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The Lazarus Papers
Those of you who’ve followed my socials or rooted around in my archives here know that I typically write anecdotes, quirky haiku, caption photographs, and express the whirl of whimsy that is my stream of consciousness in short form. My goal is to entertain my readers and leave them smiling to themselves, musing even, without making them tap their watch or look for the nearest exit.
I am not a novelist. At least I never thought so. However, like most people who write, I’ve had a plotline rattling around in my head, and my desk drawer, for a long time. I mean, since before-the-internet-became-a-thing type of long time. My draft exists in longhand form. It waits patiently for me to pick it up, briefly ruminate over it while riddled with self-doubt, only to be abandoned for another year or six.
This evening, while waiting for Trick or Treaters, I dusted off the folder containing the old, longhand draft. Thalia’s first whisper in my ear, if you will. A story idea that is as familiar to me as my own name but whose conclusion is a distant echo I can’t quite hear. Tonight, I read it again for what always feels like the first time.
I thought it would be awful. Honestly, I hoped it would be awful. I planned to snort at it with derision and marvel at how I ever thought it was worth writing. Then I could Marie Kondo the whole thing and get on with my life with newfound joy; no more whispers from partially developed characters haunting me from the drawer. I’d be free.
I slipped the college ruled paper from the folder and smiled at my handwriting. It’s a mix of printing and cursive within each word. It’d make an effective code with the demise of cursive and penmanship classes. As I read, to my surprise, I became immersed, eagerly turning pages until, abruptly, I came to the last word on the last page. It hung there, dangling mid-sentence. If there was a literary award for inadvertent cliffhangers, I’d win. I have a feeling the award would be rescinded once the committee realized I had no idea what came next. I guess I’ll save my acceptance speech.
I flipped the last page over and back as if the story would emerge from the paper like a specter from the fog on All Hallows’ Eve. It was then that I realized, in the spirit of the evening and Monty Python, that my ancient plot is not dead yet. My own curiosity had jolted it back to life, freeing it from its drawer to a place atop my desk. I’d better put something else in that drawer to appease the spirits who haunt all who put pen to paper. A list of past New Year’s Resolutions should suffice.
As dawn approaches on the first of November, the veil between worlds closes and those who write shall be possessed by a new, yet ambitious, spirit. November is the month dedicated to the challenge of writing 50,000 words, the equivalent of a novel. Thirty days to turn an idea or an unfinished draft into a working novel. With my haunted draft in hand, I’ve decided to give it a shot using an online platform to experience the camaraderie of the challenge and avail myself of community resources. As I set up my account and type in the specifics for my draft, I’ve been asked for a working title. At this juncture, “The Lazarus Papers” seems appropriate. Stay tuned.
If you’d like to see how I’ve spent Halloween in the past, check out these articles:
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Ahead of Its Time
This morning I opened the bedroom curtains to discover that a tree out back had quietly turned orange overnight. It didn’t look like that yesterday. Six days remain until the autumnal equinox. I bet it has its Christmas shopping done, too.
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Everyone Loves a Sailor
When people ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a chemist turned folk artist who writes in my spare time. While I’ve been known to expound on matters scientific, most readers of Thalia Was Here don’t know that my day job is as a folk artist. I love to express what my mind conjures up in my favorite medium: fabric. Sometimes my artistic ideas become a pleasing reality, other times they don’t. Today I’m sharing my idea for celebrating the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Navy which I think worked out pretty well, dare I say it myself.
2025 marks the 250th anniversary (or the semiquincentennial, for those of us nicknamed “Roget” by our sister) of the beginning of the American Revolution in 1775. As 2024 drew to a close and the 251st anniversary (even Roget doesn’t have a word for that) of the Boston Tea Party was celebrated in December, I thought about how I could commemorate the coming year and honor my revolting ancestors. Well, you know what I mean.
The only thing I was sure of was that my homage to the quest for independence would be in quilt form. The next step was to determine the subject I’d interpret with fabric, batting, and thread. In the early days of 2025, I had an artistic epiphany that became the quilt I call “Everyone Loves a Sailor.”
