A Whimsical Reminder on an Icy Day
Sometimes, especially when it's hard going, we wonder why we do it. And then, on a ordinary morning comes a whimsical reminder . . .
. . . Or See the Marks of Tiny Feet . . .
“In a In a great big wood in a great big tree, there’s the nicest little house that could possibly be.
There’s a tiny little knocker on the tiny little door, and a tiny little carpet on the tiny little floor.
There’s a tiny little table, and a tiny little bed, and a tiny little pillow for a tiny weeny head;
A tiny little blanket, and a tiny little sheet, and a tiny water bottle (hot) for tiny little feet.
A tiny little eiderdown; a tiny little chair; and a tiny little kettle for the owner (when he’s there.)
In a tiny little larder there’s a tiny thermos bottle for a tiny little greedy man who knows the Woods Of Pottle
There’s a tiny little peg for a tiny little hat and a tiny little dog and a tiny little cat.
If you’ve got a little house and you keep it spic and span,
Perhaps there’ll come to live in it a tiny little man You may not ever see him, he is extremely shy;
But if you find a crumpled sheet -
Or pins upon the window seat -
Or see the marks of tiny feet -
You’ll know the reason why.”
I never wanted that "tiny little man" to come live in my "little house" (that felt a little creepy . . . ) But I so wanted to find a little house like his.
One of the Fairy Houses created during Barb's workshop.
Snaps of the Fairy Houses created during Author, Bee Keeper, Fairy House Creator, Barb Crispin's Bees Knees Workshop brought that poem--
and those feelings of wonderment and delight that that tiny house might actually be--flooding back.
The Power of Words
To see more of Barb's whimsical, wonderful Fairy Houses, click over to Crispin Apiary's Facebook page.
VAMPIRE BABY thrilled to be a finalist for the OKLAHOMA BOOK AWARD!!
VAMPIRE BABY is sharping her fangs--looking forward to sinking them into Oklahoma Center for the Book folks at the Oklahoma Book Awards on April 12th! What a thrill to be a finalist!
Thank you for honoring VAMPIRE BABY, illustrated by Paul Meisel (Candlewick Press).
2014 Oklahoma Book Award Finalist, Children/Young Adults
Vampire Baby—Kelly Bennett—Candlewick Press
The Year of the Turnip—Glenda Carlile—New Forums Press Inc.
The Dark Between—Sonia Gensler—Alfred A. Knopf
Nugget & Fang—Tammi Sauer—Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
MOJO—Tim Tharp—Alfred A. Knopf
How I Became a Ghost—Tim Tingle—The RoadRunner Press
Design/Illustration
Chikasha Stories Volume Three: Shared Wisdom—illustrated by Jeannie Barbour—Chickasaw Press
The Impossible Dream: The Miracle of the Jasmine Moran Children’s Museum—designed by Nathan Dunn—Oklahoma Heritage Association
Proudly Protecting Oklahoma: The 75th Anniversary of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol—designed by Skip McKinstry—Oklahoma Heritage Association
Modern Spirit: The Art of George Morrison—designed by Tony Roberts and Julie Rushing—University of Oklahoma Press
Devon—designed by Jenny Chan and Lisa Yelon with Jack Design, photography by Alan Karchmer and Joe C. Aker—The Images Publishing Group
Fiction
Kind of Kin—Rilla Askew—HarperCollins
A Map of Tulsa—Benjamin Lytal—Penguin Books
The Hanging of Samuel Ash—Sheldon Russell—Minotaur Books
Che Guevara’s Marijuana and Baseball Savings and Loan—Jack Shakely—Xlibris
The Southern Chapter of the Big Girl Panties Club—Lynda Stephenson—Outskirts Press
Sweet Dreams—Carla Stewart—Faith Words Press
Non-fiction
Banking in Oklahoma Before Statehood—Michael J. Hightower—University of Oklahoma Press
Came Men on Horses: The Conquistador Expeditions of Francisco Vazquez de Coronado and Don Juan de Onate—Stan Hoig—University Press of Oklahoma
