We all have ways to cope. When life brings its stresses, as it always does and will continue to do, we seek comfort. For some it is drink, for others it is shoe shopping. Some of us get a massage or a manicure, while others scope out the nearest French bakery. I can personally attest that chocolate works quite well. All of the above sound very fine and I would welcome any one of them. But the ultimate for me is walking into a book store, which is what I did yesterday. The smell of a book store is probably as alluring to me as an opium den was to Sherlock Holmes. The world suddenly seems a kinder and gentler place.
As always, I headed straight for the sale table. Even in the distance I could see it. At first, I doubted my perception thinking my eyes must be cruel deceivers. I could not...simply could NOT...believe them. Stacked in beautiful, plump splendor were three copies of "Essential Pepin", the cookbook by Jacques Pepin that accompanies his PBS TV cooking series. I honed in on the table like a hawk that had spotted a mouse (fearing a hoard of shoppers had noticed the same thing at the same time and was hot on my heels to grab them up before I got my chance) to snatch a copy. I ran my hands over the cover and hugged it. Yes. I hugged it. My mission was accomplished in spades. No. More than spades. In fireworks and a brass band. No. More than that even. Not a brass band. An orchestra...with Pavarotti singing the famous aria from Nessun Dorma. "vincero, vincero, vinceeeeerrrrrooooo". Well, I might be exaggerating just a bit. But it was pretty darn exciting nevertheless. The TV show is on The Create Channel, a public broadcasting channel in South Carolina. It comes on in the middle of the night, though, and unless I can't sleep (which is not usually a problem) I miss it. And now, here he was...Jacques, in all his adorably handsome and culinary splendor for the bargain price of $11.68 - with my B&N membership card - a substantial savings over its original $40 cost. I admit it might not work for everyone, but it made my day.
After returning to work and doing what I get paid to do, I finally went home, patted the dog on the head, scratched the cat under her chin, and put dinner on to cook. I poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio and hit the play button on the stereo - Doo Wop on that day. Comfortably seated in my reading chair, I released Jacques from his shopping bag and noticed for the first time that the cover announced the book came with a 3 hour DVD! Could this get much better? Yes. When I opened the front cover I saw that the book was signed! In the DVD Pepin shows in detail all the techniques I would ever need to know (from how to tie an apron - seriously, he explains the correct way a chef ties an apron - to proper knife work, prepping vegetables, making meringues, the difference between croissant dough and puff pastry and why the techniques are different, the special preparation needed for certain vegetables, classic French omelets, correct techniques for making proper French breads, dealing with shell fish, as well as the preparation of certain wild game - which I admit I had to fast forward through because, let's face it, French cuisine or not I doubt I will ever need to know how to remove the lungs, liver and kidneys from a fresh rabbit carcass. And then, of course, there is some discussion of wines. It just goes on and on and on. 3 heavenly hours of learning at the feet of the Master.)
The book itself is hefty and is lovely to hold. It has what I can only explain as a padded, hard cover. The pen and ink artwork is, well, artsy - with lots of flourishes. There are no pictures of the dishes, but my favorite cookbooks don't have them anyway. But the endpapers do contain photos of Jacques in his many stages of life, my favorite being the one of him and Julia Child facing the camera. He is seated and she is standing behind him, with her arms around his neck in a warm hug. I felt a warm hug myself as I slowly turned the pages. Once again, life was good.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
LOL, "Like" and IMHO
"The human mind is so constituted that in many instances it finds the truth when wholly unable to find the way that leads to it." ~ Justice Logan E. Bleckley (1879), Chief Justice, Supreme Court of Georgia.
If I were able to have a conversation with Justice Bleckley I would add sometimes we simply get "gob-smacked" with a stinging truth for which we were not searching. This happened to me recently when I e-mailed an old and, I thought, dear friend about the recent death of a former classmate. I admit I was surprised that my friend did not remember the Dear Departed One, since I recall a letter she sent me decades ago about a conversation they had during a particularly trying time for the classmate. So troubling, in fact, that the letter stuck in my memory even though I was not involved in the conversation. By return e-mail my friend stated she did not recall the girl and I explained why I had gotten the impression they were close friends at one time. I told my friend that I knew she was of some comfort all those years ago to the (now dead) classmate. Something I said apparently sounded "terse" to her.
Thus began a string of electronic communications that eventually led me to the realization that to her, if maintaining a friendship with me required an effort beyond Facebook postings, it was simply not worth it. I am still trying to sort it out since the entire situation developed over a 24 hour period (which also happened to be my birthday AND Mother's Day) leaving me feeling a little confused, then irritated and eventually just saddened by an argument over something falsely perceived by her which triggered it all. The best I can piece it together, her criticisms of me were that I had not posted anything on her Facebook page (I assume for a while, although she did not specify) leading her to believe I was harboring some unspoken anger. At first I wondered if she remembered I called her just a few months ago. Eventually the e-mails devolved into her remembering I failed to send her the gift I bought her at the duty free shop in Ireland in 1970. As I remember, the gift was a set of six etched aperitif glasses. I can't recall now why I never sent them. (I have a reputation in my family for buying cards and then never sending them. I apologized to my brother, once. I said I was sorry I wasn't more thoughtful. Because he is a prince among men, he said, "Linderino, you're thoughtful...you're just not do-ful.") But with respect to the aperitif glasses, only one survived a collapse of the glass shelving of my drinks bar years ago, so it is really too late to make amends in any event.
