Susan Palmer's Exquisite Now

A writer takes a minute for a closer look

recent posts

  • Himalayan blues in my yard? That’s a high bar

    Himalayan blues in my yard? That’s a high bar

    The National Shrine of St. Thérèse overlooks the deep waters of Lynn Canal northwest of Juneau, Alaska. It’s more retreat center than tourist destination, although visitors do find their way to the quiet gardens and the chapel that sits on a tiny island you reach by crossing a stone causeway.

    We visited a couple of years ago while waiting to catch the ferry for a ride back to the Lower 48. Walking the Merciful Love Labyrinth, I stopped still at the Himalayan blue poppies edging the narrow path. I’d only seen them once before along the Japanese paths within the Butchart Gardens in Victoria, B.C. Meconopsis baileyi is a cousin of the Oriental poppy—Papaver orientale—that comes in bright reds and oranges. Both kinds have delicate, paper-thin petals. But the Himalayan blues—the ones I love—look like shreds of sky.

    Their home territory, roughly 10,000 feet in the Himalayas, means they like cool ,wet summers. Finding them in Southeast Alaska and in British Columbia makes complete sense.

    What makes much less sense is me buying a seed packet. What are the chances I can coax them to blossom in my yard, a mere 400 feet above sea level and with summer temperatures that can hit 100 degrees?

    Still, I do have microclimates in my yard, shady, damp zones that might work.

    The seeds are in the freezer, and I have scoped three places they might find comfy. In early winter, the seeds will come out of the freezer and be started indoors. Then we shall see.

    Perhaps the blues will be outraged at being expected to grow at this latitude and altitude. But seeds want to live and grow and become, will do it if given half a chance. Maybe Eugene—with some coddling from me—will give them three-quarters of a chance.

    Photos by Susan Palmer

  • Bright night fliers a fine lure

    Bright night fliers a fine lure

    There’s a lovely Truman Capote short story, something he wrote for a woman’s magazine in the ’50s, when he was minting his writerly self. A Christmas Memory reads as memoir and describes a little boy and his elderly distant cousin, unlikely friends in a not very friendly household. Each Christmas, they make each other paper kites.

    Kites come in all sizes, colors and complexities, but nothing has really changed. You attach to a string a thing that the wind will catch, and then watch it dance. Every year in Long Beach, Washington, kite lovers celebrate this dance — wind and human connected by a filament — at the Washington State International Kite Festival that lasts days and draws tens of thousands.

    We went this year but car trouble kidnapped us and didn’t free us until late in the day. We did arrive in time for the night fliers. We parked ourselves in a comfy spot on the sand, and as the cloudy sky lost light, the kites came alive with sparkling color.

    Why am I telling you this now? Well, the festival happens annually the third full week of August. We tried reserving a campsite for the festival starting last February, but every slot on the Washington side of the border within an hour’s drive of Long Beach was already booked. Hotels? Forget it. People love this festival and come from all over for it.

    We managed to get a campsite on the Oregon side, at the Fort Stevens State Park. One brief taste of that night kite show convinced us we’re going next year and have marked the calendar.

    Something about the tug of a small sail attached to a string in my hand. Something that lets a part of me fly free.

    A note about that Capote story: I love it so much I often gather friends at Christmas so that we can read it aloud. I have it in The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, but it can be found online. For my writer friends, if you need a guide on the value of showing vs. telling, read it.

    Photos by Craig Cherry

  • Early reviews: They’re making me giddy

    It’s a fine thing when friends and family say they like your book. That fine feeling gets better—excellent, let’s say—when a publisher says, “We think we can make money with your book.”

    Now the opinions on The Booker Rebellion have begun to arrive. Somebody hand me a cool drink and a fan.

    Snippets:

    There’s a moment early in The Booker Rebellion where Jack spots a raven in the driveway and has to decide whether to hit it with a rock. He doesn’t, because ravens remember faces and hold grudges for years, and he doesn’t want one waiting for him every day after this. It’s a throwaway beat, thirty seconds of page time, and it tells you everything about how carefully Susan Palmer has built this family’s relationship with the land they live on.—Los Angeles Book Review

    This is a confident, well-built adventure that doesn’t condescend to the kids reading it or insult the adults reading alongside them. I would recommend The Booker Rebellion to readers who liked Hatchet and want something with a body count and a working knowledge of Sun Tzu.—Chicago Book Review

    A suspenseful wilderness adventure with young heroes worth rooting for.—Kirkus Reviews

    Launch date is November 20. Maybe my pulse will return to normal by then.