woodstock writers festival

I went to the first annual Woodstock Writers Festival and all I got was this lousy totebag. Oh, and four days of workshops, readings, and panel discussions with a remarkable and generous group of authors; belly laughs, inspiration, new friends, and great advice.
            Opening night wine and dessert tapas with Susan Orlean, author of The Orchid Thief, a book on my to-read list moving closer to the top because who can resist lines like, “I hate hiking in swamps with convicts carrying machetes.”
            Saturday morning Nina and I went to the writing workshop with Abigail Thomas, author of Thinking About Memoir and other books. There was a certain — what — ironic congruity? in sitting at a memoir workshop in our first Woodstock childhood home, now the Woodstock Center for Photography. Our parents owned the old Café Espresso, our living quarters in the apartment upstairs. My sister and I sat in chairs that would have been behind the bar. Huh, whattaya know.
            I missed the reading by Maria Bauer, author of Beyond the Chestnut Tree, a book I read 25 years ago when Maria gave Tony and me a copy as a wedding gift. I lived in a cottage next door to her summer house in Woodstock. It’s my favorite of the places I’ve lived, partly because it was when I first suspected I was not going to die tragically young in a firey crash on my way home from Deanie’s some drunken Quaalude-rippled night. I digress.
        I loved the workshop with Laura Shaine Cunningham because the woman is so god-damned happy. And not just because she is a best-selling author, either. She’s made a deliberate effort to let go of angst and get out of what she called, “writers’ debtors prison.” I sharpen my shiv and dig, even if it’s just to break out of an illusion. One of the exercises was to describe the prior morning.

To do:
One load of laundry
Look at the bills, maybe even pay some
Wake up one Teenager
Leave by noon.
        Coffee. Laundry in. The Teenager is given first call at nine with the hope that he’ll be out of bed by 10:00 with time to do kitchen chores before taking off for the day.
O for two.
Pack. What to wear to a Writers Festival? A tiny cut above my usual slacks and a t-shirt? Two t-shirts? Laundry in dryer. Time is on time’s side. It always is if I sit at the computer before getting my must-dos done. Sucked into e-mail and facebook and now I have an overpowering need to know more about turtles and now it’s an irretrievable hour later and I’m late but at least I’m all schooled up on turtles.

Panel discussion with Dani Shapiro, John Bowers, Marion Winik, and Shalom Auslander. I haven’t read the first two authors, but Glen Rock Book of the Dead by Marion Winik is a brilliant little collection of essays about 52 people she knew who have died. Shalom Auslander’s book Foreskin’s Lament is nine miles beyond funny. Really fucking pissed off funny. Maddest at god but plenty left over for family too.
Here’s a response to an unremembered audience question.

Shalom: If you want to know what it’s like to be a writer, read The Hunger Artist by Kafka. You live in a cage, you starve, and no one cares.
Marion: Except they drag you out once a year for the Woodstock Writers Festival.
Shalom: Yeah, in a barn in the middle of nowhere.

