The Curious Reader

Resolve

2012-01-19T11:14:00.010-05:00

I usually wait until it's nearly February to make my New Year resolutions. By then my head has been cleared of the seasonal excesses. You know: mid-morning Mimosas, Beef Wellington, baked brie - all clouding my senses and probably clogging my arteries. I can once again walk into my office without fear of being greeted by lovingly made gifts from my team members: the inevitable bowl of fudge that is one person's specialty or the chocolate chip pound cake that is another's. From a very fine gentleman a large can of Hubs Virginia Peanuts always finds its way to my desk, and usually a bottle of Argentinian wine. It all requires much too much restraint, which is exhausting. By the time January rolls over on its back I feel as though I've been hit over the head with a ball peen hammer and my veins are rivers of sludge. Have I mentioned that Christmas is far from my favorite holiday?

The fog has lifted and I have taken stock of what must be done...again. First, there are the family photos. They fill boxes in the closet, boxes in trunks, and boxes under the bed, and I am afraid my method of storage is doing them no good at all. Happily, I am also a collector of pretty scrapbooks and lovely papers and I resolve to make things right.

Next on the list is the pantry. Out with the Fruit Loops. In with the steel cut oats. Good-bye pizza with cheese-stuffed crust. Hello chicken/tofu/kale stir fry (which is delicious). No more white jasmine rice...but, weep not, brown basmati tastes even better. The freezer has been stocked with flax seed meal, and oat bran, and blueberries, and pecans. Quinoa has replaced couscous; sour cream must make way for Greek yogurt. And after eating the entire can of Hubs Virginia Peanuts single-handedly - washing it down with the Argentinian wine - I decided I'd better stock up on Edamame. With these changes, and thanks to an extra flight of stairs at work now that I have an office in the attic, I should be able to successfully whip myself into shape. (I have been moved out of my office in the haunted carriage house into an office in the even more delightfully haunted attic of "the big house." Like many antebellum mansions, the "big house" has so many twists and turns in it I really should leave a trail of breadcrumbs when I venture out of my office so I can find my way back to it. It has, by the way, a lovely window. I share my kingdom with Napoleon Bony-Parts, who has been my office-mate for almost 20 years and who graciously posed for his portrait...for your admiration. His cap says, "Genuine Antique Person." It suits him and he thinks it becoming - especially with his strong jaw-line. He is sometimes my date for New Years Eve and always my date for Halloween.)

Finally...and most worrisome...my library. I must organize my library. But how on earth do I even begin? I started with the Library Thing, but after an hour of pulling volumes I only entered 32 books - not even one shelf-worth, really - and only then realized that I had all the wrong editions listed. My list of books indicated paperbacks when I had hardbacks, and hardbacks when I had paperbacks. It would be easier if all the books were in one place. Ideally, one room would be devoted to the husbandry of books. To be sure, it would require some serious shelf-building. I do have a room that could be purposed in that way...as long as the books can live in peaceful co-existence with my piano. Yes. It could be done. But should it be done when I need replacement windows and am having nightmares about how long the plumbing will hold out. Looked at in that light, it seems frivolous. Nevertheless, something must be done to bring order into chaos. What heaven it would be to be able to go, like Roger Mifflin of The Haunted Bookshop, to the exact spot where the volume you were seeking was taking up residence...at the exact moment you needed to punctuate your argument with a quote! Instead of, "Well, it's here...somewhere...perhaps...over there...no...maybe..." By then you've lost the point and the conversation has drifted to something else...beekeeping perhaps, or some other subject upon which you are woefully deficient. Moments must be grasped, my friends...they must be grasped. Or so Napoleon is fond of reminding me.

The Christmas Lunch

2011-12-15T05:15:00.012-05:00

The lunch crowd met again, this time at a restaurant in a converted cotton warehouse along the river. It sits just a few doors away from my old office and the view we had that afternoon was the same one I had been fortunate enough to have "on loan" for many years. The retired judge was in attendance, as was the semi-retired lawyer and the fellow whose occupation has always been a little sketchy to me. I only know that he owns things - like buildings - and he leases them out and then goes to Europe (a lot). We were also joined by a delightful lady presumably the newest love interest of the Lessor. She heads a department - or runs something - at the famous art school and if pressed to describe her in one word I would say "butterfly." She reminded me of photographs of Isadora Duncan. I liked her very much and think she should be able to keep the Lessor on his toes for awhile. The room has its original brick walls and was decorated for Christmas with poinsettias and twinkle lights and a nice crackling fireplace - overall a very cheerful and cozy atmosphere.

Over the first round of martinis we talked about books, as usual, and the book festival coming in February, and Pat Conroy, and the Savannah Film Festival. Someone had suggested that, in the spirit of the season, we each tell a story about ourselves not previously told. So around the table we went. Four of us told goofy stories. (Mine was the time I apparently drank too much wine and ordered whatever it was that happened to be on QVC at that moment. When the box arrived, inside was a very long, skinny brush with a tapered pointy end. The shaft was bendable. I had no idea what it was or its purpose. One of my children suggested it was a tool to be used during a proctology exam. Another thought it could be used to clean ear wax from an elephant. Neither idea seemed plausible, but we fell on the floor laughing and gained a good memory out of it anyway.)

Finally, it was the retired judge's turn. I anticipated a story told from the bench, so certain was I that he has a wealth of them stored away. Instead, he said, "When I was a very young lawyer I had the opportunity to travel to New York City on a case. I had always wanted to see a play on Broadway and as luck would have it I was able to get a ticket - one single ticket - to the hottest show in town...an impossible ticket to an always sold out play. Well, the big day came...I got all dressed up and stepped outside into a nasty driving rain storm. Cab after cab passed me by already filled. I must have looked a sorry sight. But then a taxi stopped and the passenger door opened and inside sat the prettiest girl I had ever laid eyes on. With a voice like cut crystal she asked me where I was going and if I wanted to share her taxi. It wouldn't have mattered to me if she had been going to the moon, I would have gotten in that cab no matter what. It took twenty minutes to get to the theater; it took five minutes to fall in love with her."

Being the sentimental type, I teared up and my throat felt as though I had swallowed a hot mitten. I reached for my glass. In truth I was a little disappointed we didn't hear some very clever and very funny story about how he eviscerated some pompous member of the (legal) bar. I love those kinds of stories. But the semi-retired lawyer jumped in and said, "Judge, you've told that story of how you met your wife before. Now see here, the deal was to tell us something you haven't told before."

Beneath those wildly untamed eyebrows...beyond those wise and cunning eyes...a knowing light of anticipation and drama winked and then blinked and then shot steady. "Ahh...but that was just the Prologue," he said in his best Charles Laughton voice.

Well, my friends, we all recognized that we were really in for something. Something delicious. Something as intoxicating, perhaps, as the lemon drop martinis. The Lessor signaled to the waiter by silently making a twirling sign with his index finger indicating another round was now in order as we settled in, leaning forward so as not to miss one..single..word.

"Chapter One. It was still pouring rain when we got to the theater. She had changed her plans just like that," he snapped his fingers, "and we walked up to the ticket booth. Sold Out. Big letters! No chance for the both of us to see the play, and I no longer cared to see it without her. All I wanted was to get her out of the rain, to sit in some quiet spot, and get to know everything about her. I reached into my overcoat and pulled out the ticket. A tall, sullen kid - 18 or 19 - was walking toward us. He must have been walking a long time, or through puddles, because his pant legs were wet half way to his knees. I shoved the ticket at him and said, 'Please use this. I can't and I don't want to waste it.' With that, my girl and I jumped into another cab and I never gave the kid another thought."

"Oh, what a sweet story," I was about to say, when he raised his hands to silence any interruption.

"Chapter Two. That girl and I got married and we were happily married for over 50 years. But about 15 or 20 years after I gave the ticket away, and we were living here, an incredible thing happened. A successful actor in a very successful play was appearing on stage in Atlanta. The local news did a piece on him and asked him how he got into his profession. I was sitting with my wife listening to the interview. The actor said that as a kid, he had no direction at all. Had dropped out of school, was hanging out with other kids who had no direction. One day when he was about 18 he was walking to meet some friends. As he passed a theater on Broadway, a perfect stranger stopped him in the street and gave him a ticket to the play. 'I had never even been in a library,' he told the interviewer. 'I was broke, and soaking wet, and hungry. At first I figured I would try to hawk the ticket. I didn't know anything about the theater, but I knew I wasn't dressed right to go in. But then I looked down at the ticket sitting in the palm of my hand. Then I looked up at the theater. And I made my choice. Seeing that play was the turning point of my life. I was baptized.' The fellow went on to say that after that night, he knew his life was going to be dedicated to the theater. He worked as a janitor at first, then a stage hand, saved enough money for acting lessons. Finally he got a break here and a break there and...well...that was that. The play, the theater, the year, the rain, his description of us left no room for doubt."

The semi-retired lawyer and the Lessor stared silently at their drinks...the butterfly dabbed the inside corner of an eye with a napkin...I gazed out the window just as a container ship slipped silently out to sea. Then he spoke again.

"Epilogue: As it turns out, when I stopped the young man on the street that cold, wet evening he was on his way to meet his friends. They made plans to rob a liquor store two blocks from the theater. He, of course, got side-tracked and never showed up. That didn't stop the other two, though. One of his friends was shot and killed that night. You see, the store owner had a gun too. The other went to prison. We all chose our destiny that evening. I feel there is a silent hand trying to guide us in the right direction, but in the end we all must choose our own way."

There really isn't much more to say than that. Except that it reminded me of something Clarence the angel without wings told George Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life. Each person's life touches other lives in ways we never know or fully understand. It seemed a perfect message for a perfect Christmas lunch in a world where perfection is hard to find. Merry Christmas to one and all.

