We are neighbors, practically, our little town and the good citizens of Salem, MA, including its considerable Witch or Wiccan community.  It’s about a 45-minute ride into the center of Salem to visit the Peabody Essex Museum or grab lunch at Pickering Wharf.  Or, best of all, a couple hours to explore the old city center, the narrow streets, quaint old inns and houses, and the dozens of boutiques and restaurants with their intriguing names and clever, arty window displays – at least half of them on the theme of witches.  Witches, witches, everywhere. Yes, the hokey, wart-nosed, story-book type. And the for-real, spell-casting, Samhain-celebrating witches. And, too, the so-called witches, several dozen or so people, who were tried and hung in Salem in 1692.

There is no end to the fright fest which is Salem, MA in October.  Haunted Happenings Magazine publishes a guide of all things witch-related: The Witch Dungeon Museum, The Witch History Museum, The World of Witches, and the Witches Cottage. Let us not forget the Witches Hide, The Witch Mansion, and “Cry Innocent”, a reenactment of the 1692 trial.  Along the marked trail, tourists can also find Frankenstein’s Lab, Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery, Terror Fantasies, and Salem’s 13 Ghosts. I’m not making this stuff up.  If there’s a way to make a buck off the spooky and supernatural, someone has figured it out.  Somewhere along the line, the fright aspect of Halloween in Salem became commercial and festive. With costumes, decorations, and candy, the darker aspects of the history of witches in America were white-washed and defanged.

And yet, real witches do live and practice in Salem. I picked up a pamphlet published by the Witches’ Education League, a non-profit organization whose purpose is “to educate society about the truth of Witches and their beliefs” by answering FAQ’s such as “What is a Spell?” and “Is every Witch in a Coven”?  In addition, they have a website and a list of charities they donate to.  In Haunted Happenings Magazine, one of the events for October 31 is the 15^th Annual Samhain Feast, a Dumb (Silent) Supper, and Witches Magic Circle on the Salem Common, featuring ritual drummers and a candlelight procession. These witches are serious, they’re public and they’re a definite presence among the festivities in the city. While not seen as dangerous or subversive to mainstream society, they still are seen and see themselves as those apart.

Both of these developments stem from and refer back to the witch trials of 1692 – still a mystery to historians and students of human nature. From the 21^st century point of view, it doesn’t seem likely that an active coven of witches in the Salem (Danvers) area truly conspired to cause harm and mayhem. Today, we think it likely the “hysteria” arose from fear, repression, anger and jealousy – the constraints, particularly on women, of living in Puritan New England. As I wandered through the memorial stones of those women (and a man) that were put to death by their neighbors, I wonder what the truth is. I don’t believe any of them were in pact with the devil to cast evil spells. On the other hand, it’s possible that the practice of Wiccan or witchcraft was carried across the sea by some women. Or that Tituba, or other slaves, developed an underground market in herbs and rituals. That part of our society, the secret knowledge of women, has existed for thousand of years, and will continue, as long as needed. And the fear and persecution of those perceived as different or a threat to the power structure will last as long. But I don’t believe there was evil in 1692, until the judges agreed to murder; when mercy is lost, the devil has won.

What I take away from this latest visit to Salem is a particular memory – a note inside a plastic holder placed on the memorial stone of one of those hanged women. A woman had come there to appeal to other visitors, if they might be related, cousins, descendents of that woman who died as a witch. The note writer had done some genealogy research and traced her line back to that other woman, long dead. She had children, and they had children, and their gggg grandchildren walk the earth today. A most human story, nothing supernatural about it.

I thought my attraction to the Inspector Morse/ Lewis TV series was due to my innate love of good mystery stories and awe of well-done British programs.  Turns out it was the sex — the sexual appeal of the three detectives who star in the series: Morse, in his 50’s to 60; Lewis, from 40’s to 50’s and Hathaway in his 30’s. No, it’s not X rated, or even R. And none of them ever takes off their clothes, which is probably a good thing. As smitten as I am, I’m quite sure these guys would not make it onto a hunks calendar or a People Magazine listing of most sexy men. In the course of fifty or so episodes ranging over maybe 15 years, only three or four times is there a suggestion that desire is consummated.  It’s just not like that.

There’s plenty of adultery in the show.  It’s a common theme in mysteries, but for modern British drama, almost a requirement.  It’s what they do for fun. All of the upper class, God knows. And much of the intelligentsia, since the show takes place in Oxford. A viewer might conclude that not cheating shows a lack of initiative, or that what the English look for in marriage is not life-long devotion and loyalty. A bit European that way, while we Americans are stuck on “happily ever after”. In any case, it’s not these guys who are cheating.  Morse is a life-long bachelor, Lewis is happily married until his wife dies in a car accident, and Hathaway contemplated the priesthood before becoming a cop, and wavers a bit over his sexual orientation early on. 

