Why a space capsule? Well, the book takes on the idea of exploration and what it means to really find something. Also, there is a fair amount of exposition in that scene, and I find that exposition does better in a great setting. But the real reason I put that space capsule in is that there was one outside of my high school.

I was unable to locate a picture of the Oyster River space capsule. This is from the Air Force Space and Missile Museum in Cape Canaveral, FL.

The space capsule outside of Oyster River High School was an Apollo boilerplate space capsule. These were used for practicing retrieving the capsules from the ocean. The story goes that this space capsule was acquired by Eleanor Milliken, a science teacher who found it in the dump at the nearby PEASE Air Force Base and had it brought to the school. She also had an planetarium built at the school, which allowed me to believe that a school could have a Van de Graaf generator in it. ¹

The space capsule was always just there as I was growing up. Sometimes my older brother would have soccer games at the fields by the school, and the younger siblings would play around. I have a very clear memory of being inside of the capsule, and it is much as I described in the book: metal painted blue. I wondered if this was a false memory, a mix of hopes and imagination. A former science teacher at the school assures me that going into the capsule may have been possible at one point, but eventually it was filled with cement, most likely for liability reasons.

Sometime toward the end of my high school years, the capsule was removed to make space for dumpsters, thereby allowing more room for parking. Mrs. Milliken was gone by then, and I suppose there was no one to fight for it. It was just there one day and gone the next. No one really knows where, though perhaps to a traveling museum.

I’d be interested to hear other memories of the space capsule. If you’re an alum of the school, or just from the area, and happen to stumble upon this blog post, please do comment.

The story of a genius overlooked by history stayed with me, battering around in my head for over a decade before he found a place in my novel. It seems, however, that I am not the only one intrigued by Tesla. YouTube is full of videos about him. Many, like much of what is on YouTube, are quite silly, but some are very informative. My favorite is this TED talk by Marco Tempest: The Electric Rise and Fall of Nikola Tesla. How gorgeous is this animation?

This one is good, too:

When Neil Gaiman, Amanda Palmer, ² Ben Folds, and Damian Kulash of OK Go formed the supergroup 8in8 and attempted to write and record eight songs in eight hours ³ inspired by tweets from fans, one of the songs was about Nikola Tesla:

So why all this creativity around Nikola Tesla? Perhaps it’s because he was such an imperfect human. A genius, but brash. His open mind made people doubt his work. His relative poverty going up against Edison’s vast wealth. All of these things make for a good story.

Plus there is that dashing mustache.

Image from Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum

So who was Matthew Henson anyway? The son of sharecroppers, Henson was born in Maryland in 1886. At age 12, he went to Baltimore in search of work and landed a job as a cabin boy aboard the ship the Katy Hines. The ship’s commander, Captain Childs, took an interest in Henson and taught him how to sail, geography, and mathematics — skills that would serve him well as an explorer.

He left the Katy Hines and was working in a hat store in Washington, D.C. when he met Robert Peary. Peary was working for the Navy at the time, getting ready for an expedition to Nicaragua. Peary hired Henson to be his valet. Peary quickly realized Henson’s skills, and began talking to him of his dreams to reach the North Pole. Henson was eager to join him, and they would explore together for decades.

On the attempts to the Pole, Henson was listed as Peary’s personal assistant, but he acted more like the second in command. Though this occasionally caused tension with a crew who wasn’t used to taking orders from an African-American, he was largely respected by his fellow explorers. Peary himself said he couldn’t make it to the Pole without Henson and Donald MacMillan wrote “Matthew Henson went to the Pole with Peary because he was a better man than any one of us.” Likewise, the Inuit deeply respected Henson who learned their language as well as how to drive the sledges through the ice.