I Am Grad, And I Approve This Message

2011-10-11T10:49:00.005-04:00

I vowed The Curious Reader would never be a platform for my political beliefs. But then I thought..."What the hell?"

A case was filed earlier this year. A young lady showed up at a late night holiday party as the guest of a guest of the homeowner. She had had a "few" glasses of wine prior to arriving; when she got to the party she wanted to use the restroom. Two identical doors were located adjacent to each other in the hallway. She opened one of them, took a step, and found herself at the bottom of the basement stairs following a painful journey. It is a classic "step in the dark" case; and, if the law is properly applied, it will be found to have no merit.

There are protesters in New York - and now other cities - gathering headlines. Not many, but a few of my very intelligent (and loved) friends have expressed support for these folks. Their support is, I am certain, very heart-felt, but I (gently) submit I strongly disagree.

The freedom to assemble is as old as the Bill of Rights. It does not matter whether the assembly is the result of joy (the Cubs winning the World Series - I wish), or sorrow (the spontaneous gathering outside The Dakota following John Lennon's death) or anger (students protesting the war in Viet Nam back in the day). The power of a state to abridge freedom of speech and of assembly is the exception rather than the rule... penalizing...utterances of a defined character must find its justification in a reasonable apprehension of danger to organized government. U.S.C.A.Const. Amend. 14. (Emphasis added)

In 1937, Chief Justice Hughes wrote, "These rights may be abused by using speech or press or assembly in order to incite to violence and crime. The people through their Legislatures may protect themselves against that abuse. But the legislative intervention can find constitutional justification only by dealing with the abuse. The rights themselves must not be curtailed. The greater the importance of safeguarding the community from incitements to the overthrow of our institutions by force and violence, the more imperative is the need to preserve inviolate the constitutional rights of free speech, free press and free assembly in order to maintain the opportunity for free political discussion, to the end that government may be responsive to the will of the people and that changes, if desired, may be obtained by peaceful means. Therein lies the security of the Republic, the very foundation of constitutional government." Don't you just love him? So, in principle, I whole-heartedly support the right of the Occupy Wall Street crowd to gather and protest. But I do not support them and I can explain why.

What is my beef with the protesters? First, their gripes are totally disjointed. Trying to figure out the basis of their displeasure is like grasping smoke. Are they protesting for something, or relief from something? While one young woman preached for the overthrow of capitalism, a young man carried a sign calling for the rich to be "taxed until they are poor." A few other college-type kids admitted to a reporter the much loftier goal of "looking to score some chicks." That goal I can understand. By the way, the petite well-dressed blond calling for the overthrow of capitalism was apparently unaware of the lively sales in heroin and cocaine taking place under her very nose. I will bet my salary the drug dealer had a profit motive. She might want to proselytize to him first on the evils of capitalism.

One unfortunate (and not very smart) soul made the mistake of telling the news that he thought the Occupy Wall Street crowd would afford him a good place to hide from the police; he was wanted for burglary...the old "needle in the haystack" theory of survival. Unfortunately for him, he was arrested anyway - not for the outstanding warrants, but for attempting to grope a girl.

Aside from the multitude of complaints - many of which might be justified if they were expressed with less heat and more light - I find some of the behavior offensive, destructive, and bordering on violent. In particular, I submit to you the protester carrying the "head" of a bank CEO - dripping with fake blood- on a pike, or the one with the sign suggesting gay teens kill their parents rather than contemplate suicide. Let's not forget the classy dude caught on film relieving (and exposing) himself on the sidewalk.

Shall I mention the irony of protesters carrying signs beseeching us to save the earth (which is a cause I do get behind) not noticing the trash accumulating around their ankles? It has been reported the extra cost to the City of New York for clean up and security alone is $1.9 million - so far. That would feed a lot of kids, or supply them with books and crayons and rulers. Shall I mention what I understand to be the miasma of smells? The dirty bodies, urine, and...well, you get the picture. Thankfully, I'm not there to confirm, but it makes me think...the good old days of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. They're back.

Unfortunately, as time groans on, groups with less than altruistic ideologies are filtering into the mix. But in the beginning the crowds were overwhelmingly young. The naivete of youth is endearing, really, and a part of me hates that they might someday lose that lusty belief in a cause. One of the problems, as I see it, is that very few of them have a well-defined idea of the cause they are attempting to champion. Hating The Rich doesn't get one very far in the real world. It sure as heck doesn't "get you rich" yourself. Not unless you take what isn't yours. We all know what that is called. Perhaps, as a group, they will become more cohesive, more focused on an issue. Perhaps they will become more mature in their approach, put down their shock-value signs and tackle whatever they see as "the problem" in a reasoned way. Perhaps they will start in their own towns by running for local office, on a platform they believe in, changing hearts and minds with reason as well as passion.

I wonder whether my friends who give blanket support to the crowd currently occupying Wall Street have given it enough thought. Perhaps they spoke too quickly. I have to believe so, because they are intelligent people who would not want what is happening on Wall Street to be happening on their street. Of course, they might disagree with me and my arguments. Even so, that demonstrates open discourse is alive and well.

For myself, I can say this. My daily toil requires that I sift through facts and weigh circumstances before coming to a reasoned conclusion. I try to do just that, not always successfully, I'll admit. But I know that if I jump in feet first...if I step into the dark and base my opinion on a theory - or my gut - without turning on a light, I will end up at the bottom of the basement stairs sitting in the dark with bruises on my behind.

The Creep Factor

2011-09-20T12:05:00.011-04:00

I pick up a new book. I begin to read. I love it or I hate it or it's okay...not great...I am not committed one way or the other. How long should I wait to see if, having started out slowly, the book will improve? I do not like giving up on a book I've started, so I'll try to wait it out. Of course, if there are multiple new books that I am excited to read, the time span I'll allow a so-so book is significantly shortened. And, let's face it, as I get older the time I have left for doing anything comes with more of a premium.

I remember opening the box that contained The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle, The Book Thief, and Sea of Poppies. I began with the much-hyped Sawtelle. I forced myself to finish it, suffering the seemingly endless journey in excruciating pain, praying for the end...which finally and mercifully came about a week later. I declared it to be the worst book I had ever read, impossibly overwritten, badly in need of editing, and boring. Most of us can overlook some of those defects, but there is no forgiveness in my heart for boring. Many people loved the book, comparing it to Macbeth. The comparison makes me shudder. I have read Macbeth...Macbeth was a friend of mine...and Sawtelle is no Macbeth.

My Sawtelle experience occurred a few years ago, but it was brought to mind recently when I picked up The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold and This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper. They were on sale at Barnes & Noble for $4.98 each - which, if you look at it from one angle (my favorite angle) - represents a savings of at least $20. Of course, viewed from a different angle (from which I can never see clearly) one could say I am $10 out-of-pocket (with tax) for two books that could have been rented from the library.

I picked up the Tropper book right away. It sounded like a winner to me. The Siebold was a different story. I picked it up. I put it down. I walked away. I walked back to the table upon which it was displayed. Picked it up again. Fanned the pages. Put it back down. Wandered around the store. You know the drill. I did not like the theme. I have always avoided books involving the murder or abuse of children. It was against my better judgment that I finally carried it to the check out counter. Bones had received very good reviews and it was on sale, but from the beginning I felt I made a mistake.

The book is well written and is not in the least boring. In fact, I made it half-way through in less than a day. Nevertheless, I put it down and started This Is Where I Leave You, the theme of which is a Jewish family with "issues" whose members are forced to endure each other as they sit Shiva (seven day mourning) for their dead husband/father. It is very clever and funny and I'm enjoying it very much.

How do I describe my reaction to Bones? It is not a book one particularly "enjoys." Having said that, I can't say I "enjoyed" The Book Thief either. Nevertheless, I would recommend that book without any reservation to anyone who asks me for reading suggestions. From what I've read of the Sebold book, thus far anyway, except for the disturbing first chapter most of the story (which is told in a child's voice) is not as difficult as I feared. I figured that if I got through the first chapter it would be smooth sailing. Perhaps therein lies the heart of the problem. The innocent voice that speaks the story is the same voice luring the reader to a dark place where a malevolent character stalks around its edges. In short, there is an unrelenting essence of creepiness mixed with childhood innocence that I, as the reader, am finding very unsavory and I am unsure whether my reading time might be better spent elsewhere. From the first few pages, I fully realized what I was getting into, i.e. that George Harvey would be lurking behind the curtains for the duration. Perhaps if I were made of stronger stuff...but returning to that neighborhood might be a little too unsettling to make it worthwhile.

Sea Wisdom

2011-09-04T15:24:00.003-04:00

There are times, for reasons I cannot explain, when melancholy descends. I’m not sure melancholy really nails the state of mind I am trying to describe. I’ve searched for the correct word...the definitive word for that feeling. Stress isn’t correct, nor is depression, nor worry. Should I be required to create a word for it, what would it be? Overwhelmsion? That word might almost work. Even if it remains unnamed, when the mood strikes, I know that if I go to the sea my fuzzy head will clear, my spirit will be lifted, and I will return home a little more like myself than when I set out.

It was overcast and humid this morning, but I held out hope the rain would wait. Shorty, almost 91 years old, and I set out for the beach to look for shells. I put on my yellow sunhat that looks like Pooh’s rain cap and handed Shorty her straw hat. She didn’t take note that it was her very own garden hat, nor did she question why it was hanging in my hall closet, nor why her suitcases were in the back seat of my car. I hope she will not ask but I plan. After she has gone upstairs to bed this evening, I will sneak back outside and carry them in. I will unpack them quietly and launder the clothes she will keep and then those we will donate and put them into the appropriate stacks. This evening, as she has done for the last few days, she will ask me if her house is ready and when she can "go home." Once again I will not tell her the truth. "In a few weeks," I will say, but I will not be completely honest. I will not tell her she is to live with me now. I will not tell her yet. Not today. Soon. But not today.

