Joan Bauer's Journal

Thanks, Mom

I can remember a cupcake materializing in the midst of a rotten day. A candle being lit despite the darkness. A birthday party planned even though it had been too tough a season to really think about that. My mother, sister, and I made Pilgrim dolls and decorated the house one Thanksgiving, even though our father hadn't been seen or heard from for weeks. 

My mother's great gift was knowing how to celebrate life no matter what the circumstances. In my new novel, Close to Famous, I gave that gift to my 12 year-old protagonist, Foster McFee. When I began writing this story, I had, like a good baker, all the ingredients out on the counter:  Fear; danger; humor; celebration; change; resilience; denial; over-coming; vanilla cupcakes; secrets; loss; learning challenges; chocolate chip muffins; raw courage; brown sugar brownies; moist chocolate cupcakes; chocolate malt cupcakes; milk chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting; all out despair; and banana cupcakes with fudge frosting. And I thought, OK, Joan, this time, you've done yourself in. This stuff doesn't go together. But of course it did. That's how I grew up. 

My mom died a year ago.  I have many of her belongings, but the ones I cherish most are her casserole dishes. When I use one, as I did recently to make baked apples, the warmth of her in the kitchen is so real to me. My mother knew that cooking unleashes a special power. She would have loved Foster's great dream to be a famous kid cook on television. 

Close to Famous is the first book I've written that my mother never read. But, the lessons she taught me are baked into the pages. Thanks, Mom. This one's for you.

Close to Famous is available in stores February 3rd.  To learn more, visit joanbauer.com.

A Touch of Red

Today is my mother's birthday and my mind is filled with memories of frosted angel food cakes and flowers and books -- so many of those -- and prayers and courage and kindness.  My mother, Marjorie Good, died this year on January 2nd.  Her two battles with cancer were the most intimate I have witnessed. People ask me, "Are any of the characters in your books real people?" And I say, "If you've read Hope Was Here, then you've met my mom a bit."  I packed her courage and kindness into G.T. Stoop, the owner of the Welcome Stairways, who ran for mayor of his small town while battling leukemia.  And why did he do that?  He was sick of the corruption and the cancer made him tougher.  

"Be kind," Mom always told me.  I must admit, I found that boring advice when I was younger.  What's the point in this crass, mean world?  Be kind when people misunderstand you.  Be kind when you're tired.  Be kind when the guy passing you on the highway gives you the ultimate gesture.  We're so used to the argument, the caustic debate, the mean spiritedness, but kindness comes to us like a warm cookie on a cold day.   

My mother was a painter.  My husband always said that he learned more about art going through a museum with her than he learned in art history at college.  "Look for the touch of red," she always said.  "That's the artist's exclamation mark."  And in painting after painting, we'd often see it -- some reds were bold, others just a little dab in a corner, but the red drew the eye and gave the work such depth.  My mother's touch of red was her kindness, and with it I watched her quietly conquer trials and tragedy and leave her exclamation mark on all who knew her.

Here Comes the Bride

"If you stop sucking your thumb..." I said to my daughter twenty-five years ago.  She sucked her thumb harder and held onto her koala puppet Qantas and another toy koala named Laurie.  Jean said they were engaged.  She looked at me knowingly.  I had to come up with a serious offer to get her to release that thumb.  "Then," I said, "I will make Laurie a bride's dress and she and Qantas can get married."  "He needs a tuxedo," Jean said.  "Deal."  Out came the thumb.  Permanently.  Now came the dilemma.  I am so not a sewer.  It took me an entire year to finish my apron in 7th grade Home Ec.  I got a fan letter from a reader who said her grandmother thought she'd been my home ec teacher.  I wrote back and said, please tell your grandma I'm sorry.

I struggled with that bridal gown because Laurie was a mechanical koala who sang when you pressed her stomach, and had a big head.  "She needs a veil," Jean said.  I tried to point out that lots of brides didn't have veils, but Jean was resolute.  "And flowers."  It was either my greatest moment as a mother, or one of my most desperate.  I found little dried flowers and wrapped them into a bouquet, I hand-sewed the white dress and put lace around the sleeves.  I made Qantas a very dapper snap-on tuxedo tie while Jean began gathering all her stuffed animals for the ceremony.  And you know these guest lists always get out of control.  Then there was the reception to think about.  Finally, all the arrangements were as good as they were going to get. Qantas and Laurie stood in front of either a kangaroo, moose, or rabbit stuffie (I can't remember which was the minister), who I had say, "I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may kiss the bride."  Jean made a face and had them hug instead.  It was a very moving ceremony.  We had punch and cookies and after all the guests had left, I lay down on the couch, closed my eyes, and  Jean said, "Let's do it again."  "Believe me," I told her, "it took."  

