O Tannenbaum!

Posted in blogging, History, Holidays, Humor, writing by Shelley Sackier

Tis the season to eat, drink, be merry and … murder trees???

Ugh, it nearly pains me to write that—especially since I merrily participate—but I figure, if you’re going to be one of the crowd, at least you should be an educated member of said crowd.

So … for all of you celebrating the holidays with some sort of festively decked out tree this year, I shall provide you with a little bit of trivia to entertain your fellow lumberjacks, tinsel strewers and gold star toppers. Pay attention, memorize and amaze.

You’re welcome.

Holiday Tree Trivia Twaddle

Christmas trees remove dust and pollen from the air. This year I’m training mine to use the vacuum cleaner so it can remove dirt from the carpet.

Christmas trees take an average of 7-10 years to mature. Christmas trees would make wonderful children.

To be more specific: It takes 7-10 years of fighting heavy rain, wind, hail and drought to grow a mature tree. It takes 18-20 years of fighting heavy rants, whining, howling and delinquency to grow a mature child. (numbers will vary)

Since 1966, the National Christmas Tree Association has annually given a Christmas tree to the President and first family. The National Christmas Tree Association is still waiting for a thank you note.

Recycled trees have been used to make sand and soil erosion barriers and been placed in ponds for fish shelter. I simply preserve mine by brining it in pickle juice at the end of the holiday season, and then bring it out again come December 1^st. I serve a lot of corned beef on rye for dinner during the month so no one is suspicious of the stench.

The best selling trees are Scotch pine, Douglas fir, Noble fir, Fraser fir, Virginia pine, Balsam fir and white pine. At one point there was a national push toward the Giant Sequoia because Americans never like to be outdone, but the wait time for them didn’t quite match up to our appetite for instant gratification.

100,000 people are employed in the Christmas tree industry. For about 4 weeks. The remaining 48 weeks of the year they’re just tree stump grinders.

In 1900, large stores started to erect big illuminated Christmas trees. In 2013, all stores erected big illuminated Christmas trees, kept them erected all year long, but took a break by switching them off for the month of April.

98 percent of all Christmas trees are grown on farms. The other 2 percent wouldn’t know one end of a cow from the other.

Christmas trees are grown in all 50 states including Hawaii and Alaska. Christmas trees are sold only in Alabama and Oklahoma. Everywhere else sells “Holiday” trees.

Tinsel was once banned by the government because it contained lead. Now it’s made of plastic. And it has to be said, landfills have never looked so festive.

The use of evergreen trees to celebrate the winter season occurred before the birth of Christ. After the birth of Christ, we learned to start celebrating the winter season by putting away any sparklers and fireworks leftover from the 4^th of July.

In 1856 Franklin Pierce, the 14th President of the United States, was the first President to place a Christmas tree in the White House. He was then promptly shouted at by staff for tracking in mud and pine pitch.

You should never burn your Christmas tree in your fireplace because it can contribute to creosote buildup. You should only ever burn your Christmas tree in somebody else’s fireplace.

President Coolidge started the National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony on the White House lawn in 1923. Taxpayers nearly ended the ritual after being presented with the White House electricity bill come January.

From 1948 to 1951, President Truman spent Christmas at his home in Independence, Missouri, and lit the National Community Christmas Tree by remote control. I’m guessing that President Truman was a bit of a Grinch.

Nineteenth century Americans cut their holiday trees in nearby forests. Twenty-first century Americans have somebody else cut their holiday trees in forests not even remotely close to where they live.

In the first week, a tree in your home will consume as much as a quart of water per day. After that, the tree will have located your liquor cabinet and will consume as much as a fifth of scotch until New Year’s.

Helicopters help to lift harvested Christmas trees from farms. But this is strictly for the wealthy, whereas most folks simply drive their tree home strapped to the roof of their car.

An acre of Christmas trees provides for the daily oxygen requirements of 18 people. Sadly, 3 people use up that oxygen within about 60 seconds when visiting one of the many trendy Oxygen bars around the world. *gasp*

Real Christmas trees are involved in less than one-tenth of one percent of residential fires and only when ignited by some external ignition sources. This came to pass after many years of officials believing the sworn oath statements of homeowners who promised they did not pass out drunk beneath the tree with a lit cigarette dangling from their hands and that trees in their neighborhood have a tendency to self combust.

