And sometimes it’s not? I have tried to ignore the pond, put it out of my mind entirely, just give up and leave it to Rohemon. I had nearly succeeded too.

Many people who have outdoor water features don’t feed their fish. The idea is for the fish to eat what fish in the wild do. In fact, many people in Jakarta keep water plants in pots with fish, or ponds especially as mosquito deterrents. As is their way, the mosquitoes lay their eggs on the water, and as is their nature, the fish eat the insect eggs.  This easy care mosquito reduction system which works great as long as you don’t care whether your fish are happy or starving.

We like fat, happy fish, so we feed them. Every day. We go through about a bag of fish pellets a month. Monday-Saturday Rohemon feeds the fish. And I feed them on Sundays—or did when I liked the pond fish. But ever since Rohemon stocked it with those pretty fish murdering monster lele, I have been trying to ignore the pond all together. Sunday before last, I lapsed.  I was out back pruning as I do many Sundays, and took pity on the pond fish—even though I detest the rotten, slimy ugly monsters. I sprinkled food pellets over the water and watched.

A few lazy algae eaters drifted up to investigate–even took a few listless bites.  But that was it.  Where was the sudden flash of orange splotched monster fish? Where were the Ikan Lele? Thinking the lele might be too scared to surface; I took a giant step back and watched from a distance. Nothing.

The lele were gone—all of them, even the babies. I must admit, I was little disappointed and a lot put out. Rusnati tells me everything—or I thought she did—she had certainly made a point of telling tell me about the babies. And the high price of fish food. And how the thatch from my sun shelter clogs the filter. And when I discussed my idea about turning the pond into a fish spa by stocking it with those tiny fishlets that nibble the dead skin off ones’ feet at the price of 200,000 for 20 minutes, a dollar a minute, at specialized fish spas, she spent about 5 dollars worth of spa time sharing how when she was young and her mother would go to the garden, Rusnati used to sit with her feet in the pond and a fish net handy, enjoying a book or snack while the fish nibbled her feet. And if a large enough fish happened to come close, she’d swoop in with the net and catch it to cook and eat with rice.  Why hadn’t she told me the lele were gone?

Had Rohemon finally fattened them up enough to eat? Or had Warjo, the pool man, poisoned them like he had other fish in the past? Or had they been sold off to the highest bidder?–would I ever know? Did I really care?–was it worth launching an investigation?

“Well, I’ll fix this,” I decided, determined to show everyone who was boss. Before leaving town last weekend, I gave Aan 100,000 Rp, about ten dollars, and instructed him to buy me 10 lovely, big, fluffy new golden pond fish.

First thing Sunday evening, I rushed outside to the pond, expecting to see graceful golden fish fluttering about beneath the surface.

Nothing.

I know, I know:  There is more to life than a fish pond. And there is way more to think about, to worry about, to spend my days agonizing over than the state of my backyard pond. But….but…

GP Putman, Mar 18, 2010

It’s here! It’s here! Imagine me blowing one of those long, thin horns from Camelot with banners flying and  fireworks bursting because that’s how I feel! Happy Birthday to Your Daddy Was Just Like You!

On March 1st, I held my newest baby, a hard copy of Your Daddy Was Just Like You, in my hands for the first time. They shook as I turned the pages. This  mother/grandmother love story has been a long time coming–over 7 years. Thanks to Susan Kochan, my editor, who saw its potential, it’s born!

The idea for the book came from watching my son Max trying so hard to be a big guy and do all the stuff big guys could do, with his chubby cheeks red from exertion or frustration. It’s my way of saying, “don’t worry, you’ll make it….your daddy wasn’t always so strong, or smart or brave. He had to learn and you will, too!”

While the idea and words for a picture book may come from the author, it’s the pictures that bring it to life. David Walker is a master at showing emotion..joyful bubbles float up from the bathroom scene; pouty daddy bashes about during his wild days, sad daddy pouts in the corner during Time Out–looking so perfectly adorable you want to laugh and cry at the same time! David generously shared sketches and discussed the illustration process during an interview last year. Check it out!