Go out now and get these books and read them. I’ll wait.
            Next up Martha Frankel on marketing. I hate marketing. Marketing is why I got out of marketing. But Martha makes it sound so fun! and easy! So now I have to learn to pimp myself on facebook, twitter, etc. Now I have to accept everyone who friends me, including that guy who self-publishes vampire porn written in the style of a seven year old which now I see is a brilliant marketing strategy. The hide feature is my friend, and if things get really bad I can block which is to say in Mother Frankel’s words, “He’s dead to me.” I know you’re right Martha but shit.
            The next panel discussion was so good because I hated half of them. Hey eager writers, feeling good, and inspired? It’s time for the Cranky Negative Panel! (Wake up JB, you’re on the stage.) On the left were Bob Wyatt and Shaye Areheart, lovely helpful positive folks who I hope can be paired with different people in the future. The two on the right, married publisher and agent couple, seemed to say, “Hello. We are your barriers to publication. Go dig a hole and bury your book and stop bothering us with your stupid questions.” I loved Bob Wyatt’s riposte after a particularly long and gloomy response by the nattering nabobs of negativism∗ involving the impossibility of ever seeing even one of your vowels in print: “Or, you could land a plane on the Hudson.” Thank you Bob. And thank you Sully.
            I read Chosen By a Horse by Susan Richards by accident, misremembering a book recommended by my sister. I’m not a horse person. I’m not really even an animal person unless it involves heat and side dishes. In Sunday’s writing workshop Susan points out that hers is not a book about horses; it’s a book about grief. It was poignant, funny, sad and uplifting. The book that is. The workshop was excellent. When I am stuck I will go back to minute observations. Speaking of poignancy and all that, why didn’t I guess that I’d spend so much of this festival welled up bordering tears? The audience readers were wonderful and so many of their stories ached. Note on next years fest: bring tissues.
            Sunday night’s event was a reading and Q+A by Julie Powell, hosted by Martha Frankel, author of Hats and Eyeglasses. Julie’s is the I had an idea and I blogged it and someone noticed and I made it into a book and then Hollywood found it and Amy Adams played me and Meryl Streep was in it fairy tale. Julie landed her plane in the Hudson. I’m embarrassed that I have not read nor seen the movie Julie and Julia, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the hell out of this event. Martha Frankel is a thoughtful and funny host. I first saw her moderating a panel at the Woodstock Film Festival and thought I would like to have lunch with her sometime, if only she wasn’t such a recluse. For a good time, friend Martha on Facebook. She’s not that choosy and you won’t be sorry. Back to Julie, who has a new book called Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession that is maybe a little about her time interning at Fleischer's butcher shop in Kingston, NY. Julie is so damn cute it’s hard to imagine her taking down a side of beef, plus it hardly seems safe for a twelve year old to be waving big knives around, but I do look forward to reading this book. I’m sure it’s not about the meat.
            Did I mention that Ruth Reichl read and answered questions? She did. She was her sweet and funny goddess self. I may write more on this later.
            The next morning was a meet and greet brunch at Joshua’s. I ate, I schmoozed, I took pictures. That’s it for now. Find yourself at the Woodstock Writers Festival next year. The totebags are really nice.

∗ William Safire, for Spiro Agnew

http://woodstockwritersfestival.com/index.html

the hand

Once when I was about seven we were at the Berg’s house and I watched my first horror movie. The movie was about a pianist, a hand, and a pair of scissors. Or at least that’s what I remember, the terrifying part. The hand crawled across the piano, grasped the scissors, and stabbed the pianist. Why or how or if didn’t matter. It just was, and with help from my brother that hand with its gleaming scissors would become the single most terrifying thought of my childhood. A mere whisper of “the hand” would send me into a spiral of hysteria. I remember sitting with my mother in the bathroom while she whispered, “it’s okay; it’s not real; it’s just a movie; that could never happen” ad nauseum until I fell asleep exhausted in her arms and she would carry me to bed. But my seven-year-old heart knew that hand would come after me some night holding those big scissors to stab me again and again.

birthday wishes

I was going through and clearing out a bunch of crap from my office area the other day and came across a birthday card my grandmother sent to my son Demetri a dozen or so years ago. She was in her early nineties then. He was seven.

Here’s a picture of the front of the card:

She had, no doubt, walked down to the pharmacy at Bradley Meadows to buy it. She might have grabbed a bottle of wine from the liquor store while she was out. She always remembered our birthdays.

Here’s the inside of the card:

In case you can’t read her I’m-Old-and-English-is My-Second-Language-Anyway handwriting, she wrote,

“Dear Dimitri

G^d Mère wish you very happy day for your Birthday —

Good kisses —

G^d Mère"

boston book festival

The new nasal pillows kept me up half the night. While not as obtrusive as the full mask, which was like having Darth Vader sit on my face and sigh all night, the new contraption is less nasal pillow and more vengeful nose plug. Both, however, are preferable to dying in one’s sleep, so I carry on as I carry on. I woke up two hours later than intended, looked outside at the rain, and decided to blow off the Boston Book Festival. Went downstairs and poured a bowl of Cheerios but because there was no milk I reinstated my plan and took off. I am easily manipulated, even by breakfast cereal.
The festival commandeered Copley Square, with events running all day in the Boston Public Library and Old South and Trinity churches. Vendor tents around the square sheltered publishing companies, free coffee, radio stations, etc. One tent had a lineup of authors each spending an hour signing books that were being given away. Yes, given away. Not crap books either; books by people you’ve heard of: Ken Burns, Jay O’Callahan, Barbara Lynch.
My favorite event was Writer Idol. Here’s the description from the website:

In this freewheeling session, a professional actor will perform the first page of your unpublished manuscript for the audience and a panel of three “judges.” Judges are agents and editors with years of experience reading unsolicited submissions. When one judge hears a line that would make her stop reading, she will raise her hand. The actor will keep reading until a second judge raises his hand. The judges will then discuss WHY they would stop reading, and offer concrete if subjective suggestions to the anonymous author. If no agent raises a hand, the judges will discuss what made the excerpt work. Though all excerpts will be evaluated anonymously, this session is not for the faint-hearted or thin-skinned! While judges will be respectful of the work, laughter and even scorn from the audience is to be expected. To participate in this session, bring THE FIRST 250 WORDS of your manuscript (fiction or non-fiction only, please) to the session. It must be double-spaced, titled, and clearly marked at the top with its genre. Participants will leave the manuscripts in a box at the front of the room, and manuscripts will be chosen randomly by the actor.

I don’t watch American Idol but due to popular culture salvo I understood that the panel included the Simon judge; lots of eye-rolling and stinging commentary, the Paula Abdul “nice” judge, and… you get the picture. Or maybe you don’t and if that’s the case don’t change anything. The difference of course was the anonymity of the writers. No need to parade that cliché-suffused spasm of a first page in person; the actor did that for you.
A few things I learned:
Don’t open with the weather.
Opening with your character just waking up is risky. By extrapolation, if you must open with your character just waking up, do not under any circumstances have her talk about or even notice the weather.
Your first few pages should not describe urine running down any leg. In fact, avoid vivid chronicling of all bodily functions. It might be okay to describe bleeding, provided it is from someplace that does not typically bleed — gashes, eyes, etc. Menstrual blood falls into the former category.

It was hard to listen without comparing my first 250 words with their first 250 words. Harder still was not staring at any person who stood up and hurried out after the judges' sometimes ruthless criticism. What I wanted to do was stand at the door and conduct exit interviews: “Why are you leaving?” “Was that your piece that just got skewered before the crowd?” “Why are you crying?” “Do you think you’ll ever write again?” I suppose it’s good practice for the rejection letters we all have to open.

I left the festival with a few literary magazines, a stack of books, some free and some purchased, all signed by the authors, and went straight to my friend Debbie’s for a lovely evening of sparkling toilets, delicious food and good company. I got home at 1:00 a.m. without the milk.

Freecycle Etiquette: A True Story and a Cautionary Tale (and an annoying line break.)

I read through a few of my blog posts and realize that some of you might think that I am nice, and sappy. I offer this post in contradiction. Insert [sic] where necessary.

This one's for you Lizzy, 'cause Debbie's not good at clicking either.

Debbie and I belong to the same Freecycle List and exchange witticisms and clever wordplay on a variety of subjects, freecycle being the recent favorite. While many of the goods offered through freecycle are decent, usable, sometimes even valuable, there are the items whose owners don’t recognize are too tired to go any further than the trash. I bring you Suzi (not her real name) and her treasures of such dubious value that even the most rigorous of recyclers may flinch.

Suzi to Freecycle:
Offer:
2 Crazy Straws
2 Standard Pillowcases
Baseball Hat Cleaner

Suzi to Freecycle:
Offer:
3 Chloraseptic Sore Throat Relief Strips
4 Raspberry Drink Mix Packages (Just add hot or cold water)
(32 Minerals and Vitamin C) (A Dietary supplement)
Finger Nail Polish Remover
Sponge for Body Wash (Never used)
Toothpaste (Some used.) Didn't like the flavor.
I want it gone ASAP

Debbie to Me:
Come on!! D

Me to Debbie:
Thank God someone has offered this. My polish is chipping badly and Lord Knows I can't spend the 69¢ for a bottle. Gas up the car, we're goin' to Nashua!
Suzi, get a grip!
(Sure you don't want any empty margarine containers? Just slightly used...)

Debbie to Me:
Run--don't walk!
She also offered three strips of some cough-related thing, I think.
Interested? Three f-ing strips.
The height of bad taste, I know, making fun of freecycle. Can't help myself.

Me to Debbie:
HAH!
I think we need to start a compilation of the *interesting* things people think other people want. Again, there's a thesis in there somewhere...