Nevertheless, over the years I have sent other things. I have written letters. I have telephoned. But the fact that I failed to comment on her Facebook page was perceived as a snub. It did not seem to matter that I never received letters or telephone calls in return for mine. It did not seem to matter that books I sent to her when she was not well, did not warrant a simple thank you note. I realized that she saw me as her Facebook friend whereas I saw her as my true friend and we have very different ideas about the care and feeding of our most cherished friendships. The "modern" tendency is to eschew the pen and ink, and even the telephone, in favor of a quick posted comment or a tap on the "Like" button. It appears that is what currently poses for communication (derived from the Latin communis to share.)
Granted, much of my business communications are quick e-mails, although there are still multiple occasions daily when I must write an actual "letter" letter. A letter written on stationary that someone will take out of an envelope, read, and put in a file to molder away. As I said to her, and as I firmly believe, relying solely on Facebook is a very lazy way to maintain important relationships - if they truly are important. Quick comments dashed off onto someone's Facebook page are fine and have a place. They keep us in touch with people we would otherwise lose track of, with people we were close to at one point but whose lives zigged when ours zagged, or with members of our extended families separated by time and distance. It is nice to hear what an old acquaintance is doing and to see pictures of his or her family. I am happy to have those people back in my life, if only through electronic media. But that kind of communication alone, no matter how heartfelt, is not good enough, nor should it be, for my close family members or dearest friends - especially those relationships that have survived longevity and the triumphs and tragedies of life. It isn't good enough for the people who have walked along beside me, and propped me up when I needed propping up. Not by a long shot.
I was told that I was obviously one of those "people of a certain age" who was just too stubborn and stuck in my ways to embrace modern technology. And as odd as it may sound, with that comment she finally said something with which I can totally agree. If being "modern" means that a quick sound-bite or thumbs up on someone's public page is all that is required of me in order to maintain my most precious relationships, then I am unashamedly a fossil of the very first order. But when I think of my children and their friends, Facebook seems to be used "in conjunction" with keeping in touch by telephone...or in person. They are there for each other both figuratively and in reality. So perhaps I am not quite the dinosaur I seem.
I will grant you, letter writing appears dead and buried. There is a reason why schools no longer teach penmanship - aside from the cost cutting reasons. Penmanship is no longer needed; handwriting has become a lost art. Why strive to express oneself in a handful of written pages when you can simply hit "Like" or take brevity to its ultimate economical end and type "LOL". Why call a friend to share your happiness over their good fortune, when a smiley face on their Facebook page should be all they need or deserve? Call me a fossil; say I am an old fuddy-duddy who is obviously out-dated. Write me off as a person of a certain age who will never be cool. Worse...as someone without aspirations of techno-savvy coolness. In the meantime, I think I'll phone a friend, and then I believe I'll write a letter...a letter in which I will drone on and on my expansive and brilliant thoughts. If he or she is friend enough, it will at least be perceived as semi-brilliant. It may not be the equivalent of letters between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, or Avis DeVoto and Julia Child (aren't we lucky there was no Facebook back then?), but it will be a tangible little bit of something from me that, if useful for nothing else, can be folded up and used to prop up the wobbly leg of a table. Try doing THAT with a Facebook comment!
If I were able to have a conversation with Justice Bleckley I would add sometimes we simply get "gob-smacked" with a stinging truth for which we were not searching. This happened to me recently when I e-mailed an old and, I thought, dear friend about the recent death of a former classmate. I admit I was surprised that my friend did not remember the Dear Departed One, since I recall a letter she sent me decades ago about a conversation they had during a particularly trying time for the classmate. So troubling, in fact, that the letter stuck in my memory even though I was not involved in the conversation. By return e-mail my friend stated she did not recall the girl and I explained why I had gotten the impression they were close friends at one time. I told my friend that I knew she was of some comfort all those years ago to the (now dead) classmate. Something I said apparently sounded "terse" to her.
Thus began a string of electronic communications that eventually led me to the realization that to her, if maintaining a friendship with me required an effort beyond Facebook postings, it was simply not worth it. I am still trying to sort it out since the entire situation developed over a 24 hour period (which also happened to be my birthday AND Mother's Day) leaving me feeling a little confused, then irritated and eventually just saddened by an argument over something falsely perceived by her which triggered it all. The best I can piece it together, her criticisms of me were that I had not posted anything on her Facebook page (I assume for a while, although she did not specify) leading her to believe I was harboring some unspoken anger. At first I wondered if she remembered I called her just a few months ago. Eventually the e-mails devolved into her remembering I failed to send her the gift I bought her at the duty free shop in Ireland in 1970. As I remember, the gift was a set of six etched aperitif glasses. I can't recall now why I never sent them. (I have a reputation in my family for buying cards and then never sending them. I apologized to my brother, once. I said I was sorry I wasn't more thoughtful. Because he is a prince among men, he said, "Linderino, you're thoughtful...you're just not do-ful.") But with respect to the aperitif glasses, only one survived a collapse of the glass shelving of my drinks bar years ago, so it is really too late to make amends in any event.
Nevertheless, over the years I have sent other things. I have written letters. I have telephoned. But the fact that I failed to comment on her Facebook page was perceived as a snub. It did not seem to matter that I never received letters or telephone calls in return for mine. It did not seem to matter that books I sent to her when she was not well, did not warrant a simple thank you note. I realized that she saw me as her Facebook friend whereas I saw her as my true friend and we have very different ideas about the care and feeding of our most cherished friendships. The "modern" tendency is to eschew the pen and ink, and even the telephone, in favor of a quick posted comment or a tap on the "Like" button. It appears that is what currently poses for communication (derived from the Latin communis to share.)
