“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”
— Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard’s Egg

Life on the Coast

One of the most striking aspects of place is the subtle variations in what is grown and in flower, even in areas that aren’t that far apart geographically. In my novel The Stark Beauty of Last Things, set in Montauk, L.l, I include two flora that are distinctive in the area and that I especially loved. One is “Montauk daisies” (aka Nipponanthemum nipponicum, which originally came from coastal Japan) and the other is the shadbush, or shad trees (Amelanchier arborea). Both grow all over the peninsula -- the daisies in fall, the shad covering the hills in the spring -- but neither was in much profusion anywhere else on the East End of Long Island that I could see, not even in East Hampton just an isthmus away. I love how plants and trees can be markers, signifiers for specific places and microclimates, as these spell “Montauk” for me.

Like any author, I love hearing from readers, and many have, with chagrin, let me know that my book contained a typo. Having never heard of shad trees, these readers logically thought I meant “shade,” not “shad”—though as I went on to describe the fluffy white, delicate blossoms, they must have been a bit confused.

Shadbush is sometimes called Serviceberry, Shadblow, or Juneberry, and there are wonderful stories associated with it. The one I heard most often is that the tree was named because its bloom coincides with the arrival of shad fish that arrive in the spring to spawn, or blow—hence “shadblow.”

Another is that the first settlers in New England often planned funeral services at the same time the tree bloomed, so its blooming was a sign that the ground had thawed enough to dig graves—hence “serviceberry.”

I’ve been told of an award-winning children’s book When the Shadbush Blooms by Carla Messenger and Susan Katz in which a young Lenape Indian girl fishes for shad and recalls a time when her great, great grandmother did the same. Supposedly many Native American tribes used the plant for food and medicine and to make arrow shafts. Perhaps the Montaukett Indians of Long Island did the same.

Had I known of this, I’d have found a way to weasel that bit of lore into my novel for sure!

Where I live now I rarely see either of these white beauties. I miss them.

Events & News

Feature article

My local paper, the Bristol Phoenix, did a feature on me recently.

Independent Bookstore Day

I was invited to do a signing as part of Independent Bookstore Day at Inkfish Books in nearby Warren, our next town over. Warren is a cute historic town with a fun, funky vibe. It was a rainy cool day, but spirits were warm inside the store.

Book Discussion

On May 15 I had a thoroughly enjoyable, free-ranging conversation with participants of the Writer’s Retreat: Living Your Creative Life, run by Sheila Lewis. Sheila is a marvelous writer as well as a vibrant meditation/writing coach & teacher, blending both creativity and spirituality. The group met at a marvelous homestead in East Greenwich, R.I., which dates back to the 1600s and was owned by a prominent Rhode Islander who fought in the American Revolution.

Book Recommendation

Ben Shattuck, The History of Sound

I read and loved Shattuck’s nonfiction book, 6 Walks, but didn’t realize he was also a short story writer until a friend recommended The History of Sound. The stunning collection of linked stories (in that they occur in pairs, with something in one story being reflected in a later story and timeframe) set in New England. Shattuck, a master of the form, has a disarming way of drawing you in immediately and keeping you turning pages, yet there’s nothing obvious or overly dramatic about his plots or his characters. These are the kinds of stories you have to reread over and over if you want to attempt to figure out how he pulls off his magic. The language is spare and subtly easy to read, with descriptions of nature that leap from the page. That specificity is part of the spell he casts, a way to make you feel enmeshed in this world and feeling its power. “A flock of starlings warped over a field. A migrating Cooper’s hawk eased up and over a stone wall and then shot in front of his truck, gliding into a shock of tupelos.” The stories are imbued with an aura of history, memory, regret…something that makes them stick and linger in the mind, tapping one’s emotional core. The History of Sound is haunting, enigmatic, unique, brilliant and beautiful.

As late winter turns to spring (still chilly here in RI), I’ve been spending time outdoors with my sister, who came to visit for a month. It was wonderful sharing some of my favorite places with her: Daffodils at Blythwold arboretum; the pond with lilypads at Mount Hope Farm; a cove at Fort Wetherill and the lighthouse at Beavertail in Jamestown; Colt State park; the fairytale cottage where my sister stayed.