Main Street Oklahoma: Stories of Twentieth-Century America—edited by Patricia Loughlin and Linda W. Reese—University of Oklahoma Press
Riding Out the Storm: 19th Century Chickasaw Governors, Their Lives and Intellectual Legacy—Phillip Carroll Morgan—Chickasaw Press
The Fifth and Final Name: Memoir of an American Churchill—Rhonda Noonan—Chumbolly Press
Trail Sisters: Freedwomen in Indian Territory, 1850–1890—Linda W. Reese—Texas Tech University Press
When the Wolf Came: The Civil War and the Indian Territory—Mary Jane Warde—University of Arkansas Press
Poetry
The White Bird—William Bernhardt—Balkan Press
Red Dirt Roads—Yvonne Carpenter, Nancy Goodwin, Catherine McCraw, Clynell Reinschmiedt, and Carol Waters—Haystack Press
Poetry Unbound—Beth Robinson and the Mabel Bassett Correctional Center Writers—CreateSpace
Black—Sarah Webb—Virtual Artists Collective
The Oklahoma Center for the Book, sponsor of the Oklahoma Book Award competition, is a non-profit, 501-c-3 organization located in the Oklahoma Department of Libraries. Established in 1986 as an outreach program of the Library of Congress, the Oklahoma Center was the fourth such state center formed. It is governed by a volunteer board of directors from across the state.
The mission of the Oklahoma Center for the Book is
to promote the work of Oklahoma authors,
to promote the literary heritage of the state, and
to encourage reading for pleasure by Oklahomans of all ages.
For more information about the Oklahoma Center for the Book or the Oklahoma Book Award program, contact Connie Armstrong, 200 N.E. 18th Street, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, 73105; or call 1-800-522-8116 toll free, statewide; in the Oklahoma City metropolitan area, call 522-3383.
Back to Oklahoma Book Award Page
Back to ODL Agency Services
Back to ODL Home Page
The Argus 2014: Capetown, S.A.
The wind howled throughout Argus Eve night. I know I slept because each time a mighty wind rattled the windows it woke me. Why am I doing this ride?
At 5:00, when the alarm went off, I asked myself again.
And again when I rubbed the pain/inflammation compound on my knee, sun screened, pulled on biking pants, shirts—2 because it was chilly—biking socks, shoes, gloves, adjusted my helmet, clipped the race chip on the bike wheel, checked that my race number was in place on my back, that my green medical ID sticker with allergy info was properly placed, stuffed my pockets with my shuffle, camera, lip balm & Advil, I asked: Why are Curtis and I doing this ride?
Part of the Mason/Voysey Group-Chris, Luke, Dave, Ed, Robert, Darrel, Kelly, Curts- in Official Team Shirts, at Fountain Circle waiting for the rest of the group.
Everyone else in the Mason/Voysey family group had trained. We’d arranged to meet at Fountain Circle in Downtown Capetown, so we could all start together:
o Uncle John (80 and the inspiration for this ride)
o 4 Mason Brothers (Andrew, Robert, Charles, David)
o 3 Voysey Brothers (Donald, John, Peter John)
o Harriet (Robert Voysey’s wife and tandem partner)
o Caelia (Donald Voysey’s daughter and at 18 the youngest rider)
o Cousin Robert
o Cousin Darrel Voysey
o Mason side Cousins: Luke, Chris Mason
o Mason/Voysey’s “To Be”: Ed & Luke (who proposed to cousin Eve at the top of Table Mountain)
Caelia, the youngest in our group, and her dad Donald-ready to ride!
Even after we’d saddled up and were coasting downhill from Shona and Charles apartment toward the starting place, I asked myself: Can I back out now? Should I?
Through the sleepy, pre-dawn streets, the announcer bellowed and music thumped as thousands of riders, like ants converged into a solid clump thousands—35,000ish—thick.
Argus Riders--DD Group--Surging toward the Starting Line
Curtis was ready
Harriett & Robert: Tandem Ready!
