Rachael Herron

(R.H. Herron)

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I Talked To Strangers About Politics and Didn’t Die

Scroll down to see how to get a pair of socks, knitted for you by me. 

On Saturday, I went out to register voters. I was stumping for a congressional candidate on Saturday (Josh Harder, who is absolutely blowing his shot to have his campaign slogan be VOTE HARDER but seems like a great candidate). I never thought I’d be the person to stand on a corner, asking strangers to talk about politics. But 2018 isn’t like other years, is it?

Two of my best friends and I went together to join a Swing Left campaign. The whole idea behind to Swing Left is to flip the House to a Democratic majority. They match you up with the district nearest you that needs help with this. (Put in your own zip code!)

While we worked on Saturday, we were official volunteers with the Tracy Democrats Club, badges and everything.

Me, Juliet Blackwell, and Adrienne Bell

We stood around the mall and tried to get people to talk to us.

And it went exactly as you think it would. Most people gave us the headshake or the deer in the headlights look as they raced past as fast as they could.

I get it. I am always that guy. Where I live in Oakland, wherever I go there’s a paid person trying to get my name on some kind of petition.

On this: I have a friend who works in self-defense, and she noticed one day that these paid signature gatherers were using tactics that only people with bad boundaries use. In other words, they were being paid to be well trained and excellent harassers.

So she doubled back and told them of her interest in this fact, and got them to talk to her about how they work. They are trained not to respond to obvious clues like protective language and body movements, the things we all take for granted. The funniest part was when she left, he attempted his spiel for real on her again.

Those are the people that terrify me. I will go a block out of my way to avoid passing in front of one.

Me and my pals? We were not professionals.

We would ask, we’d get shot down, and we’d smile and wait for the opportunity to try again. (Seriously, send writers to do these jobs! We are PROS at rejection! Get out of your face? Of course, sir! Ma’am, may I talk to you?)

I think my favorite answer was one woman who barked, “I don’t talk politics with anyone!” I can totally respect that.

But the answers that broke my heart were the ones we got from people who said they were too disheartened to vote. They were distraught with the direction of the country and truly thought their vote wouldn’t change anything.

Of course, we know this might be true! That’s heartbreaking in another, agonizing way.

But we have to fight. We have to do things we don’t want to do. We have to push past comfort points. Yes, it does wonders for the soul to hold the sign and stand in the middle of the street and shout at the top of your lungs how enraged you are with the injustices of this country.

Going to a protest doesn’t do very much, though.

We all know that in our hearts, even though we hate to admit it. We’re shouting into echo chambers made of high-rise walls.

Getting out there, trying to get people to register to vote, telling them about the Democratic candidate who could make a difference in their district, that felt like doing something for once. (We weren’t arguing politics. We didn’t engage with Republicans. No one ever changed their mind based on a conversation with a stranger in a mall. We were focused on one thing: Getting our voters out in November.)

And while it was truly AGONIZING, I’ll do it again. And I’ll probably be exactly as uncomfortable next time. That’s okay. It fed my soul more than making a banner.

Registering voters was harder than I thought, and I'd do it again.

Are you registered?

Edited to add: I’ll knit a pair of socks (my choice of colors – I have to enjoy it!) for the first three people who register (who weren’t before) and pledge to vote! (You’ll send me a pic of yourself with your “I Voted” sticker and get the socks! It’ll be November and getting cold!) Don’t you need socks? GO HERE to find out how to do it in your state and then let me know! First three get ’em.

What a Difference a Day Makes #510pups

Early this morning I got a text from Bethany: I think someone might be having puppies.

I knew she was wrong – I’d palpated Little Molly’s (the weekend rescue) belly just the day before, wondering if she was preggers and hadn’t felt a thing. She didn’t bulge anywhere. I called her back. “We should go to the vet right now. She’s not pregnant, so if she’s in pain like that, there much be something really wrong.”

Bethany said, “No. It’s labor.”

Still not believing her, I said, “I’m on my way.”

She was right. She’s usually right. Sure enough, Little Molly popped out two puppers. The first took a while and was stressful for all of us, but she did everything right and little Athol was born and cleaned and (s)he suckled right away.

