Mark’s Story
I spent my childhood in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon. Every few weeks my neighborhood friends and I would reimagine our cul-de-sac into a different type of sports field (Nerf football, basketball, baseball, hockey, Frisbee, balled-up-sock ball, you get the idea). This play only stopped for school or family camping trips around Oregon (in dark, wet winter) and then across the country (during sweaty, driving-forever-to-the-next-National-Park summer). My summer library reading lists were long.
After I graduated from Oregon State and lost a dear friend, someone mentioned I should head to a ski town. I loaded up my yellow Volvo wagon and moved to Ketchum, Idaho, for the summer. For eight years, I explored mountains (by boots, bikes, and skis), the local community library, and a wide range of occupations.
After assisting in a first-grade classroom, I was told I might make a good educator. After a degree in elementary education and a graduate degree in literacy, I taught third grade for six years in the San Francisco Bay Area. Then moved to Seattle, where I taught third grade for another ten years, including science to gifted kids.. I can’t help thinking like an educator.
A few people along the way said someday I would write books. I thought it was a ridiculous idea. Here I am many years later, still crafting stories. I’m suspicious that the universe was nudging me this way for a long time.
Childhood Favorites
Pet: Cindy – best dog ever, she liked popcorn, carrots, and running fast on the beach.
Vacations: Camping mid-winter on Oregon coast and finding a glass ball on the post-storm beach, hikes with dad in Boy Scouts, long road trips across the country, catching crawfish, and trout at Fishhawk Lake.
Snack: Popcorn – by the handful and at a quick pace. This still applies.
First bike: An old yellow banana-seated Schwinn that my dad later converted into a dirt bike with mag wheels. Sweet.
Interesting & fun Facts
Tom & the Bat
“I was seven and in second grade when I wrote Tom and the Bat. I lived with my parents and younger sister in Lake Grove, Oregon. Mr. Baker was my teacher and I didn’t particularly like him. I don’t remember why. I remember working hard on the story though, and taking time and care to paint all those stars.
We lived in a small rental house on Shakespeare Street (really). Memories of that street include a large, kid-biting German Shepard and when the neighbor guy invited me over to watch him “harvest” his rabbits (thump, twitch). My sweet, quiet younger sister once sucker-punched me in the stomach. I probably deserved it.
The photo was taken a year or so later during the nearby Tualatin Crawfish Festival. I don’t remember who volunteered me to be a pooper-scooper, but it certainly wasn’t me. It was hot. I was dressed in a heavy coat as some kind of clown hobo. The horses got way ahead. I ran to catch up and everyone started yelling. When I realized they were yelling at me I became horrified. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t run back, could I? Parades felt so one way. I forged ahead. Still hot, confused, now humiliated.
They still hold the parade as far as I know. My volunteer efforts have been meager ever since.
I still paint my suns with big smiles.”
My Desk
When I started taking writing more seriously, I asked my dad if he’d help me build a desk. I came home from teaching one day, went out to the grungy 1923 garage that sits in the corner of our backyard, and found a fully built desk. That’s my dad’s way.
He’d used a repurposed oak restaurant table. The desk was attached to the wall, was wide and sturdy with just the right amount of regality. I’ll shove my family under there should there be a major earthquake. It’s fantastic.
I’d wanted the desk to sit high against the window so I could stare out at my garden (a required habit of any writer). So I asked my father-in-law to “raise the floor.” The floor is also fantastic. It’s hinged, so it can retract for a car, though the only thing that’s been parked out there for quite some time is me.
I had both my dad and father-in-law sign their work.
Early every morning I head out to the garage in my socks. I sit down at the desk, and look around. On the walls above the desk I have taped memories: favorite photos, drawings by my children, inspiring quotes by other writers — both authors who’ve believed in me and authors whose work I admire. Recently, I added a kind note from a former student.
I like sitting at my writing desk. It’s a nice place to be. I’m close to those I care most about, but away from them, too. I sit near spider webs, oil stains and underused tools while I click away at my keyboard. While between my headphones I dream up families, quirks and conflict, all while alternating between feelings of fear, satisfaction and joy.
Tomorrow, when I sit at my desk out in my grungy garage, I’ll see my favorite quote. Two words from the composer John Cage, pasted right at the center of the window: Begin Anywhere.
And I will.