The Watershed Moment

Having recently read a book written by Stephen King, entitled, "11/22/63," a work of fiction depicting a watershed moment in our lives, it lead me to thinking about the topic. There are events that change everything; they are not always personal, but more along the lines of incidents which alter the shape of a nation and will interfere with the way a country views itself from that moment forward. We try to make sense of events beyond our control, in any way we can, and sometimes, our interpretation of those events will change over time.

These moments spark some of the greatest novels ever written. Watershed moments are those in which thousands of stories begin, or, in some cases, signify the beginning of the end. We are transformed by such events and distinct actions are put in motion.

In fiction, we have to have moments of great crisis for the protagonist, but they are often of a more personal nature. However, an author can use a watershed moment in history to launch an entire family into a completely different course of events than it would have been on otherwise.

The figurative definition comes from the literal meaning of a point, or division in a river, or stream where the river is split into two distinct paths that will not intersect again.

Here is one idea of the top ten watershed moments in history:

10.The October Revolution: The second phase of the Russian revolution put the Bolsheviks in power.

9.The invention of the Watt steam engine. Thus began the great leap for industrialization.
8. The Assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. Because of this shocking act, Austria/Hungary declared war on Serbia which obliged France and Russia to mobilize.
7. Black Plague: two thirds of China's population were wiped out as well as two thirds of Europe's.
6. Storming the Bastille: King Louis XVI asked, “Is this a revolt?” The answer: “No sire, its a revolution.”
5. Vaccine For Small Pox: a devastating disease was eradicated.
4.The Invention of the Printing Press; in 1436 Johannes Gutenberg revolutionized the printing of books.
3.Publication or the 95 Theses: Martin Luther, in 1517, creates an alternative to path open to Christians.
2. Berlin Conference: Otto Von Bismark, carves up Africa.
1. Birth of Jesus of Nazareth

It is curious to note the juxtaposition of the good with the bad in this compilation of earth shattering events. Too often, it is a "shot heard round the world," that sends events into play, but what precedes such an action, must not be ignored. Tensions build on many fronts; this is the stuff of great stories because watershed moments cause great change. As much as we would like to go back to the way things were before, we find we cannot. We must adapt, adjust, and rethink everything. Therein lies a novel.

"History is a relentless master. It has no present, only the past rushing into the future. To try to hold fast is to be swept aside. " John F. Kennedy

The Barn

I am going to write about barbed wire.

This unlikely topic sprung from a New Year's Day conversation I enjoyed with an old friend. As she is a gifted photographer, we spoke of a recent picture she had just taken. In a car with her parents, she asked her father to stop so she could capture the beauty of an aging barn, set against the bucolic and rolling hills of the Palouse. This set off an argument over where the shot should be taken. Her parents thought they should position the car so as to avoid getting the barbed wire fence in the foreground.

“No, no, no!” I said. “You were right. The barbed wire would add, not detract from the picture. It would set a distinct tone, provide prospective and add contrast. ”

Because my friend is an adult and a strong person who has learned to stand her ground, she made sure all objections were over ruled, got her way, and took the picture.

As I listened, I thought about classic foregrounds. If a picture tells a story, then a story paints a picture and all techniques, commonly used, and oft taught, must be employed.

In college, I took as many art history courses as I possibly could. How I loved the dark rooms, the slides, and the layering of the centuries and the years of innovation. Being a hands on mom, while at home with children, and having been blessed with two artistic types in my care, I spent many years putting their art supplies on the counter before I turned in for the night. If they were to get up before us, they could begin their day in artistic endeavors, and leave me free to get a few more minutes of precious sleep.