Unfortunately, the American public was not so open-minded. Peary’s claim to have reached the Pole was not universally accepted. Frederick Cook claimed to have reached the Pole earlier, and factions from both sides argued for their explorer (much like Mallory and Will argue in The Water Castle). Eventually public opinion came to believe Peary’s version. Henson’s contribution, though, was not widely acknowledged for decades, a sad victim of the racism of the time. Henson took a job as a messenger and clerk in a Custom’s house. Before his death, he was honored with honorary degrees from both Howard and Morgan College, as well as being honored at the White House by President Eisenhower. He died in 1955.

Of the three explorers featured in The Water Castle, Henson is the one I admire the most. His story reflects so much of American History. On the plus side, he is an example of the American narrative that anyone with drive and determination can make a name for him or herself. On the other side, there is the fact that his achievements were overlooked because of his race, perhaps the most shameful aspect of our history. But I admire him not because he fits so neatly into the narrative of our country, but for who he was: a man doggedly pursuing his goals. While not without his faults (neither he nor Peary was a faithful husband), his writing shows him to be confident, focused, and adventurous. Peary could be petty — which is how the whole rift with Cook got started — and was willing to do just about anything to be first to the Pole. Cook, well, Cook has a few documented problems with the truth. Both Cook and Peary seemed to be seeking fame as much as the Pole itself. Matthew Henson, in contrast, seemed focused on getting there. This in itself is admirable: chasing an experience rather than chasing acclaim. It is why Nora feels a kinship with him in the book: she, too, wants to see as much of the world as possible. As a writer, though, there’s something appealing to me about a man who dedicates so much of his life and his intellect to finding a place that is not fixed, but rather a shifting spot in fields of ice. He is searching for something that exists because we say it does, the intersection of science and myth.

Living in Maine, I have easy access to a terrific resource: The Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum at Bowdoin College. The museum collects both historical artifacts and arts from the people of the region. When I visited I was able to see one of the sledges used on the expedition, as well as videos, photographs, and journals. These made the journey come alive, and enabled me to add specific details to the story. The staff of the museum, especially curator Genny LeMoine, were wonderful about answering my questions as I incorporated Peary and Henson’s final, successful trip to the Pole into The Water Castle.

The museum is named for Robert Peary and Donald MacMillan, both graduates of Bowdoin. MacMillan accompanied Peary on the 1908 expedition that reached the Pole, but had to turn back early because of frozen heels. (Frozen heels! This is why I am not an arctic explorer.)

Image from Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum

Robert Peary was born in Pennsylvania in 1856, but spent much of his life in Maine. He graduated from Bowdoin and began work as a civil engineer, first in Maine and, eventually, for the US Navy Civil Engineers Corps. Though originally assigned to the tropics, he had his heart set on being the first to the North Pole as early as 1885. He made his first trip to the Arctic in 1886. A year later he met Matthew Henson, and hired him as a valet. Henson would accompany him on all subsequent voyages to the Arctic.

For twenty-three years he planned, plotted, and attempted to reach the North Pole. He developed a system of sending groups ahead to leave caches of food, so the team moved forward in a relay-like fashion. On his various attempts, he suffered a severely broken leg, lost 8 toes to frostbite, but still he kept trying. Finally on April 6, 1909, he achieved his lifelong goal of reaching the North Pole (allegedly — many believe his calculations were off and he was actually about 5 miles short of his goal).

Image from Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum

Peary died on February 20, 1920. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. The National Geographic Society placed a monument near his grave inscribed with the words “Inveniam Viam Aut Facium” (“I shall find a way or make one.”) became the motto of the school in fictional Crystal Springs in The Water Castle.  Just like Peary, Ephraim will not give up until he finds the cure for his father.

Robert Peary is just one of many historical figures who plays a role in The Water Castle. Stay tuned for stories about Matthew Henson, Frederick Cook, and Nicola Tesla. In the meantime, check out Chasing Ray’s post: “On Frederick Cook & why men climb mountains.”

But I digress. Near to the house we visited in Venice was a small park named for Ponce de Leon. I dragged my husband over to take my picture in this park named for the explorer who “discovered” Florida and claimed it in the name of the Spanish king in 1513.