Eventually, however, the news must be broken and the storm will come. When that happens, after it happens, I will find some time to take myself down to the sea and sit on my favorite bench swing and look out toward the horizon. I can breathe there...breathe in that briny oxygen. I realize it is only an illusion, but I cling to the faulty reasoning that nothing really bad can happen within sight and sound of the waves. The birds soar and dive and soar again...with a silvery fish plucked out of the surf as easily as I would pluck a flower. I cannot pretend to know the names of all the sea birds I watch. I recognize the pelican, of course, and the gulls. But is that little bird who runs so quickly on such short legs a sandpiper? Is that larger, longer-billed bird pecking in the wet sand a tern? Every time I go down to the sea, I vow to buy a bird book "soon."

Today, we walked a good portion of the beach. It was overcast and, although humid, the wind blowing off the ocean was cool. We didn’t find any shells of note, but as Shorty correctly pointed out, "We need to come when the tide is just going out." In the days when I had a boat we would run out to Little Tybee, not accessible by land, and find lovely shells. The children were young back then and I would tell them not to take shells that were being rented by hermit crabs. Those shells were their homes, I explained. Some of the shells collected in those long-ago days are scattered here and there on bookshelves and tables in my home. They adorn a picture frame. A bag of them is tucked into a drawer awaiting some long forgotten project. One small scallop shell is attached to the end of a ribbon bookmark. Every now and then I’ll pick up a conch shell and listen to the roar of the waves and I imagine I can hear my own words whispered back to me, "Don’t take that one. That one is someone’s home."

The summer people are almost gone. In another month the beach umbrellas will have been folded and carried away until next season. Those of us who remain, who do not come in search of a golden tan but who long for oyster season and squally seas and stinging salt spray, will be there listening for wisdom in the rush of the waves .

...And As It Writes, Moves On

2011-08-05T10:11:00.005-04:00

I was having lunch with some friends the other day. One of these friends brought a bag of books with him which he was passing along to another member of our happy little group. The recipient of the books (a retired judge - a very fine one too - and a huge fan of Flannery O'Connor) announced that he had read 74 books this year (I thought I detected a certain melancholy in his voice at having so much time on his hands after leaving the bench) and he was quite pleased to have some new ones in his reading queue. The conversation began with books - what each of us was reading, what we had just finished - but wandered inevitably to politics - a subject which usually gives me indigestion and not, to my mind, a fit topic over lunch - which eventually settled into a discussion about the present state of our educational system - a topic which gives me heartburn - and then gradually, but inevitably, meandered into what schools used to teach but no longer do.

And so the litany began: "Music," decried one. "Civics," another. "Spelling," said a third. "Penmanship," I offered. Three sets of steely, wise old eyes turned toward me, and a quiet descended as my lunch companions pondered penmanship. "I haven't even heard the word, penmanship, in decades," one murmured. "We used to call it cursive writing," mused another. I had recently downloaded "Not That It Matters," by A.A. Milne, a collection of essays; and, as luck would have it, had just finished reading, "The Pleasure of Writing." This lovely serendipity filled me with a certain smug self-assurance that I could contribute something semi-intelligent to the conversation (for I was in the company of some very heavy-duty thinkers.)

"Milne," said I, "wrote about his joy in going straight from breakfast to his blotting-paper and a fresh piece of foolscap and brand new pen nib." They listened, perhaps only politely, but perhaps interested in what A.A. Milne had to say about the act of putting pen to paper. "He said, 'When poets and idiots talk of the pleasure of writing, they mean the pleasure of giving a piece of their minds to the public; with an old nib a tedious business'." The attention of my luncheon companions seemingly secured, I continued. "He wrote that they do not mean, as he did, the pleasure of the artist in seeing beautifully shaped "k's" and sinuous "s's" grow beneath his pen nib...or how a new sheet of paper filled itself magically with a stream of blue-black words." Silence for a few moments. I was depressing everyone, I feared. "Cursive writing is lost, I'm afraid," said the judge, sadly shaking his head and raising his martini glass. I think I saw a glint of a tear.

We sat quietly contemplating how wrong things had gone and how fast they had gotten there. I wished I had never mentioned penmanship, never started the conversation going in the direction of the lost art of letter writing, of the laziness of saying OMG, or IMHO, or LOL instead of using a correct sentence. The gist of the conversation rocked along those lines, and I began to feel like an old stick in the mud. Someone who doesn't know who - well, here I was going to insert the name of some rock group, proving I was totally "cool." But I can't think of one, so I guess I prove my own point. Trying to turn the mood around, I pulled out my Kindle and pointed out how incredible it was to be able to download an entire library into one slim device. How lovely is technology! We didn't have technology back in the penmanship days. "Why can't we have both?" someone replied. We sat in silence for a little while longer. Another round of drinks came, and then lunch.

We were eating at an inn that is centuries old, in the part of the building that used to be the vast wine cellar, with its walls and arched doorways of red brick. The tables are set with heavy silver and linen table cloths and napkins. There was a time when, to get a table for lunch, one had to arrive well before noon. But on this day, my three companions and I dined alone. We worried that perhaps this lovely old inn might one day simply fade away. Perhaps, like penmanship, it must make way for something else.

Gumption

2011-07-05T10:17:00.007-04:00

"I wrote about people who had gumption, and people who didn't," Margaret Mitchell mused when speaking about her only novel. That comment by Mitchell reminded me of one particular Christmas holiday. In my junior year of college I read Anna Karenina followed immediately by Gone With The Wind - both for the first time. I checked them out of the St. Teresa library and carried them home on the train, reading along the way. It was a serendipitous approach; if I had planned it, I could not have picked two books in which the heroines were so opposite in nature. Simply stated, one heroine had gumption and one did not.

Gone With The Wind turned 75 this summer, and many Georgians are making a pretty big deal about it. It was here, after all, where the novel was born and where almost all of its action takes place. My personal celebration involves re-reading it on my Kindle. Although Savannahians consider Flannery O'Connor and Conrad Aiken home-grown literary heroes, we have a soft spot for Mitchell and her (many would argue) masterpiece as well. Certainly, Savannah is given more than just a passing nod in the book, although it doesn't receive much attention in the movie, and I find myself re-reading the descriptions Mitchell gives of my adopted city. She describes very deftly the soft and luxuriant accents of its inhabitants (not the twang one hears in the southern states to the north of us, nor the drawl of the southern states to the west).

As its backdrop, Gone With The Wind juxtaposes the elaborately rich plantation system made possible by slavery, and the bloodiest war in American history which ended it. Nevertheless, this is Scarlett O'Hara's book from first page to last. I can think of no other heroine with enough muscle to hold her own and demand top billing over such dramatic surroundings. (The anniversary of GWTW has also re-opened the debate over the obvious racism exhibited by Mitchell's novel, some of which is painful to read. Nevertheless, slavery is a dark part of our history that doesn't go away simply by ignoring it existed.)

One of my first mentors was a venerable old attorney who practiced in the low country of South Carolina. Imagine Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck, and you've got a very good picture of my friend. He looked like him, he spoke like him, and he had all the noble attributes of Finch himself. He lived in the same antebellum mansion his family had occupied for over 200 years. I would have given just about anything to have spent a weekend exploring the attic. Around the corner from his house stands another antebellum mansion, built in the same era, by a several-times-over-great-uncle, with the initials B.B.S. Before the Civil War, the family acquired an island off the South Carolina coast ( long since made into a golf resort) on which one of their plantations was built. There they grew cotton and indigo and experimented with citrus trees. Today, one can still see the ruins of the "big house," the smoke house built of tabby, a few hints here and there of other out buildings...and the family cemetery - lovingly preserved. Decades ago, my friend took me to the island and pointed out the gravestone of his several-times-over uncle. The ancestor's portrait hangs in the clubhouse dining room, and he took me to see that as well. I looked into the face of one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen, peering down from a gilt frame (my friend later gave me a copy of that portrait) and fell in love - with B.B.S., surely. But I also fell in love with the low country and coastal Georgia. After the Civil War, the island property was lost for failure to pay the taxes - something Scarlett would never have suffered without a fight - since Confederate money wasn't good for much...other than using it to light one's pipe. A few years after it was lost, word came to B.B.S. that the island was on fire and the house was destroyed. "Thank God," he is alleged to have replied. Better it be "gone with the wind" than in the hands of the Yankees. My friend said that according to family legend, the mistress of the plantation had her finest china buried on the property when word arrived that the war had been lost, planning one day to return and retrieve it. If the story is true, it remains buried somewhere along the dirt road that leads to the ruins.

Nothing good can be said of a system that relied upon slavery for its survival. And yet, there is something undeniably romantic about it as well. Margaret Mitchell captured all the romance of the Old South without ever addressing the moral and social disgrace that accompanied it. It was startling to me that the Civil War, just ancient history to those of us raised in the North, was constantly debated and discussed in the South - even to this day - and kept alive with family stories and wounds which are kept open. This reverence isn't very hard to understand when one remembers that most of the fighting and dying happened here, on southern soil, and that brick and mortar and stone reminders still stand as tangible reflections of a lost cause.

I can't remember if, during that winter long ago, I noticed the stark contrast between Scarlett O'Hara and Anna Karenina, a tragic heroine totally devoid of gumption. I can't help but believe that if Scarlett was to stand in front of a moving train, it would be her intention to overthrow the Engineer and commandeer the locomotive - not fall under it in despair. Doubtless, she would have declared Anna silly and mealy-mouthed - but she may also have grabbed her by the shoulders and given her a good shake - demanding she snap out of it...advising Anna that she should wait and think about it tomorrow. There's always hope if you just wait until tomorrow.

