All Kinds of Stuff Going On

My blog has been dormant since my birthday weekend, but the past two weeks have been anything but filled with lazy, idle moments. I am working full time at my day job for which I earn a steady regular income that pays for my hobbiz (a word I coined to describe my writing and drawing). I need to be able to buy the supplies I require to do both, so that's why I work, to support the fun things in life that I do. John's income pays for everything else he and I need.

Anyway, the big art, literature, and music festival, Articulture, is coming up this Saturday, May 4th,here in Westfield. This year I am appearing as both an author and an artist. This is only my third appearance as an artist (PumpkinFest last October, Shop Small last November being the first and second). I just began drawing in pen & ink again last September for International Art Drop Day. I drew two black squirrels, Rail Walker and Sitting Pretty, reprising my black squirrel art from 1999-2000, the black squirrel silhouette I drew at that time still gracing The Black Squirrel line of t-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, and gifts. We kept it quiet that I drew the silhouette back then, but I also drew four realistic squirrels in pen & ink. My former boss for whom I drew the silhouette for his merchandise line owns one original. My best friend, Darlene, owns another. Now the squirrel is out of the bag that I am the artist who drew that black squirrel, but now I am the artist who has my own line of closer to realistic black squirrel drawings. I call my line of squirrels BicycleCity Black Squirrels. My hometown is the home of Pope and Columbia bicycles.

So, I am scrambling to get all the art together in additional to making sure I have some books to sell. I have one new book since last year's event. In the past I've had up to three new books self published, but a combination of things slowed me down or diverted my energy since Articulture last year. I am doing way more than I should be doing, but don't have the heart to slow down just yet. (Or maybe it's just I don't have the common sense to slow down my rapid pace...)

I have a few new drawings down that will debut at Articulture, and have decided that I can let some original art go, for a reasonable price, so I have room for more art....and books.

I have made sure that Blue Umbrella Books has a good supply of pen & ink BicycleCity Black Squirrel prints, and BicycleCity Artworks wildlife, domestic animal, and birds pen and ink art prints as Westfield stands on the brink of celebrating its 350th anniversary of its founding in 1669. The month of May is going to be big here, and the bookstore is nestled right in the heart of downtown, across the street from the green where the massive birthday cake constructed for the event sits.

I have a speaking engagement at the Westfield Senior Center to talk about my books and my art. That will be on May 8th.

The WhipCity Wordsmiths meet on May 18th.

I'm a board member of Artworks of Westfield, the nonprofit group that sponsors Articulture. I'll also be representing the group during the event...three hats, one head.

I love what I do. I love this event. I've been passing out small posters to advertise the event and spread the word.

And I've been cleaning my house and preparing for a visit from my best friend, Carol. We met in college freshman year, were roomies sophomore year until we both transferred to different colleges, but we stayed friends. Many, many years later, we are still best of friends. She's coming to visit and to attend Articulture and help me out that day. My house was in a state of chaos after Kelly's moving out April 13th, and subsequent trips back and forth to sort through what's left of hers- what to keep, what to let go.

A co-worker has asked for a killer clown story. I don't write horror (The Monster in Me and The Hanging Man being my first and second attempts at it), but thought, for her, I'd take a stab at it. I've bounced a couple chilling ideas off fellow author and bookstore owner Russell Atwood and he's liked them so far. Now I need to bounce a few things off horror author, fellow Wordsmith, and friend Tom Deady because I'm interested in his opinion. Anything to do with clowns is scary for me since I have a clown phobia (a little better with age, but I was terrified of clowns when I was a child. I still get a weird feeling when I see one...when I was a kid I actually ran into the house and hid in my closet when a convertible full of clowns pulled onto our street. They were handing out Pepsi balloons and coupons for Pepsi...but still...I was scared of them!)

And I found a book at Barnes & Noble when I went with Kelly the Saturday night before Easter, the Magician's Lie by Greer Macallister, that I can't put down, although I've been forced to in order to sleep, eat, and go to work....but still, I am thoroughly enjoying it when I do find time to read.

Still debating what books are going to Articulture. I know White Bishop Among the Pawns will be one as there are a few people following that series. butterscotch has always been a favorite of mine, a collection of stories in which people struggle to find their way in sometimes unusual circumstances. So has Life, Death, Love, Cats & Dogs, an anthology of stories in which dogs and cats play a role in uniting couples. Life Skills and My Magical Life are also favorites of mine. Jazz.the talking, snarky cat with the heart of gold in My Magical Life is one of my all time favorite characters created. His origin was Jazz, a snarky, wisecracking, lascivious, misbehaving cat in a story, Final Respects, I wrote in the mid 1980's to entertain my co-workers in the campus police department where I was working at the time. I wrote a lot of satire back then. We'll see what goes with me as I'm packing the car on Thursday...