So, all this goofy fun aside, I wanted to insert a sentence or two about taking care of this beloved planet we all share and enjoy (read occasionally abuse). I’ve come to believe that if we are capable of making this earth just a teensy bit better for our having been here, then we should feel pretty good about ourselves when we draw our last breath. Recognizing that even this blog has its own carbon footprint (the Internet and related technology industries produce over 830 million tons of CO2 in greenhouse gases each year, and is projected to double by 2020), I feel it necessary to take responsibility for my work’s contribution to that figure.

I have instructed my blog to plant a tree to offset its negative impact on our environment. There was a bit of a tussle between the two of us as to who should do the actual digging, but in the end we agreed to flip a coin. Mercifully, the great folks at the Arbor Day Foundation have paired up with Green Gestures—a large-scale reforestation initiative in the US (by bloggers, for bloggers)—and will, on behalf of your blog, plant a tree FOR YOU.

My blog and I have decided to name it CLYDE.

I’m incredibly grateful to the folks at both institutions for all their efforts, and encourage the rest of the blogosphere to participate and spread the word.

Write a post. Plant a tree. Breathe a little easier.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery (here) and what we all talked about down in the pub (here). And to see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone–click here.

Decorating Nat’l Christmas Tree Has Family Roots (on.aol.com)
These Spooky Dead Christmas Tree Photos Are Not Full of Cheer (wired.com)

4Aug2013

Armchair traveling

Posted in blogging, Books, Humor, writing by Shelley Sackier

This week we interrupt our weekly blogcast with a little Q & A. Why? Because I was recently invited to participate in an international event called THE NEXT BIG THING blog tour by a very talented and keen-eyed manuscript critique-er, Abby Murphy.

I learned two important things from Abby. #1—She’s finishing work on a new YA historical fiction tale (Drawing from Life) that I can’t wait to get my hands on. #2—I will not have to move from my swivel chair in order to participate in this whirlwind tour. No packing, no passports and no postponed flights. My job? Just fill in the blanks. Walk with me.

1) What is the working title of your next book?

I’ve had several. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was my first. Anne of Green Gables was another. Obviously, I found out there was a serious leak in my writers’ group. After ferreting out the blabbermouth, I’ve remained reticent to unveil my latest, but for the sake of the interview … DEAR OPL.

I’m trusting you folks will keep schtum.

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

The Sydney Zoo in Australia. Specifically, the polar bear tank. It was here—after a couple of weeks into a family vacation—that I finally had enough mind-boggling questions about life, the universe and everything in between from my elementary-aged son to fill a Biblically-sized notebook. The questions were thought-provoking, befuddling, and on the whole unanswerable. I kept track of them though, as it was his insatiable curiosity that fleshed out a secondary character in a story that was beginning to take shape. (It also revealed just how little I knew and how much I depended upon Google.)

The main focus of the story came as a result of my addiction to all things Jamie Oliver. Watching him traverse America, desperately attempting to help folks make the important connection between school lunches and impending doom, had me itching to participate in a way unique to my skills. I could secretly hound children about making good food choices by disguising it beneath humor. It’s how I get most of my important parental messages across. With snark. But organic cane sugar coated snark.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

As defined by the industry, it would be classified as Middle Grade humor. As defined by the (not yet attained) blurbs that will eventually fill the backside of the dust jacket, it will be “Groundbreaking,” or “Revolutionary,” or “Impossible to define, you just have to read it.” Yep, I’m shootin’ big.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

That’s a toughie, as I’m guessing that some actors I’d find appropriate may not have been birthed yet, and by the time this gets optioned for film, a few others I’d put in my top five may have shuffled off this mortal coil. Suffice it to say, Johnny Depp should make an appearance. Maybe as a pirate, maybe as a Native American. It remains to be seen. And I’m guessing if it requires a few screenplay rewrites to make his character necessary, so be it.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

In a post-America sci-fi world called Panem, a common teenage girl finds herself fighting for her life in the cruel and deadly Hunger Games held yearly and enforced by the oppressive—

No. Wait. That’s the Hunger Games. Yet another previous working title for my book.

The synopsis for DEAR OPL is:

After two years of hiding beneath a sugar-laden junk food diet meant to soothe the bitter loss of her dad, thirteen-year-old Opl Oppenheimer is told she’s gained so much weight she’s pre-diabetic and now must start weighing more than she bargained for.

A laugh a minute. I promise.

6) Who is publishing your book?