Fish Art

2011-06-27T12:49:00.008-04:00

I've promised myself to spend some time at the beach this summer. I am debating whether it should be a requirement for anyone who has an e-reader and lives near the shore. In fact, after some sober thought, not spending time there with my Kindle in hand feels somehow...wrong. In my mind's eye I see a chaise lounge, and a floppy hat, and roaring waves. In my head I hear that cute Kindle jingle and I have the urge to follow it as I would the siren's sound. Unfortunately, there are things that should be against the law at the beach. It should, for instance, be a criminal act to manufacture string bikini's in anything larger than size "small". In my beachdom, Speedos would likewise be banned. But I digress.

I found a nice shady place to park the car and located a bench swing, where I planted myself for blissful reading and gull watching. (I snapped the view from my little perch and share it with you here). The Kindle performed splendidly. I had just finished The House of the Whispering Pines by Anna Katharine Green and was well into The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart - both very engrossing Who-Dunnits. The idea that I was carrying 78 books on my person made me giddy! I'll finish "Staircase" well before next Friday when my four-day weekend begins. Who will sit beside me on the sand? Sheridan Le Fanu? Rafael Sabatini (Captain Blood might provide just the right swash buckle to fit the bill)? H.G. Wells? R. L. Stevenson? Such heady problems almost make me swoon.

While out at Tybee Island, I came across the most funky looking little shop advertising "Fish Art," which conjured mental images of flounders dressed in smocks with little berets on their fish heads...holding palettes of the most beachy colors. Fish Art sounded like something I should not miss. I've made a mental note to wander around the studio next weekend to delve more deeply into Fish Art (or Poisson's d'art?) What's that, you say?? Poison dart? Could there be a hidden meaning in the name of this curious little shop? Or could it be that I've been reading too many mysteries after all? Come Friday, I shall investigate further and report my findings. Fish Art? An innocent and unintended play on words? Or something more sinister?

I had almost forgotten what fun summer can be. I feel like a kid again...when every summer day is an adventure waiting to unfold.

Do You Kindle?

2011-05-16T09:48:00.005-04:00

I love books...the smell of books, the feel of books. I love holding a book in my hands, especially a new one with a pristine cover. I love fanning the pages of a new book and inhaling. There's nothing quite like the excitement of getting a new book and the anticipation of sitting down to read it. And we won't even talk about opening a box containing more than one new book and the delicious agony of trying to decide which one to start first...or the quiet thrill of walking into a bookstore. Not everyone shares this love affair, but those of you who are kindred souls...you know exactly what I mean.

Because I love the physical book so much, I wasn't convinced an e-reader would ever be a good fit for me. But I recently received a Kindle from my eldest child as a gift. The first book I downloaded was Bram Stoker's Dracula. It was free and, as I had never read it, I figured it was as good a place as any to take the Kindle out for a test drive. I'm not an electronic gadget type of person, but it was easy to set up and easy to use...even for me. There are a lot of features I haven't used yet, but I expect learning will be fun.

Because the font size can be changed, a simple adjustment enabled me to read without as much eye strain, and even without reading glasses. I don't know why, but I think I was able to read faster. Perhaps it only seemed faster because I was able to read for a more sustained period of time. Once accustomed to the feel of the Kindle in my hands, and getting lost in the story, I forgot I wasn't reading a glue and paper book. The sensation of being transported was every bit the same.

On the second day, I sat outside on the patio, and found it very easy to read in bright sunlight. Like a paper book, however, care must be taken. Outside the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, there was a breeze. Suddenly the dog jumped the fence and ran down the street. I put the Kindle on the deck chair and ran after him. I forgot about it; it rained. Early the next morning, I let the dog back out on the patio and to my horror I saw my Kindle still on the chair, covered with drops of rain from the night before. I was lucky. I figure that since its designers knew the device would be read outside, at places like the beach, they tried to make it somewhat impervious to weather. I am grateful to them for that, but it was a wake-up call. Instead of losing one book to the elements, it could have been a very expensive mistake. (Especially since I would never have admitted the blunder to my son; he'd have been so disappointed. I would have been forced to buy another Kindle to take its place rather than "come clean" and my secret would have been carried on my guilty conscience to my grave.)

I have since downloaded many more free titles by the likes of G.K. Chesterton, Louisa May Alcott, Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, P.G. Wodehouse, and E.L. Voynich. Within seconds, I can increase my classics library ten-fold without spending a dime. And since the Kindle is so light and easy to carry, I always have it with me and always have something really good to read, just in case...like a literary diabetic who has to keep blood sugar levels stable. But, as much as I have found a new thing to love, I have also come to the firm belief that the physical book will remain alive and well.

Electronic readers have their own limitations. For instance, I miss the dust jackets. Let's be honest. I will be making a trip to Barnes & Noble to purchase Medium Raw in hardback, not the least reason being the delicious picture of Anthony Bourdain on the cover, which I will invariably clutch to my bosom repeatedly. There are many joys in reading. Drooling over a "hot" author is one of them. There is also a satisfaction that comes with shelves groaning under the weight of books. It is the same satisfaction one has in opening the door to a well-stocked pantry: jeweled jars of jams, and pickles, and home-canned tomatoes, and covered bins of pastas and bottles of sauces...lovely vistas of largesse...the comfort that comes with the knowledge that there will be sustenance.

I just purchased my first non-free Kindle book: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. At $9.99 it was hardly a splurge, although it felt like one. It's easy to get used to "free."

I could be wrong, but I do not see the end of the physical book on the horizon. Nevertheless, the Kindle's Welcome Page says, "We hope you'll quickly forget you're reading on an advanced wireless device and instead be transported into that mental realm readers love, where the outside world dissolves, leaving only the auhtor's stories, words, and ideas." That much, it does.

Creating A Monster And Other Pursuits

2011-05-05T15:23:00.003-04:00

[Tap...tap...tap....Pssst.] This is The Curious Reader speaking to you in hushed and muffled tones from the confines of a little dialog box buried somewhere inside blogspot[dot]com. Grad is off doing goodness knows what while I languish. No one to speak to, nothing to snack on, and no vodka with which to make Cosmopolitans. Oh, sure...create me and send me out into the worldwide web, give me a taste of all the goings on in the blogosphere, let me see the bright lights and hear the lively conversation, and then suddenly and without any warning walk away and jolly it up without me. What is it, Grad? Was I sucking up all the attention? Was I having just a little too much fun for your liking?

Ladies and gents, please ignore that little blog-beast behind the curtain. Truth be told, TCR, as much as I love her, is a voracious attention fiend, always tugging at my elbow and demanding to be heard. Discipline isn't her strong suit and neither is sitting quietly in meditation (something she needs to learn and which might do her some little bit of good). With her it's always talk, talk, talk - and I quite frankly get weary just thinking about what she might spout off about next.

I am always promising myself some time off...off to explore different horizons and drink from a different cup. But I haven't had a chance to do any of those things. TCR won't appreciate it (since the only thing she need worry about is unloading what is on her semi-clever mind), but I do have a job that has kept me very busy of late - a fact that my banker, bartender and bookie appreciate. Actually, I don't have a bartender or a bookie but I think it makes me sound more intriguing to suggest I do, don't you?

However, lest you think I am just one note, I've been up to something else. I don't want to say anything more, since I believe in jinxes, but it involves stringing words together. I've been a little busy with that. Oh, but there's more.

Did you know that there was such a thing as Home Farming Day? Neither did I. As background, sadly I had to have three large trees removed from my property: two lovely magnolias and one eucalyptus. Along with the trees went a very large holly bush that stood about 8 feet tall. They were crowding the house and their lovely branches were rubbing against my brand new roof. The eucalyptus tree was dripping its fragrant sap all over it. They had to go. Nevertheless, when the arborist came with his crew, I had to leave. I just couldn't bear watching them kill my trees. As I drove away, my throat felt as though it was stuffed with a hot mitten. But when I returned to the scene, a chink of light filtered into my dark mood and I started dreaming dreams. There was suddenly sunlight for a vegetable garden! One small drawback. The sunny area was in the front of the house, not in the back, and we have restrictions in the neighborhood that involve curb appeal. I threw caution to the wind and decided that I'd plant my farm smack dab in the front of the house and let the complaints fall where they may.

A trip to the hardware store (which, by the way, had just expanded it's garden center) was in order. And now, instead of boxwood shrubs along the front walkway, like everyone else, I have broccoli, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, poblano peppers, cucumbers, cayenne peppers, basil, Thai basil, and bell peppers. I checked my darlings this morning and found two very tiny baby tomatoes and one small, still green cayenne pepper. The zucchini plants have blossoms as do the eggplant and the poblanos. The broccoli is growing tall but as yet no sign of buds. I am a little concerned about the cukes, however. They're looking a little puny. There are also no signs of neighborhood unrest over Farmer Grad's little experiment. If it stays that way...and I have a bumper crop...I am not adverse to sharing.

So, you see, with work and farming and "something else" I haven't paid very much attention to TCR, and it is simply driving..her...mad. I hate to even brush by in thought the possibility of...should I speak it...retaliation. No, no...how ridiculous. Even so...do you think I should unplug my computer before turning out the light at night? Sleep with one eye open? Hmmm. Oh, tut tut. Silly, silly Grad. TCR is my creation, after all. Merely my alter ego. I mean, it isn't like that "Hal" computer or that horrid "Chuckie" doll, right? Right. Not to worry. Well, I must run. Time to mulch.

Heh, heh. You think so, do you Grad? Sleep well, my friend. Sleep well.