We went to art galleries constantly, and when traveling, saw everything. We remember fondly the time our son was depicted in the Sacramento Bee, at a summer art class for Impressionism. He was eight at the time, and we still have the painting he made. We signed him up for a class after that, taking place one day a week. This had to fit in with Kung Fu, soccer, school activities and lots of time for play, but on the day of that class, Wednesday, he would hop around in the morning singing that it was his favorite day of the week. It went from there. On a trip to Philadelphia, we planned to spend the better part of the day at one of the greatest museums in the country. I remember well what happened up on the third floor. As we came out of the elevator, and he saw a painting that knocked him sideways, he sank down to his knees. I came up and asked, “ are you okay?”

“Its a Van Gogh!”

Years later on a trip to Paris, at the D'Orsay, after seeing masterpiece after masterpiece, I suddenly and without any warning, burst into tears in front of Van Gogh's Starry Night. I went to look for my son to tell him that I had been overcome.

I found him madly sketching Van Gogh's self portrait. “Look at his eyes!”he said.

My son went on to major in studio art at Gonzaga and when I saw his senior thesis up on the gallery wall, it was one of those moments one remembers as being at the pinnacle.

The relationship between art and writing goes hand and hand. When I created the plot line of my novel in progress, and put a visual picture up on the wall, it changed what I often refer to as the oil slick of ideas and began to form a cohesive whole. I pass by it every day when I enter my study. As I complete a chapter, I add a sticky note and cover the main points. It is a visual representation of my upward climb. It reminds me that I am getting there.

Apart from the mechanics of telling a story, I do always, try to paint pictures with words. I also remember that Vincent Van Gogh received no recognition in his life time, but now, tops the charts in terms of monetary worth for his art. Yet, like my friend, he stuck to his belief in his own authenticity.

"Feelings of authenticity are heightened by a lack of a philosophy that allows failure to be a part of life. If you're leading a full life, you're going to fail some every day."

Thomas Moore

No Small Potatoes

There has been a movement afoot in literature to focus on one commodity, and make a book of it. People have written about salt, wine and chocolate. This led me to wonder if anyone has written about what the great state of Idaho is known for, namely, the potato.

How did this come to pass? How is it that when a person from Idaho travels, he or she is inevitably asked about potatoes. It turns out that Idaho was a trail blazer in this regard when in 1937 the Idaho Potato Commission was founded. This body, funded by a tax paid by potato farmers, set out to advertise on radio and later television, to create a brand identity from a single crop. A seal was fashioned and customers were encouraged to look for that mark when purchasing what was to become our famous potatoes. Lots of other states grow the crop, but the affection and identity formed by the commission created a market for thirteen billion pounds of spuds, one third of all those sold in the United States.

On St. Patrick's Day, a dear friend by the name of Mary, told me about a book she had just read by Mary Pat Kelly. Entitled, “Galway Bay,” the novel is an actual oral history passed down from one generation to the next. Told primarily through the women, it is the tale of one immigrant family and their travails from Ireland to Chicago. While it is not about the potato famine, called An Gorda Mor in Gaelic, it is the great catalyst of the tale.

“They tried to kill us, but we didn't die.” This is the thread of the story handed down through the ages; it is one of incredible hardship and then survival.

When I was in school in Toronto, I recall the day the teacher told us that the famine was caused by a lazy population who stupidly lived on one crop because they could not be bothered to grow anything else.

"When that crop suffered a blight they starved," she told us, with the implication that they should have known better hanging in the air.

I remember looking out the window, trying to wed that story with what I knew about my own family, all of whom are avid gardeners and farmers. At home, I asked if the story were true and heard that food was exported to England all through those dark days. Imagine having to take the harvest to market, load a ship and return home to a house of desperate want. As the "croppies" were only given a scant bit of land to cultivate for private use, the "pratties" gave the highest yield and provided the greatest nourishment.