And tonight,the intriguing offer to sit in the front window of the bookstore and write a story...hmmm...life just jumped up a notch up on the crazy but fun thing to do meter.

Looking forward to what May brings into my world!

A Bittersweet Birthday Weekend

Kelly bought a house back in July 2018. Since then she has put a lot of work into making it the house she wants to call home.  Although there is still some work to do in the house, she decided to take advantage of a friend's moving this weekend by adding moving her bedroom furniture and a few other pieces of furniture plus some totes full of other household items to his moving list.

He and his son hauled some furniture in CT and then came up to move her furniture in the late morning. The cats were shut in the bedroom while Kelly's furniture was removed and loaded into the UHaul. Then off they went to unload at her house, leaving me with a nearly empty bedroom with those phantom indents from furniture having sat on the carpet for many years...eleven years for this bedroom set she got when she was sixteen years old.

I vacuumed dust and debris, then let the cats out. Revere was the first one to come and explore Kelly's room. He nosed around, then flopped on the carpet and rolled around, liking the open space. Riley showed up a little later on and froze just inside the doorway, looking all around, then looking at me. His tail was in the classic question mark position. He didn't like that his afternoon napping bed was gone!

Kelly was home for dinner Saturday night and to pick up some more things that fit in her SUV. Both cats were eager to show her that her furniture was missing from her room. They really don't understand the concept of moving out. We did take Revere to her house one night last summer while we were cleaning, but he didn't like that there was no furniture, and it didn't smell like home. He was nervous there.

This afternoon Revere heard her car in the driveway and went to the door to greet her, but she was in the garage talking to her father. She and I were headed to Target to get some things she still needed after shopping together this morning. I called him downstairs and she came in through the garage to pat him, rub his ears, and then she and I left.

We were home for my birthday dinner tonight. She also doesn't have internet at her house yet (Tuesday it's being installed), so she was on her computer in the den for a little while. Then, about 7PM she left.

Since she left Revere has been lying in a corner in her former room in the dark. I've gone in to see him a few times, to pat him and assure him that he'll see her again, and that it's all right that her furniture is gone. He looks sad tonight and I feel bad I don't know how else to comfort him. The missing furniture has him the most upset since she's gone away to college, taken week long vacations and other trips, gone to visit her former roommate, and gone off to work and volunteer at the trolley museum right along, so he's used to her coming and going. He cannot understand the missing furniture.

I know once we start painting the room and getting it ready for it's new purpose, a sort of guest room/workspace for me, that he'll be upset all over again, but there will be a futon he can sleep on.

Riley, on the other hand, is more vocal about the missing furniture as he napped every afternoon on her bed with the western sun coming through the window. He paces in her room then comes to the doorway and meows.

Both cats know something has changed and they aren't happy.

How do I feel? I'm both happy and sad. When you have a baby you have all these hopes and dreams for them. You want them to grown up to be the best person they can be. You invest a lot into guiding and advising, giving them opportunities to grow and discover themselves and find their way in the world. You're happy when they do well, and in the back of your mind you know the day will come when there will be this separation, this having to let go and let them continue to grow independently.

I feel I've done a fairly decent job of being a mother. I have to trust that she can handle living independent of us, of thriving in her own home. I wish her well, but I miss her terribly already. I'm grateful for instant messaging. I can message her, send her a picture and she can answer back in moments. She's sent me pictures of things she's accomplished- like putting an area rug down in her living room that she bought last evening. She's getting ready for the workweek tonight, but also moving things around, working out how best to layout her stuff so her house becomes more of a home over the next few weeks. We've been texting back and forth about items she forget. She's coming over tomorrow evening after dinner for another slice of birthday cake and to pick up items she forgot to take home tonight, and to check her email.

I have this fluttery feeling as some ties snap loose, but essentially, our core bonds are strong. She just lives across town from us now, a twenty minute drive. I am grateful she didn't move across country, or out of the country! John and I are fortunate our only child chose to stay nearby to her family. She has a good job. She has some friends she likes spending time with. We've talked about her adopting a cat from the homeless cat shelter. Maybe after her former roommates graduation from Brown (PhD.) she'll adopt a feline companion since she's grown up with cats in the house and she misses her cat Revere, but he's bonded with Riley and us. Separating him from his brother and leaving him alone for long periods of time would not be fair to a cat used to family and Riley. Adopting a new member of the family would be a good thing for her.

