox organist Nancy Faust is heading to Pasadena to be inducted into Baseball Reliquary’s Shrine of the Eternals!

What? You never heard of the Baseball Reliquary? Me neither. But thanks to an article about Nancy Faust in the Cook County Chronicle, I understand it’s quite an honor: Nancy will be inducted this year along with former White Sox pitcher Tommy John, known more for the arm surgery named after him than his pitching statistics, and the family of baseball veteran and humanitarian Rusty Staub, who died earlier this year. The Baseball Reliquary honors individuals based on:

• the distinctiveness of play (good or bad), or
• the uniqueness of character and personality, or
• the imprint that the individual has made on the baseball landscape.

The Cook County Chronicle article said Members of the Baseball Reliquary called Nancy Faust “without question, the most famous ballpark organist of the past half-century.”

Me and Mike with Nancy Faust during happy hour at the Green Mill. Nancy showed Mike her World Series ring–and yes, he did eventually let go of it.

Nancy and I have become friends over the years. She and Joe come to many of my book-related gigs, and we like to meet her with Joe and their son Eric to hear Chris Foreman playing the organ at Chicago’s Green Mill. Last time we were there, she told me how fortunate she feels to have been born with perfect pitch. “I’ve been playing by ear ever since I was a little girl.” To prove her point, she turned toward the Hammond B3 playing behind us. “Like right now,” she said. “He’s playing in the key of F.” Nancy’s mother was a professional musician, and Nancy’s father owned a business renting organs to music clubs, bars and civic groups in Chicago when Nancy was growing up — Joe eventually took over that business .

Nancy Faust retired from the White Sox in 2010, and I understand that after 41 years, 13 managers and a World Series title, it was a well-deserved retirement. Still, I couldn’t help but get nostalgic reading a list in the Cook County Chronicle article of Nancy Faust’s golden moments at the keyboard — she said one of her personal favorites came in the 1970s when a male streaker crossed the field and she thought to play, “Is That All There Is?”

But times have changed. Technology and scoreboards with video replays have diminished the organ’s role in major league baseball. maybe Nancy was right to retire when she did. From the article:

The Mundelein resident said the focus has changed in the past 20 years with players wanting to hear certain songs. She said the races and other entertainment between half-innings compete for time.

“There’s just not time to do too much now,” Faust said. “The organ can still have a presence, but it’s not necessary anymore. There was more time years ago…now that time is used for a dot race or a commercial. Plus, they are trying to keep the game going now. People’s attention spans are not what they used to be, the luxury of time is no longer there.”

I have to agree. visits to the ballpark the past eight years just haven’t been as fun. Not because the team is doing poorly, I just miss the untraditional songs Nancy played –they helped me follow the game. And for that alone, she deserves her Spot in the Shrine of Eternals. Nancy says she’s thrilled that the Reliquary is flying her and Joe to Pasadena this week for the induction. As she told the Cook County Chronicle reporter, “It’s the only organization that recognizes people who made an impact on the game, but not in traditional ways.”

A typical view in Anacortes.

Beth, Gus and I lived at the edge of the earth—at least the United States’ part of the earth—for the better part of two years back in 1997-1999. Our time there was an impractical whim, but one I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The Outer Banks of North Carolina has a kind of magic that only coastal areas have.

Last week, we spent a few days on the opposite edge of the country—in Anacortes, Washington, on Fidalgo Island, one of the San Juan Islands. Beth already wrote about her appearances there, and last Monday I wrote briefly about my kayaking adventure. But the place deserves a little—a lot—more description.

It’s an easy drive from Seattle—once you get out of Seattle, anyway. Less than two hours, and the scenery just gets better and better. What’s stunning, especially for us midwestern flatlanders, is the way mountains, farmland, and ocean intermingle. Skagit valley is full of farms—but you won’t find corn and soybeans. More like berries, various vegetables, and tulips—yes, tulips. Our hosts—Beth’s sister Cheryl and husband Rich—treated us each day to some of the local crops. We had the aptly named donut peach, which is shaped like…a donut…and better than any donut I’ve ever had. And golden raspberries that just sort of burst on the tongue.