Granted, much of my business communications are quick e-mails, although there are still multiple occasions daily when I must write an actual "letter" letter. A letter written on stationary that someone will take out of an envelope, read, and put in a file to molder away. As I said to her, and as I firmly believe, relying solely on Facebook is a very lazy way to maintain important relationships - if they truly are important. Quick comments dashed off onto someone's Facebook page are fine and have a place. They keep us in touch with people we would otherwise lose track of, with people we were close to at one point but whose lives zigged when ours zagged, or with members of our extended families separated by time and distance. It is nice to hear what an old acquaintance is doing and to see pictures of his or her family. I am happy to have those people back in my life, if only through electronic media. But that kind of communication alone, no matter how heartfelt, is not good enough, nor should it be, for my close family members or dearest friends - especially those relationships that have survived longevity and the triumphs and tragedies of life. It isn't good enough for the people who have walked along beside me, and propped me up when I needed propping up. Not by a long shot.
I was told that I was obviously one of those "people of a certain age" who was just too stubborn and stuck in my ways to embrace modern technology. And as odd as it may sound, with that comment she finally said something with which I can totally agree. If being "modern" means that a quick sound-bite or thumbs up on someone's public page is all that is required of me in order to maintain my most precious relationships, then I am unashamedly a fossil of the very first order. But when I think of my children and their friends, Facebook seems to be used "in conjunction" with keeping in touch by telephone...or in person. They are there for each other both figuratively and in reality. So perhaps I am not quite the dinosaur I seem.
I will grant you, letter writing appears dead and buried. There is a reason why schools no longer teach penmanship - aside from the cost cutting reasons. Penmanship is no longer needed; handwriting has become a lost art. Why strive to express oneself in a handful of written pages when you can simply hit "Like" or take brevity to its ultimate economical end and type "LOL". Why call a friend to share your happiness over their good fortune, when a smiley face on their Facebook page should be all they need or deserve? Call me a fossil; say I am an old fuddy-duddy who is obviously out-dated. Write me off as a person of a certain age who will never be cool. Worse...as someone without aspirations of techno-savvy coolness. In the meantime, I think I'll phone a friend, and then I believe I'll write a letter...a letter in which I will drone on and on my expansive and brilliant thoughts. If he or she is friend enough, it will at least be perceived as semi-brilliant. It may not be the equivalent of letters between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, or Avis DeVoto and Julia Child (aren't we lucky there was no Facebook back then?), but it will be a tangible little bit of something from me that, if useful for nothing else, can be folded up and used to prop up the wobbly leg of a table. Try doing THAT with a Facebook comment!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Dewey Decimal Doesn't Live Here
I'm not one who makes resolutions at the start of a new year. In the past I never kept them, which is disheartening. It is far better to make a resolution that will last for only the day. If it works out, it can be extended to the next day and then the next. If it doesn't work out no harm has been done since the resolution evaporated at midnight anyway, unless it was revived. This year I made a decision, however, and that is far more liberating than a firm pledge. I want to read from my own library this year rather than buy anything new. This decision came about as I tried to get organized. I may fall off the wagon as the year rolls forward, but how bad can that be?
So, on to the organizational effort: I've been slowly adding my library to Goodreads. Slowly because it takes a considerable amount of time to pull them out, one by one, note the ISBN numbers, dust them and put them back on the shelf. Climbing up and down the step ladder is great exercise, which is a bonus, and I figure it counts as my daily "work out" plan. Who knew reading was so healthily cardio-vascular? I'm up to 222 entries; there are hundreds more to go, so it will be a long term project and I fully expect my thighs and tush to look splendid by summer.
This library project reacquainted me with books I never knew I had. More correctly, at one time I knew I had but had forgotten I did. And what marvelous books are living here! I do believe that if I was cast away on a deserted island, or up on a mountain top in Tibet, with no contact with the outside world and without much knowledge of it, I could cover my education quite well if these books were with me. There are certainly a few clunkers and some pulpy fiction; but, they could only work to make me a nicely rounded human being.
I managed to hang on to a great many of my school books - from kindergarten on. So, I imagine if I was dropped on that island or mountain top as a child who knew the alphabet, I would be able to start with the reading primers and eventually work my way through a degree in history or English lit, or, for some reason...botany. I only recall taking several biology classes in high school and none in college, so I am not certain why I have so many books that cover photosynthesis, geotropism and Gregor Mendel. I suspect some of these were the result of my newly gained interest in gardening when I moved to the Southeast; others must have belonged to my children. I would be able to learn German, Spanish and Latin...and psychoanalyze myself, taking notes in Gregg Shorthand, seeing as I have volumes 1 and 2 of "The Diamond Jubilee Series"! I can actually still read some of the squiggles that make up shorthand. Unfortunately, if I wanted to learn Greek I would be out of luck, but I would be able to discover Why The Greeks Matter and that John Adams thought it was sacrilege that his son, John Quincy, was not reading Demosthenes at school. I do not believe I have anything by Demosthenes, but I haven't been up and down all the bookshelves yet, so there may be some surprises in store.