I miss my writing and drawing buddy. I'll miss nights at the kitchen table. Sometimes we laughed, sometimes we didn't even talk, both of us absorbed in separate projects or activities. It's the companionship, the pleasure of her company in my life I will miss the most. But, it was time.

I'm sure all parents go through this adjustment period when they suddenly find themselves alone again, a couple, not just Mom and Dad.

I've shed a few tears this weekend...but my heart isn't really sad. I'm just happy she's grown up the way she has and she's ready to soar with those wings of hers that will take her places.

Godspeed, Kelly! And always know the door here is always open to you whenever you want to come over. This will always be home for you, too.

The Prologue to Rookdale, a new novel coming out later this year

Here is a sneak peek at a new novel with witches and warlocks, set on the coast of Maine on the present day. The novel, Rookdale, will be released later this year.

No part of this preview can be used in any way without the express permission of the author. You can contact me through the blog if you wish to use any part of my work in order to obtain permission.

Rookdale is my copyrighted work, 2019

ROOKDALE

by 

Susan Buffum

Prologue

     I live three blocks from where I work downtown. Every day I pass old houses and buildings built in the mid-1600’s through the turn of the twentieth century. It’s rare to come across a structure built after the 1920’s here, unless you go north or south to the newer residential areas. Downtown Rookdale is actually more like a classic New England village. It is so scenic, so picturesque that it should be on picture postcards but as far as I know it isn’t. The town used to be called Rockdale, probably because of the ring of granite rocks out on the county road that jut up out of the earth like the broken teeth of a humongous dinosaur. Local legend is that the rock ring is haunted by ghosts of the witches hung, drowned or stoned to death back around the time of the Salem witch hysteria. It swept up the coast and into New Hampshire and then Maine.

     Rockdale wasn’t immune to the frenzy. Nine people were accused of witchcraft here in the late 1600’s, but the most famous “witch” was a real witch named Mercy Cooper who, it is said, transformed herself into a great black rook when she saw the sour-faced Magistrate Thayer coming to accuse her of sorcery and consorting with the devil. He had his constables with him. The story goes that this humongous black bird dove down from the branches of the great, silvery beech tree on the Cooper property and plucked the left eye right out of the Magistrate’s head. It then flew back up into the branches where it devoured the eyeball and then cawed raucously as if laughing. Of course there was a period of chaos after such a bizarre attack and no one ever saw where the bird flew off to. Mercy Cooper was found in her kitchen where she was dying wool for weaving. The dye, which happened to be red, was purported to be a potion containing droplets of the magistrate’s blood. She vehemently denied the accusation but was hauled off to jail protesting her innocence nonetheless. Of course, back in those days the men of Church and Law dominated the courts and poor Mercy Cooper had no one but her immediate family—a husband crippled in a farming accident and three sturdy teenaged sons—to vouch for her.

     She was found guilty of witchcraft and was promptly hung from the beech tree on her own property. The sons were not allowed to cut her down for seven days. How gruesome was that? Anyway, on the eighth day she was cut down from the tree and quietly buried in the family cemetery on the property with the Reverend Fowler intoning numerous prayers over her to trap her evilness beneath the earth, sprinkling her with holy water (while probably hoping to see and hear her not so fresh flesh sizzle). When he was finished with his religious falderal the Cooper’s quietly filled the hole with dirt and placed a simple stone with the name Mercy carved on it over her final resting place.

     Here’s the truth of it, she was a witch, and a damn fine one. It was just a fluke that she was singled out as she kept to herself mostly She made the mistake of cursing a sharp-tongued young woman named Abigail Smith who happened to be pregnant at the time. Abigail delivered a stillborn infant, not unusual at that time as medicine was very crude still and prenatal care was nonexistent and, of course, in her grief, she recalled Mercy Cooper cursing her and blamed the woman for the baby’s death, citing witchcraft. If Mercy had held her tongue she’d have been fine. Her weaving skills were, quite simply, amazing, and she made the brightest dyes from natural ingredients she found on her property and in the surrounding woods. She had a book she kept her dye recipes in, but rumor has it that the book was confiscated, presented at her trial as evidence of her sorcery and spell-making, and burned in the village square.

     You can find all this information in the Rockdale Public Library which sits between the Rockdale Historical Society and the Rockdale Municipal Building. These are now, of course, known as the Rookdale Public Library, the Rookdale Historical Society and the Rookdale Municipal Building, but the carved stone lintels tell you otherwise as it would prove too costly to replace them with the new name of the town so we’ve all learned to ignore the old names and just refer to them by their new names, which totally confuses tourists who can’t figure out where the hell they really are when they wind up out this way.

