Amy Smith Linton
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Away from the Office...

11/12/2017

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The blog will be on hold until mid-December.
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Some non-writing adventures will be taking me out of wifi range. 
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The Winnie Gets a Makeover

11/6/2017

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I woke up inside the Winnebago over the summer to an unpleasant epiphany: the interior was just ––just –– just fugly.

Shiny gold drawer-pulls, fake oak, awful dingy tan upholstery.  It's clean, heaven knows, but the overall effect ––! 


Granted, the Winnie is all about the destination.

About being able to haul all the gear and a boat and brew my own coffee in the morning.

About making an egg-salad sandwich or taking a whiz while bopping down the highway. 


But once the scales fell from my home-decor eyes, I could barely stand it.

​140 square feet of multi-layered hideousness.
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As happens, I turned to Pinterest. That fantastic internet time-eater that indexes the world's collective creativity for endless browsing-and-daydreaming pleasure.

​I have a soft spot for turquoise-and-red 1950's-style 
Shasta travel trailers. I think Vardo carts are also captivating. Who needs more space than that?  

Realistically however, the Winnie is a utilitarian vessel.

​She could be tarted up or stuffed full of whimsy, but at the end of the sailing day, she's still where we drop our salty sailing clothes and hang our salty sailing hats.
Still, something had to be done. A fan of direction and themes, I set myself a design goal: cozy and fresh and comfortable. Not fussy. Not mortifyingly dated or dingy. Machine-washable.
Luckily, paint is cheap. Gripper primer and Cabinet Rescue paint will cover a multitude of decorative sins, including (gulp) textured vinyl wallpaper and laminate. How had I never noticed the breadth of its ugliness?  

I mean, for reals: what in the world did the windows do to deserve those treatments ––!?

The mechanics of the Winnie's makeover aren't very interesting: some light demolition, sixteen miles of masking tape, bolts of attractive fabric, elbow grease, more hours down the rabbit hole of Pinterest, and the like.
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The settee cushions went to local upholsterer, as I knew I'd make hash of the long zippers.  I did the rest of the sewing, with some help from my favorite sailmaker. 
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​The Winnie must keep her aluminum-foil thermal window shades, because, you know –– the solar-oven effect.

I like to think it's a nod to that brave little toaster, the 
Cassini spacecraft.  In truth, passers-by are probably more liable to draw the connection with the blacked-out RV in Near Dark instead.

Ah well.


Velcro makes the shades more flexible and useful, if not one whit less tacky. 

How long did it take? Probably longer than I think: taping the whole cabin was a full afternoon, but each coat of paint was a matter of an hour.  Four coats of paint including primer, five when I went the wrong way with my choice of color. 

I was hesitant about drilling holes in the walls until it occurred to me: this is a 2006 truck. What could I possibly do to make the interior design worse? 

Here's how it turned out so far. Still some things left, but that's home life. 
I splashed out on a trompe l'oeile window treatment for the back escape hatch. I had UPS print up a large vinyl copy of a photo, which I then glued to a thin fitted wooden hatch.

​It blocks the sun and –– framed by plain cotton curtains –– it gives the Winnie just a smidgen of whimsy.  


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Fiction Prompt: Top Item on My Birthday List.

11/3/2017

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Warm-up writing prompted by –– what else? A PONY!
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There would be no escape this day. Sqantahonoh-neehoit (a name that roughly translates to "rhomboid-shaped fruit of the false-kola cactus")  resolved again to bide her time. The art of survival was patience. It was a thing she'd come to know, along with the feel of the saddle on her back and the tug of the lead-line. 

She'd witnessed what happened when patience ended. Her herd-mate, Gohollin-ah (meaning "Speedy wooly caterpillar" or, with a slightly different inflection "Wooly kitten"), had been lost to such an event. A day like any other until the moment of impatience. Followed by panic, a loud outcry, and a beating that ended badly. Before even the moon had a chance to rise, Gohollin-ah was taken away in a vehicle that smelled of blood and fear and death.  

A hard day and a sorrowful night it had been.

The scent of freedom came to Squantohonoh-neehoit now –– nearly masked by the carnival odors of corndogs and fry-dough, and the tang of hot pavement –– on the dusty wings of the breeze. She did not reveal the glowing coal that was her spirit. She snuffed deeply of the freedom-wind, and reminded herself: I am patient. Patient as the log that waits for water. Patiently waiting for the flood to carry me free.

She would run again, she knew it. She would run and roll in the sand. She would crop sweet green grass and drink clear water as it sparkled over rock.

She did not hear her own deep sigh of sadness and longing. 

She did not know that her patience would save her. She did not know the shape of the freedom could shift and change like snowdrift in a blizzard. But it would.
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The Would-Be Farm: A Drum-roll Please!

11/1/2017

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That's a load of shiitake.
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Okay, it's a handful of shiitake, enough for Mr. Linton and me to both enjoy one mushroom uncooked, and then plenty for a pan full of butter-sautéd beauties to go into his ommette and on top of his leftover pizza.

​In a word, they were amazing. So much flavor in a tender bite of fungus!

For all I know, mushrooms have been popping up all summer, but we happened to be on hand in time to beat the squirrels and the slugs to harvest this autumn.
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Slugs like shiitake. So do squirrels.
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He contemplates the shiitake.
A small harvest, perhaps, but a genuine farming success uncomplicated by late frost, drought, tent caterpillars, etc., etc.

​The Would-Be Farm is. Hurrah.
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