Ah, the six million dollar question. I’m going to go with, a publishing house with impeccable taste and the desire to spread goodwill onto all of mankind. If you think you fall into that category, there is still time to apply for consideration. But please, if querying me when submitting your request, I ask that you do your homework and personalize your letter. There is a plethora of information about me out there on the web, and there is nothing worse than seeing a publisher write a “request to purchase your manuscript” email and seeing that I was part of a mass mailing. Be specific. Flatter me.

And if you can’t do that, call and flatter my new agent, the clever, talented, not to mention incredibly good looking Jennefier Unter from the Unter Agency.

7) How long did it take you to create the illustrations?

As this question doesn’t apply to me specifically, with my book, I think it might be nice to ask my partner in blog crime about his weekly labors. Rob?

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

This is a troublesome question to answer as I’ve found it challenging to locate books that encourage kids to handle their pie share of the growing epidemic of obesity using methods other than quick fixes and magic formulas. Diet is a word that confuses a lot of teens—and I think it’s necessary for us to make a global effort at redefining it. This is no Maggie Goes on a Diet, or Eddie Shapes Up kind of a tale. The story addresses so much more than body image. It speaks of unearthing and responding to more of the core issues of what it is we truly hunger for.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Again, I’d have to go with Johnny Depp. I’m absolutely positive I will always find a way to weave a scene into the manuscript where either Captain Jack Sparrow or Tonto makes an appearance. The rest of the plot is simply supporting material. With a very important message.

English: Johnny Depp during the Paris premiere of Public Enemies at the cinema UGC Normandie. Français : Johnny Depp lors de la première parisienne du film Public Enemies au cinéma UGC Normandie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

Within the story, Opl discovers a series of ten minute videos that teach her incredibly easy and straightforward recipes by the celebrity chef she once abhorred. Mastering them is an adventure she undertakes and finds success with. I want the reader to have access to the same videos, which are real. They’re a series created by Jamie Oliver called Jamie’s Ministry of Food. I think having an element of interaction with the book engages the reader and gives them a tangible participation, allowing them to share Opl’s experiences in the kitchen.

As this tour is supposed to bring awareness to authors & illustrators and the projects they’re currently working on, my only other contractual obligation is to make you aware of two others who likely set the bar higher than I do.

The first is Katherine Erskine, a lawyer turned author who writes about tough topics with respect and humor. Her newest book is GLORIOUS AND FREE. When Shannon is dragged on a road trip to Canada with her annoying brother and even more annoying gravely ill grandfather, she begins to see that life cannot be planned and controlled the way she’d always thought, but it can still be a wild and wonderful ride.

Katherine’s latest book is Seeing Red.

Also, make sure you check out Deborah Prum, whose career started at age seven when she wrote stories about children whose parents met catastrophic ends (plane crash, plague, etc.) after which the sturdy little orphans create blissful utopias on deserted islands. Someone should have called a child psychiatrist, but they didn’t, so Deb continued writing. Most recently, she’s released a young adult novel, FATTY IN THE BACK SEAT, about a boy who can’t seem to keep himself away from the long arm of the law.

Make sure to check out both Katherine and Deborah’s posts next week!

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery (here) and what we all talked about down in the pub (here). And to see more of Robin Gott’s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone–click here.

The dreaded Fat Chat (The Boston Globe)

14Apr2013

Unconventional conventions

Posted in blogging, Humor, meetings, writing by Shelley Sackier

Convention in session, Chicago (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

I would assume that many of you have, at some point in your life, attended a conference. Most of us have visited more than one. Some of us have registered at several each year. And there’s a chunk of the population who make it a weekly habit to show up at the gathering of any crowd bringing in more than a dozen people—whether it’s the opening of a seminar, a movie, or even a paper bag. Something exciting must be happening, right? Except I’m not entirely sure how they make a living in order to financially skip around from place to place and meeting to meeting. I’m guessing it has something to do with the ability to subsist on free coffee from Starbucks, ample soap in the washrooms and the talent to sleep beneath one of the long, cloth-draped banquet tables in Ballroom C.

As a little kid, I was dragged to countless music conferences. These were meetings where, in place of your regular instructor telling you that you were holding the violin bow incorrectly, someone roughly the same size, but with a different hairstyle and an accent did it instead. We paid a lot of money to hear those assessments.

