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dear blog readers — this blog is on holiday until the last of May, first of June, more or less.

Enjoy the lovely spring weather wherever you are.

See you back here in June.

- J

My sister went to the Concord Patriots’ Day parade today — this is the best review, best seat, of the parade: LINK

Dan says it best, check out his blog: LINK

It’s spring, for certain. The flies were out in the pasture today, and the horses were cranky and sweaty by 4 p.m., ready to come into the cool shade of the barn. The appearance of flies, albeit not romantic or charming, is my absolute measure of the start of spring.

So, what’s yours?

I suppose it’s the insanity of Spring. Everyone is outdoors, riding bicycles, scooters, Harleys, mopeds, one speeds, ten speeds, anything with wheels. Okay, here’s the thing, cycle lovers of all kinds: you are a moving vehicle. Moving vehicles go on the road, with the flow of traffic. I don’t mind if you go four miles an hour or 84. Just work with the traffic. To do otherwise is to invite death.

As the young man with the backwards ballcap and the banana-seat bike did today, the deathwish guy who rode on the sidewalk, against traffic, across intersections, across access alleys, across exits from ATM machines, the very ATM machine I happened to be exiting. The one that when I was done extracting cash from the machine, I looked to the left, the only direction the traffic was coming from, waiting for my opening, and when it came, I pulled forward. At the very same time as backwards-ballcap-banana-seat-bike-riding guy came barreling down the sidewalk from my right.

Holy spokes, Batman! I about killed this kid! I screeched to a halt, he veered into traffic (which screeched to a halt), and I found myself hollering ridiculous things like “Jiminy Christmas, You Knucklehead! Watch where you’re going!”

I think he gave me the finger, but I can’t really say. My heart was thrashing in my chest and I had to get a grip on the adrenaline surge. Man, oh man.

Spring!

As I left school today, I drove down one of the more busy roads of lovely Richmond, Indiana. Before me, oddly, the traffic started swerving and braking. What was going on? Then, I saw it. A guy was riding a bike at the side of the road while his dog trotted alongside him. At first I thought the dog was on a long lead. Nope. The dog was simply following along behind his human friend. And when the dog — a lovely loping hound-like dog — saw something that interested him, he’d pursue it. Whether that meant darting into traffic, or bounding along the side of the road. He was a dog. He followed his nose.

And then, about the time I pulled even with this doofus on a bike and his lovely dog, the dog caught wind of something and raced across four lanes of traffic to the other side of the road, into a stand of trees.

No, he didn’t get hit. Yes, he lived. And yes, the doofus on the bike actually followed the dog in pretty much the same manner across the road.

But for heaven’s sake: Don’t do this! Use a leash, walk your dog, and stay off the busy streets. We ought to issue citations for goofballs like this! Owen agrees. And Owen is always right.

In the hallway, I hear a little voice singing a little song:

Jean, Jean…you’re young and alive….

I mutter back:

B, B….I’m middle aged and half dead….

This is something like the third or fourth time I’ve been sick this year — THIS YEAR — alone. What gives? Me, I suppose. As in giving out. Or maybe it’s working with someone who has a toddler (the film editor), or working with students who have toddlers and babies and children (you know who you are), or maybe it’s that I’m tired and stressed and my diet stinks (consisting mainly of my beloved cheese cubes, and no I’m not giving them up, dammit), and I work too hard and probably play too hard too.

So whatever the reason, I’m now officially sick. The doctor said so, and wrote up three prescriptions — two drugs, and one shot for pain in an old riding (more like falling) injury. I feel seriously middle-aged. The bad dwarfs have moved into my body: Grumpy and Wheezy, Achy and Bitchy (yeah, she’s a dwarf too). Oh, and? My happiest moment this week (and it’s only Monday) was finding a pair of bifocal sunglasses at the drugstore. At least I didn’t buy a copy of More magazine, that annoyingly chipper mag meant for women over 50. Go away.

I am sorry I did not make it to your birthday party yesterday. I did want to be there. Especially on your first birthday. I imagine you had a good time. Eating cake. Making Sullivan art with cake. Throwing cake at your dad. Making cake earrings with your mom. Singing about cake. I can kind of see it, even from here. I’m sorry I missed it. I was sick (your mom and dad can confirm this) and wanted to come, wanted to share cake, and cake art adventures.

I also really wanted to have your mom (or dad) say: Hey, Jean, want to hold Sullivan? I’d sort of slowly have said, as though I didn’t *really* want to, Okay. And you and I could have wandered around Joe’s Pizza talking about stuff. Like: Hey, Sullivan, what do you think of Anchovies? You like them too? Awesome. Hey, Sullivan, What do you think of the sort of weird faux memorabilia on the walls here? You think it’s cheesy too? Right on, dude. (High fives!). Hey, Sullivan, want to break dance? You’d be nodding then, and I’d be nodding and your mom would have this look of impending horror on her face, but off we’d have gone. Shoot. Now, *that* would have been a memorable first birthday.

I’m sorry I was sick. Happy Birthday, Sullivan!

Love, Jean

By now, I think more people have seen the film 1:47 than have read my book Rose City. I don’t know this for a fact, not a verifiable fact, but rather as an educated guess with a little arithmetic. Like this: About 1200 people saw the film last weekend. Then another 350 on Tuesday night. Then last night — I have no idea how many people. I restrained myself from lurking in the parking lot of the Richmond Art Museum to watch the crowd. Let’s say another couple hundred, more or less. All told, that’s about 1800 people who have seen the film.

When my book came out, the publisher printed 1000 copies. Yes, that’s all. It’s a miserable little number, but there it is. Since the book went out into the world, I get quarterly statements about the number of copies sold. I can’t remember the last statement, how many little books are out there, but I can remember the negative numbers in the dollar column. My book is a healthy little write-off for the publisher. They lose money on it. Or so their accountant frames it. Sad, but there it is.

So the book is out there, and now the film is out there too. Two different mediums. One, a typically private solitary experience for the audience, that of reading alone. The other, a public, shared experience for the audience, that of viewing the film in a theater. After people read my book, they often said they hoped it would get a wider audience. Me too, I suppose. Now that people have seen the film, and after they tell me what they think of it (usually positive but for a few outliers to the far left and far right), they eventually say the same thing: I hope the film gets a wider audience. Yes, I do too. And for one reason only, the same reason I hoped the book would get a wider audience, because I think each is good.

And I’ll tell you what (as we say here in Indiana), this wish for a wider audience, for me anyway, is not about fame. Not about money. Not about ego. It is this: about the desire to share a well-wrought piece of work with other people. Give something good to the world. That’s it. It’s about giving over a gift — here, this is for you. If you do your work as well as you can, whatever it is — writing, teaching, veterinary work, dentistry, podiatry, engineering, knitting!, community organizing — the world is better. I think so, anyway. And if that sounds naive (not to mention vaguely Pollyanna-ish), I’ll just be happily naive then, and go do my work.

(And now Owen is saying: Jean, it’s light out now, could we please go play fetch? Could you please stop writing? Okay, Owen. Here we go.)