I've been on the road again. This time to the Berkshires of Massachusetts.

Half my life was spent under the Berkshire pines of Lake Buel. We have a little cabin on top of a piney wood hill there. My father built it, my brother rebuilt it, and now I'm fixing it up. Not much larger than Henry's cabin at Walden Pond outside of Concord. Maybe that's why my wife Lorry and I wrote A Mind with Wings: The Story of Henry David Thoreau. Cabin kinship.

Well, I am calling this piece "lost and found" because whenever I travel somewhere to give a talk or tell stories, I start out feeling lost. Travel does that to me. To most of us, I think. You're at swim in the big sea wishing somehow that you were back in your little pond. That sense of lostness lasts only as long as you want it to. For me, it goes away as soon as I am "home."

Home is where the heart is. But where is the heart? It's all over the place when we travel. I was with my cousin Kyle one day and we went to the old Monterey Dump and I looked at the neat landfill with its bins and receptacles, and my mind was lost.

Lost in memory. Twenty-five years ago the Lord of the Landfill was Mr. Kisselbrock and his faithful Dump Dog. I looked forward to seeing them whenever I went dumpwards. But twenty-five years before that, the dump had no attendant. It was just a huge empty space full of garbage. We went there at night with our twenty-two rifles and hunted rats. Sometimes I believe the rats hunted us. They were large enough and red-eyed and they could sneak up behind you and run up your pant leg. Or so I seem to remember thinking when I was twelve.

This lost and found moment came to me at the Monterey Dump. I felt right at home with my memories. Inside the shed where giveaway books were shelved and cast-off clothes were hangered, I felt home again -- I picked up a book. Crow Killer by Dr. Robert Bunker. In the 1970s it was made into the film Jeremiah Johnson starring Robert Redford.

The character of the novel and film was mountain man Liver-Eating Johnson. He got that name, the story goes, after a Crow raiding party killed his wife and child. From that point on, Johnson turned madman. Declaring a personal war on the Crow nation, he tracked and killed one warrior after another. He was lost to himself and his heart was home to a devil named Revenge.

The story of Crow Killer is at least partly true. Bunker's writing authenticated it for me in 1967 when I read the book in a hospital bed after being run over by a motorcyclist with no headlight. This hit-and-run accident took me years to overcome, mentally and physically.

For a long while I was on one leg. My own lostness was so vast I couldn't see across it. I had to find the faith in myself that enabled me to be a writer like Dr. Bunker. I wrote him. And he actually phoned me when I was in the hospital. Then he sent his daughter Susan to visit me and she brought a personal signed copy of her father's book to my bedside.

I'll never forget him, her, the book, Johnson, or what it felt like to be lost in the vagaries of vengeance. Took me years to learn how to walk (I still have a slight limp and wear my shoes unevenly). Took me longer to forgive the drunken man who'd nearly killed me.

All these things flickered through my mind as I glanced at the old, dilapidated paperback of Crow Killer.

I looked up from my revery and there,tacked on the wall of the dump shed was this --

For my
mom she pass
away last Tuesday
if anybody want
to go serve it is
Otis Church big white
one 6:00 Thursday
If anybody want to donate come see
me it will help.

This note of lost-and-foundness touched me deeply. The writing of it, just the words themselves, crying out for help, were a kind of prayer encapsuled in hope.

I wanted to serve, in my way, so I am posting the heartfelt plea here. There's a message for all of us. More than one. You don't know what you lose until you lose it. You don't know your friends until you're down and out. I found that out when I was in the hospital. There was a prayer circle of Navajos sitting in chairs when I opened my eyes after my operation. After 40 years I am still writing to them. More than anything else, they cleared my mind of any violent action in my heart.

Home is where the heart is.

But you can be at home, anywhere, if your heart's at ease.

As we drove back to the little cabin on the ridge, I thought about how connected I was to the pine-needle place in the hills of western Massachusetts. How I'd seen Norman Rockwell often when I was a boy. How my grandfather knew W.E.B. Du Bois. How Hal Borland, just down the road in the 60s, helped me write about American Indians. How all of these people, and so many more made me feel connected to this Berkshire place that is never lost and ever found.

Coming home to Lake Buel, I was greeted by my cousin's cat Oscar.

Oscar was lost on the Lake Buel Boat Ramp.

And found by my cousin Kyle.

Oscar the Grouch lives not in a garbage can but a nice box where he can look out at the world and know that his heart is home.

