readsouthwest.com™
A Southwest Book Store Featuring Southwest Writers
Read Elaine's Blog! Explore Elaine's titles: |
Elaine PinkertonE-mail: Elaine2005@comcast.net New Video Interviews From
Calcutta with Love is available See the Elaine Pinkerton Blog! Read the interview from PAC-8 TV station, Los Alamos, NM. This is a Word document. BEAST OF BENGAL and FROM CALCUTTA WITH LOVE are now available in Jaipur, India at Read below Elaine Pinkerton's most recent article as it appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of TUMBLEWEEDS MAGAZINE. Elaine observes that of all the unwanted Christmas presents, getting sick tops the list. In this case, however, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise... I’m aware that “grandparenting” should not be a competitive sport, but… Lessons of a Long-Distance GrammieGrandma wears a scarlet “E” for Envy
A bit of background, if I may. Having spent my first five years in foster homes, I was adopted at age 5. Ten years ago, I lost those wonderful adoptive parents. Since then, it’s seemed vitally important to keep in touch with my small “tribe.” I’ve visited my sons and their families as often as possible, but with the cost of airline tickets and everything else, it’s not been frequent. I’m aware that “grandparenting” should not be a competitive sport, but that green-eyed monster envy rears its ugly head whenever I hear about grandchildren who live in the very same town or perhaps just an hour away. Envy prowls about me whenever I hear stories of the grown children of friends who’ve opted for “granny care” over daycare. THOSE grandmothers, envy whispers in my ear, get to see their grandchildren ALL THE TIME. Never mind that many grandmothers live far from their children’s children. Envy reminds me that I don’t get to see my progeny nearly as often as this or that friend. Coming from a very small family, I’m particularly keen on family reunions. A historic event was about to occur in December: Both my sons, their wives and daughters, plus one mother of a daughter-in-law, would be making the trek to Santa Fe for a long vacation, overlapping with each other for several days. It would be the first time the two cousins would meet one another. Weeks before the big event, I launched into a flurry of preparations. Baby furnishings—high chair, portable crib, car seat—were purchased or borrowed. A yoga room was transformed into an extra guest bedroom. Potential art supplies (for the 6-year-old) were gathered. Being an office-supply junkie, I was not surprised when my closets revealed a gargantuan supply of construction paper, crayons, markers and sketch pads. On my overstuffed bookshelves were beloved volumes from my sons’ childhoods. I stacked them in the former family room, now playschool. Friends generously contributed to my “get-ready-for-the-grandkids” marathon. Valeria loaned me sippy cups, Sesame Street dishes, child-size plastic ware, a small art table and miniature folding chairs. Gloria dug a table easel out of storage and brought it by. Ofelia contributed a kid-sized portable bed, complete with “Dora” sheets, pillowcase and comforter. The art projects were a back-up, to be available after a day of being outdoors. With my 6-year-old, the plan was to go hiking and maybe even skiing. I envisioned taking Emily to Chipmunk Corner, tucked away at the base of Santa Fe Ski Basin, where Emily’s dad and uncle had learned to ski and I taught skiing decades ago. Working for weeks, I transformed my house into a veritable kid-friendly resort. To my surprise, I accomplished everything in plenty of time. Never mind that I was sleep-deprived. A few days before all were to arrive, everything was clean, orderly and, I hoped, inviting. But just as I breathed a sigh of relief, along came a second surprise: a miserable virus. My doctor assured me that my viral pneumonia wasn’t contagious. However, antibiotics wouldn’t touch the illness and healing would just take time. The main symptom, other than coughing, would be extreme fatigue. Whoever invented the term “walking pneumonia” must possess a grim sense of irony. Instead of walking, one feels like lying down 24/7. What to do but soldier on? I was well enough to host the family visits, but it was clear things wouldn’t go as I’d planned. My younger son and entourage flew in from California on the appointed day, but my older son and his family were delayed by storms in Seattle, and my sons’ families ended up overlapping for just a few hours. Not wanting to take a chance on spreading germs, I kept my distance from our baby girl. I adopted the role of “Mrs. Ghost,” enjoying festivities from the sidelines. Often I simply “disappeared” to lie down for an hour or two. I waved to Abby from afar, talked to her a lot, and assured her that I’d visit her in San Diego before she reached a year old and that we’d make up for lost time. For much of Emily’s visit I was reduced to being a sedentary semi-invalid, rather than the vigorous, outdoorsy grandmother I’d imagined being. While her mom and dad hit the ski slopes, Emily and I had an all-day arts and crafts playschool. We listened to the theme from “Madagascar” on her iPod Nano. We made collages, played store, modeled clay animals.