Qantas and Laurie are in a Zip-loc bag in the back of our closet still in their wedding attire.  I came upon them the other day.  The years haven't been easy on them, but they were great and noble toys, worked hard at their relationship, and were, above all, awfully good sports.  

The Grind

Years ago my daughter had a rock polishing set. We put the rocks in a canister, plugged it in, and it would turn them over and over, endlessly and loudly. The worst part was that the process took two weeks (not mentioned in the ad campaign) -- two weeks of incessant grinding.  After a few days of this, I was becoming a desperate person. We put the machine in the basement, but I could still hear the grind. We finally put it in the garage, covered it with something large to dull the noise, and let it go to it's heart's content. At the end of two weeks the rocks were smooth. 

It makes me think about tough times -- the kind that grind on and on. Frustration builds, the pain gets louder, it seems like nothing is happening -- surely, the process is just there to make us crazy. But there is smoothing going on, too; there is change happening, if we are patient enough to wait out the process. And all of that makes me think about love -- not the Valentine variety with hearts and chocolate. But the kind of love that grows between people in hard times. True love takes time to get polished. I don't think Hallmark wants us to think about that this week, although there's something to be said for a Valentine that reads:  THIS HAS BEEN A LONG, LOUSY MONTH, BUT I STILL LOVE YOU. And so, I wish you much love this year -- the kind that's made more beautiful by the ever-present grind.  

This Little Light of Mine

Everyone is trying to save money in this economy. So I made a big, bold statement -- I am not going to buy anything I don't absolutely need. And I meant that. Then I went to this store -- one of those large stores that are painted blue and yellow -- and I saw this little lamp. It was quirky and adorable and it made me smile. I'd never thought I would be drawn to a little lamp like this. The price was great. Do I need it? I asked myself. Do I absolutely need it?

Now, need is an interesting word, and being a writer, I love words. There are many things that I absolutely need, like oxygen, my husband, and reading glasses. There are other things I need, like food and a roof over my head. Thinking about the roof over my head, made me realize that this little lamp could be very useful somewhere in my house. Actually, since it was so cheap, two of them could be even better. I grabbed two lamps.  My husband, who was with me, said, "Where are you going to put them?"  Talk about killing joy and creativity. I knew there was a place for them, I just didn't know where. I bought the lamps, took them home, tried them in my office. They looked lame.  Tried the bedroom. No. The kitchen, the living room, the hall, the guest room. The bathroom. No. No. No. I clasped them to my breast.  I loved them, I thought I needed them, and they didn't fit. Anywhere. My husband, to his credit, didn't say I told you so, he didn't even smirk. But then I found this one dark corner in our bedroom and I plugged the little light on. I turned out all the other lights in the room and I've got to tell you, it worked. It looked warm and unexpected and it made me smile. It made me think about the power of love. If we don't give up, we'll find the right place to plug it in.  

The Shower Curtain

Philadelphia. Spring, 2007. I stood in the bath center of a large department store -- I don't remember which one. I'd been given an important shopping task. My mission was to buy a shower curtain and towels for my father-in-law's new bathroom. This might not sound like a big deal, but you have to understand, my father-in-law, E. Steven Bauer, was a very big deal. He was a retired pharmaceutical executive, a pharmacist, a man who led the team that brought the first local production of antibiotics to India and Pakistan in the early 1950's. He built the factories, rode in a a Jeep wearing a pith helmet, and oversaw the inoculation of thousands of people, thereby saving countless lives. He could converse in seven languages and was a gourmet chef -- witty, urbane, intelligent, and charming. And I am telling you, none of the shower curtains I was looking at was suitable. Not one.

I went to another large department store that looked exactly like the department store I had just been in. I marched to their bath section, picturing Steven flying around the globe, making a difference. I looked at their shower curtains, nixed the Tweety and Sylvester, pushed past the one covered by large yellow fish, stood stunned before the one with "Peek-a-boo" written across it. I looked for someone to help me, but large department stores never have actual people working in them.  Tweed, I thought. Steven loves tweed.  here were no tweed shower curtains. You'd think tweed would have occurred, at the very least, to Ralph Lauren.  

Blue, I thought. He likes blue. There was baby blue, metallic blue, sky blue, no Steven blue. I went to another store, finally found a employee, and blurted, "I need a very significant shower curtain." I found it -- non-fussy with vertical brown, blue, and cream stripes. I picked out brown towels -- lush, though purposeful. Steven nodded when he saw what I'd chosen. I put them in his bathroom. "Very nice," he said, and that was that.  

I was remembering this last week as I sat in his bathroom, crying. Steven passed away on Saturday, November 14th, after a wretched parade of injuries and illnesses took their final toll. I knew him for twenty-eight years. He never made small talk; he was ethical to his core; he possessed deep wells of courage; and he loved my apple pie. This Thanksgiving, as our family gathers in Philadelphia, the joy of knowing him and the pain of losing him will be deep.  Dear God, how he will be missed.