What I have found so far, not surprisingly, is I have a great many books about history - ancient, European, American, Russian, modern...but I was very surprised to see that I have so many by or about Presidents, politics and First Ladies. de Tocqueville once observed that there is hardly a political question in the United States which does not, sooner or later, turn into a judicial one. So, naturally, a girl needs a compendium that contains everything she would want to know about the Supreme Court and its decisions. Oh, and also a compendium on skin care, diet and an figuring out what hair style looks best with her face shape. That is a very important reference work as well. Sherlock Holmes, inspecting my bookshelves, would deduce that I was avidly interested in the Civil War. He would be correct - as always. He might also be embarrassed to learn that I was deeply smitten with him and have followed his every sleuthing moment...repeatedly and without boredom...to the dog-eared detriment of The Complete Adventures of himself. Of course, considering his ego he may find such adoration "elementary."
There are volumes of mystery, murder, mayhem, ghostly tales, spies and the Classics. Christie and Sayers and Poe and Wilkie Collins - they stand around with their cocktails and canapes and get along quite well, carrying on some very interesting conversations about poison. Gertrude Stein is, as usual, talking about herself and boring everyone within earshot. Sylvia Plath just looks morose. I think it's because she can't smoke in the house. Ron Weasley is trying to find a Horcrux and Sigmond Freud is just trying to find himself - a total couch potato if there ever was one. Sweet ole' Bill gossips about what an honorable man Brutus was, but would bury Caesar in a heartbeat rather than praise him - and we all know it. He is a sloppy drinker and spilled red wine on my carpet. "Bill, shouting 'out damn spot' does not work, trust me." Someone, hand him the Woolite.
There aren't many volumes of poetry, but the ones that hang out here are good ones. I admit, they need more friends.
There are books on sailing, knitting, sewing, and home decorating, but not about sailing while knitting. Now that would be one interesting book! There are volumes that teach the techniques of watercolor painting and how to make decorative gift boxes and objets d'art using dried herbs. And then, of course, there are the cookbooks. I never met one I didn't love. At the public library Big Book Sales, my internal GPS guides me directly to the table where they sit in all their plump and promising splendor. Assuming I could find the proper ingredients on my island or mountain, I could cook the world. I even have a book on The Story Of Cutlery (a prize find at a book sale and probably the only one still in existence...for good reason, I'm afraid).
I've also joined a self-imposed "2013 Reading Challenge" at Goodreads. Sixty books in one year. Unfortunately, even though we are only in mid-January, Goodreads informs me I am already "two books behind." Not encouraging news. The first book I've selected from my library is John Adams, by David McCullough. I believe it won the Pulitzer Prize, but I must have purchased it before the award was announced because the dust jacket does not bear the Pulitzer logo that later editions do. In any event, it has been sitting patiently for over a decade, waiting for some attention which I am happily giving it. I am currently a third of the way through and am mesmerized by every sentence. (At over 700 pages, I wonder if I should count it as two? It's a thought, but I imagine it would be cheating.)
So on and on it goes. Up the ladder, down the ladder. Dust, note, replace. Eventually I would love to have the books themselves truly organized in some efficient and meaningful way - as they are in a well-kept library. Little chance of that in the near future. As it is, they rub elbows with the oddest neighbors. But personality conflicts aside, the community remains peaceful...and I'm working those glutes.
So, on to the organizational effort: I've been slowly adding my library to Goodreads. Slowly because it takes a considerable amount of time to pull them out, one by one, note the ISBN numbers, dust them and put them back on the shelf. Climbing up and down the step ladder is great exercise, which is a bonus, and I figure it counts as my daily "work out" plan. Who knew reading was so healthily cardio-vascular? I'm up to 222 entries; there are hundreds more to go, so it will be a long term project and I fully expect my thighs and tush to look splendid by summer.
This library project reacquainted me with books I never knew I had. More correctly, at one time I knew I had but had forgotten I did. And what marvelous books are living here! I do believe that if I was cast away on a deserted island, or up on a mountain top in Tibet, with no contact with the outside world and without much knowledge of it, I could cover my education quite well if these books were with me. There are certainly a few clunkers and some pulpy fiction; but, they could only work to make me a nicely rounded human being.
I managed to hang on to a great many of my school books - from kindergarten on. So, I imagine if I was dropped on that island or mountain top as a child who knew the alphabet, I would be able to start with the reading primers and eventually work my way through a degree in history or English lit, or, for some reason...botany. I only recall taking several biology classes in high school and none in college, so I am not certain why I have so many books that cover photosynthesis, geotropism and Gregor Mendel. I suspect some of these were the result of my newly gained interest in gardening when I moved to the Southeast; others must have belonged to my children. I would be able to learn German, Spanish and Latin...and psychoanalyze myself, taking notes in Gregg Shorthand, seeing as I have volumes 1 and 2 of "The Diamond Jubilee Series"! I can actually still read some of the squiggles that make up shorthand. Unfortunately, if I wanted to learn Greek I would be out of luck, but I would be able to discover Why The Greeks Matter and that John Adams thought it was sacrilege that his son, John Quincy, was not reading Demosthenes at school. I do not believe I have anything by Demosthenes, but I haven't been up and down all the bookshelves yet, so there may be some surprises in store.
