Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
It’s crawfish time here in the Deep South swamp. My son-in-law pulled out the boiling pot, bought huge sacks of live crawfish, and invited family and friends for the feast.
If you’ve never had crawfish, you need to put it onto your bucket list of experiences. Crawfish are called “mud bugs” because they create their nesting places in mounds of mud. They are shellfish, so there’s that. Bottom dwellers. I don’t let that bother me while I’m peeling, dipping, and eating.
My grandson Leo created habitats with his friends for their new pets. I think they even named them. I hope he didn’t sleep with them, but it’s harmless fun and a cultural part of being raised in south Louisiana.
Leo and his crawfish pets
Stella holds a crawfish. “I’m not scared!”
Crawfish boils are a tradition around the Easter season. While we are not Catholic, many families in this area are. Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays in Lent. Many seafood places advertise “Lenten special: All you can eat!” My husband laughs at this because it’s not much of a sacrifice to eat crawfish and drink beer.
I was pleasantly surprised when my illustrator, Drew Beech, added a spread to my board book that showed the family at a crawfish boil.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
The party was slow to get started, one or two guests trickling in. By story time at 5 PM, there were a number of kids around. The Roy House is a renovated house for the Center for Louisiana Studies across the campus from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. There are multiple rooms. One was set up with a bird craft. Ten year old Mathilda led this section with step by step directions that even the smallest of toddlers could follow.
In another room, Julie from For The Birds of Acadiana set up a table of bird nests for kids (and adults) to explore. In this room, I placed a basket of crochet birds for kids to play with.
Another room houses the book shop where I sat on an antique settee and signed books.
For story time, I read aloud What’s that Sound? Birds of the Bayou while the amazingly attentive group of kids echoed the bird sounds and asked intelligent questions like “Why does the mockingbird copy the sounds of other birds?”
“Listen close to the mockingbird”
Then the whole house got quiet. Where did everybody go? I walked outside to see everyone enjoying the spring weather and being together. I’d say that was a good party.
On the right is UL Press’s amazing graphic designer, Mary, while her sweet daughter gives me a hug.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Marcie Flinchum Atkins, who has a new book coming out on Tuesday, When Twilight Comes.
For the last Friday of the month, the Poetry Sisters offer a challenge. I wanted to give it a try. The form is Ovillejo, a Spanish form described here.
In Pádraig Ó Tuama’s Substack this week, he posted a poem from Rainer Maria Rilke that began with the line “God speaks to each of us as he makes us.” I love this idea of God, intimate and personal. To get started on the Ovillejo, I borrowed this line. As I worked with the syllable count and rhyme, it changed somewhat.
Belonging
After Rainer Maria Rilke
God speaks fondly to each of us, makes each of us.
Birds respond to God’s call with song— You belong.
Set the paddle deep into water, my daughter.
Stop messing with what doesn’t matter. Sit with God and speak in silence. God knows your peculiar cadence.
Like each of us, you belong, my daughter.
Margaret Simon, draft
Twilight on Lake Lanier, Georgia
Our host, Marcie, asked us to post a favorite picture and poem of twilight to celebrate her new book. When I searched my blog history for a twilight poem, I found last year’s Kidlit Progressive Poem.
April Runs Over
Open an April window let sunlight paint the air stippling every dogwood dappling daffodils with flair
Race to the garden where woodpeckers drum as hummingbirds thrum in the blossoming Sweetgum
Sing as you set up the easels dabble in the paints echo the colors of lilac and phlox commune without constraints
Breathe deeply the gifts of lilacs rejoice in earth’s sweet offerings feel renewed-give thanks at day’s end remember long-ago springs
Bask in a royal spring meadow romp like a golden-doodle pup! startle the sleeping grasshoppers delight in each flowering shrub…
Drinking in orange-blossom twilight relax to the rhythm of stars dotting sky as a passing Whip-poor-will gulps bugs We follow a moonlit path that calls us
Grab your dripping brushes! Our celestial canvas awaits There we swirl, red, white, and blue Behold what magic our montage creates!
Such marvelous palettes the earth bestows When rain greens our hopes, watch them grow, watch them grow!
Yesterday I walked into The Pie Bar carrying my new baby, What’s That Sound? Birds of the Bayou. I was hoping to meet with the owner to ask him to place it in the gift shop. When I came in, there was Tammy from church having a glass of wine on the leather sofa.
Tammy said, “I want to get your book for my new grandbaby.” So the book I had in my hand went to her new baby, Joy.
“To Joy—Listen close!” I drew a little bird emoji, and handed my new baby to Tammy.
I went back out to my car. (Have books, will travel). This time I grabbed two just in case.
I was meeting my friend and fellow picture book writer Mary Beth for a critique session. Mary Beth doesn’t have grandchildren yet, but she works with young kids as an OT.
“Of course I want one,” said Mary Beth. “We have to support each other, and besides, it’s precious.”
I also caught the owner, and he said he would stock it in the gift shop. “I always want to support local authors.”
This baby has taken a while to come to life. Now that he’s here, I am pleased to pass him around for others to enjoy.
Signing books at our local independent bookstore, Books Along the Teche.
If you are interested in participating in the Kidlit Progressive Poem in April, please pop over to this post and comment. April is coming soon.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Three years ago when my grandson Thomas (Tuffy) was 3 years old, he liked to play a game with me, What’s That Sound? He would make an animal sound, “meow”, and say “What’s that sound? Is it a cow? No! It’s a cat.”
Thomas at age 3
In the middle of the night, I woke up saying to myself “What’s that sound? I ask Mamére. What’s that sound, up in the air?”
I responded to the voice in my head and wrote a short verse that became the draft for a baby board book. I pitched it to UL Press, and they decided to take it on as their very first board book.
My friend and fellow picture book writer Gayle Webre had found illustrator Drew Beech through SCBWI (Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators). I contacted Drew, and she took on the project. I couldn’t be happier with her illustrations. I sent her photos of the characters, me, my grandson, my husband, a neighbor who was nanny to my other grandchildren, and my own mother.
My mother with Maggie, 1986
I’m sad that my mother is not here to see the book. The photo I had of her was with my oldest daughter sitting in a chair hammock.
On the last spread, Drew created a family crawfish boil. That was a complete surprise to me, a happy surprise.
In the fall, I had the chance to hold the dummy copy in my hands. It was like someone handing me a new baby. I cried.
I realize through this process, often long and frustrating, that every picture book you hold in your hands is a labor of love. All of my love is poured into What’s That Sound?
(Book Release Event: Friday, March 27th at The Roy House on UL’s campus from 4:30-6:00 PM.)
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She is a retired elementary gifted teacher who writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 