That’s tiny me in the green kayak, bringing up the rear. Everyone else was in tandems. (Photo: Cheryl May)

Cheryl and Rich live on a bay—which is where I kayaked last Monday. My eyes were bigger than my stomach on that decision—I signed up for a three-hour trip, which was probably about 45 minutes longer than my muscles would’ve opted for. At one point, I got stuck in some flotsam and jetsam near the shore of the island we paddled around. In addition, we were paddling against the wind and current. I was dead in the water. Our intrepid guide hooked a line from his kayak to mine and paddled me out. The guy was incredible—he paddled and towed me out faster than I could paddle myself, and we gained on the other kayakers. From that point on I just followed our guide as closely as possible to mimic his every move—he was remarkably efficient.

I learned along the way that he was from Ithaca, New York. He’d earned certifications as a whitewater and ocean kayak instructor. He loves what he does and wants to build his own enterprise at some point. If you get out that way, his name is Alex, and for the time being, he works for Anacortes Kayak Tours.

Weather wise, my kayak day was the worst of our time. Chilly, windy, cloudy, and the water was choppy. But the other days were pure heaven. We sat out on Rich and Cheryl’s deck, soaking in radiant sun all the while cooled by a light ocean breeze. The air was pristine. It was quiet. No exhaust fumes or sirens, just the scent of trees, ocean, and the sound of some birds. At a nearby park, Beth and I and Whitney hiked a 2-1/2 mile path that alternates between canopies of trees and stunning views of the bay.

Of course, we ate well—and had our share of fish, oysters, and clams. The highlight: On our last day we drove 45 minutes to Taylor Shellfish Farms located in a tiny town called Bow. We went on the recommendation of a local bartender, and we’re glad we did. The drive was worth it by itself. Farms, mountains, water, repeat. Our route took us along Chuckanut Road. (Yes, fire away on that one.)

I shucked my first oyster. It wasn’t the last.

Driving from Anacortes, as we got close, Google Maps told me we’d arrived—but it was in front of a steak and seafood restaurant perched high above the water. So we kept driving. After a substantial descent and a hairpin turn, I finally saw the entrance to Taylor Shellfish—it was directly below the first restaurant that passed. We drove about a 1/4 mile along a gravel road that skirts railroad tracks. It didn’t look promising until we got to the farm.C

You can see pens in the water—then there’s a pier of sorts. Some picnic tables. There’s a little store that sells various seafood, including straight-out-of-the sea oysters. The guy behind the counter described them like they were wines—these have a hint of pepper, those a note of honey, etc.

The oysters were priced from $1.25 to $1.80 each. You pick out what you want, they put them on an ice platter. They’ll shuck them for you, but I took the ad hoc lesson and shucked them myself.

They have a few local beers on tap, plus a couple white wines. So Beth and I and Whitney sat out in the sun, with a cool breeze of the water, and ate the best damn oysters we’ve ever had.

We spent a lot of time on Cheryl and Rich’s deck.

We ended the day out on Cheryl and Rich’s deck—it stays light a long time up there. Slept with the windows open. The next day we drove back to the airport and headed home. But I had one more treat. Mt. Ranier was clearly visible for a good part of the trip.

OK, now maybe I’ve done the San Juans justice. On the other hand, I don’t think there are enough words. I think you’ll have to go there.

Just a quick note to remind you that the 2018 Northwestern Summer Writers Conference is from August 9 to August 11 this year, and they’ve extended their early bird registration through midnight today, Sunday, July 15. If you want to take advantage of the special rate, go to their website today and sign up.

I’ve written here about the Smelling Is Believing workshop I’ll be giving on Saturday morning at this year’s conference, but to fill you in on what else will be going on those three days, I’m leaving you here with a short review from June 2018’s Chicago Review of Books called Everything You Need to Know About the Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference.

by Aram Mrjoian, recent Northwestern MFA alum

Within close walking distance of iconic city landmarks such as Navy Pier, John Hancock Center, and Millennium Park, Northwestern University’s Chicago campus might seem an unusual location for a writers’ conference. Whereas many similar weekend retreats seek to provide artists with quiet spaces to work among the wilderness, the Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference brings a community of writers together smack-dab in the city’s bustling downtown for three days of keynotes, panels, workshops, networking events, and literary readings on August 9-11, 2018.