What I have found so far, not surprisingly, is I have a great many books about history - ancient, European, American, Russian, modern...but I was very surprised to see that I have so many by or about Presidents, politics and First Ladies. de Tocqueville once observed that there is hardly a political question in the United States which does not, sooner or later, turn into a judicial one. So, naturally, a girl needs a compendium that contains everything she would want to know about the Supreme Court and its decisions. Oh, and also a compendium on skin care, diet and an figuring out what hair style looks best with her face shape. That is a very important reference work as well. Sherlock Holmes, inspecting my bookshelves, would deduce that I was avidly interested in the Civil War. He would be correct - as always. He might also be embarrassed to learn that I was deeply smitten with him and have followed his every sleuthing moment...repeatedly and without boredom...to the dog-eared detriment of The Complete Adventures of himself. Of course, considering his ego he may find such adoration "elementary."
There are volumes of mystery, murder, mayhem, ghostly tales, spies and the Classics. Christie and Sayers and Poe and Wilkie Collins - they stand around with their cocktails and canapes and get along quite well, carrying on some very interesting conversations about poison. Gertrude Stein is, as usual, talking about herself and boring everyone within earshot. Sylvia Plath just looks morose. I think it's because she can't smoke in the house. Ron Weasley is trying to find a Horcrux and Sigmond Freud is just trying to find himself - a total couch potato if there ever was one. Sweet ole' Bill gossips about what an honorable man Brutus was, but would bury Caesar in a heartbeat rather than praise him - and we all know it. He is a sloppy drinker and spilled red wine on my carpet. "Bill, shouting 'out damn spot' does not work, trust me." Someone, hand him the Woolite.
There aren't many volumes of poetry, but the ones that hang out here are good ones. I admit, they need more friends.
There are books on sailing, knitting, sewing, and home decorating, but not about sailing while knitting. Now that would be one interesting book! There are volumes that teach the techniques of watercolor painting and how to make decorative gift boxes and objets d'art using dried herbs. And then, of course, there are the cookbooks. I never met one I didn't love. At the public library Big Book Sales, my internal GPS guides me directly to the table where they sit in all their plump and promising splendor. Assuming I could find the proper ingredients on my island or mountain, I could cook the world. I even have a book on The Story Of Cutlery (a prize find at a book sale and probably the only one still in existence...for good reason, I'm afraid).
I've also joined a self-imposed "2013 Reading Challenge" at Goodreads. Sixty books in one year. Unfortunately, even though we are only in mid-January, Goodreads informs me I am already "two books behind." Not encouraging news. The first book I've selected from my library is John Adams, by David McCullough. I believe it won the Pulitzer Prize, but I must have purchased it before the award was announced because the dust jacket does not bear the Pulitzer logo that later editions do. In any event, it has been sitting patiently for over a decade, waiting for some attention which I am happily giving it. I am currently a third of the way through and am mesmerized by every sentence. (At over 700 pages, I wonder if I should count it as two? It's a thought, but I imagine it would be cheating.)
So on and on it goes. Up the ladder, down the ladder. Dust, note, replace. Eventually I would love to have the books themselves truly organized in some efficient and meaningful way - as they are in a well-kept library. Little chance of that in the near future. As it is, they rub elbows with the oddest neighbors. But personality conflicts aside, the community remains peaceful...and I'm working those glutes.
Friday, December 28, 2012
And So This Is Christmas
We say a melancholy goodbye to another Christmas. Although I seldom admit it - and in fact make a rather large deal of being a bit of a humbug - in reality I do love it. At least, I love the true meaning and idea surrounding Christmas.
I did, in fact, get the tree assembled. It took staying up until the wee hours of the morning. I finally dragged myself to bed and dreamed of sugar plums - or perhaps it was clementine vodka. In any event, the next evening I took a picture of it. As I looked through the lens, I realized something was dreadfully wrong. One of us was tilting. I was fairly certain it wasn't me.
Miraculously I had my cell phone in my pocket and was able to call 911. Not literally, of course, but my paramedic son did arrive just in the nick of time as the entire monstrous elephant of a tree collapsed. He was able to mitigate the damage by catching it on the way down. I should have taken a picture of the wreckage (but I fear I'm not photogenic) - and of the tree with lights dangling and branches missing and ornaments scattered across the landscape. At first I cried, and then we started to laugh.
The next morning, with the tree once again secured in its base (Charlie hammered it together and I still don't know whether I will be able to get it disassembled - I am fearful I might have to live with it up all year) I began again. After all, Christmas is a season of hope. Some of the lights were in such a tangle it was hopeless to try to make them right. It would be less "glow-y" the second time around. But that is a very small thing.
Christmas is not about twinkling lights,
Or Prancer and Dancer and Donder and Blitzen...
Or faux snowflakes...
It isn't about Christmas crackers and party hats, or whistles and riddles...
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It is about wonder...
It's about laughter and joy...
And traditions...
It is about remembering in prayer...
But most of all, Christmas is all about love...
Which, I believe, is the best birthday present we could possibly give that sweet, small infant.
I hope your own holiday, whether you celebrate Christmas or something else or nothing at all, was filled with magic. Mine was.
I did, in fact, get the tree assembled. It took staying up until the wee hours of the morning. I finally dragged myself to bed and dreamed of sugar plums - or perhaps it was clementine vodka. In any event, the next evening I took a picture of it. As I looked through the lens, I realized something was dreadfully wrong. One of us was tilting. I was fairly certain it wasn't me.
The next morning, with the tree once again secured in its base (Charlie hammered it together and I still don't know whether I will be able to get it disassembled - I am fearful I might have to live with it up all year) I began again. After all, Christmas is a season of hope. Some of the lights were in such a tangle it was hopeless to try to make them right. It would be less "glow-y" the second time around. But that is a very small thing.
Or Prancer and Dancer and Donder and Blitzen...
