The Furious Spinner

Here's the next installment of the writing of Lady Liberty. If you want to read the first installment, click here. If I owe you a letter, please forgive me. I haven't forgotten you, I'm just behind.

Thursday, April 8: Slept on and off. Lots of nightmares. Mario awakened me at 7:30 to tell me yes, they were going to go ahead with the spraying and breakfast was ready. Nothing to do but be cheerful about it—except go out and hurt someone, which I wasn’t going to do. Mario and I ate, packed a day bag, grabbed my computer, and got out the door before the spraying began. It was a beautiful cloudless day. I was giddy from stress and lack of sleep and turned up the radio and sang nearly the entire way to Vancouver.

I had my meeting in Vancouver at the library, we ate an early lunch at Thai Noon, then we delivered take-out to Daniel in his apartment in St. Johns. Then we headed to Seattle. The drive to Seattle is one of the most boring drives in the country, so when the Emerald City emerged from around the corner three hours after leaving Portland, we wanted to dance with joy, except we were stuck in a traffic jam. Fortunately, it did not last too long. Occasionally during those three hours, Mount Rainier flashed into view, close-up, whiter than bone, winking away too quickly like glimpses of paradise always do.

We got off the expressway and drove down Madison to Cafe Flora. I was a bit queasy after the long drive, but the restaurant was not serving dinner yet. We sat in their solarium, and I ate a salad. Mario tried to get us tickets to a Mariner’s game, but they had played earlier in the day. I opened my computer and looked at what I had written the day before. I wrote a sentence or two, then Mario and I started talking. It felt too weird sitting in a restaurant working on a computer. Rude. Inhuman. Something.

We eventually ate dinner. It was not as good as it had been in the past, plus it was too expensive. We decided the bloom was off our Cafe Flora experiences. We drove to downtown Seattle and parked a couple of blocks from The Elliott Bay Book Company; we went inside the independent bookstore which is housed in an old building with red brick walls and creaky wooden floors. We love this bookstore. The staff is friendly and knowledgeable, and the layout of the store—or something—makes it an inviting place. I wanted to buy nearly every book I saw. I signed a couple of Coyote Cowgirl which were on the shelf.

Mario and I went downstairs to the cafe area and sat at a deuce in the back. I set the clamshell (my computer) on a chair seat, then put that between my legs, and started writing. I should have brought a yellow pad, which is how I usually write. Not sure why I did not.

Martha Washington and Oney Judge were in the drawing room where Martha was receiving visitors. Veterans came to the presidential residence, just as they had come to Mount Vernon, to pay their respects and ask the General to intercede on their behalf for back pay. The Congress had not clothed, housed, and fed the troops during the war, and veterans often had trouble collecting their back pay after the war. Washington was often too busy (or embarrassed) to see the men, so Martha visited with them. Apparently she always enjoyed spending time with the troops. During the war, she had often been at camp providing what services she could for the men. At Valley Forge, where the men had come barely clothed, often without any shoes or blankets, Martha organized the wives to sew clothes for the men. She brought food and medicine when she could. 2,500 of Washington’s 10,000 troops died that winter—without a shot being fired. The men admired Martha for coming to camp and often greeted her with shouts of joy, “Lady Washington! Lady Washington!”

I didn’t write much at the bookstore. After a while, we went back upstairs, and I browsed the history section. I found Parlor Politics: In Which the Ladies of Washington Help Build a city and a Government by Catherine Allgor; that’ll help with my First Ladies series. I also got a biography about John Adams. For a treat, I bought Living to Tell the Tale a memoir by Gabríel Garcia Márquez. His writing is so juicy, sensual, and gorgeous.

Then we headed home in the dark. The radio reception was terrible, the drive long, and I had twitches. (I don’t know how to describe them. It’s like something is beneath my skin and I can’t be still. I believe it’s an allergic reaction.) The only thing that relieves the twitches is time and exercise—if I can walk, I don’t notice them. Being stuck in a car was not very pleasant. It was a long four hours.

But we got home. I warily went inside, hoping the pesticides had not gotten into our house. All seemed well, and I was too tired to worry. I checked the Common Dreams website; they had published the essay I had written Tuesday about the Kucinich events we attended on Monday. “We Are the People,” I titled it.