These are the facts: 750,000 were confirmed dead of starvation. Bearing in mind that many more died in the coffin ships landing in Montreal and Boston, this would be a severe underestimation. Without the hospitals, or the man power necessary to deal with the influx, the sick passengers arriving in Quebec were put on an island in the St. Lawrence and left exposed to the elements. Promised, land, cash and food upon arrival, they arrived to find nothing and no way home. The bit of land they left behind on the dear, old sod had been exchanged for the price of their passage. Cecil Woodham Smith reported that during the famine years, 257,000 sheep were exported to England from lands held by absentee landlords. 480,827 swine went over as well as 186,483 head of cattle. Not even mentioning other crops, the picture is clear.

Yet there is a happy ending to this tale. The Irish flourished in both the United States and Canada. Reading “Galway Bay” prompted me to look up the history of my maternal grandmother, Rose Cahill Gaudette. One of ten children in her family, I learned that her mother was the oldest in a family of ten. Going back through the generations, my blood ran cold when I saw the date. In 1848 Thomas Cahill arrived in Montreal. Famine. Coffin ship. Most of the passengers died and their bodies were tossed over. Of the living, it was decided to send the Irish on a barge to Toronto. The sun blazed and the fair skins burned. Once again they were placed on an island off shore. Yet the good people of the city, rowed out in small boats and volunteered to tend the sick, risking their own lives in the process. The Cahills made their way to the gorgeous Ottawa valley, carved a life in the wilderness, and flourished.

Because of “Galway Bay” and in memory of all the times my grandmother served her famous Boxty, the potato pancake, I planted a crop in my garden. Yesterday, I harvested the first of my bounty and served it with dinner. It is true. There is something about Idaho. I am proud to report that the potatoes were entirely delicious. Because of "Galway Bay," I will plant them every year from now on.

From one noun a great story may unfold.

The Hungry Heart

“We have a hungry heart,” said the poetess Mary Oliver. Published in this month's O magazine, this gem was shared by Maria Shriver who conducted the interview. 

Like so many others, I often find myself in the firm grip of desire. Sometimes, I don't even know what for. I can remember my teenage son, staring at the open fridge coming up blank, moving on to the freezer and then the cupboard containing the cereal. Sometimes he would joke and say, "there isn't any food." I, too, graze for fillers, the greatest of which is popcorn. Why this became the answer I do not know; I only know that it goes in a bowl with melted butter whenever I feel this particular affliction coming on.

From there it can go from bad to worse, but before I turn this into a confessional, let me just say that books are better than popcorn, always have been, and always will be. Sent to my room for a nap, all the way up to the second grade, I picked up the Bobbsey Twins, and pretended to read it. In the midst of filling my hungry heart, I suddenly realized something quite strange. I could read! It was the most electrifying moment of my young life. When I came to a word I could not sound out, or could not understand, I looked at the rest of the sentence and quickly learned that it was possible to ascertain the meaning.

Proudly informing my family of this marvelous feat at dinner, I was met with one great big, who cares? As the youngest child, my vast leaps of development were simply a matter or course and the family, by and large, remained consistently underwhelmed. Well phooey, I tried again at school. The teacher who was impressed picked up a book near at hand and asked for a demonstration. Quite confident that I would meet the challenge, I got right to the point. Not only could I read, she told the class, I could read with expression. She was at that time dividing her little charges into reading groups and I went straight to the head of the class.

Why do words have such an effect on me? Why do they fill me? Why did I first take up the task of writing a diary, soon to be followed by stories and compositions? Why do I have this compulsion?

Who cares?

It beats, popcorn, or obsessive cleaning, or any other more harmful activity. Erma Bombeck said that housework, if done properly, can kill you. Reading satisfies my endless curiosity; it edifies and enlightens, and yes, it also entertains. It is available, plentiful and constant. What if I were stranded on say, a desert isle, with no books, pens or paper” What then?

I would write poems in my head and retell stories to myself. My heart will never be so hungry that I am at a complete loss. There will always be an answer. I read my way through everything. Then I write. I love words. I love the English language. I am addicted to it and proud of my habit. Books fill my life. Words float across my consciousness. I am in love with them.

My heart is full. I am not alone.