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It's about laughter and joy...
And traditions...
It is about remembering in prayer...
But most of all, Christmas is all about love...
Which, I believe, is the best birthday present we could possibly give that sweet, small infant.
I hope your own holiday, whether you celebrate Christmas or something else or nothing at all, was filled with magic. Mine was.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
My Best Books for 2012
Every year I make Christmas an exhausting chore and every
year I tell myself, "This is the last year I'll do that." About a decade ago, already mid-December, the
stockings were on the mantle, the twinkle lights were outside, Christmas cards
were taped to the fridge, but still no tree…and no one in the family seemed to
notice or care enough to find a perfect one - or even a
not so perfect one. I found myself at
Walmart one day standing beneath a gigantic artificial tree which was on
display as a holiday decoration. It towered above the other trees that were being offered for sale. I had
been disgruntled, but looking at that tree made me feel happy. I wanted that tree. I was determined I would have that tree. Tree lust took over. I asked, haggled, and begged for that
tree. I tried reason, "Please, sir,
Walmart is in the business of selling trees and I want to buy that one!" The manager seemed unmoved. "Ma'am, that tree is a floor
display. How about that one? Or this one?" Perhaps it was something
in my sad eyes, or perhaps it was because I suggested I would chain myself to
the tree until he relented, but after staring at me for a few seconds, he called
a stock person over and told him to dismantle it and find a box
"somewhere" that would be large enough for it. Oh, joy!
It's mine. It is truly mine! Triumphant I pulled an oversize floor trolley
cradling my tree out to the parking lot.
It was only then that I remembered I drove a very small car. While love can, and often does, last forever,
lust is a fleeting thing. The romance had
already begun to wear thin.
I still have that blasted tree and anticipate dragging it
down the stairs in its two coffin-sized Tupperware bins tonight. After fighting with the stand and the
branches and then the lights, it will look beautiful, I am quite sure. It always does. I still wonder why I do it after promising
myself I would not. I guess it wouldn't
seem like Christmas without some craziness.
There will be very little time for reading in the next two
weeks, but after the holiday frenzy settles down, I'll open that can of Hubs Virginia Peanuts that I know I will get for Christmas and make a new reading list. Winding down another year, I am happy that
work went well, my children are happy, and Shorty has not burned the house down
yet, but I have not remotely reached my reading goals. I often wonder if setting some arbitrary goal
is a good thing for reading…or for weight loss - keeping in mind the can of Hubs. Aren't there enough pressures
placed upon our persons? Why would we
want to import more? So I say
"Goal, Schmoal." Anyway, there
were a few gems in the year and these were my favorites in no particular order:
The Garden of Evening
Mists, Tan Twan Eng
The Remains of the Day,
Kazuo Ishiguro
Defending Jacob,
William Landay
The Fallen Angel,
Daniel Silva
The Unlikely
Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Rachel Joyce
The Sea Hawk,
Rafael Sabatini
And the worst thing I read this year was, it pains me to say, The Turn of the Screw, by Henry
James.
Now, it's off to the attic to cart down Christmas. The chaos will come whether I'm ready or not, so I might as well strap it on.
Monday, November 12, 2012
I Spy - Really I Do
I have a colleague I've already told you about. He's the one with the booming voice and voracious reading appetite; the one who insisted I read Defending Jacob. I have no idea why, in the past, I haven't had more faith in his ability to pick out a really thumping good read. It could be because he has a particular penchant for legal thrillers (John Grisham, Scott Turow, Steve Martini - you know the type) and I would rather bang my head against a wall than read about lawyers working hard at being thrilling. However, doubt is sinking in on the validity of my initial assessment. I may have to begin referring to him as "He Whose Taste Shall Not Be Questioned," because I must admit he has put me onto something. About a month ago he handed me Fallen Angel by Daniel Silva and I started it with some trepidation, which quickly flew out the window. Apparently, for years Silva has been writing thrillers centered around an Israeli spy/assassin-turned-Master Art Restorer named Gabriel Allon, and Mr. Allon has been on some pretty darn exciting adventures without me, until recently that is. Suddenly, I love spy novels! Who knew? Thank you, oh great and powerful "He Whose Taste Shall Not Be Questioned."
As a veteran of The Big Book Sale at the library (I recently attended my fifth), I now approach the madness with a Three Point Plan.
First: I go with one and only one canvas bag that will hold approximately 10 books. I could bring two or three or more bags, but in the heat of the chase one never considers how difficult it will be to carry 60 lbs. of books to the car and then into the house, especially when confronted by so many possibilities, each of which costs only $1. At that price there is a tendency to over-indulge and then, as with any over-indulgence, suffer the consequences of bad judgment.
Second: No aimless wandering. No being pushed along with the tide. Exhibiting determination, my first stop will be under the sign that says "Cookbooks." After that it's on to "Fiction." My "one bag rule" served me well this last go-round since the cookbook I jumped on was a Cooks Illustrated Best Cookbook that weighed in at over 1000 pages and was larger than a lectern-sized copy of the St. James Bible would have been, leaving little room in the canvas bag for much else. But since I was equipped with the third part of my plan, I was unperturbed.
The third was "look for books by a specific author," which on this expedition was Daniel Silva, specifically the series starring Gabriel Allon. I was able to find one, The Messenger, which was in excellent shape. A copy of Moscow Rules was also there, but was in terrible shape, so it got left behind. I was still able to satisfactorily top off the bag with other authors, but those two books were my great "finds." Several days later, The Defector - which I have yet to read - and The Rembrandt Affair - which was spectacular - were on the super bargain table at Barnes & Noble. Bliss! I am convinced I've gone mad. It's a bit like being 12 years old again and discovering Nancy Drew, but with more chases through snow-bound birch forests and things blowing up.
