Volume VI, Issue 31 July 31, 2017 Word of the Week: mistake Dear ,
Ready for your verbal clue to this week's "Where in the world is Maureen Ryan
Griffin?" photo?
Here you go: “Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
If, like me, you're an Anne of Green Gables fan, you no doubt guessed Prince Edward Island.
This photo was taken at Silver Bush, the home of author Lucy Maud Montgomery's Uncle John and Aunt Annie Campbell, of which she said, "I love this old spot better than any place on earth."
It now serves as a museum,
and I loved coming across this mirror on my way up the stairs. It was so much fun to be looking into the same mirror as the author of my favorite childhood book character. (I, too, was often "hurrying off to school in the mornings.")
One of the things that made me empathize so much with Anne of Green Gables was that she, also like me,
was always making mistakes. Including, as you can see dramatized in this sweet movie clip, reading novels in school while she was supposed to be doing math. (Yes, also like me, though my teacher was not as "sympathetic to the human plight" as Miss Stacey. All she had to say was, "That's a funny-looking math book,
Maureen.")
Richard was ever-so-patient as I took in all things Lucy Maud Montgomery at the Anne of Green Gables Museum in Park Corner, PEI, the Anne of Green Gables Birthplace in New London, PEI, and the Anne of Green Gables Heritage Place, where the house that inspired Green Gables is located. (Richard read Kurt Vonnegut in the car
while I read all the fine print in all the "Anne with an 'E'" exhibits, which kept us both happy, but he did pose with me for a selfie in front of "Green Gables."
I've already shared a number of reasons I loved, and still love, Anne of Green Gables so much, and when you read the excerpt below, you'll see others: Anne and I are true kindred spirits in, not only our
propensity to make mistakes and our reading novels when we should be doing math, but also in our love of big words, our talkativeness, our delight in natural beauty, and our fanciful imaginations. These are all commonalities I recognized when I read the whole series of Anne books when I was young.
Before I went to Prince Edward Island, I
reread Anne of Green Gables, and was struck anew with how enduring a character she is, even with the antiquated language of 1908. In fact, none other than Mark Twain called her ""the dearest and most lovable child in fiction since the immortal Alice." I hope you'll enjoy either revisiting Anne or meeting her for the first time in this week's featured reading.
If Anne of Green Gables is new to you, what you need to know before reading the excerpt from Chapter 2 below is that Matthew Cuthbert and his sister Marilla, neither of whom have ever married, live together on a farm on Prince
Edward Island, and are getting on in years. Matthew "got it in his head" that they should adopt an orphan boy to help him with the farmwork. He was so determined that Marilla, who was dead set against the idea, acquiesced. But when he goes to pick up the orphan boy from the train station, Matthew discovers a terrible mistake has been made.
And yet, as it turns out, this mistake ends up being the source of great happiness for Matthew and Marilla. Isn't it nice to know that many mistakes turn out to hold great gifts?
Upcoming WordPlay
RETREAT AT OLMSTED MANOR
MEMOIR: TELLING THE TIMES OF YOUR LIFE
Our life stories are a precious legacy. Writing them is a gift, not only to ourselves, but to those who love us. They will be treasured for generations to come. Come learn engaging tools and techniques to retrieve and record your adventures, loves, losses,
successes, and more with ease and enjoyment, no matter where you are in the process.
Participants are asked to bring along photos of people, places, or events that are significant to their lives to be used as inspiration for writing.
WHERE: Olmsted Manor. 17 East Main Street.
Ludlow, PA 16333
WHEN: Friday, August 4th – Sunday, August 6th, 2017
COST: $230.00, which includes class, 2 nights stay, and 6 meals
TO REGISTER: To register by phone, call 814-945-6512. You can also register by sending an email to olmstedreservations@gmail.com or online at www.olmstedmanor.org/events.
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THE GIFT OF MEMOIR: WRITING PERSONAL AND FAMILY STORIES (Preserving Family History; Writing for
and about Your Family; The Art of Memoir)
Our life stories are a precious legacy. Putting them in writing is a gift to all who know and love us—they can be treasured and enjoyed for generations to come. It is also a gift to ourselves. As best-selling author Rachel Naomi Remen says in her book Kitchen Table Wisdom, facts bring us to knowledge, but stories
bring us to wisdom. If you are interested in writing family and/or personal life stories—those significant tales of adventure, transition, love, loss, and triumph, as well as lovely everyday moments from times past or the present, come learn specific tools and techniques to retrieve and record them.
