Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Pandemic?

Wouldn't you know it. A few days before a scheduled trip, virus hell breaks loose. As if we didn't have enough to worry about with birds sucked into jet engines, now we have to worry about viruses spreading among the passengers by air recirculated during a four-hour flight. I'm telling you, I have a couple of masks in my purse and a whole handful of antibacterial wipes. I'm ready. You'll read about me: "Before she was subdued and handcuffed, she wiped down three coughing passengers and a flight attendant who [she said] looked feverish."

I'm just kidding, of course. I'd never have the guts to do that. Unless, of course, WHO raises the pandemic alert level to six before our return. At level six, I might wipe down the whole plane.

Wacky and paranoid? I have good reasons. Late in 1968 I caught the Hong Kong flu because a goofball co-worker didn't have sense enough to stay home when he got sick. I thought I was going to die. In the early 80s, I caught the Bangkok flu, again at work. I was sure I was going to die that time. I survived both, obviously, but here's what I learned. Goofballs go to work, and to school, and fly on airplanes, even when they're sick and probably contagious. That's why they're called goofballs. And that's why I'm traveling with antibacterial wipes.

Friday's Excuses for Not Working on My Novel

1. Critiques to do for writers' group.

2. A trip to the post office to mail materials to publisher.

3. Write and post blog.

4. Answer important e-mails. Scan unimportant e-mails.

5. Tried to figure out where the time goes.

Seven Things I Learned About Twitter in the First Three Days

I spent most of my first three days on Twitter reading random Tweets and searching for Twitterers to follow. Here's what I've learned so far:

1. I have more fun stalking (I mean "following") people I know than following strangers. For instance, I find it incredibly motivating to know a friend in my town has already planted cool weather veggies in her garden. My To Do List now includes “buy seeds.” I don’t care so much that whozit in whozitville is going to the grocery store.

2. The only public figures I care about are those who tell me something important in their Tweets. I decided to follow John McCain, at least for a while, because he’s relatively new on Twitter and doesn’t send Tweets umpteen million times a day. I get the sense that his Tweets provide real information to his constituents.

3. A Twitterer with a great following is guykawasaki. This guy Tweets about cool stuff and often includes links to blogs or articles of great interest, but does the man do anything else? Other Tweets got lost in the guykawasaki flow, so I dropped him to make my Twitter Home Page experience manageable.

4. Signing up on Twitter invited followers I didn't know. They seem to be spammers, in a way, because I saw their ad information when I checked their profiles. I block them.

5. The little box in which I'm supposed to type my Tweet has a counter that keeps track of the remaining characters allowed. When faced with this small space, and that counter, my brilliant thoughts fly out the window and my mind goes blank. This is Tweet Block. I’m working on it.

6. I’m not sure my time on Twitter is any more valuable than the time I spend on e-mail. However, once I’m happy with my website and have my blog up and running, I’ll try to pick up some traffic with Tweets. I’ll let you know how that goes.

7. Twitter is not the place for someone prone to communication addiction. However, I’m there anyway -- http://twitter.com/PStoltey.

White bricks and hollyhocks

When I was very young, maybe three or four years old, my mother and I stayed with my father's parents while Dad was in the army. My grandparents lived on a farm in central Illinois in an old two-story brick farmhouse painted white. I can picture the white paint chipping off the bricks, smell lye soap boiling in an iron pot over an open fire near the back porch, feel my fear and excitement as my grandfather lifted me onto the back of a mountainous brown work horse named Dolly.

The farmhouse is gone, torn down years ago. I still see it as clearly as if I'd visited the farm yesterday.

There, or perhaps later on another farm, clusters of hollyhocks were tucked in corners near a fence and behind a ramshackle shed. Turn an old-fashioned wooden clothespin legs down. Pull a hollyhock blossom over the head and secure it at the waist. Draw a face on the head of the clothespin. Add a leaf bonnet.

I think I'll plant hollyhocks in the corner of our yard near the fence this year.

And perhaps I'll put a white brick farmhouse in my next novel.