This whole phenomena fits in with my recently stated desire to read out of my comfort zone. Which, come to think of it, is a rather ridiculous notion since spy novels have now become part of that comfort zone. Most of us have to do a certain amount of professional reading that can border on the tedious and turgid...nothing so exciting as exposing a billionaire art collector and noted philanthropist who is covertly selling nuclear warheads to Iran. If that doesn't give one shivers, what could? An added benefit: I've learned a few things about Rembrandt van Rijn and Titian and Caravaggio I didn't know before. I admit, it doesn't hurt that Allon has deep green eyes and is very handsome...a little like a non-womanizing James Bond. Former President Bill Clinton has said that Gabriel Allon was his "favorite character in literature." Not too surprising, I guess. Well, I'm afraid I can't go that far, but I'll hitch along for the ride.
Portrait Of A Spy is on the menu for my commute this week, and although it may look as though I am a middle-aged woman with dry skin and sensible shoes driving to and from work, in actuality I am Grad The Avenger, who is working hand-in-hand with Gabriel Allon to foil a global terrorist mastermind before he can follow through with his plot to leave a "trail of innocent blood." Gives me positive shivers, but I think we'll win in the end. I'm sure I can also be of immeasurable help while Allon The Master Art Restorer restores a Titian or two. "Hey, Gabe, you missed a spot..right there on Actaeon's left thumb." Oh, I know, I know. It all sounds a little Walter Middy-like, doesn't it? It's just the kind of stuff one gets sucked into, and then...before you know it....Tapokita, tapokita, tapokita...
As a veteran of The Big Book Sale at the library (I recently attended my fifth), I now approach the madness with a Three Point Plan.
First: I go with one and only one canvas bag that will hold approximately 10 books. I could bring two or three or more bags, but in the heat of the chase one never considers how difficult it will be to carry 60 lbs. of books to the car and then into the house, especially when confronted by so many possibilities, each of which costs only $1. At that price there is a tendency to over-indulge and then, as with any over-indulgence, suffer the consequences of bad judgment.
Second: No aimless wandering. No being pushed along with the tide. Exhibiting determination, my first stop will be under the sign that says "Cookbooks." After that it's on to "Fiction." My "one bag rule" served me well this last go-round since the cookbook I jumped on was a Cooks Illustrated Best Cookbook that weighed in at over 1000 pages and was larger than a lectern-sized copy of the St. James Bible would have been, leaving little room in the canvas bag for much else. But since I was equipped with the third part of my plan, I was unperturbed.
The third was "look for books by a specific author," which on this expedition was Daniel Silva, specifically the series starring Gabriel Allon. I was able to find one, The Messenger, which was in excellent shape. A copy of Moscow Rules was also there, but was in terrible shape, so it got left behind. I was still able to satisfactorily top off the bag with other authors, but those two books were my great "finds." Several days later, The Defector - which I have yet to read - and The Rembrandt Affair - which was spectacular - were on the super bargain table at Barnes & Noble. Bliss! I am convinced I've gone mad. It's a bit like being 12 years old again and discovering Nancy Drew, but with more chases through snow-bound birch forests and things blowing up.
This whole phenomena fits in with my recently stated desire to read out of my comfort zone. Which, come to think of it, is a rather ridiculous notion since spy novels have now become part of that comfort zone. Most of us have to do a certain amount of professional reading that can border on the tedious and turgid...nothing so exciting as exposing a billionaire art collector and noted philanthropist who is covertly selling nuclear warheads to Iran. If that doesn't give one shivers, what could? An added benefit: I've learned a few things about Rembrandt van Rijn and Titian and Caravaggio I didn't know before. I admit, it doesn't hurt that Allon has deep green eyes and is very handsome...a little like a non-womanizing James Bond. Former President Bill Clinton has said that Gabriel Allon was his "favorite character in literature." Not too surprising, I guess. Well, I'm afraid I can't go that far, but I'll hitch along for the ride.
Portrait Of A Spy is on the menu for my commute this week, and although it may look as though I am a middle-aged woman with dry skin and sensible shoes driving to and from work, in actuality I am Grad The Avenger, who is working hand-in-hand with Gabriel Allon to foil a global terrorist mastermind before he can follow through with his plot to leave a "trail of innocent blood." Gives me positive shivers, but I think we'll win in the end. I'm sure I can also be of immeasurable help while Allon The Master Art Restorer restores a Titian or two. "Hey, Gabe, you missed a spot..right there on Actaeon's left thumb." Oh, I know, I know. It all sounds a little Walter Middy-like, doesn't it? It's just the kind of stuff one gets sucked into, and then...before you know it....Tapokita, tapokita, tapokita...
Friday, October 19, 2012
Goodbye Old Pal...My Old Pal
Newsweek will cease to produce a printed copy of the magazine in a couple of months. Although it has changed radically over the years, I remember when it was a serious and (at least seemingly) non-biased reporter of the news. But it was much more than that. It was a snapshot of our lives. I was an early, and probably precocious, subscriber as a teenager in the 1960s. Happily, a few of the magazines survived by hiding at the bottom of a trunk, stowaways on my travels from this place to that.