Suzi to Freecycle:
Offer:
4 Folders
Want everything gone ASAP or it will go to Goodwill.

Me to Debbie:
OK, now Suzi's getting to the MEAT of her stash. Stay tuned...

Suzi to Freecycle:
Offer:
Reference Book 2 Volumes A-Z (Brand new) (I want it to go to a real good home)(I paid alot of them)
Electic Bands for stretching
5 Folders some used some never used must take all.

Uh-oh. Here's where Debbie’s aim goes awry. She hits the "reply" button instead of “forward” and sends these e-mails, intended for me, to Suzi.

Debbie to Suzi:
"FOUR FOLDERS...WANT EVERYTHING GONE ASAP OR IT WILL GO TO GOODWILL"
Threats now.

Suzi to Freecycle:
Offer:
5 Folders some used some never used must take all.

Debbie to Suzi:
Must be spring cleaning...in the fall. I love this: "Reference Book 2 Volumes A-Z (Brand new) (I want it to go to a real good home)(I paid alot of them)"
Whoa--more folders. Some used, some not: must take all. Is this a fucking joke?

Debbie to Suzi:
Still going--you were right. She is really getting down now. Stretchy band?

This is when Debbie calls me laughing hysterically which I take for crying and panic. With the laughing and the two feet in her mouth it is hard to understand what she is saying.

So, two questions: Should Debbie apologize to Suzi; and do you think that the 32 Minerals and Vitamin C is *per packet*, or is it 8 Minerals and Vitamin C per packet, times the four packets?

what i overheard

Starbucks, a weekend afternoon. A man in a suit is sitting at the table across from me, looking anxiously from his watch to the door and back again. A woman approximately his age, mid 60s I’d say, walks in, looking nicely put together, and begins to look around. They make eye contact, and the man stands and approaches her. They shake hands and speak as they walk to the counter to order. I continued working; reading or writing for one class or another. They return with their coffees and sit. Their conversation, which I cannot help overhearing, is about the day, the weather, other mundane topics, but with a tenseness not fitting with the casual conversation. I think maybe it’s a job interview. After a few more minutes of stiff banter it becomes clear that it is not a job interview, but a blind date. I am now much more interested in their conversation.
Taking a chance that weekend afternoon, after who knows how many weeks or years of being single, widowed, divorced, they sat at this neutral and public place, over coffee, not too much of a time commitment in case it really goes bust, and took a gamble that I imagine must be difficult.
Now they’re talking about his digestive system. Something going on with that, but it doesn’t sound too serious. I find myself wishing him off that topic. No, not on a first date! Don’t bring up your colon on a first date! I am his fan, I am rooting for him, hopeful for him, and I wish I could coach him from behind her back; gesture my finger across my neck to signal cut that topic short. He stops as though he hears me, and says in best barroom cliché fashion, “Enough about me, tell me about yourself.”
She tells him about where she works; management, or executive secretary, or some such. Not a job she wants to spend a lot of time talking about, and she doesn’t, moving on to another safe if unremarkable point. They chat back and forth this way, and I find myself attending to my work but pricking an ear up if the conversation sounds like it might go somewhere. It is mostly first date-ish, sheltered and shallow and nervous. The date itself is enough of a risk; no need to push things. Not at that age.
The date starts winding down. Maybe one of them had to be somewhere, or maybe one of them built in an escape mechanism as recommended on match.com. The woman excuses herself to the restroom and picks up her handbag. The man politely stands as she does, having grown up in an era when that was still routine, an era foreign to most of the people at Starbucks that day. A minute passes. The man takes a sip of his coffee and looks at his watch. Not impatiently, just habit. He says softly to no one, “I really enjoyed myself today, and if you’d like, we could do this again sometime.” He pauses and looks down at his now-empty cup. “I really enjoyed myself today, and I’d like to see you again.” He shakes his head slightly. I am looking at his reflection in the window, trying to seem uninterested or out of range of his earnest rehearsals. “I really enjoyed myself today, and if you’d like, maybe we could go to dinner.” Yes, that’s the one. That tells her not only would you like to see her again, but you’d like it to be a longer and more relaxed time, I coach.
The freshened woman approaches the table. He stands again, and they agree that it’s time to be leaving. “I really enjoyed myself today, and if you’d like, maybe we could go to dinner.” She agrees. He will call her. They leave, the three of us happy and hopeful.