But, were I not married, and they were real, not characters, I could fall for any one of the three.  They couldn’t be more different: Morse, a bit arrogant and snobbish in a city of snobs; he loves operas and crosswords, and to drink.  Lewis, up from the working class of Northern England with his Geordie accent —  not so refined, but cheerful and easygoing, until his wife’s death makes him sharper and darker.  Hathaway, tall, thin, and blonde with his drawn, horselike face, “an awkward sod” as Lewis describes him, gifted but shy.  To me, all three are romantic in the sense that they yearn for closeness with a mate, and yet remain skeptical that they are able or worthy.  It’s the way they relate to women, always respectful and trying to understand their point of view – part of the job. Working around death on an everyday basis gives them a depth others don’t have.   And because they rely on each other at work in solving problems and in seeking justice, they know the importance of human relationships, which not all men learn easily.

Largely, it’s their voices, I think, but not simply the accents.  And their foibles and eccentricities, that the English do so well, without having to make it comic, a la “Monk.” It’s their imperfections and their suffering, not their super-powers and straight, white teeth. And the histories they carry with them. In one of the most affecting scenes, Hathaway goes to dinner with a childhood friend, Scarlett, on the eve of her marriage to a rich fellow to save the family fortune. They share a line from A.E. Houseman about the “land of lost content” — their shared childhood, when he once walked her down the aisle while playmates cast petals.  It’s all the old affections, regrets, and innocence lost, along with wine and loneliness that pull them together.  All those levels of caring and meaning, not simply “what a catch.”

Real attraction, I think, works that way. It’s hardly ever about beauty and merit – but more about the cracked pot and the broken lid that come together to make a whole, even if temporarily.  No question that people are attracted to men and women of status — or think they are. Also, that desire is motivated by how they think others will view their esteemed object – what we used to call in literature, “mediated desire”. That is, Sam wants Pam because she is valued by Tom, for whatever reason. But this I believe, in private, desire is much simpler and more to do with being seen, heard, and felt, than with seeing or possessing.  That’s why passion flares in unlikely places and between unlikely people, depending on the circumstances. And that fat doesn’t matter, or blind, or poor, especially to the young and open-hearted. Sure, we are animals and respond to someone who looks fit and strong, but that’s hardly ever enough to touch our hearts. 

Maybe I’m fooling myself, and these are just myths I like to believe. But I’ve been around the block a few times, and I’ve seen a few things. I still think that, in a given situation, that a certain look, a certain signal, and most guys are good to go – with someone who likes them, who smiles nicely at them. Alright, maybe that’s the old days, and not so true anymore.  Haven’t tested that theory in a while. What I do know is that if there’s drinking and flirting, there’s danger, and so I keep a distance since I want to preserve my marriage. There’s desire that burns, when it’s one-sided, or the timing is not right. But there’s desire that’s sweet, with the most human of men – like those on Morse.

MAG

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of
each other
Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere.
Yes, I'm wishing now you lived somewhere away from here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away
dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come.

A good poem to teach: simple language, repetition, no obscure references except bumpers (trains/boxcars); specific, concrete details: license and white dress, rent and coal and clothes. There’s that alliteration we like: bum, bumpers, broke; and long…last.  And a beautiful image of love, “always and always as long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere” – isn’t that just the “better or poorer” part of the wedding vows?  And, not least, the strong, clear emotion. I liked to offer this in comparison to the lyrical lines of Yeats, “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” – also from a man to his beloved.

And, I always used to joke, what about that name, Mag?  Kind of like nag?  Kind of like “Maggie” in Rod Stewart’s Song: “Oh, Maggie, I wish I’d never seen your face?”

I tell them it is a love poem. But what has happened to the love? Listen, I say, to “bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away dead broke.” How does that sound?  Bam-bam-bam – that’s the sound of a man punching his wife – since he can’t express his anger, his frustration, his failure and humiliation in other ways.  Or, he becomes verbally abusive. Or he leaves his family high and dry. Because he can’t do his part to “take care of each other always and always….”.

I thought the lines were safely dated, but they ring true today about people I know.  If Wall Street greed brought everyone more jobs and more prosperity, I could understand how the wheels of capitalism must be allowed to turn freely. But it doesn’t. It brings larger gaps, more social problems, suffering and violence.  And doesn’t it damage the souls of those who accumulate wealth they can never spend in some kind of crazy gamesmanship with other rich people, while others struggle to provide beans and prunes to their children? And watch love turn to bitterness?