Yes I am wearing sandals even though it is chilly. I am from Maine.

Jaun Ponce de Leon was a Conquistador who had traveled with Christopher Columbus on his second trip to the New World in 1493. While on his expeditions, he heard tales about magical springs that could make the old young again. The Native People of Cuba, Hispaniola, and the Bahamas claimed there was an island to the North, Bimini (or Beniny) where there was either a river, spring, or fountain that could restore youth. Not to mention, heaps and heaps of gold. In 1512 gold-crazy King Ferdinand gave Ponce de Leon a permit to search for Bimini. Instead, in 1513, he landed on Florida’s east coast. To be fair, the New World was indeed new, and people did not yet know how big it was. Ponce de Leon was not sure if Florida was an island or if it was attached to Mexico and the lands discovered by Cortes. Ponce de Leon landed in St. Augustine where today there is a tourist attraction and archaeological dig.

Or so the story goes. Researchers now believe this tale of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the Fountain of Youth may have been created by Spanish historians years after his expeditions. Some archaeological evidence shows that he may have landed 140 miles farther south than St. Augustine.

What is clear, however, is that whether or not he was looking for the fountain, he didn’t find it. He died in Cuba of a battle wound in 1521.

Hey, Ponce de Leon – I found the fountain in your park. Where’s the water?

In The Water Castle, legend holds that Angus Appledore was an explorer who was given a land-grant by the King of England. He chose to come to Maine after his own expeditions to purported locations of the Fountain of Youth — including the mythical Bimini — convinced him that the fountain was located in the small town of Crystal Springs. Did he have better luck than Ponce de Leon? That’s the mystery of the novel.

Well, it’s true. In the strictest sense, I do not like to research. I like the reading and the learning, but not the searching. (WARNING: This post is about to get all librarian-lingo-y.) In the parlance of the Big6™, I like steps 4 and 5 — Use of Information and Synthesis, but I’m not such a big fan of #1 Task Definition, #2 Information Seeking Strategies or even #6 Evaluation. I split #3: I really dislike 3.1 Locate Sources, but love 3.2 Find Information Within Sources.

My ambivalence about research is something I share with my students as a means of empowering them, and I hope confessing it publicly will help teachers, librarians, and students, especially, realize that even professional researchers don’t always like to do it. For me, going through the research process for my writing serves as a reminder to be more sympathetic to my own student researchers.

As I think back on my emotions as I went through the research of The Water Castle, I am reminded of Carol Kuhlthau’s Model of the Information Search Process. I always liked this model because it reminded librarians to consider their patrons emotions.

1. “Initiation, when a person first becomes aware of a lack of knowledge or understanding and feelings of uncertainty and apprehension are common.”
   • I remember quite clearly the day I decided to include a historical element, and the subsequent dread at the amount of research I would need to do. I imagine the look on my face was similar to the one I see on some students when I say, “Welcome to the library. Today we are starting your big research project.”
     
2. “Selection, when a general area, topic, or problem is identified and initial uncertainty often gives way to a brief sense of optimism and a readiness to begin the search.”
   • I took a deep breath and reminded myself of all the tools I had at my disposal. I had books. I had the web. I had databases and I knew how to use them. I identified some key resources: ABC-Clio History Databases, The Historical New York Times, and the Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum at Bowdoin College. I was on my way. This seems manageable, I thought. I got a binder and divided into sections (organization always makes me feel better) based on different areas of my research: science of the times, Arctic Exploration, how people lived.
     
3. “Exploration, when inconsistent, incompatible information is encountered and uncertainty, confusion, and doubt frequently increase and people find themselves “in the dip” of confidence.”
   • Here is where I started to get overwhelmed. I had so much information, how could I possibly decide what to include? I was at risk of being de-railed. It also became clear how much I didn’t know, particularly about day to day life in the early 1900s. This was never, ever, ever going to come together.
     