Iris basically fell out with no ceremony, so I think Little Molly was surprised and didn’t do the same amount of work. We had to help a little more.

All three are healthy and Little Molly is doing a great job. Bethany and I are going to share foster duties till they can all be adopted. (Maybe YOU need a wee darling! Little Molly is so sweet I feel these matching pups are going to be the same.)

But whoa, this was a HELL of a surprise. What a fine one, though. And how lucky I feel that I could take the day off work and watch.

Welcome, wee ones. You’re going to have great lives.

Little Molly, A Dog Made of Love

I’ve written many times about the way my car seems to attract animals. At all times, I keep in my glovebox a leash and a small can of wet cat food (this smells good to all kinds of animals).

Driving home on Saturday, I turned onto our street and saw a woman letting two small dogs run around in the middle of the street. I rolled down my window so I could tell her they were cute with a “get your dogs out of the street” passive-aggressive tone of voice when she cried “They aren’t mine! I don’t know how to catch dogs!”

So I pulled over. One, a little terrier/dachshund mix was super friendly and came right to me. Her little friend who looked like she could have been her daughter was not so friendly. That little one seemed feral, as if she’d never been approached by a human.

While cuddling the warm little girl who was filthy and matted and covered with fleas and road grease, I debated with myself. My neighbor said they’d been living in a pile of clothes near her house for at least a week, eating the cat food she left outside for her outdoor cats. Both dogs had had puppies at some point recently. The cuddly pup in my arms didn’t seem to be lactating anymore, but the one still running in the street looked full of milk.

What the hell was I supposed to do? In all my animal-finding years, this dilemma has never occurred. If I rescued the one in my arms, that meant the one running terrified would be left all alone in the world.

It might sound dumb that this was distressing to me, but to be honest I’m still really upset about it.

But if I let the sweet girl in my arms go, she’d be running on busy city streets. One of them would certainly get hit by a car, and probably soon.

So I separated them. I felt like Doggy ICE.

The pup who we’re calling Little Molly, is being fostered by my sister Bethany, who recently lost her own dog.

Little Molly is even sweeter now that she’s clean and good smelling. She’s 11 pounds and full-grown, probably about two years old, and has probably had two litters already (THAT OR SHE’S PREGNANT – the vet tech couldn’t tell when Bethany got the chip scanned, and we’re waiting to be scheduled for a full vet visit).

The size of a laptop!

Her ears are soft, and her manner is 100% affection. Bethany has been working with a local rescue society, who has said that she’s totally adoptable because of her adorability — we just have to wait the city mandated two-weeks days to allow the owner to claim her.

That ain’t gonna happen, and we all know it.

A responsible owner wouldn’t have let this happen. A responsible owner would have microchipped her (which is law). At the very least, if she was beloved by someone who couldn’t afford to chip her, she would’ve had a tag. There would’ve been signs looking for her; there would’ve been a flyer at Animal Services.

No one’s looking for these dogs, and that breaks my heart.

It also breaks my heart that I couldn’t catch the other little pup, the younger one. I searched the area for puppies and found none. Whenever I took a step toward the feral mother, she ran, sometimes right into traffic. I never got closer than half a block to her, and I was causing more danger to her by trying to catch her. Animal Services in this town is too busy to pick up live dogs who aren’t a threat, so I’ve just been leaving food where she’s been seen. But I haven’t seen her in two days now.

It makes me crazy, y’all. Just half a block away is where one night, I saw a tiny black kitten run across the road and under a car. I stopped and crawled halfway under the chassis and pulled the wee thing out of the wheel well. That kitten, Crowley, is now my friend Martha’s favorite being in the universe. That one tiny animal has made all the difference in her life.

That little mama running the streets deserves a good home like Crowley, like Little Molly will soon inevitably have.

One loose dog is a seriously trivial thing in a world full of bad shit. I know that.

But still.

At least Little Molly will change someone’s life, and we got to help with that.

