On the Spaces We Inhabit: Meet #Writer Mary Lewis

Yesterday’s social media explosion on the Badlands National Park twitter account gone rogue reminds us about the value of the spaces we inhabit and the places we take for granted. Our sense of place, and the attention we give it, defines who we were and gives insight into who we are. Whether you think of the world on a large or small scale, place–and our relationship to it–is paramount.

For the past few months, I have been compiling and editing a fourth anthology of work by the writers at Harwood Place on exactly this theme. Entitled Inside | Outside, this year’s collection of stories and poems honors the idea of place both inside and outside, from the shelves of a room called “the den” to temporary living quarters in the barn, from a camping excursion as seen through tiny eyes to the fauna and flora dressings on a patio. While the anthology isn’t available to purchase in bookstores, we share it among friends, family, and fellow Harwood Place residents at a special Reading. The contributors for Inside | Outside will showcase their work from the podium this Saturday, January 28th, at 2pm.

To give you a taste of what you will hear if you attend, I welcome Mary Lewis to the blog. Mary has been a regular in the writing group for several years now, and her work always delights me. A former children’s librarian, she knows the power of words, and her pieces often hint at the playful side of a good story. Here, she writes about the intricacies of a treasured room.


My Favorite “Then” and “Now” Room

By Mary Lewis

Currently my favorite room is a diminished version of my favorite room in the home where we lived for fifty-six years. We called that space “the den,” a curious word, as defined by Webster: “the lair of a wild animal, a comfortable, usually secluded room, a subdivision of a cub scout pack.” Harwood’s floor plan calls it the second bedroom. I declare it a Den, happily opening its hide-a-bed to welcome guests when they arrive.

Expanded by a mirrored wall, which is opposite the windows, this small room on the sixth floor is always filled with sky wonders–storms and colors and mist and darkness and changing moon shapes. I can add music to the environment or just keep it absolutely quiet. It’s the right place for a pen and a clipboard to journal or to follow a writing group prompt. There’s a globe to spin and speculate and a modest TV screen tucked on its own shelf on the bookshelves along the wall. Books which were boxed for the Harwood move are survivors, culled for another read. More recent titles pop up in other rooms.

Ledges and corners in the den call out “these are a few of my favorite things!” Many of them are carved pieces. A parade of guinea hens marches across a shelved collection of books from Zimbabwe and Namibia. Two small human figures make eye contact in conversation. She was carved in Quebec, and he in Central America. I like the profile of their faces. Another carver had shaped a large tagua nut until it became a parrot in simulated ivory. There’s a gourd from Peru with a carved border of llamas, and a plump Baboushka doll hiding her children until a squeaky twist will set them free for their line-up. The paintings on the walls were brushed by artist friends, and the wide window valence was cut from the Batik fabric of a tablecloth.

The Den–it still says heart and warmth, comfort and contemplation. Creativity. And I like it because it’s small and takes you by surprise, down the hall and to the left.


Come hear Mary and the other Harwood Place Writers read on Saturday, January 28th, at 2pm: 8220 Harwood Avenue, Wauwatosa, WI. You’ll leave feeling lifted and inspired.

Independence Day: Break Out the Coffee, We’ve Got Guests

Kiddo & Mama Victoria

Today, for your Fourth of July weekend pleasure, my friend and writer,
E. Victoria Flynn, stops by with a guest post on small town surprises.

Victoria blogs over at Penny Jars, and if you aren’t reading her stuff, you’re missing out. She whips up some amazing posts, especially on Thursdays. So, get your feet wet here, then click on over there.

The Small Time Philosopher’s Guide to House Listing

 They didn’t tell us about the parade route. Maybe they didn’t think it was important in the middle of January, a day after a snow storm, when the only parades anyone seemed concerned with was the morning traffic heading out of town. Maybe they thought it would scare us away.

We started the 4th of July weekend playing poker, Mike and I, thinking about taking a walk down to the park where we could hear the bands and the hooting, where the kick off fireworks shot from their canons, where I felt we should be becoming part of this tiny town, beer and all. We knew no one, but I loved the possibility.

These were the weekends before kids when we could sit around comfortably surrounded by dusted bookshelves and organized cupboards. Going to bed early meant before the sun came up, and sleeping in meant anything at all.

Until the siren blasted us out of bed.

Until the steady honking moved slowly, slowly, slowly past our heads.

“There are people all over our yard,” Mike said. “It looks like we’re having a parade.”

“For real? How come nobody told us?” Maybe we should have made more of an effort to introduce ourselves to the neighbors, but I had been waiting for the bunt cakes and brownies to arrive. How come nobody brought us brownies? We love brownies.

We did have coffee, and we made it strong.

We pulled out our fold-up beach chairs and set them on the porch. Mike got out the video camera heretofore used for shots of “This is the garage. Here’s the back yard. Look, the neighbors have a pile of wood. And this is…I don’t know what this is.”

It was a dark day, drizzled and damp and dimpled with small town promise. We watched green and yellow John Deere tractors, shined up red Farmalls, Dairy Queens riding the backs of convertibles, horses clomping at the road. There was candy strewn across our lawn.

It was terrific.

By the next year we had invited our family, and I was fat in the belly with our first little girl. After the parade we ate brunch—banana bread, mini quiche, lemonade, and bowls of fruit. A year later, it was a tradition.

I’m pretty sure the four days of the 4th of July is what keeps us rooted in this town. We talk about moving back to Madison, closer to my husband’s job, closer to our friends and so many places and events we enjoy. We talk about it, but we can never decide–if we were to sell our house, should we tell them it’s on the parade route, or should we just leave it as a surprise?

~

You can find Victoria elsewhere: on Twitter and on Facebook and sometimes at a small ice cream shop just west of here, when the stars align and calendars sync and writers unite.