two $100.00 parking stories

Spring, 2009

I’m taking a class at Lesley called “Fine Arts of Boston.” The class consists of going on field trips to artsy places and writing thoughts and reviews and making presentations and collages. It is not a big challenge but I will not be returning the three credits.
The first field trip was an architectural walk through Boston. Symphony Hall, Old South Church, Boston Public Library; check, check, check. Column, capital, entablature; check, check, check. Write a paper, collect an A, go to the Museum of Fine Arts. Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, still rivals after all these years. Photographic Figures in the new Herb Ritts Gallery (go!) Dürer, Rembrandt, van Gogh, Gauguin, and Renoir. Chuck Close, David Hockney, Gerhard Richter, Susan Rothenberg, Andy Warhol, and Takashi Murakami oh I could go on.
Part three of the class is to be a field trip to the theater. What will it be? Pinter? Moon for the Misbegotten? Shakespeare? The Cherry Orchard? Edward Albee? Death of a Salesman? Oh we are ripe with possibilities. The chosen play? Shear Madness. Self-proclaimed “America’s Favorite Comedy.” We will go cheek by jowl with the folks swarming from buses, still damp from their Duck Tour boat rides and thrilled at the shopping possibilities at Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Tickets are $34.00. Meet out front at 7:15.
Fine Arts of Boston. This conjures images; grand images; images of a city that writer Oliver Wendell Holmes dubbed “Hub of the Universe.” Shouldn’t we be more careful about what we dump into this “Fine Arts” pile? Should Shear Madness ever rest against the breast of Matisse’s Carmelina? Join Degas in a pas de deux? Have tea with van Gogh at Houses in Auvers?
It is with this backdrop that I bring you Two $100.00 Parking Stories:
First $100.00:
Got lost in Boston. I am one of the few who can do this despite having a GPS. It's a talent. Too late to have the nice dinner I was going to have before the play, I parked, fed the meter through 6:00 p.m., and went into a food courtish place on Tremont Street. At the Chinese take-out counter it was between the Corn Syrup Orange Colored Sesame Chicken, or General Gao's Gelatinous Mystery Meat. Went with the chicken. Ate half of that, chucked the rest, and stopped at Starbucks. It was going to be a long night and I was already tired, so I had a big latte.
Sussed out the theater. Still half hour before it was time to meet the group. Walked around a bit and noticed I had a parking ticket on my windshield: $100.00 for parking in a bus stop. After 6:00 it becomes a bus stop, says the sign that I didn't see. Neither, apparently, did the seven other people with tickets on their cars. Last time I'll ever park on Cash Cow Boulevard.
Drove around looking for parking. Nothing on the street, naturally, and I wasn't about to pay $30.00 to leave my car for two hours. I couldn't afford it at this point what with that hundred-dollar ticket. Drove by the theater and watched from the car as the group gathered in the rain waiting for the professor who had the tickets. I pulled up to one of my classmates and gave him the envelope with my ticket money in it and asked him to give it to the professor with my apologies; I wasn't feeling well and had to go home, I said.
Ticket to play I didn't want to see: $34.00
Parking ticket: $100.00
Bailing out and going home to sit in front of the TV: Priceless


Second $100.00:

Had class in Cambridge today, at Lesley on Mass Ave. at Porter Square. After yesterday’s pricey parking episode I decided to play it safe and use the Lesley lot. More expensive, but at least I didn't have to run out and feed the ever-ravenous meter monster his bi-hourly meal.
After class I went to the desk with my ticket to pay for my car to simply exist for four hours. "$15.00" requested the attendant, stamping my ticket. I counted my bills: $9.00. But my friend Donovan told me to always carry a $100.00 bill wherever I go. I pulled this out and handed it to the attendant. "Oh," he says, shocked at my affluence and the sheer madness shown in handing it to him, "I can't take that."
"It's American money" I contended. "I can't take it,” countered he. Well, I said, one hand open with the $9.00 on it, the other with the $100.00 bill on it, "you can have this.... or this."
"Okay, $9.00."

he's leaving home

I’m writing his name in Sharpie on the towels he’s taking with him to college. When I first met Demetri I could have dried him with a washcloth, and today he’s packing the trunk of his 1994 Mercedes S-Class, grit still under his fingernails from getting it into tip-top shape, and preparing to drive it across the country. This country; the one that looks more formidable to me now, on the brink of having my oldest off on its roads, in its towns and cities, its red states and its blue states.