I just had a great school visit at Gator Run Elementary School in Weston, Florida. I spent the morning with pre-k, kindergarten and first grade. I read from our new picture book Three Little Birds which is based on Bob Marley's classic song.

Then I talked to the older children. I told them stories about having parents who encouraged me to write and the animals in our house that gave me something to write about. I had flying squirrels, bats, parrots, possums, raccoons, alligators and all kinds of snakes. My first published story, I explained, was about life with a flying squirrel.

Well, I had a lot of fun at Gator Run, and I feel certain the kids did too. Especially those students who won the essay contest and got to have lunch with the author.

I have been reading and admiring these thoughtful essays, and here are some samples from them.

"My brain is very absorbent, that means that Gerald Hausman will barely have to explain something, and the next time I write, I'll be using the unique techniques that the author uses himself."
Camilla Tussie

"I love the books the author writes. One of my favorite books is How Chipmunk Got Tiny Feet. When I read the book I thought it was very good. Then I started reading it more and it came out to be it was my favorite book!"
Vanessa Riveros

"One time I was reading a story and my dad said, 'My friend's daughter wrote that book, and it is a true story about her dad.' I never would have thought to write a story about my dad."
Jordan Weisman

"Since I am from Equador and Spanish is my first language, it can sometimes be difficult to learn English. But Mr. Hausman can help me write creatively, speak more fluently, and help me create the most amazing story."
Victoria Crowther

"I am an avid reader and I have always dreamed about the day I would be able to encounter the very person that can so easily catch my attention and hold it hostage...reading can capture the minds of many, especially folktales...maybe meeting one of the people that know and comprehend this secret can help me."

There was no name on that last entry, but I wanted to tell the young author that there is only one secret to being an author. It's the advice I got long ago from the first published writer I met. He said, "To be a writer you must affix the seat of your pants to the seat of your chair." I have followed that advice for more than five hours each day, every day, since I published my first book.

That's the secret. There is no other.

Oh, maybe there is one more. Here's how one of the young authors, Hannah Rarick put it -- "Things you do in life can be scary. But you can't let things in life scare you like that. So you need to beat the fear yourself. Nobody can beat it for you."

Hannah's advice covers how you keep yourself going when you have received a box full of rejection slips -- and we all get them.

Even totally great and famous writers like myself.

Time Swimmer is just out with Macmillan Caribbean. You can see it posted at 'gerald's bookstore' on this very site. A student asked me yesterday -- "What book has the most of YOU in it?" We forget sometimes that kids like to know their author as much as they want to read their author's novel. How do you know an author, if you don't know one? I remember when I was twelve. I used to stand at the mailbox of an author who lived in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey where we were living, and I just stared at his name. The author had written a book about man-eating tigers. And I stood there in front of his mailbox inhaling his name, as if that, all by itself, would make me a writer.

Some years later, on Lake Buel in Massachusetts, I overheard two fishermen talking on the lake one misty morning. The conversation went something like this --

--What'd'ya say your name was?

--Frank Jacobs

--Mine's Harney Wilcox.

--Nice t'meet'ya.

--Same.

--What'd'ya do for a living, Frank?

--I am a writer for Mad Magazine.

At that point I almost fell into the lake. Was this really Frank Jacobs, the man whose words we roared over? Why was he in a boat? The man could walk on water!

I stayed around until Frank docked his boat and then I rushed over to meet him. He turned pale when he saw how nuts I was to meet him. "You really know my name?" he asked putting away his lures. Enraptured, I nodded. I'd lost the ability to speak.

Now I go into schools and read from my books and sometimes I get a response not unlike the one I gave Frank fifty-two years ago, in 1957.

So -- when the student said -- "What book has the most of YOU in it?" I told him Time Swimmer, which is just, just, just out.

"What's it about?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "the story's full of spiders that are men and lizards that are gods all mixed together in a pepperpot stew of fantastic spice that is history and fantasy together -- it's a book about things that never happened amidst things that did. For instance, there's a scene with Nazis in U-boats prowling the harbor of St Lucia in the West Indies. There's the story of the only man who survived the Mount Pelee volcanic eruption of 1902; that was the volcano that killed some 28,000 people in a few minutes, and . . ."

"And that's all about YOU?" the student asked, in wonder.

I answered, "It's about ME, the storyteller. I let myself go in this book. I let myself go completely and told everything I knew about living in the Caribbean. Everything I'd ever absorbed, thought about, heard about, walked into, fell into, dropped off of, just everything!"