Bart Simpson oversized statue (Photo credit: Gage Skidmore)

Following that, there were a few times when I realized I had to make money to pay rent and would agree to work with a couple of friends at the convention centers. We never got the fun jobs of Hopsitality Hero Ambassadors, handing out bumper stickers, wrist bands and key chains—the stuff everybody truly wanted–but instead were pressed into service dressing up as mascots for whatever “themed” group booked the convention center for the weekend. Our jobs—mine in particular—usually involved wearing a multi-layered, polyester costume with a giant head that required several extra pairs of hands using excessive force to shove it through a doorway. Why folks from auto shows or handicraft fairs wanted to have their photos taken with Simpson characters was a total mystery to me. Nickelodeon was like fairy dust. Everyone wanted a handful.

For a while, I’d occasionally tag along with my husband to medical conventions, but those symposiums were dry and serious. None of the booths offered any interesting toys. Pharmaceutical companies refused to hand out samples. Medical device companies had big slogans that involved words like insert, slice, and strip away. And all the lectures showed slides of pink organs, green organs or spurting wounds. I usually fought the urge to raise my hand and ask the presenter to repeat the last fifteen minutes because he lost me somewhere around the phrase uncontrolled colonic cell growth.

Still with me? *snap*snap* Yeah, let’s move on.

Having just attended a multi-day book festival in my town for the umpteenth year in a row, there is one thing I’ve come to realize that holds true as a sort of “golden rule:”

As diverse as the vast population is in the “outside” world, there is a fistful of personalities that exists only within a convention center.

1. The person who stakes out a seat—front and center—and shows up to do so 45 minutes before a speaker’s presentation. Apparently, they believe the lecture might involve magic—some sort of sleight of hand rather than the usual umm … I don’t know … lecturing.

2. The person in the back of the room who, without fail, and within the first ten seconds of a session, will stand up and shout, “WE CAN’T HEAR YOU!” I bet there’s an audio/visual guy who’s sitting three chairs down from that fellow who’d love to clock him one and scream back, “GIVE ME A FRICKIN’ CHANCE, DUDE!”

3. The person presenting who has never seen a microphone, never talked to a crowd and believes she’s just sitting up on a platform, sharing a glass of cold water with a few colleagues entirely bemused as to why there’s a guy in the back of the room who keeps shouting at her.

4. The person who, when Q & A time comes, and after being politely asked not to by the moderator, stands and asks a three point question with follow-ups. Who are you? Helen Thomas? Did I walk into a presidential press conference?

5. The person who, after receiving the nod from the moderator to ask a question, flips to the front of their notepad and begins to strip away all credibility of our panelists by throwing in head-spinning phrases like statistics illustrate that, and in consonance with Google analytics, and according to four out of five dentists surveyed. I think you get my point. No one likes you. Please sit down. You’re way too important to be here anyway.

And finally:

6. The person who is obviously following you around. And sitting next to you. And wants to share. And do lunch. And decided to come to the conference because she simply had to “get out of the house.” Huh? Coming to a lecture about writing for technology and publishing digitally was really a better option for you than laundry? I would have chosen laundry. It’s a good thing she was there, though, because she let me copy all her notes after I fell asleep on her shoulder ten minutes into the talk.

Yes, there’s a lot out there in the world to discover. And going to a convention is a great way to get out of your office chair and learn something that hasn’t been turned into a TED Talk yet. Plus, it’s probably a heck of a lot better for your social life than simply conversing with like-minded folks on Twitter.

Let’s not forget the biggest perk. There’s a good chance you may get a photo op with Bart Simpson.

~Shelley

8Jan2012

Safehouse, or Madhouse?

Posted in blogging, England, Family, Farming, Humor, Men, Mountain life, Relationships, Survival, Virginia, Wisconsin, women by Shelley Sackier

Image via Wikipedia

I grew up in Wisconsin. Cows. Cornfields. Cold. I loved it. Most of it. Okay, some of it. There was a lot I liked. Especially the no-nonsense, matter of fact sense of humor. Our bumper stickers read, Come smell our dairy air!

This was a place you could feel confident in getting a fair deal, a firm handshake and frostbite, the first two being something you sought and the latter, something inevitable.

Regardless, it was also a place most folks felt safe enough to leave their car unlocked, their house unbolted, and most of their valuables strewn across the front lawn. In hindsight, that last one might have been more of an excess of liquor vs. a laissez faire attitude about life in general.

But I grew up with the mindset that keys were for treasure chests, lime pies and leaving in the ignition. Then I married a city boy. London liked to lock things. Like bicycles in chains and people in towers. They’re big on things that signify no loss of control. Tight ship, tight smiles. (Tight underwear?)