This issue is from December 27, 1965. President Kennedy had been assassinated 2 years earlier, but space exploration, a legacy of his Presidency, was still alive. Sadly, things have changed and we have apparently abandoned our great dreams of exploring space. But in 1965 the first space rendezvous between Gemini 6, commanded by Wally Shira, and Gemini 7, with a crew of Frank Borman and James Lovell, had successfully been accomplished. "We did it!!" was the exclamation. At that time it was the longest manned flight, 330 hours 35 minutes and the first formation flight in space.
We were still fighting in Vietnam, and the issue covered how families at home were coping with Christmas. They spotlighted individual service men: The Adviser, The Staff Sergeant, The Jet Pilot, The Marine Gunner, The Medic, and The Infantry Colonel and how they were celebrating Christmas in the fields of battle, mirrored by the brave efforts of the people who loved them to keep some semblance of normalcy in an abnormal world...determined to save Christmas.
Airlines were still glamorous. Braniff International (if anyone still remembers it) announced "the End of the Plain Plane" with cuisine by Alexander Girard of La Fonda Del Sol in New York, and "hostess" and pilot uniforms designed by Pucci.
When it came to speculation about the future of our health in 2015, there were predictions that nurses would be replaced by robots in hospitals. That "would be among the least remarkable development" by 2015. A dicey prediction, obviously. However, the science of robotics in general has made great strides in the past 50 years. Additionally the oracle predicted life span would likely be extended beyond 100 years, molecular genetic engineering would insure that babies are born to stay healthy, and we would be able to grow new limbs and organs - presumably in the laboratory, although the article doesn't specify. However, the report sets forth a probability that might cancel out all these benefits: the outbreak of a major war before 2000. Considering humankind, that was an unhappy but not unpredictable prediction.
Somerset Maugham had died the week before the publication of this issue of Newsweek, and the magazine did a splendid article about his life. "When my obituary at last appears in The Times, and they say, 'What? I thought he died years ago!' my ghost will gently chuckle." Maugham lived gracefully and well, it went on to state. "I had no intention of living on a crust in a garret if I could help it," he once said. Maugham admitted to being something of a misogynist, and many of his distaff characters did come in for rough treatment. He was a gentle man at heart, but apparently remained convinced that life was essentially meaningless. That view is certainly reflected in the works with which I am familiar, but this article convinced me to adore him nevertheless.
There was a glowing review of Flannery O'Connor's posthumous collection of short stories, Everything That Rises Must Converge (named after one of the short stories in the collection). I believe this article may have been my first introduction to O'Connor. I know we did not study her work in high school. Unbeknownst to me in 1965, I would one day make my home in the city of her birth, a city where she is revered and loved. I re-read this beautiful, compelling, dark, and disturbing short story this summer. Powerful story, powerful woman, powerful writer, powerful review. What more is there to say?
A Patch Of Blue starring Sydney Poitier and Elizabeth Hartman was panned, for good reason if I remember correctly...and of course...
...it would not be 1965 without a red Mustang convertible.
Henry Charles Dickens, 87 years old and the last surviving grandchild of Charles Dickens, and his wife Fanny hosted a Christmas feast for 16 members of the family; Frank Sinatra, as he turned 50, announced he expected to "swing for 50 more," (I wish it had been 100 more, Ol' Blue Eyes), Brigitte Bardot, in her usual brilliance, declared she wanted "to be myself. Lady Bird Johnson prepared to entertain Prime Minister Harold Wilson even as White House chef Rene Verdon gave notice he would be leaving his post. Hired to please the Continental palate of Jacqueline Kennedy, the French-born chef found LBJ's penchant for barbecue, spoon bread and fried chicken just...well...shall we say, too much to swallow.
I haven't subscribed to Newsweek for decades. But I feel a certain affection for it...for what it used to be. I can't help but feel a bit sad. Like when you know the goodbye is final. Like the day you graduate from college and pack up your dorm room, a dull ache starting in your chest and making a lump in your throat. Like driving away away for the last time...into your life and whatever it holds.
There was a glowing review of Flannery O'Connor's posthumous collection of short stories, Everything That Rises Must Converge (named after one of the short stories in the collection). I believe this article may have been my first introduction to O'Connor. I know we did not study her work in high school. Unbeknownst to me in 1965, I would one day make my home in the city of her birth, a city where she is revered and loved. I re-read this beautiful, compelling, dark, and disturbing short story this summer. Powerful story, powerful woman, powerful writer, powerful review. What more is there to say?
Henry Charles Dickens, 87 years old and the last surviving grandchild of Charles Dickens, and his wife Fanny hosted a Christmas feast for 16 members of the family; Frank Sinatra, as he turned 50, announced he expected to "swing for 50 more," (I wish it had been 100 more, Ol' Blue Eyes), Brigitte Bardot, in her usual brilliance, declared she wanted "to be myself. Lady Bird Johnson prepared to entertain Prime Minister Harold Wilson even as White House chef Rene Verdon gave notice he would be leaving his post. Hired to please the Continental palate of Jacqueline Kennedy, the French-born chef found LBJ's penchant for barbecue, spoon bread and fried chicken just...well...shall we say, too much to swallow.
I haven't subscribed to Newsweek for decades. But I feel a certain affection for it...for what it used to be. I can't help but feel a bit sad. Like when you know the goodbye is final. Like the day you graduate from college and pack up your dorm room, a dull ache starting in your chest and making a lump in your throat. Like driving away away for the last time...into your life and whatever it holds.
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