What I know for sure about improving one's writing: 
Read more.  Write more.  And your writing will improve.  

Read.  Newspapers.  Magazines. On the Internet. Discarded newspapers if you are watching your budget. Go to the library. Pick up books at used book sales.  Book swap with friends or family.  

Notice why you liked something you read, and didn't like something else. 

Write. Grab a pad, or a piece of paper—even the back of a flyer that arrived in the mail—and write what was on your mind today.  After work.  This morning when you woke up.  After you had the disagreement with your partner.  What words most clearly express what you are thinking?  Feeling?  Wishing had happened?  Wishing would happen? Describe your dreams in living color. Tell your story. Play with words. Taste them. Savor them. Then let them go...  

Then what?  Your appetite is whetted. You want more time to taste, savor, explore these words, your thoughts, your stories. Grabbing moments here and there to read or write is rarely enough for either professional writers or writers working to become published authors.  Life interferes and moments to read, ponder, write, are always too short, too few. 
A common question at writing retreats and workshops and in critique groups is always, How do you find time to write?  Many of us are parents, all of us have family and/or professional obligations. 

HOW can I find time to write?

Two of us writers have decided to do something to support this hungry writer in us and our colleagues, to support this desire to believe enough in ourselves to take this time, to answer the urge to clear the decks, get away from the rest of our lives for awhile, and write. 

And Writeaway Retreats was born.

Meet your hosts:

Me, Beverly Breton Carroll, a professional author, nonfiction and fiction, who started her career selling travel pieces to the Baltimore and Washington, D.C., newspapers and in-flight magazines.

And my colleague, Robin Grace, a travel guide with Collette Tours and former newspaper reporter currently polishing her first book. 

We have embarked on creating reasonably-priced, writing-focused retreats.  There is power in numbers. Not only for the pocket books, but for the muses. The collective energy of writers meeting and writing together is unquestionably more than the sum of the parts. Seems our muses can't resist flocking in to join a good party of their own!  

We hope all of you writers out there, looking for this supporting space and supporting place, will join us. Our upcoming retreat is November 3-6, 2011, in Ogunquit, Maine, oceanside, at the Anchorage by the Sea. Write in our designated writing area, work in your room, or brainstorm in one of the inn's public spaces. Sit at the ocean’s edge, inspired by the sea air and sound of the waves. If a reflective stroll is what you need, the scenic Marginal Way walking path borders the inn. Swim in the pool or relax in the Jacuzzi to rejuvenate the mind and body. Join an informal roundtable to talk about a specific aspect of writing, or share your work at a retreat community reading. Whatever your pleasure, you will be indulged. 

Write on!

For prices, and to register for the upcoming Ogunquit retreat, go to www.writeawayretreats.com

I have an odd hobby.  Not so much weird as unusual.  Lots of people have odd hobbies – or so it seems to those who don’t share their interest: war trophies, Princess Di memorabilia, bug collections, etc. But mine is unique among people I know. Yet it gives me pleasure, takes up a fair amount of my mental time and space, and has driven me to new levels of creativity that I haven’t found in my writing.  Every couple months, I rotate the décor in my main bathroom according to themes, primarily seasonal, ethnic and cultural — everything from Venetian Carnival to wildlife and marshland. A travel brochure in a bathroom; a booth at the world bazaar. Something to look at while toothbrushing or on the pot.

It started, I think, with a change from the generic color-matching décor of the house we bought in 1994 to something more holiday and Christmassy.  The bathroom is a sandy/beige color tile with hunter green wallpaper with tiny white flowers. This we inherited from the original owners in very good shape, except for the tell-tale nail holes where they had hung their pictures, etc.  There is a HomeGoods store in our town which goes mad with inexpensive holiday decorations. After decorating the living room and kitchen areas, it was easy to spread into Christmas towels and a Rudolph wall hanging. And a small snowman.  Then I found, by accident, a Christmas-themed shower curtain, and I was hooked.  A couple candles, star-studded cup and toothbrush holder – the room was transformed.

Halloween came next – a fun holiday when you have small children, and so many easy decorations to put up.  That was a natural, especially after I found a shower curtain with some cheerful pumpkins.  I simply took down the old pictures and dry flower ornaments from the wall, and replaced with cats and ghosts in the same nail holes. Easy.  From there, summertime and the sea, then France, Ireland, Chinese New Year, the American southwest, Mexico, Africa.  Armenia, my husband’s background, was a challenge; and French Canada, I had my doubts. A few hockey sticks, the red maple leaf, a printout of my ancestor’s genealogy, a beaver and a canoe – voila!