Corralling 34,500 riders, sorting them into groups of 500 riders (some more or less), herding them through the streets and across the finish line at 5 minute intervals, seems a herculean task. With 36 years of experience the Argus organizers manage it handily and cheerfully.
At sunrise, 6:19 am, The Argus 2014 was on!
The first group set off with dollar sign race numbers on their backs. Then came groups with other symbols, then A group-through to z, then double AA group and so on. (The Voysey/Mason Family group is DD). As each group was announced and set off with a blast of the start horn, the rest of us moved closer to the finish line. The sun rose. I stopped asking why? I started asking: Can I?
The DD at the Start LIne--see the bridge in the distance? That's the start.
The announcer called out tidbits about each group as its members waiting in next off “pen”. The DD group included:
· The oldest Argus rider, at 91
· 3 or 5 participants who have ridden in every Argus Ride—this being their 37th
· 5 riders in their 80s, including the oldest female and Uncle John (we gave a huge shout out as his name was announced).
· Amputees & folks with MS and other diseases riding recumbent bikes they pedaled with their hands.
Curtis and me--a couple of "posers" at the start of the ride
I had been secretly feeling a little proud of myself that Curtis and I, oldsters that we are, were riding, until hearing this list. . .
The bullhorn blasted. The announcer shouted “And their off!”
And we stood.
A pack of 500 people on bikes does not surge forward in a wave. It oozes forward like goo in the bottom of a squeeze tube. Even slower upon hearing “Mind the wind under the bridge!” “Hold Steady!”
Head down as the wind blasted us, knocking forward riders sideways. I gripped the bike (not my bike! I already hated this fat wheeled, thick-framed, stocky mule of a mountain bike), and inched my way across the starting line.
The Argus route starts with a long, slow uphill. Even though I was pedaling as hard as I could, it felt as though I was sliding backwards as everyone else in the Mason/Voysey group, including Curtis and every other DD, then EEs and FFs, JJs, KKs rolled passed.
Uncle John has our team shirts designed with everyone's names and country flags on the front and back.
If I had ever thought about trying to keep up, I quit trying then. The best I could do was keep pedaling, and make the best of it.
Spectators lining the route, waving, cheering, carrying signs, some in costume, some holding out beers or hands for “high five” made it better.
The scenery: breathtaking vistas, aquamarine seas, buff shimmering sand, quaint and varied building & villages, attention grabbing, I-could-hop-off-and-go-in-for-a-look shops, ostrich farms, eucalyptus groves, hills and mountains and down hills gave me plenty to look at as I pedal-crept past.
I didn’t have a speedometer or odometer on my bike, or a watch, so I had no way of knowing how long I’d gone or how far—felt like hours and a million miles—until I spotted a bright yellow sign: ONLY 98 KM TO GO!
When everyone—Curtis included—left me in the dust at the starting line, I abondoned the thought of ever see any of them again. Of maybe crossing the finishing line as a group, the way they had discussed at the "Strategy Meeting" the night before. It was freeing to know I didn’t have to even try to keep up. All I had to do was keep going.
Shona, leader of the official Mason cheer squad said she’d be watching us from the railroad track in Cork Bay, but I’d sort of forgotten that until I heard her calling my name. I looked up, around, and there she was waving and screaming wildly with a bunch of other non-riding family members. Their whoops buoyed me for a few more kilometers.
Then again, down the road from their home, Aunt Marie (Uncle John’s wife) leading a Voysey cheer squad, shouted encouragement. How happy I was that their watching post was at a slight downhill spot and not one of the ugly, sweaty, hard-fought uphills.
At one Reward Stop, my reward was a glimpse of yellow shirt in the distance. Could it be Mr. B?
Hours and Kilometers clicked by. Parts began protesting: my back, knee, chin where the strap rubbed, my seat, my seat, the bottom of my left foot, bottom of the right, knee, bottom . . . The aches, or my attention, migrated, giving me something to think about as I pedaled—it passed the time.
