Susan Palmer's Exquisite Now

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  • Hummers sip from nasturtiums

    Hummers sip from nasturtiums

    I should have done it sooner. Should have known why sooner. For all my devotion to nasturtiums–bright, messy, self-seeding, edible–I had no idea that the little spur coming off the back of the flower is full of nectar. I’ve had them here and there in the garden, but this year I potted them up on the back deck so I could see them every morning.

    Imagine my surprise at noticing on a recent morning an Anna’s hummingbird at the bright red blooms. The hummer compounded my joy by pausing briefly, maybe 20 seconds or so, less than 2 feet from my face, hovering then circling around me, hovering again then zinging off.

    I use the word magical too much, but what’s the word for when a tiny sparkling winged creature takes an interest in your face?

    Back to the flowers. I first fell in love with them when reading The House at Pooh Corner. Winnie-the-Pooh calls them “mastershalums” in that book and won’t be corrected by Piglet. “No… Not these,” Pooh tells Piglet. “These are called mastershalums.” And that’s what I call them when no one else is listening.

    Want more on these “feeds everyone” flowers? The University of California Master Gardeners will deliver.

    Photos by Susan Palmer

  • Those sneaky lurking bastards

    Those sneaky lurking bastards

    Typos, I mean. Sheesh. My novel The Booker Rebellion will be released in November. It has been copy edited many times. Seriously. I spent some years as a copy editor at two of the finest papers in the West, The Anchorage Daily News and The Register-Guard in Eugene. This was the era when newspapers still made financial sense and people didn’t think you got factual information for free in your socials. But that’s a rant for another day.

    Before I sent the manuscript out for consideration I hired one of the best copy editors I know to give it a read and she caught tons. Every dumb thing I’d missed. Fast forward a year, and my publisher’s editor, another close-reading kind of genius, went over it again.

    And still. Okay, there may have been some tinkering on my part, a few little fixes to plot and character here and there. I may have introduced an error or two between copy edits. My bad.

    Here’s the thing. A writer wants a reader to fall into the story, to be in among the characters and the place and the what-happens-next. A typo throws them out, dumps them back in the real world. And that is the biggest sin.

    What comes next for my manuscript? Galleys, the version of the book that goes to the printer. Last chance to catch the woolly boogers. They’re like aphids on roses, only you can’t hose them off. This is a hand-picking job.

    I’m ready for ’em. Vats of coffee. Phone off. Cranky, judgy self at the ready.

    I’ll be thinking of my ideal reader when I do this task, imagining the person who will love the story. The last thing I want is that reader flinging the book across the room in a snit because I let my guard down at the end.

    Semper vigilans, baby.

  • Little moments, big feelings

    Hanging out the laundry to dry in the hot sun. That’s a thing a retired woman has time to do. And savor. String out the line, drape the sheets, clip on the wooden clothespins. Listen to the cheeping nuthatches scolding that you’ve interrupted their breakfast. Imagine yourself as a part of a long long line of women caring for the small details of the home.

    Tell you what, though. A few summers ago, I rhapsodized on this subject to my mother. She snorted and rattled off her memories–winter mornings on the prairie in southern Alberta, hanging out the wet clothes, hands red and frigid; or running out in a mean whipping wind, fighting to keep shirts and dresses from flying off, or rescuing nicely dried sheets from a sudden squall.

    Adding her sharp memories to my own odd joy in the task seems right just now. A year ago, I was with her as she was getting ready to leave us. It was lovely. And hard. She was delicate, yet tough as the Alberta roses she adored. And we all miss her.

    Photo by Susan Palmer