(Hit me up if you’re interested! She’s house-trained and a total love. Her main problem that we’ve seen is that she IS a total love. She wants to be a purse dog and touching you at all times. This is a dog for a person who wants to be adored ALL THE TIME without a break. She has separation anxiety which will ease with time and security, but she has a loud whine (no barks have been heard) so she’d make a better house dog than an apartment one. She got along fine with my Dozy. She doesn’t like to cross streets (for obvious reasons, I think). Pass it on!)

 Read about at the blog.

How to Climb Revision Mountain

Read the full post on climbing revision mountain!

From my weekly writer’s email – are you a writer who should be on the list?

You hear me say all the time that I love revision, that revision is where the magic happens. (Many of you also tell me that I’m out of my mind.)

But I’m here to tell you that once you’ve revised three or four books, you’ll love revision more than first drafting (and if you don’t, then at least you’ll be way less scared of it than you were on your first few buckin’ bronco rides).

Listening to Joanna Penn’s interview with Natasa Lesik on my run yesterday, I heard something that I thought was a great metaphor.

Revising helps you see the mountain hiding in the mist.

I’m going to take that metaphor and unpack it until I can see the bottom of the suitcase and mix my metaphors at the same time! One of my favorite hobbies!

When you write your first, messy draft, you’re digging up dirt. You’re driving your spade into the soil of your soul and tossing it behind you.

I did this in real life just two weeks ago as I dug a hole in the backyard for a Japanese maple. I didn’t realize how much dirt I’d dug out until I turned around and saw it piled there behind me. It was a tiny, unexpected mountain.

The same thing happens in writing. You spend weeks and possibly years digging into your soul, pulling out a book, and patting the dirt back into place.

You’re left with lots of lovely, rolling foothills.

You say, “Oh, these are certainly charming. I’m going to revise my book now, and in these green and verdant foothills, I’ll place picturesque sheep and perhaps a shepherdess or two, with pretty staffs and cunningly laced shoes. A few babbling brooks, and a little tidying, and I’m done!”

What about that mist?

“Oh, that?” you say, looking over your shoulder. “That’s just mist.”

Is it hiding anything?

You look surprised. “Just more of the same, I think.”

More foothills?

You say with way too much confidence, “Sure!”

Then you hire an editor.

She takes your foothills into her arms (she’s very tall) and says, “I’m just going to have a look, okay?”

Several weeks later, she returns your foothills to you. The streams are flowing with red ink, the sheep have scattered, the shepherdesses have unionized, and worst of all, THERE IS A GODDAMN MOUNTAIN in the middle of your work.

“Oh, that,” your editor says, looking over her shoulder as she leaves. “I blew away all that mist for you. That should help.”

A mountain?

You didn’t write a mountain.

And you certainly didn’t write a mountain that you’d have to climb. You don’t have ropes, you don’t have crampons, you barely know what a belay device is.

Then you read her revision letter, and in it, she refers to the multiple times you’re going to have to climb this goddamn mountain that you DID NOT EVEN ORDER THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

What happened to your beautiful foothills? Weren’t they enough?

With all the love my heart can hold, I tell you, No, it’s not enough.

I’ve heard reading a revision letter likened to hearing a nuclear explosion. You’re left with nothing but deafening silence. People speak to you, moving their mouths, but you can’t hear the words they say.

Nothing makes sense, especially your revision letter.

But in another couple of days, the words do start to make sense (this comes slowly). In about a week, you can admit that yes, perhaps it might be a good idea to climb a few feet up the mountain. NOT VERY FAR, MIND YOU. You’re still not sure about any of this. But you buy a pickaxe and a couple of locking carabiners from REI.

Here’s the thing, my sweet friends: THE MOUNTAIN WAS ALWAYS THERE. You built it. All of it came right out of the deepest part of you.

You just couldn’t see it until someone whose gift it is to see things from on high (that’s why she’s tall) showed you the way. She drew a map for you. That doesn’t mean you have to follow the map (though I think you should—she knows more than you do about the shape of good books, no matter how smart you feel you are about your book), but the map is there if you need it.

If you get a good editor, either through your publisher (traditional publishing) or have paid for one (self-publishing), she’s given you a satellite phone. If you get stranded at the top, you can email her. I’m at the peak. There’s no way down.