By the time everyone departed, we’d set in place a multitude of ways for Grammie to keep in touch with granddaughters—phone calls, video chats on the computer, sending letters and drawings, making CD recordings. As my loved ones journeyed to their respective homes, I realized that the holidays were a journey for me as well. They started with envy and ended with gratitude. It’s a mystery quite how the shift happened, but I have a theory. First of all, while at play with my granddaughter, I shifted my attention from pneumonia to “being in the moment.” It was impossible, I found, to focus on self-pity, first cousin to jealousy, while looking for deer tracks, filling the bird feeder and watching Norman the cat stalk through the brush for small animals. As Emily and I whiled away the afternoon outdoors, my body revived. Though not completely well, I was at last pulling through. At another level, my spirit mended. Call it an attitude adjustment or “kid therapy.” I suddenly realized that Emily and I had a bond that defied distance. That tie, which began with her arrival in the world and strengthened during that magical afternoon, could never be broken. As soon as I released my fear about losing touch with my grandchildren, the jealousy dissipated. In its place came a welcome fountain of gratitude. Elaine Pinkerton Coleman, avid hiker, former teacher and the author of four books, has lived in Santa Fe since 1967.
Writing is my life. This passion began at age ten when I wrote plays, short mysteries and (quite jejune) poetry. My parents' gift to me of a diary began a lifetime of journaling, a method useful today for launching literary projects. Back in North Carolina and Virginia where I grew up, opportunities for writing abounded. I edited and wrote most of "The Seventh Grade Scoop." Later, I produced short stories for my high school magazine "The Bumblebee." College found me writing literary criticism, an important part of being an English major at the University of Virginia. My master's thesis in English was "Determinism in Mark Twain's Puddn'head Wilson. Even today, I love Mark Twain and this part of Americana. The middle of my writing career could best be described as "journalistic." Since the 1970s, I've freelanced for local, regional and national publications, including Family Circle, New Mexico Magazine, Runner's World, On the Run and the New Mexico Traveler. I made my living as a technical writer/editor for Los Alamos National Laboratory in the1980s and early 90s. With technical writing, however, I felt my creativity suffocating. Writing around the edges of my day job, I produced two guidebooks inspired by the natural beauty of northern New Mexico and the Southwest as well as my love of the outdoors: Santa Fe on Foot and The Santa Fe Trail by Bicycle. For the past few years, writing has centered on World War II and India. The reason? My late father, Richard Beard. This extraordinary man not only believed in my writing, he was my greatest inspiration. Before he and my mother adopted my brother and me (we were "goodbye babies," born in the middle of the war), Richard served at the 142nd General Hospital in India as a clinical psychologist for the Army Air Force. After his death in 1997, I discovered a voluminous WWII correspondence. From Calcutta, India and Findlay, Ohio, he and my mother wrote letters depicting both war front and home front. The unifying thread in all the letters was their deep love and devotion.
From Calcutta with Love: The WWII Letters of Richard and Reva Beard, a compilation of the best of the letters as well as a history of the China-Burma-India theater of the war: This is the book that resulted from my exploration of family and world history. From Calcutta with Love has been featured on Book TV, presented as a play, and continues to find an enthusiastic audience. Beast of Bengal, my newest book-in-progress, segues from the letters book, but unlike From Calcutta with Love, is a work of fiction. Stay tuned to my web site on readsouthwest.com for exact publication date. Meanwhile, I will be providing excerpts online. |
Sometimes I think that Envy, said to be one of the seven deadly sins, will track me down and emblazon a large red “E” on my forehead. It’s not that I’m jealous of friends with grandchildren because, after all, I’m blessed with two young granddaughters. Abby in California is not yet a year old. Emily, in Washington, a 6-year-old who loves art and wants to design robots when she grows up, sends me drawings. My problem is that I’m a “long-distance Grammie” who sees the adored kiddos only when I can travel “there” or they, the granddaughters, and their parents make the trek to Santa Fe.
Because she loves drawing horses (and, thinks Grammie, is rather good at it), she wanted to teach me how to draw her favorite animal. She assigned herself the name “Ms. Wallace,” and I—the one and only student—was to be “Lisa.” Emily sat by a white board and drew two circles, equal in size and looking much like a pair of glasses without the frames. I was instructed to do the same. The two circles became the chest and rear haunches of a stallion. Emily checked my progress frequently and gave me lots of encouragement. We finished the horse body, and started in on the curved neck, the head, and finally the prancing legs. Emily, as the kind Ms. Wallace, instructed and guided me in the specific techniques for the horse’s eyes, mouth, mane and tail. When I, thankfully, rallied from the illness a bit, we went outdoors, bundled up against late winter breeze, exploring and examining rocks, trees and plants. 
ABOUT US | BLOG | CONTACT US | SEARCH | MEMBERS | SITEMAP | PRIVACY
© 2008 readsouthwest.com™ US | SANTA FE WEB DESIGN