Friday, April 9, 2004: Too tired and depressed to work. Kept trying to do something, but I found out they had sprayed the county courthouse lawn, which is a block from our house. I felt hemmed in. Disgusted. Death and destruction in large doses in Iraq.

Saturday, April 10, 2004: Moving slowly. Beautiful day again. Windy. I kept looking over at the school, wondering if the pesticides had contaminated my yard, worrying about the children who would be coming back from spring vacation on Monday. I had to figure out a way to relax a bit. The writing went slowly.

Martha was still with the veterans. One of them was a freedman living in Philadelphia. More free blacks lived in Philadelphia than anywhere else in the country at that time. Influenced by the Quakers who were abolitionists, Philadelphia legislators enacted laws which essentially said a slave became free if he or she lived in the city for longer than six months. When Philadelphia became the capital this law created a problem for some of the nation’s congressmen and senators who owned slaves. George Washington skirted this law by surreptitiously sending his slaves back to Mount Vernon on stupid errands—like carrying some sewing back to Mount Vernon, which was several days away.

I am usually good with dialogue, but I have to think about Martha’s dialogue. I’m generally very direct. Martha was not, as far as I can tell. Women had to figure out a variety of ways to get things done back then, especially since they did not have much power. So I had to figure out how to be indirect. Normally I did not understand subtlety in relationship to conversation.

I was glad when the veterans left, and Martha and Oney took a coach over to Eliza Powel’s house. Eliza Powel had played a substantial role in George Washington’s decision to stand for a second term. He wanted to retire. Martha wanted him to retire. However, he and others were worried about the factionalism—the rise of political parties—as well as the war between France and England. Washington believed the U.S. should remain neutral, while always being a friend to France. He also believed we should sign a treaty with England. He thought we should do business with other countries. Even two hundred years ago the business of America was business; or more specifically, trade was important.

In my story, Martha visits Eliza to indirectly ask her to help smooth the way for George Washington de Lafayette’s visit. But I ended today’s writing as the coach goes by the new African Methodist Church, on the way to Eliza.

Mario and I worked on the flyer for the “March for Women’s Lives,” April 25, in Hood River. The march here is for those of us who can’t join the marchers in D.C. We will stand up here and shout that we will not allow this government to take away our rights-particularly our reproductive rights. I showed Mario what words I wanted on the flyer and sent him emails from other people on the committee, and he put together a great flyer, complete with a black and white Statue of Liberty—Lady Liberty—waving her torch and lighting the way.

Sunday, April 11, 2004: Mario and I got up early, packed a backpack, then drove to Falling Creek. No one else had yet arrived when we got there around 9:00. We stepped into the green and decided to count flowers again. Two weeks ago, we had found three trilliums and no other flowers. Last week, we had counted 61 trilliums and about 8 yellow violets. We discovered that counting kept us in the forest; it kept our minds from wandering away. By the time we made it to the falls today, we had seen 128 white trilliums, 8 pink trillium, 38 deer’s head orchid, 86 yellow violets, and 15 Oregon anemones.

At the falls, I took out my yellow pad. It felt almost sacrilegious to write on my novel in this beautiful place. Water fell in three tiers from two hundred feet or more down to a pool before running away into the rocky creek that plunged down toward flatter ground. The rocky sides on either side of the waterfalls were covered in moss and ferns. Mist rose all around. Various evergreens hung precariously from the rock faces. Across from the falls, probably fifty to eighty feet above the pool, we stood. Huge boulders had tumbled down the cliff, probably eons ago, and now we scrambled over them to find the best place to sit. The sound of the water pounding into the pool surrounded me. The air was cool.

I took my pen out, put it to paper, and wrote, “Martha sat in front of Eliza Powel’s unlit fireplace, a cup of tea in hand.” I was immediately sitting in this drawing room in 18th century Philadelphia with the two women. The indirect conversation went better than I thought, primarily because Eliza Powel was a talker, at least she was now. She had known George since 1776. Her husband Samuel had been mayor of Philadelphia. During the yellow fever outbreak of 1793, Samuel refused to leave town. He felt he should act as a role model by staying in town and assuring everyone that all was well. They did not know back then what caused yellow fever—mosquitoes—nor did they know how to cure it. Most physicians still bled their patients to relieve them of the sickness. Needless to say, this was totally ineffective. Although statistics vary, it seems 10% of the population was killed by this epidemic, between 4,000 and 5,000 people, including Samuel Powel. George Washington wanted to stay in Philly during the outbreak, but Martha refused to go without him, so he agreed to leave with her and the children.