Everyone Loves a Sailor, 2025 Friends of Thalia know that my late father was a U.S. Marine and took great pride in those who came before him and the Corps’ storied history. My natural inclination was to make something related to the Marines. I grew up celebrating The Birthday™ which took place on November 10, 1775, by a resolution of the Second Continental Congress. Captain Samuel Nicholas was appointed as its first Commandant/recruiting officer. He signed up his first recruits at the bar of the Tun Tavern in Philadelphia on that very day. I know the history and the hymn. I’m team Marine. Oorah!
But then the unthinkable happened. While delving deeper into the history of the U.S. Marine Corps, I began studying the history of the U.S. Navy. I was hooked.
On October 13, 1775, the Second Continental Congress passed a resolution forming the Continental Navy. For those keeping track, that’s 28 days before the Marine Corps Oo-ed its first Rah over a whole lot of ale on a chilly Philly night.
Dad apparently hasn’t accessed the controls for the lightning yet, so I’ll keep going.
As dissent grew and revolution became inevitable, the colony of Rhode Island clamored for a navy of its own because its smuggling endeavors were being curtailed by the Royal Navy. If you’re not familiar with Rhode Island, that is so on brand. Rhode Island passed its own resolution to create a fleet in August of 1775, but it wouldn’t be taken up by Congress until October. After the resolution passed, it took the nascent Navy until December to commission four ships. Building a fleet from scratch takes time and, obviously, there wasn’t enough time to construct new warships. Thus, those first four ships of the Continental Fleet were refitted merchant ships. Of them, the Alfred was the first to raise the Grand Flag of the Union. What a moment that must have been! All four ships of the brand spanking new Continental Navy launched in January of 1776 into an icy Delaware River.
Admittedly, the campaigns of the Continental Navy were not as successful as those of the Continental Army. No one expected the flotilla of merchant-turned-war ships to sink the fleet of Britannia. But they were brave, relentless, and served with distinction. John Paul Jones’ cry of “I have not yet begun to fight!” in response to a query of surrender is repeated to this day when the chips are down. While Jones admitted he didn’t say those exact words, the paraphrase made him a folk hero. Testimony to the fact that everyone loves a sailor.
As Tag Team rapped in the ’90s: Whoomp, there it is.
My tribute to the trepidation of 1775 would celebrate a fledgling nation’s formation of a navy on a shoestring budget with repurposed ships and determined Sailors and Marines. And what better way to do it than in the language of sail: signal flags. “Everyone Loves a Sailor” honors all who have and will sail beneath the stars and stripes from the Huzzah! of 1775 to the Hooyah! of 2025 and beyond.
What started as a tribute to others has become an honor of my own. “Everyone Loves a Sailor” is part of the Summer Celebration of New England Quilts exhibit at the New England Quilt Museum in Lowell, MA. I had hoped it would be considered by my guild as an entry but never thought it would be chosen. To represent this group of quilters is a pretty big deal. The talent on display at our April quilt show in Jamaica Plain, MA, was astounding. With trepidation I sent off the entry form to the museum’s Director and, to my delight, she accepted it. And yes, I called my mom first.
It’s a privilege to be surrounded by talented artists and to call my fellow PBQers my friends. Without them, honestly, this quilt wouldn’t exist. Their encouragement, support, and humor gave me the chutzpah to cut up a bajillion pieces of fabric and sew them into a quilt that I know my father, the Marine, would salute.
Hooyah, indeed.
PS: I hope you like the following video. Turn the volume up. The Navy has a pretty neat band, too.
PPS: Feel free to stop by the New England Quilt Museum, 18 Shattuck St, Lowell, MA to see “Everyone Loves a Sailor” and the other quilts representing quilt guilds throughout New England. It’s an uplifting exhibit of artistry and imagination. And if you choose my quilt as your Viewer’s Choice Award vote, my guild, Proper Bostonian Quilters, could win its own exhibit at the museum next year, which, frankly, would be awesome.
Check out these links:
- My day job: The Bean House
- New England Quilt Museum
- Proper Bostonian Quilters
- National Museum of the U.S. Navy
- U.S. Naval War College Museum
Articles with Folk Art or Military Themes
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Doing Time in the Garden
Incarcerated.
Or is it an illusion?
Beauty can deceive.
Haiku, don’t you? Peruse my previous poetic offerings:
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What’s Your Sign?
Astrologically, I’m a Gemini on the cusp of Taurus. This sign, however, is more accurate:
Best birthday present evah. Added bonus, it complements the décor, wouldn’t you say?