For those who attend, this atmosphere embodies the hustle of the city’s wealth of renowned writers, many of whom are among the conference faculty. Indeed, this year’s Summer Writers’ Conference offers workshops from the likes of Rebecca Makkai, Amin Ahmad, Christine Sneed, Kathleen Rooney, Roger Reeves, Vu Tran, Juan Martinez, and many more.

Reeves, a distinguished poet and academic who has garnered accolades such as NEA and Ruth Lilly fellowships, will also provide the conference’s keynote address, titled “The Uses of Memory.”

Midday panels include discussions on the Chicago-centric subject of the working writer (featuring our own editor-in-chief, Adam Morgan), as well as on the topics of how to inform writing with research and tips for applying for awards, contests, fellowships, and residencies. Afternoon panels allow attendees to ask questions directly to publishers, agents, and literary editors. While all three days are packed with opportunities to learn and work, attendees can loosen up at evening cocktail parties and readings from Northwestern’s MA/MFA program, the University’s literary journal, TriQuarterly Magazine, and the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame.

Volumes Bookcafe is the official conference bookseller and Allium Press, Chicago Review of Books, and Tortoise Books will all be on site at various times throughout the conference.

Additionally, attendees can pay to schedule individual manuscript consultations with conference faculty.

A good friend of my sister Cheryl in Anacortes, Washington is in a book club, and on Monday afternoon I attended as a guest author. When one of the members said she loved how much Writing Out Loud taught her about Chicago, her fellow members swelled up in a chorus of uh-huhs and yeses. The reaction surprise me.

My sister Cheryl and her friend Laura organized my appearance at the afternoon book club and here, that evening at the Anacortes Library, where Laura introduced me.

But come to think of it, I guess the City of Chicago is a character in Writing Out Loud, too. Between Wanda’s stories of the segregated high school she and Minerva attended before Brown V. Board of Education, excerpts of Hannelore and Myrna’s personal essays of how they ended up in Chicago and their links to the Holocaust, Bob’s “Prankster” gang on Chicago’s West Side during the 1940s, and accounts of my own life here with Mike and my Seeing Eye dog Whitney now, well…readers do get a picture of Chicago’s culture, what drew people to Chicago and what It’s like to live here now.
How I’d love to hear 500-word essays written by the women in Monday’s book club. Imagine all I’d learn about the history of Fidalgo Island and what it’s like to live there — Anacortes, population 15,000 is the largest city on the island.

The book club in Anacortes was the first guest author presentation I’ve done outside of the Midwest, the first time I’ve visited a book club with members who had never set foot in Chicago. What fun it was to hear their impressions of Chicago before — and after — reading Writing Out Loud.

“And your descriptions of walking to class,” one said. “I could just picture it.” Now that statement really surprised me.

My descriptions are limited to sounds, textures, smells and tastes. “There’s only a few photos in Writing Out Loud,” I pointed out to them. They all sat silent for a moment. I could hear them thinking. “That’s right,” one finally said. “But I really do have a picture in my mind.”

That evening I was the guest author at an event open to the public at the Anacortes Public Library. After introducing himself and letting me know he’d just finished readingWriting Out Loud, a guy in the audience said he had a question. “What did you study in college?”

Did he know I don’t have a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing? Did he not like the book? Did he wonder what sort of schooling would lead to a book like this? I answered with a question of my own: “Why do you ask?”

That’s me and my sister Cheryl outside their home in Anacortes. Burrows Bay–which Cheryl and her husband wake up to every morning–is behind us. It’s also where Mike Kayaked on Monday.

The man’s answer made me beam. “Well, there’s so much history in this book,” he reasoned. “I just figured you must have been a history major.” I hadn’t intended on making Writing Out Loud serve as a history book, but the excerpted essays by writers in my classes (and the little background information I provide to set the scene) do leave readers with history lessons from the experts: the people who lived through it.

Thank you, Cheryl and Rich for hosting us in beautiful Anacortes, thank you Laura for hosting the book club, and thank you Anacortes Public Library for reminding me how fortunate I am to be leading these classes in Chicago. I learn far more about culture and history by hearing the unique first-hand accounts the writers read out loud every week than I ever did in school. Every week is a history lesson.