4. Formulation, when a focused perspective is formed and uncertainty diminishes as confidence begins to increase.
   • I visited a friend who happens to be a middle school history teacher at the Clinton School for Writers and Artists. She helped me by giving me some books from her collection. She also accompanied me on a trip to The Thomas Edison National Historical Park in New Jersey. You see, I was starting to develop a focus, to see what information I had, and what information I still needed. I went to see Edison’s chemistry lab to see an example of what a chemistry lab might look like during the time period (more on this in a later post). Once you have a better focus, it’s easier to cull away the extra and just concentrate on what is useful.
5. Collection, when information pertinent to the focused perspective is gathered and uncertainty subsides as interest and involvement deepens.
   • I spent a whole day with the New York Times Historical database from ProQuest. Literally. My son was with his grandparents, and I had the day to research. My brother brought me coffee (you’re right, Matt, I should have put you in the acknowledgements!) and I read every article published on the Peary expedition, including a dispatch written by Peary himself. Nora and Harry read many of the same article in The Water Castle. Iced coffee and laptop screen aside, reading these articles made me feel like I had stepped back into history and was experiencing the events first-hand. I also learned about pemmican. Part of me thinks this sounds disgusting, and a (bigger) part of me thinks it would be absolutely delicious, especially when out on the ice.
     
6. Presentation, when the search is completed with a new understanding enabling the person to explain his or her learning to others or in someway put the learning to use.
   • The most fun part, for me anyway: writing the book. Still, there were challenges, namely about what to include and what to leave out. Over all, though, dropping in details from my research was wholly satisfying.

You would think having a background in library science would make research a breeze, but that wasn’t the case. I went through the exact same stages of a student researcher. Moreover, just like my students, I missed some things. Shortly after my book was sent to the press, I read a wonderful article by Jaed Coffin in Maine Magazine: “The Norumbega Effect” about what makes a real Mainer (this is something those of us who live here struggle with. Even though I grew up about half an hour from where I now live, I started my life in NH, and so I will always be “from away.”) Coffin writes:

Back in the 1500s, volleys of European explorers came back from Maine with tales of a land not only rife with fish and beaver pelts, but also overflowing with milk and honey, full of silver-adorned men and women, where the streams bubbled over gold nuggets and mystical elephant-horse creatures. Norumbega they called it.

How had I missed this? Here I was setting a story about a mythical, mystical town in Maine, and I didn’t realize there was already a myth to build upon. It seems no matter how thorough our research, there’s always more to discover.

So, yes, it’s true, I dread research. But somewhere along the middle I start to like it, then maybe even love it. And when I’m done, I’m grateful for the process.

Original bottling source. Photo from Maine Memory Network.

A year or so later, we returned to the Poland Spring campus for Poland Heritage Days. On this day, the museum is opened up and we got to tour the original bottling house. With its marble floors and iron chandeliers, it was quite different from factories of today.

We also got to learn a bit about the history of Poland Springs. The land was owned by the Ricker family (who fictionally visit the Appledores in The Water Castle). The legend goes that in 1844 Hiram Ricker, who suffered from indigestion (“dyspepsia” in the parlance of the day), went to oversee the workers on the farm. After drinking water from the stream on the property, his indigestion was cured. So began the story that the water had curative properties.

The Poland Spring House. Photo from Maine Memory Net.

The Rickers already had an Inn on the property. In 1845 the first bottling plant was opened, and the Rickers began shipping their water, touting its medicinal qualities. The family also grew it’s hospitality business, building a grand hotel in 1876 complete with all the latest amenities from a dance studio to a bowling alley. Later a golf course was opened. All the while, visitors were encouraged to stay at the hotel and drink the restorative water. And visitors did come, from all over! Presidents, athletes, and celebrities were all guests. The flip-side, of course, is that the Rickers worked very hard to keep the wrong kind of people — namely, Franco-Americans — out of the hotel, and even off the grounds. This type of prejudice has unfortunately existed in Maine for a long time. Much of the underlying tension between the Wylies and the Appledores comes from this deep-seated antagonism.