The principles are simple: inexpensive, lightweight items, easy to hang or place on the toilet tank, and not breakable, except when I ventured into decorative plates and plate hangers. Items from thrift shops, Homegoods or ebay, if necessary. I have good luck at the annual “baggage sale” at a local assisted living, where many professors and world travelers have come to retire.  As close to authentic and/or homemade as I can find. The items from Japan, for instance: a Noh face mask, a nori curtain, a hand fan, chopsticks and holder, all Japanese made. Ireland – a dish towel and tea cozy that I picked up on my trip in 2005. One of the most fun items is a shower curtain with Mexican lottery cards – beautiful illustrations with the Spanish word for each object.

Why? I think to share the world with my children. To make a sense of occasion. To learn and study, and to have fun.  A substitute for travel, or way to display my travel experiences? I don’t understand myself exactly why I do it, and I admit it smacks of the eccentric.  For a person who tends to examine her motives quite closely, I don't get this irrational drive, this quest. In honesty, I don't get too passionate about much, perhaps from my legacy of early loss, and learning not to hold on to things. But just when I think I have no real yearnings, I find myself on the hunt for a Navaho wedding pitcher or a French fur trade cross.  And when I find it, the excitement, even while I smile, recognizing that it's a bit silly - for a bathroom, for heaven's sake. Still, maybe I like the idea of that mysterious force that moves me, recognizing there are still parts of my heart unplumbed.

No one sees the decor but us and our occasional guests. None of the things are valuable, and most will eventually be donated or given away. I think, perhaps, I’m coming to the end, as there are not too many other themes that call to me, and my attention now goes to other things. But for a time, decorating the bathroom was my great pleasure and my odd hobby.

I can now say I’m a writer.  I have a book to show it is so.  Of course, a writer is one who writes, and may never share anything with the world.  So, perhaps a writer doesn’t need an audience, other than him or herself.  It’s more, perhaps, the act of discovering what you think and feel as you write sentences on the page that defines a writer. 

Still, I have a book. And I have a growing audience. Yet, it’s not as I pictured it – both better and worse.  There was no grand announcement of a newly published book, cleaned, vetted and gussied up by a traditional publisher with knowledge, experience and reputation.  No advance, of course. No fancy cover designs to choose from. No marketing blitz.  No display at the bookstore.

Just a book, self-published. I like the cover well enough, but it could be better.  Some days after I submitted the approved files to createspace.com, the self-publishing website, the page for my book appeared on Amazon.com – without fanfare or even an email to tell me it was there.  Sometime later, createspace distributed the book to Barnes and Noble, and other channels – again, a surprise to me. In fact, the timing of the published book – June, coincided with end of school year, Dylan back from college, summer vacation, no one around, and kind of a general black hole of communication.  The plans I had for marketing and promotion all went on hold. 

Yet, things are happening. At this point I’ve sold over 80 copies, and given away a good 20 more – to my mom, those who helped me, etc., some as gifts.  Readers from 18 to 92 (my Aunt Tesha).  So far, four male readers, including my brother, a brother-in-law, and a former sweetheart in California. Slowly but surely, the word is spreading, and I hear, out of the blue, someone else has read it – and, liked it, it seems.  Ladies from church, neighbors down the street, Facebook friends, my son’s roommate at Duke’s mother who lives in California, an acquaintance from my brother’s high school class, a college friend of Donald’s!  My book has been taken on vacation to Canada and Cape Cod.  A friend has downloaded it on her Kindle to read while undergoing treatments at Massachusetts General Hospital. Maybe funniest, is one of my mother’s friends in Dillsburg, PA – from that hearty German stock that the protagonist, Gretchen, comes from, with their good hearts and sometimes narrow religious views.  The story seems to have passed muster with New Yorkers, Midwest folks, Hispanic folks, and readers of various religious persuasions who have read it.  I encouraged them to tell me otherwise.

And the book clubs.  I expect most of the members of my book group will order it, and I think probably vote on it for a book to read in 2012.  My mother-in-law, God bless her, has taken orders for 14 books (plus 2 Kindle) for her book group, who will read it for October meeting, where I will be a guest.  My sister-in-law is trying to get my book lined up for her book group.  And, so it goes. 

