Cheryl Ann Niedzwiecki:

I wanted to write to tell you how pleased I was to attend the Green Mountain Writers' Conference. Thank you again for the scholarship. It enabled me to attend a great gathering of writers. Not only am I inspired to write more children's stories, but I look at experiences in a different way now for more insightful thoughts.Though I do not verbalize many of my thoughts and opinions in a large group, I really appreciated the honesty and intelligence displayed by everyone who attended. I was glad that there were so many topics presented and discussed. I learned a great deal about types of writing I never thought much about until now.

Lois Haslam: Afterthoughts about the Writing Conference

Zeugma. (zoog ma) n. A construction in which two unlike things are yoked together, as in The fruit-bearing Writers' Conference and a fruit-eating bear loped through her consciousness.

I emerged, shaped like the letter S from my sports car, home at last from an exhilarating week. Bob came bounding out in soggy socks, having splashed through puddles flying into the garage in a downright frenzy. He looked like a silent movie actor, flailing his arms while rasping out throaty orders to speed up and follow him.

And follow him I did, doing a pretzel-shaped wobble up the stairs and through the house to reach the source of all this agitation. There, upright on the deck, was one humongous black bear, glistening and greasy, deflecting the bird feeder pole down to the ground with huge claws, the act, I'm sure, meant to ease his dining pleasure, a culinary trove of sunflower seeds. Not another heart-stopping event after experiencing five days of fervor? Where, oh where is the denouement?

As you see, the beat carried on, even through I had left you far behind to wine and wisdom on Chipman Lake.

I found the company of fellow writers inspiring. The collection of authors was a covey of caring beings willing to share their works and experiences with honesty and wit. The image of the three Stones, assembled together, will not be easily forgotten, nor will the down-to- earth approach to their craft described by Chris Bohjalian, Peter Kurth, Syd Lea, Susan Keese and Joe Citro. The Millerites session (with Joe Citro and Joan Connor) was carried through with Joan's sprightly sidebars; her writing is brilliant, her use of language, her freedom to express herself as an intellectual is enormously refreshing.

Grace Paley's presence afforded me more inspiration than any being I remember for a long time; if the conference had a muse, it was she. And, tell Joan Connors, in addition to admiring her writing style, I'm tomorrow to find pair of Ralph Lauren socks and a Dooney-Burke belt to spark up my aging wardrobe.

Yvonne's introductions will cue me to brighten and warm up my own; each presenter was welcomed through a sincere appreciation of their work as approachable beings and as personal friends. (And one small aside, I loved not having to endure the usual "who am I and why I'm here" that seem to be de rigeur at the onset of every conference. It was far better to cause us to ferret out each other and round up our own network).

I would describe the totality of the conference well-paced, save for a few frenetic moments when I felt less need to cram things in and wished for more time to soak in thoughts from the previous session. I was in bed, asleep by 8:30 on Wednesday; this hasn't happened since my budget marathons in days of old. I confess the Poetry Slam was the most challenging for me. I heard this echoed by my colleagues many times. It was also great fun; I now want to try my hand at more. I left with fresh energy, informed and promoted by these connections. The conference experience for me was a week of personal growth; I'm pushed off and moving in a new direction. I hope that black bear reworks his compass as well. Thanks and see you next year.

. August By Lois Haslam

Back to School signs
End of Season
Loosestrife, looseleafs
Haircuts and haymows
Loosestrife, looseleafs
Haircuts and haymows
Summer on the wane.
Shouts and squeals; one last dive
Rippling ponds and ripe tomatoes
Crabgrass, cicadas
Croaking frogs and hummingbirds
Sing a season nearly done.
Steaming heat in pulsing cadence
Rhythms lazing grosbeaks heed
Time to scarf up ripened morsels
Time to file each pesky flight plan
Strap on seatbelts and move on.

Yvonne Strauss:

Dear Yvonne and dear Chuck:
Thank you! I learned a lot.
And the writers were wonderful! The food was very good! The free shooting spree was fun too!

Dianna Roberts:

Dear Chuck and Yvonne,

Once again I want to thank you for planning the wonderful week I had on Tinmouth Pond. I felt so close to who I am as a writer and I don't want that feeling to end now that I'm back home in the big city with my daily woes and cares.
I truly appreciate all the effort that you put out for me so that I could arrive and leave easily, and eat according to my dietary needs. Thanks so much for the lift back to Burlington, Yvonne. The flight was not delayed and I made my connection in Phillie. The kids and my husband were waiting at the airport for me with a bunch of roses. That felt good, especially after my wonderful week in Vermont, thinking more about words and writing than my family (well, that's not entirely true).

Barbara Mayo:

AFTERDOT
Empty crossword puzzles, books left half read, a solitary meal. Your empty chair emits a mournful low. These 30 makeshift days, detached the leaves have left the trees, purple asters Withered. Tell me, did you really want to go? Now I beware these phantom flicks that flash our life (full sixty years) in Empty brackets. [Frames that haunt me so.] These clouded specters of our days bode truer now than any future dream. Leaning bleak upon my every bone. I duck. I hide until some silly notion leaks to mind and snags my resolution and drifts me Into you, my wife, sweet shadow. And when I sleep, I'm careful not to dream those dreams we shared. For they are ours, and we are gone.