     By the way, I’ve spent a lot of time at the Rookdale Historical Society. It’s situated in an original 1600’s single-story house with three rooms with a small mid-twentieth century addition off the back that houses a tiny kitchen and a lavatory.  Mrs. Lydia Argyll is the curator of the collection of books, diaries, manuscripts, artifacts, antiques, old photographs, early family portraits and landscapes, crumbling old business ledgers and various public and private papers that comprise the collection housed there. She is about as old as the house—just kidding! But she’s got to be in her nineties at least. I love her dearly and have spent a lot of time there sipping Earl Gray tea and nibbling dry digestive biscuits while listening to her relate Rookdale’s history as if she lived through its entirety and had firsthand knowledge of all the families and events that have occurred here since it was founded in the late 1630’s.

New Interview at NFReads

Here is my interview with NFReads- enjoy!

The Scavenger

Here is the story I wrote and read for Ghost Stories Live! on March 23rd. This one has a western flavor to it, and revisits the hanging man theme, but in a different way from the original The Hanging Man story in the anthology by the same name (The Hanging Man and Other Stories). I hold the copyright to The Scavenger and it cannot be used without my permission.

The Scavenger by Susan Buffum

His left boot heel was loose, fallin’ away from the sole, a few odd bits of hay and some dried mud stuck in the gap like whiskers pokin’ from a dog’s snout. I thought I could fix that boot with a small nail or two and it’d be almost good as new. It’d be a shame to waste a pair of boots when they wasn’t all that worn. The toe was scuffed some, but the kind o’ man lookin’ for a secondhand pair of boots wouldn’t mind that much.

I peered hard at the right boot. Other than a two-inch long scar in the leather of the instep, and the same heavy layer of dust all over, it looked just fine to my eyes. I’d take ‘em just the way they were. They were good boots. I’d be able to sell ‘em right quick enough.

My eyes moved to the pants. Old, made of gray wool, a few faded yellow remnants of stripes up the outside seams. Confederate soldier.  I glanced up at his face, but in the near dark it was hard to tell what he really looked like. Did southerners look any different from northerners? I hadn’t noticed an accent. Maybe he’d bought these pants off a soldier? Or maybe he’d stolen them off a dead body on a battlefield? I was prob’bly better off not knowin’. They still had some wear in ‘em. I’d take ‘em.

The vest was brown canvas, the deep pockets saggin’ but empty. I didn’t expect there to be anythin’ in ‘em anyway. One button was missin’, just a piece of brown thread danglin’, but the other two was still sewn on.

The shirt was striped hickory, white and brown.  I could see a few stains on it, food, prob’bly. It could be laundered. Not too frayed at the cuffs. I could get somethin’ for it, I was sure.

And the coat, well, more wear and tear visible—dusty, dirty, frayed and worn cuffs and collar, some tears that might be mendable with a careful needle and thread. I’d take it, see what I could do with it. And the bandana was still bright red, fairly new. I nodded, satisfied. That was nice.

No hat. No gloves. Belt’d been removed, someone else’s prize.

It’d all need a good launderin’. Truth be told, it all stunk to high heaven. But, it could be washed.

I turned my face up to the evening sky, watching three crows wing by. Purple clouds hung like a pall over the distant blue mountains, obscuring their peaks. A gust of wind caused the branches of the old cottonwood tree to creak like an old granny’s bones. It moaned through the nearly barren branches, rattlin’ what leaves remained on ‘em.

Sighin’, I grabbed the top of the left boot and began tuggin’ downward on it. A few hard pulls and it came free. I tossed it aside and grabbed the other. More resistance with this one. The left leg jerked, the foot kickin’ me in the elbow. “Stop it,” I growled, soundin’ like a feral dog unwillin’ to give up its bone.

With sheer will, I tugged the right boot free. Dusky toes poked through unravelin’ brown yarn. Not worth savin’ by any means. I reached up to unfasten the pants, wrinklin’ my nose, wet material brushin’ against my bare forearm. “No dignity in death,” I muttered as the left leg jerked again, kickin’ my hip this time. “Oh, stop yer fussin’,” I grumbled irritably, workin’ the buttons free one after the other.

The pants fell heavily to the ground. I kicked ‘em aside, duckin’ ‘round behind him to cut his wrists loose. His hands were dusky like his feet, fingers curled like bear claws. My knife sawed through the rope fairly quick and his arms swung free.