I helped him with his laundry, something I hadn’t done in years, and made sure he had a flashlight and some extra batteries and that his AAA membership was up to date. That’s all I can really do now; the rest he did himself, which is pretty much how it’s been the past few years. He’s big now.

I’m not sure yet how many ways I’ll miss Demetri. The house will be quieter; too quiet, probably. The piano will have no one who can really play it. The kitchen will be cleaner. I’ll miss his sense of humor. I’ll have to figure out how to use my camera. I will miss our night-owl conversations about life, cars, and balls of string. I’ll miss the King Tiny face.

When the kids were growing up there were lots of things that ended without us really knowing that they had. Yes, we celebrated when they were done with diapers and when they lost a first tooth, but we didn’t notice when they stopped making burglar alarms out of household items, when they stopped playing with Lego, and when they didn’t need us to get them juice any more. Had I known I would have savored the last time sitting in my lap. When they stopped saying things like, “If there were rioters, and they asked idiots, imps and scoundrels to help them riot, wouldn’t that be bad and very destructive?”

I’ve savored the last few months with Demetri, and now it’s coming down to the wire. The trunk is packed. Towels are there. Flashlight too. Now I’m just waiting for him to say, “Mommy, if there was a seismograph for how much I love you, for the rest of the time the earth was here, someone would have to keep changing the rolls.” Then I’ll lift him gently off my lap, pour him some juice and he’ll be off.

facebook

I wrote this in March.

I joined Facebook about a year ago. I have two teenaged children and I wanted to see what it was about. For a long time I stayed hidden under a pen name, until one person found me. Then another, and like a shampoo commercial from the seventies my “friends” list multiplied exponentially until I was soon “friends” with forty people, some barely acquaintances. Some had recently made guest appearances in my writing. A best friend from elementary school reminded me via my “wall” of a disgusting soda mix we used to drink. I had written of this concoction in my journal two months before.

It can get overwhelming at times, especially when people post photos of us as pre-adolescents, or unquiet teens, so young, so spirited, so naïve. Who knew then that Della would slit her wrists? That Natalie and Vicky would die of cancer, leaving young children to face monumental loss? How some of us would go to college, grad school, medical school, and become professionals while others floundered, never getting much traction. Are we all shocked to be on the cusp or over the edge of 50? We didn’t know then how much our teeth could hurt, how fat or farsighted we could become, or how dark could be the pain of losing a child.

I’m finding myself glad to be in the virtual presence of these kids. Yeah, for me they’re still kids, as am I. These are the barely-formed people who knew the barely-formed Monique, a perspective only they will ever have.

I’ll see some of them some time, I’m sure, during trips back home or to here or there. I’ll see them in their present adult forms, and hold up my mirror to see what is different and what is the same. What parts are essential to who we are, no matter the age and what parts change as we grow, wizen, age.

My assessment of Facebook, if anyone asks, is that sure, it’s great for today’s kids to network and share. But its real value is to those of us who have separated, and lost touch of our childhoods.

staples

While driving recently with friends through Marin county we stopped in the little town of Point Reyes Station to walk around and find lunch to take with us to the beach. I became entranced by a rough knotty board, painted dark gray and nailed to the side of a building on the main street. It was a bulletin board, or was once. All that was left on it were small weathered corners of posters past, a profusion of rusty staples, and a couple of odd little drawings of faces or pieces of faces, painted onto thick rough-edged paper. It appeared that the board had been repainted, brushing right over a few posters.

This got me thinking about staples again. Staples in the context of history. What treasures have these staples held? What have they seen? What little piece of history, in the shape of a poster, has covered this small shard of steel, and that one? In my hometown of Woodstock, New York, there are telephone poles along the main drag rich with staples. According to wikipedia, “wood [utility] poles decay and have a life of approximately 25-50 years, depending on climate and soil conditions.”

I like to think the staples that held the posters advertising Paul Butterfield or Orleans; Johnny Average and Nicole, or Maria Muldour; or the post-Robertson Band playing at the Joyous Lake are still there, little tokens held close by the wood, part of a shiny and now rusty past.