Stopping after a long uphill was a bargain I made. A reward. I’d look up and forward to a point, telling myself “When you reach that spot, you can stop and take photos.” (Taking photos sounds way cooler than "resting."
Random Riders fighting up yet another long hill
At one such photo/rest stop, I glimpsed a familiar yellow shirt pedaling toward me. It was Curtis! He’d stopped somewhere to wait for me, then stopped again (and maybe again) until I’d wound up in front of him. Neither of us had even pulled a Daniel Day Lewis Last of the Mohicans and nevertheless, we’d found each other in that sea of 36,000. After that, we decided we’d finish together.
Chapman Hill is what riders veterans talk about. “Chappie” they call it, as if having pedaled up, up, up, up, up it, the road winding up and over the mountains, it becomes a friend.
Chapman Hill never will be “Chappie” to me. It’s a miserable climb. Incredible riding under the cliff edge, though
Curtis battling his way up "Chappie"
See the road carved into the side of Chapman Hill? And the teeny tiny ant-riders winding up that hill?
But the long, gradual downhill after was thrilling, freeing, glorious! Especially as Chapman comes toward the end of the ride.
Having ridden the Argus before, as though through muscle memory, I recalled well the easy, relatively flat cruise from there back into Capetown and the finish. As we rode along, I mentioned to Curtis how Chapman hadn’t seemed as hard going as I recalled. How I’d remembered a stretch where we seemed to be riding almost straight up, with lots of wobbling, pedaling almost to a standstill, and spectators giving riders pushes to help them up. “That wasn’t Chappie,” Curtis said. “That hill you're remembering is the hill that comes after Chappie . . . ”
“After???? There’s another bad hill?” I asked.
“Two more,” Curtis replied.
No one offered to push me up those next two hills. (I would have paid dearly for the service.) There was a group of red winged “Angels” pushing people up hill at one point, but they were on the far right side of the road and I was on the left, too weary and slow to try to cut across the crowd to the other side.
A bit farther on, a man was cooling people down with spray from his garden hose. I recalled laughing when he sprayed me the first time. But that had been a sunny, windless ride, and I'd been hot and powerful. (Fortunately, his territory was at a relatively slight uphill so I could veer out of range—his good fortune, for I think I would have punched him if he’d squirted me.)
Recumbent bike riders pedal with their hands and arms.
As promised, Curtis and I crossed the finish line, together. We looked around hoping Shona & the gang had witnessed our crossing, as they had the first time we'd ridden the Argus. But no familiar voices shouted and whooped as they had in 2011. (Some strangers did. And congratulated us as they handed us our Argus Medals, and herded up past.)
There were 34,500 confirmed riders who started the Argus 2014. Winds at the starting line were clocked at about 35 mph.
The Argus winner, Nolan Hoffman, rode it in 2 hours and 37 minutes, 1 second.
The best Mason/Voysey race time was Ed’s at 4:37
Uncle John, at 80, crossed the finish line together with his sons in 4:45
The exact time it took Curtis and I to ride the 109 km is unknown as our names do not show up on the official Argus website. Charles said they stop tracking chips after 7 hours.
So, according to official records, we may not have finished the Argus 2014. . . .
It wasn’t pretty. Or handily. Or strong. But we know we finished.
Here's proof (recieved via email 3-12-2014):
“Kelly,
Your result won’t be displayed on our website as you took longer than 7hrs to complete the race. You needed to complete the race in 7hrs from your group start time.
Your group started at 07:44:00, you finished at 15:15:45. That gives you a time of 7 hours, 31 minutes and 45 seconds.
Regards,”
Now that it's done, and I've slathered my knee with pain-killer, anti-inflammatory salve, I can answer that question of why? Why we rode it?
Why do any of us challenge ourselves to tackle difficult, seemingly impossible, maybe foolhardy tasks?
It's not about whether or not anyone sees you cross the finish. Rewards, the medals, recognition, that's not it.
Why do we do it? To know we can.
Onward Don Quixote!
PHOTO AT THE FINISH TO COME--MAYBE . . . maybe not.