The Ricker business grew until the 1930s when the Depression hit. Eventually the hotel was sold, and then closed in 1969. In 1975, the grand hotel burned to the ground. The water business, of course lives on. Water is still pumped from the town of Poland, as well as other towns in Maine (sometimes controversially).

It is with all of this history swirling in my mind that I wrote The Water Castle. As I dug into the history, I was especially interested in the advertising for Poland Spring water, and the quasi-scientific tone it took. An 1893 full-page ad in the New York Daily Tribune is representative of the claims made by the Ricker’s. Testimonials are given of remarkable recoveries from a wide range of illnesses. A doctor is quoted:

I have never lived at a hotel where I found things more conducive to bodily health, personal comfort and social enjoyment, than at the Poland Spring House, Maine. It is a grand hotel, generously and ably conducted to most beneficial ends in promoting the health and recreation of its guests. The cleansing, restorative, and, I may add, exhilarating properties of Poland water are indeed marvelous.

Did people really believe water could do all of this? Indeed they did. This was the era of miracle cure-alls — including Radiothor, radioactive water. But really, aren’t we still chasing after magic elixirs? It’s easy to think people in the past were naive, but I think we’re all still chasing that elusive fountain of youth.

The advertisements were careful to tow the line between magic and science. They offered medical evidence, but also shrouded the water in mystery. This line where science becomes magical and magic grows scientific is quite interesting to me as a writer because it is so similar to the line between fact and fiction, realism and reality. Fiction, is after all, where myth and magic swirl together to create truth.

Second, the quotation is often left at “cancer books suck” ignoring the fact that Hazel is speaking from a specific perspective, about a very specific kind of cancer book. Here’s a bit more of what Hazel has to say:

Like in cancer books, the cancer person starts a charity that raises money to fight cancer, right? And this commitment to charity reminds the cancer person of the essential goodness of humanity and makes him/her feel loved and encouraged, because s/he will leave  cancer-curing legacy.

She’s talking about books where the disease is used as a blunt tool to teach a lesson to the characters and, by extension, the reader. Suckage indeed.

However, The Fault in Our Stars is not the only cancer book that does not suck. Indeed, there are several recent books about cancer that are quite fantastic. Cancer is not the means by which a lesson is learned. It’s not even really what the stories are about.

The Last Summer of the Death Warriors by Francisco X. Stork: After his sister is murdered and his father dies in an accident, Pancho goes to live at a home for boys where he meets D.Q. a boy his age who is dying of cancer — and writing The Death Warrior’s Manifesto. Pancho agrees to accompany D.Q. on a trip to home — D.Q.’s mother has one last cure she wants to try while D.Q. has his own ideas. As they travel together, Pancho is forced to examine his own mission of avenging his sister’s murder. Here the story isn’t about cancer or death, but about choices.

After Ever After by Jordan Sonnenblick: This is a sequel to Sonnenblick’s Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie, and tells the story of Jeffrey and his friend Tad, both kids in remission. Jeffrey’s cancer has left him struggling with math, while Tad’s has made it extraordinarily painful to walk. They make a deal (more like a bet), that Tad will help Jeffrey pass the math test necessary for 8th grade graduation, and Jeffrey, an avid biker, will train Tad so he can walk across the stage. In the meantime, Tad is working on a plan that will help Jeffrey, and shows the lengths friends will go to help one another. There is indeed a charity of sorts in this book, as Jeffrey does a yearly ride to raise money — but it’s all on his own, no audience, please. There is a dearth of books about male friendships, and this book nicely fills that hole.

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness, based upon an idea by Siobhan Dowd, illustrated by Jim Kay: In this novel, it is the mother who has cancer. Her son, Conor, is not only dealing with this, but also the nightly arrival of a monster out by the yew tree demanding that Conor tell him his truth. As in all the best paranormal, the monster functions both literally and as metaphor. Enhanced by Jim Kay’s stunning illustrations, it is a perfect encapsulation of the rage, horror, and hopelessness felt by those left behind.