8/8/1999
Enroute
7:30. Normally at this hour I'd be looking out the window to the right of my desk, gazing up to the hillside at my eggplant or some other miracle in the garden and arranging my thoughts while I wait for my computer to boot. But today, like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, I'm peering through the windshield of my fast little car on my way to the Green Mountain Writers' Conference.
Why? Well, I'm hoping to find my muse. She disappeared. Simply vanished a couple of months ago--sometime between April and June, and so far it's been a bummer of a summer because without her, I can't write. I think my internal editors scared her off. You know, those carrion crow that begin flapping their great greasy black wings the minute a document screen appears in front of you? They kibitz over every compound sentence, peck at helpless prepositions, caw insanely over a simple comma. Well I can't blame my muse; she probably left in search of less critical quarters.
Anyhow, I love to drive like I used to love to write. Each drive is another story and, as in writing, it doesn't stop until I stop. This morning, I'm more relaxed, feeling more confident as I thread my way from Huntington, a very small town located just outside Burlington, heading to Tinmouth Pond, a very small body of water located about fifteen miles south of Rutland. I know the route now. I know where the commuter bottlenecks are likely to be and where the construction gangs block whole sides of a road.

I'm anticipating my first construction stop half way between Monkton and Bristol. (Yesterday this stop was the worst. Six minutes!) With any luck at all, the person whose job it is to reverse the giant red lollipop sign from STOP to SLOW will know I have a schedule to keep and will oblige me.

But so far this has not been the case. Today, as I converge on the site, I race toward the last car in a line that is vanishing over the horizon ahead of me and I'm closing the gap. But my hopes are dashed. I chastise myself for my childish optimism, obey the sign, and slow to a stop. And I sit there. I am scanning the exquisitely pastoral scene that stretches away from the opposite side of the road: a field of corn lit by a slant of sun, a misty blue veil rising into the green hills beyond, and impatience gnashes at the edges of my mind. I check the clock: two minutes, fifty-five seconds.
So, yes, I've taken to timing these stops. It gives me something else to think about, soothes my anxiety. These construction blocks have become a sort of challenge: a "can-you-top-this?" situation; like I find myself hoping to break the six-minute record. Sick, sick, sick. But the thing is, you can't know how much of a delay you're in for when you come upon one of these infrastructural housekeeping chores. I say the least they could do is provide one of those flashing digital signs at each block: "APPROX 2 minute lag. Have a good day!" They could place them right next to the person with the lollipop sign and, usually, a telephone. If I had the information in advance, I could turn off my fume-spewing engine. I mean talk about anxiety! Here's a whole line of commuters panting out monoxide fumes and God knows what else into the frangible ozone above our heads, despoiling our beautiful, pastoral Vermont. One person per car, an average of ten cars in a line--all of us doing our bit for global warming. This train of thought naturally takes me to New York City and the queues of commuters there, but I don't want to go there. Six minutes. Hmmm. Represents, let's see, not counting the construction, I'm averaging about 40 miles an hour, that's four minutes I'm losing. In East Middlebury on Route 116 I'm still poring over this complex math when I come upon another construction site. First in line, I find myself making eye contact with the holder of the lollipop. She is surely a Native American with her square jaw, noble nose, dark skin, hair like black water that hangs to her waist, and oh yes, a headband. And as I sit there cooling my jets, blandly looking back at her I get into this raging argument with myself. I'm plaintiff and defendant, and the case is against both of me. Did I, or did I not just stereotype this woman? "So what?" says I, "it's all a story--images concocted, played out--you're entitled."
"Whoa there," says me, "you're labeling. You actually know nothing about her."
It is at about this point in my argument that I perceive a glint of challenge in her eyes, as if she is agreeing with me. But that's not it.

There's something more I feel as her blacks penetrate my blues. Such intense eyes! Is she my muse? Is she daring me or encouraging me? Whatever it is I feel I have to obey. In fact, I'm raring to go, and I think, "Anytime you say so, honey," and then, with a wink and a little grin, she thrusts her totem at a forty-five degree angle toward my car and turns it to "SLOW" and I'm off.

Mary McCallum:

Yvonne and Chuck,
What a great week. There was so much packed into it that I need time to go over and digest, but for me some of the highpoints were GRACE PALEY and THE STONE FAMILY (the Quarry). Also Peter Kurth and Chris Bohjalian. So gracious with their time and stories. All the others were terrific as well, but there are always those special highlights for each of us. You did a wonderful job pulling it all together--location, food, presenters all top notch and truly accessible. A good mix of single speakers and panel discussions. Much time for Q and A and all that "up close and personal" stuff we never get to have with speakers at other conferences.

AUGUST
This summer there were twenty-two things on my list. In June I was going to paint the French doors white and the front door enamel black, hang the verdigris marble shelf and paint poetry on the old red kitchen chair.
Instead I camped on Assateague Island and watched wild ponies graze on marsh grass in the rain. I went to the Cape, where I drank Margaritas and read old People Magazines in the sun.
In July I planned to mount my old vacation photos in albums I bought in K-Mart, clean the cellar, read twenty children's books and write a story about a man named George in South Carolina.
Instead I had my elderly ladies to tea and helped them up the steps. I kept the grass alive and looked for air conditioning. I mended a friendship and read a novel that taught me new words like "plangent," "hinny" and "gouts."
It's August now. I dead-head the flowers and wait for rain. In a blue pavilion I sit among people who build with words. I write a little something too, and revise my list.

(In August I must, I must, I must increase my bust.)