After I said that, I was pretty much done and headed over to the table where all my books were displayed and every copy of Time Swimmer was sold.

"They want to know all about YOU," a teacher told me with a wry smile.

Time Swimmer is my favorite book. Of course it's my most recent and it hasn't given me any grief. Sometimes books do. Give grief. One time, when I was starting out, a novel I wrote was given to a woman dying in a hospital in Billings, Montana. The woman died reading my book and her son wrote me a mean letter telling me that my book was DEADLY.

Well, Time Swimmer is a novel that is hard to put down -- so the kids tell me. But it's not deadly. It tells of some deadly events in human history, but it won't kill you to hear them. Once, anyway.

A boy at a school in West Palm Beach asked me last week, "What is the worst thing that can happen to an author?"

I said, "His reader can stop turning pages."

"How do you know," he questioned, "if this reader of yours has quit...do you have a hidden camera coded into every page?"

I laughed. "Yes," I said, "That's how I know. And are you going to be a writer?"

"I might."

That's good enough for me.

We just returned from a school visit at Buena Vista Elementary School, in Greer, South Carolina. You may not think it gets cold there, but let me tell you, it does. Lorry and I wore multiple shirts and sweatshirts one night. The following day at the school, Karen Grimwood, the librarian, met us with a smile and showed the acrostic poems the children had written. Many of them were excellent. That reminded me to share the Tangletalk poem that a student shared with us, first in Rochester, New York, and then again, in Sebastian, Florida. Tangletalk is just what it says: a tangled version of a story. Riddle-like and nonsensical, it nonetheless has a certain sense all its own.

One fine day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
back to back they faced each other
Pulled their swords and shot each other
The deaf policeman heard the noise
And came and shot the two dead boys
If you don't believe this lie is true
Ask the blindman, he saw it too.

Tifanee Terrell
Sebastian Elementary School

It's lovely to hear poetry in schools. And also to see it in action on the streets, in the workplace, everywhere. As the poet Ruth Krauss once said in a very short poem:

Hooray
for every day!

After our school visit in Greer, we read newspapers and books and generally took it easy, but that evening we went out and ate dinner at a great Italian restaurant where a large group of ladies sat at a table. All of them had red hats and purple sweaters, sweatshirts, dresses and jackets. What a sight. Lorry told me, "They are members of the Red Hat Society," and she repeated the verse that got them started. It's from a poem written in 1961 by Jenny Joseph and it goes like this.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me . . .

Oh, seeing is believing, all the red hats on that merry cold night and the purple garments and the loud banter of the ladies too. And the opening of the poem keeps ringing in my ears. Coleen Salley, the great storyteller of New Orleans, always wore a hat to her book signings. My brother, the cowboy folksinger and illustrator, always wears his hat. Mine's hanging on a hook by the door. Think I'll go get it right now.

I have written of Kit Kat, our snowshoe Siamese in another blog. If you haven't read that one -- The Cat Who Ate Skinks and Slept on Chiles -- scroll down and check it out. Among other things, it's about Kit Kat's nine lives. Here in Florida, cats get sick after eating skinks. Sick to death, in some cases. Ours beat the rap and now is a famed chile puss. (Read my other blog and this one and you'll see why.)

Our friend Holly Sedgwick liked the blog pic of Kit Kat and she painted our cat in all her glory. I wanted to buy the painting and found out that it was beyond my budget, but Holly, sweetheart that she is and very generous, sent me, or rather sent Kit Kat an email from Holly's cat in Toronto. From a cool cat to a hot one, this electronic communique saying that Kit Kat's portrait was coming south.

When we opened the package, the painting smelled delectably of oil paint. And there was Kit Kat with red and green fish and blue-tailed skinks swimming over her head. Her eyes were as mysterious as the princes and princesses of Siam that these cats are said to have guarded in long ago times.

We showed Kit Kat the painting. She regarded it with some small alarm, as if to say, "What am I doing there?"

I put the painting in my office so that I could gaze at it whenever I wanted to. Last night, I paused while typing and looked at the portrait. Kit Kat, the real feline was in front of her painted image dozing on a stack of paper. Not just any pile of paper. Kit Kat was resting on Holly the painter's unpublished autobiography. Does art imitate life? Or does life, in this case, imitate art?

Kit Kat was making some sort of statement. She'd made peace with her portrait and was saying,"What you have here is a great painting of a noble cat."

Cats know everything.
Ask any cat.
Better yet, observe their preferences.
They'll point you in the right direction.