Why I Was Gone

2011-04-04T14:22:00.005-04:00

The funny thing about getting sick...for those of us who have very little practice at it...is knowing when "sick" is "sick enough" to stop and take it easy. I don't and therefore I didn't. I tried to remember the last time I went to a doctor for any reason. Eight years ago? Ten? Perhaps even longer than that. I think it was the time I tried to feed a feral cat which mistook my finger for a nice piece of liverwurst. Had it been a raccoon, I would have had to go through the series of rabies shots, but there weren't any reports of rabid cats going around so the doctor figured I was safe in that respect. Since a cat's saliva is pretty toxic stuff, however, I did need an antibiotic regimen. The bite hurt like the dickens, and continued to hurt long after it healed. I still have a scar on that finger. I think that was my last visit to a doctor.

We were never coddled much as children when we were sick. We were expected to rise above such trifling matters as colds and sniffles and broken arms. When Pestilence came knocking, we simply refused to answer the door. It is amazing how well that philopshy works. Toughing it out is a dominating trait on both the maternal and paternal branches of my family tree. Strength was as much admired as being able to play the piano or perform complex math problems. My Dad and his family spent a lot of time talking about being strong. Tough, even. As if to prove that particular point, my Uncle Joe showed up for Thanksgiving dinner one year when I was around 7. My mother had set the table with her best dishes, and she wore her prettiest dimity apron as she proudly carried the turkey, brown and glistening, to the head of the table, where my Dad sat with carving knife in one hand and sharpening steel in the other. Before us were bowls and platters of potatoes, dressing, gravy, creamed onions, spinach souffle...you name it...the delicious smells wafting across the lace table cloth. Nevertheless, Uncle Joe asked only for horseradish... which he ate directly from the jar...with a spoon. "It makes you strong like bull," he announced to the three small children who starred saucer-eyed at him. It was the most memorable Thanksgiving of my entire life.

So, together with the stress of a very large trial, and some significant maintenance on the house that needed completion, and my in-bred ability to ignore anything short of the major malfunction of a vital organ, I ignored the signs that I was getting sick, had gotten sick, and would continue to be sick unless I broke from family tradition and actually sought medical treatment. It's a good thing I did, I guess, since willing myself well didn't seem to be working. The two weeks I dragged myself into work because I was far too "busy" not to tackle my desk were a false economy; I eventually had to stay home to recuperate at least that long, so I got behind anyway. Where is the justice in that, I ask? A respiratory infection (but short of pneumonia) which started out as a simple allergic reaction to pine pollen was the final diagnosis. I am afraid Uncle Joe is spinning in his grave. I can almost hear the incredulity, "Pollen got you, you say? P-o-l-l-e-n!?"

Time for redemption, it seems. Pass the horseradish, please.

Why I Don't Volunteer

2011-02-11T09:08:00.005-05:00

Several months ago I attended an event sponsored by the Savannah Book Festival, my first. I went because I wanted to hear James Swanson, whose book Manhunt I found positively riveting, speak about his new book. I got there early and sat up front, in the second row, and never paid much attention to the crowd gathering behind me. It was held in a church (very typical in Savannah) located on one of the squares. It was a nice cozy setting, although I would rather it had been held in a church with padded pews (Methodists!). It wasn't until afterward, when those in attendance filed into a small room to buy Swanson's books and/or have them signed, that I noticed there were a lot of middle-aged gentlemen in the group. The glimmer of a thought began to grow.

My children never really asked me for advice in matters of the heart; however, that never stopped me from offering it up on a regular basis. "Go to a bar to meet someone, and you will end up with someone who spends his (her) time in a bar. Now think. Is that really what you want?" Go to a sports bar and you will get a double whammy: The cacophony of ten or twelve massive, blaring, television screens with various games being played at once...every spray of spit and drop of sweat amplified larger than life, and in High Definition to boot, so real you can almost smell the stinky, grungy socks of the players. (Does it seem hot in here to you? Is anyone else getting dizzy? Hold on while I crack open a window and reach for my smelling salts.) Better. A sports bar is my idea of what Hell must be like; I don't want to go there.

I mention this because standing in line waiting to get my books signed by Swanson, it dawned on me that I am totally out of practice when it comes to looking for Mr. Right. In introducing the guest speaker, a fellow who was on the committee for the event mentioned that the Book Festival would be held during President's Day Weekend in February 2011 and they were seeking volunteers. That's when I had my light-bulb moment.

It made sense that I would find Mr. Right at the Book Festival! After all, there was some certainty we would at least have one thing in common, i.e. reading. Which would mean he would be, at the very least, literate. And there would be no trouble picking Mr. Right out of the crowd because I have a pretty good idea what he looks like. He's a handsome middle-aged gentleman with a strong jaw, graying at the temples, with beautifully maintained teeth (preferably his own), and he's financially secure. Just picture Mitt Romney. Well...Mitt Romney's older brother...much older brother. Okay, hold that picture in your mind. Now, allowing for the fact that I am in Savannah and not Hollywood, I do have to do a little tweaking of Mr. Right's image because, let's face it, no one here looks as good as Mitt Romney. Much as one does with opera glasses, I twiddle with the lenses until he comes into focus. Ahh. There he is: Mitt Romney's near-sighted, slightly overweight, balding, toothy-grinned much older brother. With a fabulously renovated home in the historic district. That includes a gourmet kitchen, Viking appliances, hand-turned moldings and original, refinished oak or heart-of-pine floors. On Jones Street! Isn't he a dream boat?

In excited anticipation of wonderful things on the horizon, I logged on to the Festival's website and headed for the volunteer page. But, just as I was about to hit the "send" button, a small voice whispered in my ear, "Hold on there, Pardner. Not too fast on the trigger." (The voice spoke with a Texas Cowgirl accent for reasons I can't explain.) I thought about the Festival being held on a three-day weekend. Those don't come along every week. I stared out the window, chin in my hand, fingers tapping my cheek. My desk was a vast, dry wasteland of papers and files with a phone that was always blinking - and beeping - and buzzing. But out there - stretched far into the distance - was a three-day weekend, an oasis glistening in shades of tranquil blue-green. It even had a palm tree. Did I really want to give up my entire three-day weekend to volunteer for the Festival?

I backed up a few pages on the website. It promised over three dozen "celebrity authors." Lisa Genova is the keynote speaker and I was planning on going to hear her speak anyway. (I found it difficult to put "Still Alice" down.) Karl Rove will be there. Love him or hate him, he's got to be pretty interesting. So far, so good. Volunteers were to be provided with colorful Savannah Book Festival T-Shirts. Already, I wasn't liking this. I tried to imagine walking up to Mr. Right in my chosen-by-someone-else T-Shirt rather than in an outfit that I picked because of the wonderful things the color did for my eyes. And the lure of complimentary coffee and pastries didn't seem like compensation enough for giving up a Saturday.

But the real clincher was the apprehension I would be given the task of "Author Host" which, according to the site, required "a significant time commitment." Uh-oh. Touted to be "an extremely important position, since you will be the author’s first and most intimate impression of the Festival. Requires punctuality, tact, enthusiasm and an ability to anticipate the needs of others without being intrusive." My palms began to sweat and my teeth began to itch. What if I had to drive someone around town whose work had about as much relevancy for me as, say, The Memoirs of Justin Beiber? According to the information provided, some authors needed more "hand holding" than others. It would be just my luck that I'd be holding hands with some fleshy-fingered, cigar smoker...instead of with Mr. Right. This wasn't sounding too good at all.

I envisioned myself driving around town with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding hands with a perfect stranger pointing out the sites. "Over there you'll see the monument where Tomochichi is buried." Then, of course, I would have to go into a long-winded explanation of who Tomochichi was. "And this building was used by General William Tecumseh Sherman as Union headquarters after the North invaded Savannah." "That's the house where the antiques dealer shot his young boyfriend, and then that fellow wrote that dopey book about the murder, which was turned into an even dopier movie." At some point, old fleshy-fingers would declare he wanted to be driven to that famous restaurant and have a chat with that famous FoodNetwork personage, and order up some of those really famous batter-dipped, deep-fried candy bars. At that point, I know I would slam on my brakes and come to a screeching halt. "Out! Get Out Now!" So much for tact; however, I think I could maintain some enthusiasm at that juncture.

By the time I drove myself back to the Festival and found a place to park, difficult on non-Festival days, I would arrive just in time to see Mr. Right schmoozing a middle-aged strumpet with big, blond hair, bangle bracelets half-way up to her elbow, and full theatrical make-up. Look at her batting her spidery eyelashes at my Mr. Right! And see how she's nudging him with her acrylic nails painted Hells Bells Red! Oh, dear. There they go, strolling arm-in-arm like an old married couple. I see myself standing dejected in my puce T-shirt; tears welling and dropping with a plink-plunk onto my plastic "Hello, I'm Grad" volunteer badge. Damn Book Festival! But then I notice something...something someone who was less observant may have missed...and I know my years spent in the company of Sherlock and Hercule were not wasted. I smile a Mona Lisa smile of mystery.

The blond strumpet made one fatal error that morning. And I noticed it. She should never have pulled those stretch pants out of the closet. Of course, Mr. Right, while walking side-by-side with her, all cozy, could not have noticed. Not yet. But, they were headed for that cafe on the opposite side of the square. And he, being my ideal, was undoubtedly a gentleman. As they approached the door of the coffee shop he, as I knew he would, stood back a bit and pulled the door open with his right hand, his left hand gently resting on her back to guide her in. In a moment she would be directly in front of him.