She’ll email back: Don’t worry, there is. Then she’ll tell you where to start looking for the path back to your foothills.

Then you get to the bottom of the mountain. You did it! You really did it!

Now, do it again.

Happily, the second time over the mountain is way easier than the first. Oh, here’s the peak that looks like Bob Hope’s nose! There’s the stream where you caught that huge trout last time! The third time is even easier—you’re kind of jogging up the path now and sprinting down it on the other side. The fourth time is pure pleasure as you plant flowers and tidy avalanches along the way. All subsequent trips feel like afternoon jaunts to a place you love to be.

Then you become a guide. You take others to this place and show them around.

Those people you take to the mountain are your readers.

And that is amazing.

Onward!

2 Ways to Use Zucchini on a Weeknight When You’re Too Tired to Go to the Store

Zucchini is not good, except when it's cooked like this:

I have never liked zucchini.

I understand that this is a controversial position to take, but in general, I find cooked zucchini to be slimy and tasteless. It reminds me of tofu. Like tofu, it can be made into lots of good things, but I don’t need to be around its virginal state.

But we are a member of a CSA, Phat Beets. We’ve done CSA memberships before, but this one feels a little different. We get a box every two weeks, and it’s stuff that we actually use. I often go into the refrigerator and pull something out and cook with it, instead of getting rid of moldy CSA vegetables that I forgot to use again every two weeks (which is the reason we’ve quit a couple of CSAs in the past).

Also, Phat Beets is doing something awesome: They’re social justice workers and promote small farm and farmers of color in local organic production. I mean, check out their farms! There’s even a 1-acre farm at the high school behind our house! I love knowing the chard we got this week might have been grown on the same block we live on.

But yesterday, I realized I had a lot of zucchini.

I’ve done zucchini noodles, but honestly, if I want noodles, I want pasta, not vegetables. That’s the whole point of pasta: that it sticks to your ribs and makes you feel sleepy afterward. Zucchini noodles (zoodles, if you want to make it really annoying) just make you feel virtuous for twenty-five minutes and then hungry.

So I went over to Smitten Kitchen, because I’m a fan of her recipes. I searched for zucchini, and last night I made these zucchini fritters which I served with poached eggs and her lemon garlic sour cream. They were easy and divine. Fluffy, soft, a little crunchy. We ate ’em all.

Not content to just fritter the zucchinis away (yes, I had to), I made some of her zucchini bread, too.

When I was a kid, my parents’ garden overflowed with zucchini every summer. It was the typical menacing zucchini, taking over everything in its path. It would get sent home with you if you came to visit, and you weren’t getting out of it.

My mother made this zucchini bread that tasted like heaven to me. It was tall and dense and delicious. It was sweet, but not overly so. Slathered with a little bit of butter, it was the perfect snack.

Last night’s attempt did not turn out like my mother’s. My attempt is good, yes. But the loaves were flat and overly dense (maybe because I used gluten-free flour?).

It has the same background flavor, though.

The little kid in me wants to gobble slice after slice, and the adult in me knows that while it might not be the best idea, I’m allowed to do that if I want.

And then my thinking gets wider.

Do you ever stand in your kitchen and look around and hear the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime?” How did I get here?

Seriously, how am I forty-six and thinking about my mother’s zucchini bread in a kitchen that I share with my beloved wife? How am I allowed to live this life? I can’t be old enough to do this – I’m not ready to handle this!

Oh, yes, wait. I love all this. I am ready for it.

Thanks, zucchini. You are not tofu. Thank goodness.

PS – Also, I really love meals that are unplanned and that you don’t have to go to the store for. Both the fritters and the bread were made with ingredients already in the kitchen, and I always like that’s a special magic. This bread was in my cupboards? In components parts? And I didn’t notice till now? 

PPS – In another good food episode of this week, making taco salad with CSA shredded cabbage because the thing you thought was CSA lettuce was actually thick chard, was INSPIRED, y’all. Suddenly, leftover taco salad, instead of being filled with wilted lettuce, is just as crunchy as the day you made it. (Chips always need to be crumbled fresh, of course.)  Lala and I both agree taco salad is better with cabbage now.