Guest Post on Janni Lee Simner's "Writing for the Long Haul" Series
When Janni Lee Simner graciously asked me to talk about "Writing for the Long Haul" I'll bet she never expected me to confess how "I Quit!"
Read all about it here: ReTired and Better For It!
And more about Janni and her dark fantasy BONE OF FAERIES Trilogy and more!
Countdown to the Argus: There's still time to back out . . .
We didn't sign the pledge. The night before the 2011 Argus, the world's largest timed cycle race, they passed around a pledge sheet stating that everyone named below would ride the Argus in 2014 in honor of our friend, Charles Uncle John who turned 80 this year.
2011 Argus: Waiting at the Starting Line: Charles's cousin Robert, Kelly, Uncle John (76), & Curtis
Uncle John, along with his sons and Charles's brothers and family have been riding the Argus, for years.
We didn't sign the pledge:
But we're here. . . We arrived yesterday afternoon. Registered. And tonight after lunch at Uncle John and his wife, Marie's house (along with the whole family and all the riders in the group). The family presented Uncle John with the pledge and photos framed. (Just in case I'd forgotten, I checked: we really didn't sign.) Uncle John had special team shirts made for us all. (Photo coming soon).
A Casual Sunday Ride 109 K Along the Coast with 35,000 of our closest, cyclist friends
We didn't sign the pledge: Curtis and I were nervous as to whether, after not riding bikes for 7 years--I mean not even pedaling casually--we could finish a hilly 109 kilometer ride.
We didn't sign the pledge. Yet, here we are smiling and happy with our Argus registration bag in hand.
Especially as Capetown, South Africa is a far ways to go for a bike ride, we couldn't imagine we'd come back for it.
Starting Line for the 2011 Argus (we're there somewhere.)
We didn't sign the pledge.
Now, 7 hours, 56 minutes, 8 seconds to race time, our riding gear is laid out. The bottles of energy water are filled and chilling. We're all in bed, to sleep....yeah right.
And I am older and less fit that I was then. . .
And my knee is wonky . . .
And the wind is howling . . .
We didn't sign the pledge, so then, why???
Yoga Baby Wants MORE!
At six months, Baby Ben is a yoga savant!
Resting Baby pose is a cinch.
So is Cobra. And Corpse pose, too.
Corpse Pose? Shoot, I can do that in my sleep!
Upward Facing Dog-no prob!
YOGA BABY is tenacious! When he wants--really really wants--he goes after it!
Do not be deceived by this seemingly "I love Mimi" behavior. Ben is after that cell phone and he'll climb any mountain to get it!
Army Crawl works. But Yoga Baby wants "More!"
Yoga Baby wants to CRAWL!
I watch as Yoga Baby rises up out of Downward Facing Dog and flows into Standing Dog. He looks down, then forward, thinking so hard, you can almost see the gears turning. “If only I had one more hand to lean on, I could so do it.”
I know exactly how he feels.
The other week, my yoga instructor had us on all fours. Not in any dog position. Instead, we were on our bottoms with our knees bent, arms looped through our legs, to the outside of our feet working toward some Harry-Houdini-Got-Nothing-on-You pose. Erica was urging me to put my head down and lift my bottom up off the ground. And I was thinking about it.
I was thinking: Yeah, right. How exactly am I supposed to hoist my big ole self up onto my trembling arms. . . I was thinking about how stupid I looked. Thinking about how, any second I might pitch face forward.
Baby B does not think he knows. He is going to crawl.
He isn't worried he might fall on his face. He doesn't care how he’ll look tumbled forward. About how he’ll feel when he lands face down. Or what people might think of him. He doesn't have time for doubt.
He is working on HOW!
Any time now, he’s going to do it, too!
In yoga, in life, in our work, I'm thinking I need to reconnect with my inner Yoga Baby. Stop spending energy on all that other stuff and work on HOW!
HOW ABOUT YOU?
Disclaimer: Yoga Pose names are intended to be descriptive, not correct.