* For the benefit of participants, an audio recording of the class will be made each week so that participants are able to listen to classes they miss and/or review material covered at any convenient time and place. These recordings are available throughout the class session, along with all handouts, in a shared Dropbox folder.
WHERE: Covenant Presbyterian Recreation Center, 1000 East Morehead Street, Charlotte, 28204. Click here for map.
WHEN: Thursday mornings, 10:00 a.m. – noon. September 7 and 21
October 5, 19 and 26
November 9 and 30
December 14 COST: $275
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FALL WRITING RETREAT
Renew and delight yourself. The Fall Writing
Retreat is an opportunity to create new pieces of writing and/or new possibilities for our lives. Enjoy various seasonal prompts; they elicit beautiful material that can be shaped into essays, poems, stories, or articles. After a communal lunch, you’ll have private time which can be used to collage, work with a piece of writing from the morning, or play with a number of other writing prompts and methods. You’ll take home new ideas, new drafts, and new
possibilities.
$97 includes lunch and supplies.
WHERE: South Charlotte area. Details will be provided upon registration.
WHEN: Saturday, September 23rd, 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.
More WordPlay opportunities here. Photo courtesy of https://ircoolio.wordpress.com/2013/01/17/lucy-maud-montgomerys-contribution-to-the-arts-in-canadia/ Lucy Maud Montgomery (November 30, 1874 – April 24, 1942) published as L.M. Montgomery, was a Canadian author best known for a series of novels beginning in 1908 with Anne of Green Gables. The book was an
immediate success. The central character, Anne Shirley, an orphaned girl, made Montgomery famous in her lifetime and gave her an international following.
The first novel was followed by a series of sequels with Anne as the central character. Montgomery went on to publish 20 novels as well as 530 short stories,
500 poems, and 30 essays. Most of the novels were set in Prince Edward Island, and locations within Canada's smallest province became a literary landmark and popular tourist site—namely Green Gables farm, the genesis of Prince Edward Island National Park. She was made an officer of the Order of the British Empire in 1935.
Montgomery's work, diaries and letters have been read and studied by scholars and readers worldwide.
Bio courtesy
of https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucy_Maud_Montgomery
Featured
Writing
An excerpt from Chapter 2 of
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Matthew Cuthbert is surprised
Matthew Cuthbert and the sorrel mare jogged comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along between snug farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drive through or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom…. When he reached Bright River there was no sign of any train; he thought he was too early, so he tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River hotel and went over to the station house. The long platform was almost deserted; the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely noting that it was a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible without looking
at her. Had he looked he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody and, since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might and main. Matthew encountered the stationmaster locking up the ticket office preparatory to going home
for supper, and asked him if the five-thirty train would soon be along. "The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago," answered that brisk official. "But there was a passenger dropped off for you—a little girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the ladies' waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. `There was
more scope for imagination,' she said. She's a case, I should say." "I'm not expecting a girl," said Matthew blankly. "It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me." The stationmaster
whistled. "Guess there's some mistake," he said. "Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you would be along for her presently. That's all I know about it—and I haven't got any more orphans concealed hereabouts." "I don't understand," said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. "Well, you'd better question the girl," said the station-master carelessly. "I dare say she'll be able to explain— she's got a tongue of her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you
wanted." He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den—walk up to a girl—a strange girl—an orphan girl—and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform towards her. She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her and would not have seen what she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this: A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were
two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others. So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity; that the
mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her she
stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. "I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?" she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. "I'm very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had
made up my mind that if you didn't come for me to-night I'd go down the track to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don't you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning, if you didn't to-night." Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his; then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take her home and let Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green
Gables. "I'm sorry I was late," he said shyly. "Come along. The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag." "Oh, I can carry it," the child responded cheerfully. "It isn't heavy. I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn't carried in just a certain
way the handle pulls out—so I'd better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely old carpet-bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive a long piece, haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with you and belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody—not really. But the asylum was the worst. I've only been in it
four months, but that was enough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so you can't possibly understand what it is like. It's worse than anything you could imagine. Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn't mean to be wicked. It's so easy to be wicked without knowing it, isn't it? They were good, you know—the asylum people. But there is so little scope for the imagination in an asylum—only just in the other orphans. It was pretty interesting to