For me, the great joy in being an author comes from seeing kids and their people enjoy my books. My girlfriend Teri gave me sweet taste of that joy when she brought her nieces, Sofia and Isabella,  to a recent book signing in Tulsa. I only had the review copy of Your Daddy then, but they wanted to read it and so we did. At the end of every “Just Like You,” Isabella pointed to herself and said, “Just like me!” with a huge smile, “I do that…and that…or that!. The best birthday gift a book could receive:

Happy Birthday! Your Daddy Was Just Like You …and you and you and you!

Sid Fleishman passed from this life on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17th. I had breakfast with him today. We’ve breakfasted together many times before. Sometimes he was the Whipping Boy or the Abracadabra Kid. Always, he’s a good friend, welcoming and honest and approachable. Our first breakfast together was in January 2009.

The morning after a writing conference is always tough—like the morning after a wild party. I wake with a head stuffed with impressions, ideas, information, and a vague feeling that I may not have used my time as wisely as I could. While conference hangover may not come with a headache and dehydration, it always takes a few days to recover. The morning after the SCBWI-Florida winter conference in Miami 2 January’s ago, my writing bud Marty and I were sitting in the hotel restaurant, debriefing and nursing our post conference headaches, when Sid Fleishman walked in. Cheryl Zach had accompanied him to the conference, but for whatever reason, she wasn’t there now. He, Sid Fleishman, was alone, looking around, and, so it seemed to us,  looking a little lost.

Maybe because Marty and I were staring at him like expectant pups, Mr. Fleishman smiled. His smile was warm and welcoming, like one you’d give old chums. A few minutes later we were sharing his table. Mr. Fleishman –I’d never be so cheeky as to call him “Sid”, although that is what he asked to be called. Considering the high esteem with which we regarded him, “Sir” seemed more fitting—Sir Sid with his twinkling eyes and open, curious, interested countenance wanted to know all about Marty and me: where we lived, what we wrote, how we came to be writers….

The three of us shared Southeast Asian connections: Marty had lived in Indonesia, as I do now, and Sir Sid, had spent time in Singapore, Jakarta and other spots in Southeast Asia.  We talked about our families, our lives, our children. He shared a story about his son, Paul, and how, after a lifetime of no apparent interest in writing, one day, out of the blue Paul handed his father a story and asked if he wanted to read it and how he (Sid by now), had taken it, expecting it to be a usual teen story, and was totally blown away. Having grown up surrounding by writers, hearing writers talk writing, story, dialogue, seemingly by osmosis, Paul absorbed all he needed to write fabulous stories. As he went on to share how Paul was always pushing himself, trying new things, pushing his talents the admiration and love in Sid Fleishman’s words was more than fatherly—it was writer for writer.

As it inevitably does when writers get together, the conversation turned to books and writing. To issues Sid was having with a story he was working on. (There is something so comforting about learning “real” authors have trouble writing, too.) This led to my writing, specifically to a novel draft I’d buried after a confusing critique. No telling how many conferences Sid Fleishman attended during his lifetime of writing, publishing, and award-winning, how many eager writers, like me, he had met (including the several hundred at this weekend’s event) and how many writer’s stories he’d heard, he still encouraged me to tell mine. He listened intently, showing genuine interest in me and my story and its problems. He asked questions, gave suggestions, and sent me on my way eager to dig my story out of the drawer, dust it off and get back to it.

At the end of our breakfast, which stretched to lunch, Marty and I shared goodbye hugs with Sid Fleishman, our chum. And we felt like chums, new-old friends. And now, we say a final goodbye to our chum, Sid Fleishman. How fortunate we were to share this journey with him.

Sid Fleishman, 1920-2010.

We’ll meet for breakfast again, soon.