I, of course, anticipated what would happen next and I was sorely tempted to watch the drama unfold. But I looked away. I just couldn't bear to see my Mr. Right's semi-handsome face fall as his hopes and dreams of a love-match shattered into tiny pieces. Quite simply, what he would see as Big-Haired Blondie edged her way through the door would inevitably remind him of ten pounds of sausage stuffed into a five pound sack. Further, the image would ruin his appetite. He would ask for his coffee in a "to go" cup. He would be out the door in five minutes...ten at the most. Poor darling Mr. Right. But there would be someone close by...quietly observing...who would be waiting to pick up the fractured bits. Who you might ask? Why, She of course. She of the age-appropriate wardrobe and sensible shoes. She who certainly will not volunteer next year, either.

Finding Treasure

2011-01-21T09:51:00.007-05:00

There are times when I think...no, truly believe...I can compose a decent sentence or spin a clever yarn; but then I inevitably run head-on into an example of true mastery - mastery not just of words but mastery in the unfolding of a story. In short, I experience the brilliance of a gifted writer, and self-confidence in my own ability deflates like a sad balloon. As disconcerting as those moments are for the writer in me, they are pure Heaven to the reader in me.

First, a little background information might be useful to explain what I mean. Very recently I took another long road trip, this time to Virginia, the home of Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and more importantly, my son and grandson. Although the weather collapsed a few days after I left to return home, paving the streets with sheets of ice that made them treacherous, it was crisp and clear and sunny during my stay with just the right bite of winter in the air. The town where this part of my little family lives is nestled at the foot of the Appalachian mountain range. Why do mountaintops lure us to them? Is it because we feel tall and mighty upon reaching their summits, or because they remind us how truly fragile we are? The visits themselves are always enjoyable and filled with family things to do. However, the solitary travel there and back can be gnawingly monotonous without a good book to keep one company.

As I usually do, I visited the library on the island for audio books before cruising out of Savannah. Golden Age mysteries are usually what I select for on-the-road reading, largely because they entertain without mesmerizing me to the point that I forget where I am or what I'm doing and drive off a cliff or into a cow pasture. This trip was no different. I started with Gambit by Rex Stout starring the detective Nero Wolfe. I had never read anything by Stout; however, he came highly recommended. I was able to name the murderer myself (always a disappointment) but not until the last disc. Not quite Dashiell Hammett, but readable.

The next book in the queue was Crocodile On The Sandbank, by Elizabeth Peters. Peters, whose real name is Barbara Mertz, has a PhD from the University of Chicago in Egyptology and her Amelia Peabody mystery series recounts the adventures of Amelia and her husband, archaeologist Radcliffe Emerson, as they dig up ancient tombs, retrieve artifacts, and solve mysteries while fending off fiends and villains. Years ago I picked up The Hippopotamus Pool and enjoyed it very much. On my own library shelves it sits next to The Ape Who Guards The Balance, Falcon At The Portal, He Shall Thunder In The Sky, and Lord Of The Silent. I've never read any of these others, although I am forever meaning to do. By happy accident, it turned out Crocodile is the first of the series; it was nice to have the background. I liked it enough to give me incentive to press on with its neglected progeny one day.

On the heels of the Peters book came, A Place Of Hiding by Elizabeth George. One summer I was given Deception On His Mind and read it at the beach. Although I only remember small bits, I must have liked it well enough because I also have A Traitor To Memory, In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner and...well, one other I can't recall right at this moment, none of which I've read. A Place of Hiding was somewhere between a warm bottle of beer and flat champagne. I'll still drink it, but I could be having a lot more fun.

As I neared home, I had a choice between Through A Glass Darkly by Kareen Koen and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (author of The Remains Of The Day). I had no idea what possessed me to pick either of them up at the library. First, I didn't think they were mysteries, my favorite genre for audio. The cover on the latter didn't appeal to me at all, and the title sounded like a romance novel. Not my style. I tried to reach for Through A Glass Darkly (I liked the title much better than the other); but, it had slid out of reach on the passenger seat, and I couldn't pull over on the highway. By default, its geography determined that Never Let Me Go was next on the menu.

From the wet pavement I could tell it had rained earlier in the day; but, the clouds had moved on and the late afternoon shadows were long and deep, each second drawing me closer to home. It was a Monday and I very nearly had the road to myself as I slipped quietly through tall pines. I slid the first of the eight discs into the player and waited a moment. The lovely, soothing voice of Rosalyn Landor filled the silence, "Chapter One. My name is Kathy H. I'm thirty-one years old, and I've been a carer now for over eleven years..." What I heard after that was calming and chilling and beautiful and sinister all at once.

I arrived home with only part of disc one completed, and anticipated resuming it on my way to work the next morning. My commute is only 20 minutes, which equates to approximately 15 pages covered each way. Not enough time for this book...not by a long shot. I've never simultaneously listened to an audio book while also reading it in its physical form. As I might have mentioned before, the island library is very small. I seldom find a particular book I'm wanting by walking in and searching the shelves. I usually have to order it from the system and then wait a few days before it's available. This book was special; I couldn't stop. Short of sitting in my car for hours on end with the motor idling, there was only one thing to be done. And so it was, I would at least give it a try and check the library stacks on my way home. I headed for the proper aisle and ran my hand over the spines...G...H...I. At first I was deflated. I could see there were only a handful of books in the "I" portion of the shelf. So when my hand stopped on Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go, I exclaimed (shouted, really), "I can't believe my luck!!" This outburst caused the librarian to look up from her keyboard. She didn't frown or tell me to "Shuush." She peered above her glasses and smiled at me. She smiled the smile of a confederate book fiend; the "I know...I know" smile. We were in alliance; I was on friendly turf.

It is working quite well, this listening in part and then picking up the thread of the story and reading in part. Today is Friday. I can stay up all night to finish it if I chose. Since starting it, I've heard that it is best to approach Never Let Me Go without knowing anything about the story line. I quite agree, so I will say nothing about it. And as well, I will leave the reviews to those who are adept at such things...the academics and others with scholarly or literary attainments. I am simply a reader who - on particularly good days - fancies herself to be a writer as well. Besides, I can't even pretend I could ever do this book justice.

I Planned To Procrastinate But I Decided To Wait

2011-01-06T10:32:00.005-05:00

I wish I could say I've neglected The Curious Reader because I was breathlessly engaged in composing a searing entry for the short story competition. You know...single-mindedly clacking away at the keyboard...a pencil stuck in my chignon...perhaps two fingers of Scotch in a squat glass at my elbow (NB: imagine here a female version of F. Scott Fitzgerald minus the cigarette smoke blooming from a crystal ashtray). But I cannot.

First, of course, there was Christmas and all the hubub that holiday brings with it. It isn't Christmas Eve and Christmas Day that wear me out. I can handle those. No. The stress of Christmas comes from our seeming inability to resist tinkering with it. Wasn't the first Christmas wonderful enough just as it was? Must we make a "season" out of it? Must we be forced to endure the never-ending commercials showing people giving each other shiny, new cars? White was the favorite color being pushed on us this year. There must be an overrun of white ones in the showrooms. One of these hawksters even managed to suggest we could actually get the automobile into the house (which, by the way, appeared to be an ultra modern mountain lodge with postcard perfect views of snowy vistas just outside its wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling windows) and then stuff it into a super-sized red Santa stocking. It is enough to put one off fruitcake forever. In any event, Christmas is a busy time.

Further consuming my time was the re-organizing of the kitchen cabinets, drawers and pantry. On that note, I will publish a warning to you - if you do not absolutely need to embark down that road, don't. What began innocently at the utensil drawer spread slowly and insidiously (like the Blob from the 1950s movie of the same name) from shelf to shelf and cupboard to cupboard. It oozed itself toward the pantry and then to the etagere where the pots and pans hang out. I was faced with dilemmas I wasn't equipped to handle in my already delicate holiday-wrought condition. For instance, what does one do with 5 cans of cinnamon? All opened? I vaguely remembered a recipe for Christmas ornaments using obscene amounts of cinnamon mixed with applesauce. I made a heart that hung from a red silk ribbon from that recipe one year and figured I must still have it written down and tucked somewhere. Naturally, this spurned a new mission to find it in the books, and tins, and binders and magazine racks full of recipes and other "things kept" that I (ever hopeful) think might be useful in the future.

The effort of organizing, and arranging, and re-uniting a thing with its parts (cookie press dyes with the cookie press; pasta machine with its crank and the bolt that holds it to the counter top; meat grinder with the little spinning thing that you insert into the round tube that you finally attach to the hub of the KitchenAid, for instance) and then finding homes for everything on fresh shelf liners was exhausting enough. But compounding the enterprise is the angst that comes with admitting, for instance, that the piece that held the blades to the mandolin was lost and would never be found, no matter how long the other pieces sat around, like squatters taking up real estate. Without the lynch pin, the thing was no longer a mandolin. It was junk.

But, oooh, there is always that haunting fear that the lynch pin might...just might...be found somewhere - too late. I recalled holding on to a 14k gold earring for years. Every time I opened my top desk drawer at the office there it was in all its glinty glory. Finally, in a spurt of bravery and blinded by a sudden desire for organization I threw it away. A year later we were moving from our office to new digs, and in cleaning out a "bank box" of papers which was tucked under my desk I found the earring's match. Not only was it a slap the forehead moment, I also felt guilty that I had thrown away something that actually had some intrinsic value (albeit it very little). Nevertheless, clutter is clutter and in my kitchen I whittled it down. Even if I were flying over the Pacific, or sitting on a train bound for Budapest, with the precision of a surgeon I could direct someone to the trussing string sitting in the right rear corner of the second-to-the-right-drawer next to the oven. See? How easy was that! Garlic press? Lemon reamer? Fluted pasta wheel? Go ahead...test me.