This topic is especially personal to me not only because I am working on a novel in which the main character’s grandmother is dying of cancer, but because the disease has had a devastating effect on my family. Both grandmothers and my paternal grandfather succumbed to the disease. My mother is a ten year survivor of breast cancer. In April of this year my Uncle Larry, a chef and teacher, passed away after a grueling bout with a rare form of cancer, just after turning 59. He was more like a cousin than an uncle — a friend, a cheerleader, a confidante. He and his wife sang at my wedding (now when I hear Israel  Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole’s version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” it’s like my uncle is speaking to me.) His wife, Sharyn Murray, is keeping a blog chronicling her grief process, and it is worth a read.

For whatever reason, I chose to read both A Monster Calls and The Fault in Our Stars in the final months of his life. Each gave me a perspective into what he and those closest to him, namely his wife, were going through. I actually almost suggested he read TFIOS, but, when he had energy to read, I imagined he’d like to read to escape, not read to relate.

What’s funny, though, is that while each of these books left me crying, each also reminded me of the essential goodness of humanity — or at least, the potential for goodness. Wouldn’t that just peeve Hazel?

I am especially honored to be the first faculty member who works specifically on writing for children and young adults, though when you look at the impressive faculty list you will see others who write across ages including Nancy Holder. Who has written a number of Buffy tie-ins and who has Buffy: The Making of a Slayer coming out this December. Must remember not to get all fan-girly when I meet her. Anyhow, I am quite excited to be joining this stellar faculty.

The Stonecoast MFA was recently recognized by Poets and Writers as one of the top ten low residency programs. The residency is held on the beautiful coast of Maine, a truly inspirational setting, with the option of studying in Ireland as well. (Sidenote: I once did an awesome summer program at University College Galway through the University of Arkansas: such an awesome place to write).

The official announcement of the courses in writing for children and young adults will be at the residency in January, but we are starting to get the word out now because the next application deadline is February 1st. Please see the website for all of the details: http://usm.maine.edu/stonecoastmfa

I hope to be writing with you soon!

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour, An Introduction

When I opened up the back cover to scan the bar code, I saw a note card peeking out of the book pocket.

So of course I took a break from inventory to pull the card out and read out. Who wouldn’t read a secret note in a library book?

Transliteration:

I think my favorite par about old books is the last page. The very last thing you see upon ending the story is s breif list of everyone who has read it before you. Durring yoga they compare us students to lotus flowers each with infinite roots sprawling and interconnecting with everyone else who has ever or will practice yoga. I think a book is the same way. Everytime you read a book it becomes part of you the same way a particularly poingnante memory will stick in your mind for years, affecting every memory that suceeds it. if you have read this book it means you are just a little bit closer to Celest Souder, tina Hamrin todd abernathy and kate crowly [the names on the checkout card]. And many others, identity concealed by the barcode on the right . . . I suppose im rambling. Just thought Ide say something as a awake too early today and have a full hour before I have to get to school.

There’s a certain romance of library books that comes from knowing so many other people have read the book. In this case it is a first edition of the book, so decades of students have held it in her hands. As the anonymous note-leaver implies, some of that romance has been lost in the digital age when we can’t see the names of those who have checked out the books before us. Of course I appreciate the importance of privacy of reading choices, but who doesn’t love looking at at least the due dates stamped in the back of the book?

Part of me didn’t want to share this little note, and I wonder if the writer would be bothered that I did. After all, though the joy comes from the shared experience of reading, there is also something intimate about it: like the book is a note passed from one person — indeed one generation — to the next.

Maybe that’s the solution, the way to hold onto that mystery even as our reading experience gets more automated: little notes just like this one surreptitiously tucked into library books. A way to say we are all connected by the words we read. One more way to create a community of readers.