The women concluded their conversation.

“No one could criticize you for taking in this refugee,” Eliza said.

“I would hope not,” Martha said, shrugging. “But men can be petty.”

Eliza smiled, “Yes, they are not called the fairer sex for a reason.”

I put the pen down, and I was transported back to the waterfalls. I felt disoriented for a moment, then I got up and found Mario. We packed up, said good-bye to the falls, and headed back down the trail.

Monday, April 12, 2004: I didn’t sleep well, so Mario and I were late getting going. We decided to go for a hike, and we drove out to Falling Creek again. We got there about two hours later than we had yesterday, but no one else was there. Today we counted deer’s head orchids (or lady slipper or fairy slipper as it’s also called). By the time we reached the falls, we had seen 84 tiny deer’s head orchids. The currant bushes had bloomed overnight, too, revealing small, trumpet-shaped deep red blossoms. In the summer, Mario and I ate berries off these elegant bushes. The forest was a part of us, and we were a part of the forest.

Once again, I begged pardon from the glorious waterfall and the land around me so that I could write. I pulled out my yellow pad. This time Martha was in her kitchen with Oney, Hercules, and Molly, making plum cake for the levee that night. I had never heard the word levee (except in referring to something which held back water) before researching Martha and George. It means “a reception held by a monarch or other high-ranking person.” Every week, George had a levee, or reception for men, and Martha had one for women, only she allowed men to attend, too. They served plum cake, which was like fruit cake: 40 eggs, four pounds of butter, five pounds of flour, five pounds of fruit. Apparently it was quite a job preparing it. I didn’t write very much, though. I left Philadelphia soon and returned to the waterfall and Mario.

At home again, I got on the computer and kept writing. Martha sat on a dais with her friend Abigail Adams and Mary Morris, whose home they lived in. The Morrises had moved out and gotten a place down the street. I was happy with the way the conversation was going. I had to stop and do some research on John Adams. I discovered Abigail Adams had decided not to come to Philadelphia during the second term of the Washington presidency, when her husband was Vice President, because of delicate health. She could not have been sitting on Martha’s right during the levee. She did so during the first term, not in the second. That seemed like a big thing for me to have missed. I wondered how much more I was missing. I stared at the words I had written for Abigail. I sighed. I could just leave it. 95% of the readers wouldn’t know the difference.

But I would. I sighed. I might as well be as accurate as I could. I took Abigail out of the seat and plopped Eliza into it. She paraphrased Abigail. It worked. Then a visitor to Philadelphia sat next to Mrs. Washington and talked about how terrible it was that Philadelphia essentially freed any slave after six months. Martha was appalled. Polite people did not talk to one another about such things. Mary Morris led the offending woman away, and Martha ended the reception and went to bed, assuring herself—as Oney helped her undress—that her slaves were happy just where they were.

I ended the day’s writing with a new chapter. I began the paragraph with: Oney opened her eyes to blackness, blinked, and remembered she was still a slave.

I had written 8,633 words for the first week of Lady Liberty.

I read the new stuff to Mario. When I was finished, I asked, “Is this any good?”

“What do you mean?” Mario knew I was not looking for a pat on the back. I wanted his advice as a writer and editor.

“I want to know if it’s working,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve put in enough detail. I know people who read period pieces really like detail. The thing is, Martha was not a detail person. So I haven’t been putting in that much household detail. She lives there, so she wouldn’t comment on things she lives with every day. I try to put historical detail in their conversations. I don’t want to spend time on another thing that fails.”

I didn’t mean a literary failure. I was talking about a publishing and financial failure. I worked as hard on a book that didn’t sell as one that did. I’m much more comfortable writing in modern times. It’s easier. I keep wondering if the novel is working.

“Yes, I think it’s working,” Mario said. “It’s very intriguing. I like the characters.”

Mario did not ordinarily enjoy reading historical work.

I nodded. Talking too much about the book at this stage could be deadly for the process. I was pleased with the progress so far. Only one thing to do: keep on going.
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