Image via Wikipedia

It’s taken me a while to get Sir Sackier to loosen his cravat. I think it’s been too tightly notched for so long that the blood supply to his eyes throws floaters in front of his vision in the shape of men with sharp teeth and wicked intent.

“Was the UPS guy really delivering a legal document, or scoping out the joint? Let the dog bark a bit, just enough to register. But then tell them that this dog is a piece of cake in comparison to the nest of pit bulls out back we’re all trying to rehabilitate, but can’t drive the blood thirst from. Make sure he hears you shout to someone inside that you’ll be right there. Women alone in the house are an easy target.”

Which brings me to our new amulets to ward off evil.

Image via Wikipedia

No, it’s not a special necklace made from the woven hair of our enemies. It’s called the Redneck Remedy. I think it was meant to be a joke from Roger, our resident Renaissance Man. Roger has been working with us for the last year and a half or so, and come to find out, there is nothing this man hasn’t developed a skill set for. Landscaping? Check. Woodworking? Check. Fireman, mountaineer, sorcerer’s apprentice? Check, check and very likely so. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man came up the mountain having wrangled a team of oxen as his vehicle of choice for the week. He is Paul Bunyan. (But sports a tux with quiet grace should the occasion call for it.)

Roger, master craftsman that he is, whipped up a few dozen benches over the weekend that would have Frank Lloyd Wright secretly making sketch notes on the back of a napkin had he been around to see it. One was destined for our front porch—a place to take off your boots. Roger used the bench as a vehicle to display his sense of humor—and now according to Sir Sackier, our new security system.

An old pair of work boots lay beneath the bench. Worn out work gloves rest on top. Scattered beside them are tins of possum meat and chewing tobacco. And to round things off while sending home the message, a man-handled copy of Guns & Ammo magazine. If this doesn’t send any nefarious, plug-ugly ruffian a-scattering, then he can pause a moment longer to read the hand-scrawled note held down with an old railroad spike nestled beside the chew. That is, if he can read. Scroll through the slide show and let me know what you think. Should I still be allowed to invite the Avon Lady in for a cuppa joe since she went to all the trouble of making her way up here? Should Sir Sackier be banned from outfitting the tower with a machine gun nest? Should Roger, the Renaissance man be contracted by Plow & Hearth? I’m curious to know what you think.

~Shelley

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Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery this week (here) and what we’re all talkin’ about down in the pub (here).

29Dec2011

A countdown of sorts

Posted in blogging, Calendar, Family, Folklore, History, Humor, Math, Mountain life, Resolutions, Spirits, Survival, Virginia, Whisky, writing by Shelley Sackier

Mayan Exhibit (Photo credit: Chasqui (Luis Tamayo))

According to my daughter, and several dead Mayas, this may be my last chance to get a year’s worth of blogging in before it all ends. Apparently, 2012 is either going to finish with a spiritual transformation or the apocalypse. This makes it a teensy bit difficult to plan as I am steadfastly against most forms of change to begin with. Both require an element of preparation, and truth be told, I cannot fit one more thing into my schedule as it is. If some sort of sacred conversion is about to take place, it’ll probably have to manage without my knowing or assistance. And if it ends up that our planet has been slated for destruction because of some hyperspatial express route, then who cares if I’m wearing clean underwear or not, or any underwear for that matter.

What does matter are the number of single malt scotches I have within reach on my pantry shelves when the end is nigh. As the sickle of Death makes a clean slice through my veins, the only prayer in my head is one that beseeches all deities to grant my last request: the one that appeals for a full dram or two to be coursing through said veins at the moment He cleaves. I’ll leave in peace—or in pieces as it may be, but content nonetheless.

One year, I agreed. I’ll blog for a year. How painful can it be to conjure up words to describe weekly life a thousand feet up in a verdant Virginia? Except that it is. The excruciating parts are the ones where you reread about your life and the many asinine adventures you throw yourself into. Therapeutic, you say? Hogwash, I answer. I’m private. I’m truculent. And defiantly deaf. Except … I’ll do anything for a bottle not already present in my pantry. A good old fashioned bribe. Okay, and maybe the children. For the good of the children. And don’t forget world peace. I suppose I’d feel obligated.

Yes, to accept that for the small price of one measly year I’ll see an increase in my stock, adolescent utopia and a little world peace, I say … welcome to a piece of my world.

Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery this week (here) and what we’re all talkin’ about down in the pub (here).