It took three days to get all the chaos straightened out. There are still a few bits sitting on the table awaiting final disposition. Among them a small cast iron skillet that is not only a ridiculous size to be of any practical use, but requires the attention befitting a diva. Quite frankly, I want to pitch the rusty little wench. But I'm waffling.

With the holidays behind me, the decorations put away, the kitchen in order, I can't conceive of a reason why I can't throw myself into the short story competition. No excuses come immediately to mind; but, with a little luck I'm sure I can think of something.

Winning

2010-12-15T12:21:00.005-05:00

"Further to my letter of October 6, 2010..." (Yawn) "By my computations it appears that all discovery was due..." (Groan) "After a review of your responses..." (Go to hell...Run it up the flag pole and see if anyone salutes it...sue me - oops too late.) Just once, I'd like to open my mail and read "Congratulations, you've just won the following prize..." It really doesn't matter what I win...the raffle for the church's crazy quilt, tickets to a Barry Manilow concert, the sequel to the "The Story of Cutlery," hair rollers.

The last time I won something I was on a bowling team. I was so terrible at it, so gutter prone, I had the highest handicap in the entire league - maybe in the history of the league. It's been almost thirty years and I might continue to hold that title. I still wince when I recall one rather unfortunate occasion; I let go of the ball as I swung my arm backward nearly wiping out an entire row of bowling housewives on the opposing team who were sitting unaware on the bench. Early on I learned that bowling was a very competitive sport for these ladies, and not just a lark, as it was for me. But until that moment I had not realized it could also be quite dangerous. I made a mental note to look into my homeowners insurance to see if I needed extra coverage for negligent acts.

On the bright side, because I was a lousy bowler I had an amazing handicap. And because I had such an amazing handicap, when it came time to "Bowl For Turkey" just before Thanksgiving, I won the ceramic covered dish shaped like the bird. Likewise, at "The Christmas Bowl" I won the set of three serving trays, in graduated sizes, painted with a Poinsettia motif. That last win was just too much for the long-timers on the league. Some of them were heard to grumble (quite loudly, I might add) that "the lousy bowler" was winning all the prizes, while they - the true bowlers who cared deeply about the sport - were being left in the dust with no prizes to show for their expertise. I don't know if there is a natural correlation or if it was just coincidence, but the best bowlers were usually built rather sturdily. Therefore, I decided to take the road of least resistance and quit the league. A shame, really, since I loved bowling. I bought my own bowling ball with the finger holes drilled specifically to fit me. It was a beautiful twelve-pound blue sparkler; I even went the extra mile and had my initials engraved on it. It had a lovely carrying case as well, also blue. Although bowling shoes are never truly attractive, I was lucky enough to find a pair made by Hush Puppy that might have been mistaken for regular buff-colored loafers if one stood far enough away from them and then squinted really hard to make them blur a little.

I also loved the sound of the bowling alley...the rumbling down the lanes, the crack and kerfuffle of the pins as they dropped (or in my case, the lack of crack and kerfuffle followed by a hollow plunk.) And then there was the movement of the bowlers...the fist pulled back in a jerking motion followed by a "Yes" and a little bow and another jerking fist...maybe a "That's the way...that's it." High fives all around. I didn't have many of those moments either. Mostly, I'd line up my shot, then step - hop - step as I drew my right arm back and followed through and then prayed the ball would stay in the lane. Just one pin, please God in heaven. Most of the time I was able to hit something. But there were no high-fives, no fisted "Yeses." Mostly, it was pretty quiet as I walked back to my place on the bench trying not to look ashamed. But every once in a while I'd line up the shot perfectly, step - hop - step - and I'd remember to keep my thumb pointed to the right and my wrist flat as I executed the release and - bingo. "That's the way...that's it...Yes!" I'd do my chicken dance, and strut back to my place pridefully. But the other members of the league weren't fooled by any of it. They knew dumb luck when they saw it; and, there was still the matter of the handicap. They didn't appreciate some lousy bowler grabbing all the loot. Nevertheless, notwithstanding the dour faces of the league champions, or their gold and silver plastic trophies in the shape of bowling pins, I was the one with the ceramic turkey bowl and Poinsettia serving platters. There was no getting around that!

Since my bowling career ended, I haven't won anything. I'm not much of a sport model; I'm more like an old Packard. When I moved to Savannah, I was asked to join a tennis league. I think I must have looked the part of a "lady-who-tennised." I was thin, and yuppie looking, and lived in a new house, in a nice neighborhood, with children in private school. Ergo, it followed I must also be into tennis, right? Once again, I thought it was all just for fun. I didn't realize they actually expected me to know how to play tennis...or that they expected me to help them win matches. I just figured we'd schlep on over to the tennis courts and bat the ball around and then drink wine. I bought a tennis racket and racket cover and shoes and a visor; but, I didn't figure on a dress code. I think I showed up in jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt that said something like, "I Live To Boogie." In return, I was greeted by ladies in little pristine white skorts with matching tops. Being a fast learner from past events, the morning wasn't over before I told them I thought I was better off bowling.

Still, I would dearly love to win something. And although I don't expect it, I would be lying to you if I didn't admit I would love to win the short story competition next Spring. Unfortunately, I don't think I can rely upon handicapping for an edge over the competition. Just ink, and paper, and a couple of thousand words. Who would have thought it was so difficult. I mean, no balls, no pins, no nets, and no dress code. Now, if I can just come up with something interesting to say, and manage to stay out of the gutter...it would be lovely to do the chicken dance.

I'll Give You Stormy Weather

2010-12-09T17:18:00.004-05:00

My dad. My dad exuded atmosphere. He came up the hard way in Chicago...went to the College of Hard Knocks you might say...and he didn't take "nothin' from no one." For a tough guy, he sure cried a lot though. He cried when he heard something on the news about a kid being lost, or hurt...or worse. He would be yelling at the television calling the President a sonofabitch one moment; he would be weeping the next. There was a "bastard" who swerved his car to hit his dog Moochie on purpose. He chased the car for blocks. He was going to kill the bastard if he caught him. He was 10, but he was going to kill that bastard if he caught him. Finally, exhausted, he tripped and fell. The bastard got away. Moochie was dead. Dad liked to drink a lot. When he did, he would tell that story. I'd cry over Moochie. Part of me wished Dad would have caught up to that bastard; most of me was glad he didn't.

My dad was a born musician, if it's possible to be born something, and there wasn't an instrument he couldn't play. It didn't matter if it had keys or strings or valves, or if it swung cool or blew hot. He could make that instrument do what it was put on earth to do; he could figure the thing out in his head long before he held it in his hands. He could play music long before he could read music. Like the Sorting Hat might have said, "It was all there - in his head."

He had a band. He was the bandleader and the trumpet player and the band played wherever they could. Back in those early days they played in some pretty seedy bars - for dimes and quarters. He didn't care as long as he was playing music. Besides, seedy bars wouldn't have bothered him. Like I said, he was a pretty tough guy. After Pearl Harbor was bombed on December 7, 1941, he joined the Army. It doesn't always happen this way, but the Army actually used his talent wisely. He was put in charge of a band that played for the guys stationed in various parts of the world. The conditions were still pretty rough, he'd want you to know. It wasn't a piece of cake and the bombs didn't know not to land on the musicians. The bombs didn't care where they landed.

They played at some USO spots too. The band had a gig in Spokane, Washington - late 1943 or early 1944. Lucky for him, on this particular night it wasn't a seedy bar like he was used to. If it had been, she would never have walked in the door. But she did. She was wearing a dress that came up just above her knees. He was sure happy that girls were saving on cloth and wearing their skirts above their knees. It was all for the war effort, you see. She was wearing a skirt just above her knees, and her hair was pulled up on the sides, and it hung down in the back. It bounced when she walked. She wasn't very big. He figured she couldn't be much taller than 5 feet, and she was petite in figure as well. She came in with her sister, who was much taller. He watched her. He watched as they talked and smiled and were having fun. He could tell she had a small space between her two front teeth and dimples. He knew. Right then. Just like that.

He was handsome - movie star handsome - and he was a little dangerous. She hadn't grown up around dangerous men. She had dated boys, mostly from the farms around her parents' farm. They were all good Catholic boys. She went to a good Catholic girls school. She didn't know any dangerous men. Certainly not dangerous trumpet players. She could tell right from where she stood how blue his eyes were. He was wearing his uniform. She was watching him too. He handed his trumpet to one of the guys in the band, never taking his eyes off her, and stepped down from the stage and walked over to her through the couples dancing to the music.

It happened just like that. Decades later, he told my brother why he never played "Stormy Weather." When my brother told me, I laughed until I thought I'd cry. He had a million stories, my Dad did. Many of them were funny...in a tough guy sort of way.

We Need A Little Christmas

2010-12-06T10:36:00.007-05:00

My neighbors were out in force this weekend decorating their houses for Christmas. I got the yearly flyer, printed on seasonal green paper, reminding me of (a) the holiday progressive dinner, (b) the tradition "many, many years old" of placing one dozen luminaries in front of each house thereby "creating an unbroken chain of light" throughout the neighborhood on Christmas Eve, and (c) the equally ancient tradition of putting a large red bow on every mailbox.

Last year, my daughter was across the street helping our dear friends place and light their luminary candles at the curb, when Dr. Z exclaimed, "I wish I knew what imbecile thought this one up!" Katharine could hardly contain herself and ran home to tell the imbecile - also known as Mom - what he said. We laughed so hard we nearly knocked over the dinner table. The progressive dinner was also my idea, as were the beribboned mailboxes. Back those "many many years" there were only about 50 houses and I was president of the Homeowners Association. I also started a Fourth of July Parade with bikes and wagons and baby strollers festooned with streamers and balloons and other red, white and blue do-dads and froo-froo. It culminated at the park with a huge picnic and super games like "Dunk The Dads." (Getting enough dads to agree to being dunked was one of the most difficult tasks of my administration). Apparently, as the years rolled on it became more difficult to get people organized; the 4th of July party was dropped. But while it lasted, it was great fun.