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Danke Schön, Sorta
Spring has been the official season of Massachusetts for 22 days. Trees are budding. Snowdrops, daffodils, and forsythia have made their debut. Magnolias in sunny corners have begun to dazzle us with their blossoms. The lilac bushes have tiny leaves. Spring fever afflicts us all and no one wants to be cured.
In April the landscape can change dramatically over the course of a warm day or a rainy night. Every morning, I open the bedroom curtains to look outside eager to note the changes from the night before. As Ferris Bueller pointed out, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Recent weather has been cold and rainy. The Boston Red Sox opened their season at home bundled up in balaclavas while the Fenway faithful wore their winter coats. Yet outside the ballpark, the green carpets of the Emerald Necklace are rolling out for the debut of Mother Nature’s 2025 Spring Collection. Willow trees decked in hazy, yellow cloaks check their reflection in the lagoon at the Public Garden. Red maples fire up their foliage in rivalry with the bricks of Beacon Hill. The chorus of shade trees on Boston City Hall Plaza are unfurling in verdant swaths to block, I mean, soften the Brutalist nightmare that houses our city government. Cue the lights and music, spring is ready to hit the runway.
Imagine my surprise this morning when I opened the bedroom curtains eager to see what Mother Nature had been up to overnight and spied a light carpet of snow on the ground. *Cue record-scratching noise.*
As surprise gave way to resignation, I remembered an April long ago. My father and I planted copious amounts of wildflower seeds in the backyard. The next day snow covered the ground where we had planted our flowerbed. Dad thought it was hilarious. In his opinion, snow is just white rain. As it melts, it waters the flowers and they’ll be even prettier. As he predicted, our wildflower garden eventually bloomed in spectacular fashion. White rain hadn’t been welcome, but it had been helpful.
This morning was proof again of how quickly things can change during a New England spring. In the ensuing hours since I took the above photos, the snow has melted and the grass beneath it, I swear, is a deeper green. The daffodils whose heads hung low have quenched their thirst and are, again, standing proud. And the buds on the once snow-covered branches seem on the verge of opening.
Perhaps my eagerness to observe all and miss nothing lists heavily to poetic license. Yet I feel, despite the frosty start to the day, spring has made progress and winter is truly behind us. Renaming snow to white rain is a psychological step in the right direction. Unlike autumn when we revel in the brightly colored foliage and wistfully recall the warmth of summer, spring holds no nostalgia for winter. Judging by the guys in shorts at the gas pumps, I don’t think there’s a single person up here who is hoping for one last, late snowfall. Is there? Anyone, anyone…
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Snow Bird
When I was a kid, sighting the first Robin to land in the neighborhood was a harbinger of spring. Whether hopping along the ground in search of insects or perching proudly on a tree branch, these feathered friends reminded me that tulips and lilac blossoms are just around the corner.
Then I grew up and learned the truth. New England’s weather couldn’t care less about a Robin’s migration timetable.
Over the weekend we were served a weather smorgasbord. It started as snow, turned to sleet, and ended with torrential rain. Just to make sure we didn’t congratulate ourselves for dodging a “big one”, Mother Nature sent her son, Jack Frost, to finish the job overnight.
All the water that had pooled everywhere, because the frozen ground gave it no quarter, is now solid. This is not the first time mother and son have delivered the one-two punch. Bags of ice melt are now as rare as eggs.
That’s why when I opened the curtains this morning to find a Robin sitting atop our cherry tree, his feathers fluffed against the frigid, raging wind, I could only smile at his boundless optimism.
Spring is nowhere to be found, but here he is establishing his territory, sitting boldly on prime branch real estate, aggressively chirping at rivals both real and perceived, letting all of bird-dom know that the boy is back in town.
I’ll keep the bird feeder stocked because that’s what New Englanders of a certain age do. The little dinosaurs also expect it. When it runs low they land in the window boxes to chirp and stare impatiently at the slackers inside who’d let them starve.
They don’t realize, however, that I know nuts, seeds, mealworms, and suet are a small price to pay to have such whimsical and colorful creatures thrive among us. They’re reminders that beauty isn’t fragile. Birds take what they’re given and turn it into flight and song. And, of course, more birds.
I applaud Mr. Robin for the audacity of his early return and welcome him back to wait for spring, wherever it is, with the rest of us hearty souls.
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