I had to haul an old crate over and climb up onto it, but still I had to reach up to grasp the shoulders of his coat to pull it off him. I threw it aside, jumped down, moved around in front of him, reset the crate, and climbed back up. I warned myself not to look at his face.

I warned myself…

…but my eyes rose as of their own will and I found myself lookin’ into wide-open brown eyes, the whites darkened by blood. Some blood had run from his nose and one corner of his mouth leavin’ dark trails behind. Closer up, I could see blood on his shirt and vest in drips and streaks. Well, I could wash it all out, I reasoned. Soak it long enough and it’d all come clean.

I reached up to begin unbuttonin’ the shirt. The vest was already undone. As I worked the second button through the buttonhole the body began to sway and jerk around some. The wind had kicked up again, the tree branches chatterin’ and clackin’ overhead. I shivered. The wind was awful cold.

As I worked the third button free, his arm came up and that claw-like hand grasped my wrist. I thought it was just some weird trick, my wrist becomin’ trapped in the cage-like curvin’ of his fingers, but then I felt those fingers tightenin’ around my flesh and I looked up.

I looked up into the now leerin’ face of the dead man…and suddenly, all around me, like terrible ornaments, a hundred hangin’ men were suddenly danglin’ from that tree, bodies swingin’ and swayin’ in the wind, dancin’ that dead man’s jig I’d seen at every hangin’ since I was a kid.

I screamed and fell backwards off the crate, but that hand, that horrible hand held me fast, my feet danglin’ above the ground. “Let go!” I cried.  “Let go of me!” My voice seemed lost in the wind and the clatterin’ of the branches. My heart felt about to burst. “Let me go!”

The three crows had circled back and were now perched high up in the branches, their raucous cries mockin’ my own cries.

And I knew, I knew as well as I’d ever known anythin’ in this life, that my days of scavengin’, of stealin’ from the dead were over.

RE:Literary Division, US Copyright Office

As an author/writer, I automatically hold the copyright of my written work. I could just include "copyright by Susan Buffum" plus the date I self publish my work on a page in the book, but I wanted to go a little further to protect my work, so decided to apply for the copyright on my self-published books using the TX form to register my published work.

I have done this for every book I've self published, obtaining a registration number on a certificate with the date the book was registered. I've sent along two good copies of each book with the application which evidently go into the Library of Congress.

I have sent quite a few applications along with the $85 fee per book plus the two copies required...and have gotten my certificates in the mail anywhere from 6 to 10 months later (average is 8 months).

Today I received not one, but two separate emails from an examiner by the name of M. Day, Literary Division, Office of Registration Policy & Practices, United State Copyright Office.

The first was in regards to my application for The Hanging Man and Other Stories. This diligent examiner had been going over my application and looking through the copies of the book I'd sent with it. The examiner was writing "to clarify the extent of the copyright claim" after noticing that the artwork on the cover was drawn by me and credited to me inside in the text pages of the book. (Wicked observant examiner! I'm impressed!)

I was asked if my copyright claim actually extends to the cover artwork, and if so and the artwork had not been previously published or previously registered, asking me to authorize M. Day to add "2-D artwork" to my authorship statement.

I duly authorized M. Day to add the cover art to my claim. Sweet!

Email #2 was in regards to the self-published book Disturbing, which is an anthology with stories written by both me and my daughter Kelly. I really wasn't sure how to complete the form for this one with both of us jointly authoring the text portion.

I was asked to authorize the change of the word "stories" to "text" in the application, which I did.

M. Day then went on to explain we created a joint work. "A work is considered a joint work if the authors intended for their contributions to be merged into an inseparable whole. The authors of a joint work jointly own the copyright in each other's contributions and each owns an undivided interest in the work as a whole. This means that each author has a right to use or license the work. On the other hand, a work is not a 'joint work' if each author owns his/her contribution only."

I was surprised to hear from the copyright office, and happy I hadn't messed up my email address on the application as I sometimes do!

The emails were brief, courteous, helpful, and informative. They were easy to respond to. Issues were resolved quickly and satisfactorily.

So, yes, when you mail off the application, check, and copies of your book it does land in a real office where real people review your application and look through the printed pages of your book and take note of artwork and photographs on the covers.

It was a positive experience, and a learning experience today.

One of My Black Squirrels Was Chosen

I am so thrilled that Acorn, one of my black squirrel pen & ink drawings was chosen to grace the reverse side of one of the special wooden nickels made to celebrate Westfield, MA's 350th anniversary. The wooden nickels will be hidden at 14 locations around the city, geocached for treasure hunters to find. I'm excited about being included in the 350th anniversary of my home town!

Here's Acorn. His image is reversed on the coin.