imagine things about them—to imagine that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really the daughter of a belted earl, who had been stolen away from her parents in her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could confess. I used to lie awake at nights and imagine things like that, because I didn't have time in the day. I guess that's why I'm so thin—I am dreadful thin, ain't I? There isn't a pick on my bones. I do love to imagine I'm nice and plump, with dimples in my
elbows." With this Matthew's companion stopped talking, partly because she was out of breath and partly because they had reached the buggy. Not another word did she say until they had left the village and were driving down a steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil, that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry-trees and slim white birches, were several feet
above their heads. The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy. "Isn't that beautiful? What did that tree, leaning out from the bank, all white and lacy, make you think of?" she asked. "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. "Why, a bride, of course—a bride all in white with a lovely misty veil. I've never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like. I don't ever expect to be a bride myself. I'm so homely nobody will ever want to marry me— unless it might be a foreign missionary. I
suppose a foreign missionary mightn't be very particular. But I do hope that someday I shall have a white dress. That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. I just love pretty clothes. And I've never had a pretty dress in my life that I can remember—but of course it's all the more to look forward to, isn't it? And then I can imagine that I'm dressed gorgeously. This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincey dress. All the orphans had to wear
them, you know. A merchant in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards of wincey to the asylum. Some people said it was because he couldn't sell it, but I'd rather believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart, wouldn't you? When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must be looking at me and pitying me. But I just went to work and imagined that I had on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress—because when you are imagining you might as well imagine
something worthwhile—and a big hat all flowers and nodding plumes, and a gold watch, and kid gloves and boots. I felt cheered up right away and I enjoyed my trip to the Island with all my might. I wasn't a bit sick coming over in the boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer although she generally is. She said she hadn't time to get sick, watching to see that I didn't fall overboard. She said she never saw the beat of me for prowling about. But if it kept her from being seasick it's a mercy I did prowl,
isn't it? And I wanted to see everything that was to be seen on that boat, because I didn't know whether I'd ever have another opportunity. Oh, there are a lot more cherry-trees all in bloom! This Island is the bloomiest place. I just love it already, and I'm so glad I'm going to live here. I've always heard that Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world, and I used to imagine I was living here, but I never really expected I would. It's delightful when your imaginations come
true, isn't it? But those red roads are so funny. When we got into the train at Charlottetown and the red roads began to flash past I asked Mrs. Spencer what made them red and she said she didn't know and for pity's sake not to ask her any more questions. She said I must have asked her a thousand already. I suppose I had, too, but how you going to find out about things if you don't ask questions? And what does make the roads red?" "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. "Well, that is one of the things to find out sometime. Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive— it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would
it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there? But am I talking too much? People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn't talk? If you say so I'll stop. I can stop when I make up my mind to it, although it's difficult." Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quiet folks he liked talkative people when they were willing
to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it. But he had never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sidling past him timidly, with sidewise glances, as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. But this freckled witch was very different, and although he found
it rather difficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental processes he thought that he "kind of liked her chatter." So he said as shyly as usual: "Oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don't mind." "Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going to get along together fine. It's such a
relief to talk when one wants to and not be told that children should be seen and not heard. I've had that said to me a million times if I have once. And people laugh at me because I use big words. But if you have big ideas you have to use big words to express them, haven't you?" "Well now, that seems reasonable," said Matthew. WordPlay Now! Writing
Prompt This is WordPlay—so why not revel in the power and potential of one good word after another? This week, it's
"mistake."
PROMPT: Write about a mistake you (or one of your characters) made (or was subjected to, as in Matthew Cuthbert's case in the story excerpt above) that ended up being a blessing in disguise.
MAUREEN RYAN GRIFFIN, an award-winning poetry and nonfiction writer, is the author of Spinning Words into Gold, a Hands-On Guide to the Craft of Writing, a grief workbook entitled I Will Never Forget You, and three collections of poetry, Ten Thousand Cicadas Can't Be Wrong, This Scatter of Blossoms and When the Leaves Are in the Water. One of her long-held dreams came true in July of 2015 when Garrison Keillor read one of her poems on The Writer's Almanac. She believes, as author Julia Cameron says, "We are meant to midwife dreams for one another."
Maureen also believes that serious "word work" requires serious WordPlay, as play is how we humans best learn—and perform. What she loves best is witnessing all the other dreams that come true for her clients along the way. Language, when used with
intentionality and focus, is, after all, serious fuel for joy. Here's to yours! |
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