In truth, it’s a funny thing to be read by those who know you, or think they do. For some of them, it’s a bit awkward.  They want to read the book, to support me and out of curiosity.  But, there’s a certain fear they might not like it, or find it not that good.  Plus, the actual difficulty of knowing me, and wrestling with what part of me is in the story events or in the characters.  Plus, fellow writers have an eye toward writing blips – which all writers have – and sometimes can’t distance themselves from some of the problems, in spite of what else might be quite good, or easier to accept for someone with more distance.  One of the most gratifying moments I had was the response from a woman in my writing group, who had slogged through all the early drafts and false starts.  But, on vacation this summer, she read it through and enjoyed it!  I think she was as surprised as I was that, in spite of its imperfections, there really is a story there.

Anyway, I write.  I think I have a story in mind, and it comes out quite different than what I originally thought.  I think I have a certain audience in mind (the community college students), and yet, there, too, it’s others entirely!  To write is to change, and I’m quite certain that the person I am now is not the same person I was when I set out to write this book quite some time ago.  In truth, it's been quite a long time that I've been writing - since elementary school, perhaps. But, now I'm a writer with a book and with readers!

There seems to be a pattern of natural disasters in areas I have recently visited, myself and/or with family. This sounds absurd, but I don’t find it so funny. Let’s review the facts:

Most recently, I visited — Vermont! The region in this area most devastated by the recent hurricane, which turned into a tropical storm, inconveniencing many. But Vermont got the worst of it, including Rutland, my dad’s hometown, and a little town called Rochester where my Aunt Betty and Uncle Ed live, which has been cut off  from the rest of the state. I hope to hear news of them soon. Another cousin informed us there is no power and no phone service, that helicopters were delivering medicine, folks with ATV’s were being asked to cross mountain roads to deliver water, cow herds were swept down river, folks were left homeless and caskets had risen out of the cemetery.  The name of this storm was Irene, also the name of our family matriarch, whose history I had compiled.

This is my most recent disaster.  Others date back at least until 1989, Hurricane Hugo in Charleston, SC.  Donald and I happened to be there at a WWII reunion of his father’s where we were attempting to sell souvenir items.  One week we’re lounging on Isle of Palms beach drinking beers under the moon; next week, it’s blown away.

And then the April 2005 trip to New Orleans, 5 mos. before Katrina.  How many people take their school age children to Bourbon St., I ask you?  But I wanted the cultural experience, and it was our point of departure for a cruise.  At the aquarium, the docent assured me that New Orleans was in a bowl, and the experts knew it was a matter of time before the levies failed. They were right.

Then there was Tahoe 2008 wildfires.  Another April trip, visiting brother in law Tom. We were poolside when we saw the smoke. I approached a firefighter on the roadside: “We’ll evacuate if it gets bad,” he said. Then the fireplanes and helicopters.  I told Don I wanted to leave for Reno airport a day early, just in case…the smoke cloud followed us for miles.

Another vacation, another disaster – this time 2009 Myrtle Beach, SC.  Myrtle Beach! We saw a smoke plume as we were driving – seemed so far away. And then, after dinner, leaving the restaurant, what seemed like little gnats, in fact were ashes falling from the sky.  But no panic, no warning, and we returned to our hotel next to the beach….safe, of course.  At night, I awoke to acrid air – the slider open only an inch.  I turn on the TV: the wildfire is out of control, and not a mile away.  Outside the window the smoke was so dense, I couldn’t see the shoreline below. “Close doors and windows, put wet towels at cracks.  Visibility nil, stay off the roads.” I didn’t wake the boys; what would we do?  The next morning was safe to travel, so we went south of town to get out of the bad air.

Another trip…more recently.  We were safe in Sandestin, FL, but our friends that we visited, who had come down from Birmingham, AL, returned to face the worst tornado in their history, just following.  I’d asked them over dinner, “Was it ever a problem with tornados coming through?  They assured me, not.

Santa Cruz, where I went to college, wrecked by an earthquake.

New York City, where I lived for three years, terrorist attacks, no less deadly than natural disasters.  

There’s my record. The question is, what to make of it?  Is there some meaning I am supposed to find?  Modern travel brings me to all kinds of destinations? Global warming is touching us all?  Just unlucky, or causing bad luck – a karma thing?  Or, a force field around me so powerful it disturbs the atmosphere?  Some other kind of superpower that I don’t realize I have?

My critical thinking self says, just coincidence.  My spiritual, superstitious self says it’s a message of some kind.

We choose, don’t we, whether to find meaning in things? If there’s a message, I think it has something to do with nature, and something to do with suffering.  And it may be something to this effect:  what you do matters, influences the rest of the world, and you must do something to help this world, not merely observe, staying safe and comfortable. Because, in time, disaster touches us all.