But getting back to Christmas. Christmas is not my favorite holiday. I far prefer Halloween and Thanksgiving. In fact, I far prefer just an ordinary day. The beauty of Christmas, and its true meaning, has gotten so lost it has become almost foreign to it. Inevitably, the hawking started even before the trick and treaters came ringing the doorbell. The odious commercials of the Lexus sitting on the driveway with a big red bow attached to the roof run several times an hour. Now, in all fairness, this year's commercials include the suggestion that a lower end automobile, such as a Kia, are also acceptable. You know...in such a bad economy we are allowed to make such concessions.

Thinking through all the Christmases I've lived through, I tried to remember if I have ever ever known someone who woke up on Christmas morning to a Lexus sitting on the driveway with a big red bow attached to its roof? No one came to mind. To whom are these commericals directed, I wonder. Why stop at a Lexus? Why not a private jet, or a swiss chalet, or a rocketship? Why not King Tut's death mask or the Hope Diamond? With expectations as magnanimous as that, what chance does the hand-knitted scarf or the bath gel have, you might ask? If you're lucky, and the people on your gift list are the right sort, the scarf and bath gel will be received with happy joy, and not one of the dear ones will expect a Lexus. I am as lucky as that. Nevertheless, the tinsel is losing its shine and I wish the hawkers and hype-sters would simply leave Christmas alone. Go sell something else.

Well, I really didn't come here to talk about Christmas at all. What I wanted to do was steal a meme from Baker's Daughter, who in turn borrowed it from Litlove. Caterwauling about Christmas was simply a tangent brought about by one of my...

10 Best Friends From Literature:

Mame Dennis, Auntie Mame. Because we all (even a Grinch such as myself)need a little Christmas every now and then - if we're being perfectly honest. Besides, she throws a great party.

Winnie The Pooh, "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you." No explanation necessary.

Nancy Drew, she solves mysteries and drives a blue roadster convertible. She also has a handsome single father who would be a very cool date...for me!

Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird. Because sometimes you simply need a lawyer you can trust - or a Will that can't be broken.

Scarlett O'Hara, Gone With The Wind. Yes, she is selfish and willful and narcissistic, but she'll always land on her feet. A very practical friend to have.

Jean Valjean, Les Miserables. To remind me of redemption of the soul.

Glinda, The Good Witch Of The South, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. "She knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she's lived." I figured she'd also be able to get me back home should I ever get lost.

Severus Snape, Harry Potter Series. He knows how to yield a mean wand; and, I saw through to his goodness right from the start.

Sir Simon, The Canterville Ghost. Dear, sweet ghost...because he helps us understand "what Life is, what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both."

Black Beauty, Black Beauty. But not for what he might bring to me. We would explore our little world together. I'd feed him apples and sugar cubes and tell him he is the most beautiful horse that ever lived. He would have a warm place to sleep and sunny fields in which to run. No one would ever abuse him again; I'd make up for all of it and I'd always be ten years old. The same age I was when we first met.

It is hard to limit these friends to ten. Impossible, really. It's like trying to choose a favorite child. But here are the ones that spring immediately to mind. The others will, I pray, forgive me and not keep me up all night demanding to know why they didn't make the cut. They can be a pesky bunch.

Giving Thanks

2010-11-29T09:35:00.004-05:00

I hate flying. I hated flying even back when they served hot meals on crockery with metal tableware and fabric napkins - in coach! I hated flying even when international flights included menus on heavy card stock painted in watercolors. I still have the menu from my flight to Shannon Airport in 1969. The beverages offered included, but were not limited to, Sherry, Manhattan, Martini, Whiskey Sour, Gin, Vodka, assorted wines...and more. A split of champagne cost $1.00. The meal consisted of Hors d'Oeuvre, Medaillon de Boeuf grille, Legumes de Jardin au Beurre, Salade, Fromage, dessert, coffee and tea. I could have ordered a Chivas on the rocks for $.50 (and probably did.) Nevertheless, even in the days when one "dressed" to travel and when every effort was made to accommodate the traveler's comfort, I hated flying. Today, I am certain I would find it a nightmare.

I was determined to spend Thanksgiving week in Chicago visiting my daughter, Katharine, and my brother, "Uncle Rudy," so I decided to drive. My son promised to look after the house and my pets. The journey takes about 16 hours of solid driving, and, of course, the occasional stopping to re-fuel, walk around and grab a snack. I divided the trip into two 8-hour drives, stopping half-way in Nashville each way. Luckily, my oldest and dearest friend lives there, and was gracious enough to provide me overnight refuge. Since I avoid public restrooms if at all possible, I am very fortunate that I can go at least eight hours without having to use "the facilities."

The scenery on the drive was pleasant; some of it was quite beautiful, particularly the mountains in North Georgia and Southern Tennessee and the rolling farmland in Kentucky. Indiana, on the other hand, was dreary verging on dismal. This was especially true when I entered what was apparently a windmill farm area. The windmills are erected on what was once working farmland - and might still be farmland for all I know. The houses and barns and silos remain, but I can't imagine living in such oppressive surroundings. The first windmill I saw, tall, slender and white, was simply an oddity. But like the sorcerers apprentice they multiplied as I drove on, first by rows, then by acres, and then by miles. The sky was white, the ground was misty, and they filled the horizon waiving their ghostly, bony arms around and around. The effect was utterly depressing and a little like being in the presence of Harry Potter's dementors, i.e. the feeling I'd never be happy again.

One of the benefits of a long road trip is the ability to listen to books and I had wonderful company in Elizabeth Von Arnim, Agatha Christie and Lilian Jackson Braun. I began with The Enchanted April, followed by Appointment With Death, and Taken At The Flood. The Christies were read by Hugh Fraser, who plays Captain Hastings in both the A&E Poirot series and the PBS Mystery! series. They were all extremely satisfying until I reached the end of Taken At the Flood which made me furious. Whatever was Agatha Christie thinking? It is outrageous that a woman would come to the realization that the man attempting to choke her to death was her one true love. True, as it turned out he was not the murderer after all, but nevertheless...I think I would have run very quickly in the opposite direction. "When Rolly told me that if he couldn't have me no one else would, and then started strangling me, I realized I really did love him after all" she confides to Poirot. Good grief! What?? I began to drive erratically and very nearly swerved off the road, so great was my utter disbelief in what I had just heard. It was not just maudlin, it was dumb. And what did Poirot do? What did he say? Nothing! Where was the outrage? Aaargh. Had it not been rented from the library the last disc would have been Frisbeed out the window as I drove through Chattanooga.

About an hour out of Savannah I slipped the first disc of The Cat Who Talked To Ghosts into the CD player. I wasn't at all certain I'd be interested in this series. I had seen Lilian Jackson Braun's books lining the shelves at the library and bookstore; she's very prolific. I am happy to report I was hooked from the first track and, notwithstanding the end of a long journey, was actually a little sorry I didn't have farther to travel. I have fallen in love with ex-journalist Jim Qwilleran aka Qwill, and his two Siamese, crime-solving cats in this breezy mystery. I have also been warned that his girlfriend/librarian is bright, witty, attractive...and jealous, so I'll admire him from afar. I may not wait for the audio book to be finished before I run out and grab all "the cat" books I can carry from the library shelves. I do so love a good find.

I did take one hardbound book with me on the trip. When I went to hear James Swanson speak, I also signed up to volunteer for the Savannah Book Festival which takes place next February. Lisa Genova is the keynote speaker for the Festival and I checked Still Alice out of the library the day before I left for Chicago to gain some familiarity with her work. Dr. Alice Howland (the Alice of Still Alice) is a Harvard professor who is an expert in cognitive psychology. She is brilliant, highly respected, widely published, and is married to a man who is also a professor at Harvard. Together they share interesting friends, accomplished careers, successful children, collaborative projects, and they are happily married. At the height of her career, at the age of 50, Alice is diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's Disease. The novel takes us, month by month, through Alice's decline, as she is slowly robbed of her brilliance. Although the book is fiction, Genova (who is also a Harvard professor) has thoroughly researched this hideous disease and the destruction it leaves in its wake. If any project deserves funding, finding a cure for this insidious and cruel monster should be high on everyone's list. It is not a selective thief - it takes everything one has and is no respecter of persons. Still Alice will frighten you, anger you, and it will stay with you. We reside in our minds; it is where we are stored. In losing our minds we lose ourselves.

Katharine and I had Thanksgiving dinner at "Uncle Rudy's" house and stayed the night. The table was beautiful and bountiful. There were two turkeys (one deep fried and one roasted) and a duck and all the trimmings and plenty of wine and lots of good company. I could have cried with happiness. The time flew by too quickly, as time is wont to do.

When I walked in my front door after being gone a week, Tallulah the cat was waiting to greet me. Typical of Lulu, she lead me straight to her food bowl, meowing at its emptiness, the remains of breakfast scattered on the floor. Her brother, Blue, was hiding under the bed and hissed his disapproval of my absence. He apparently deigned to forgive me because a little while later he crawled onto my right shoulder and fell asleep. Saji, the arthritic dog, got up with some difficulty and stretched and wagged his tail and wanted a biscuit. I was home - my books on their shelves, photographs in frames, a basket of mail - small insights into the life lived there. I was home with a renewed appreciation for my journey, my family, my friends. I was thankful; my cup runneth over.

North And South

2010-11-08T10:11:00.008-05:00

When I'm not listening to a book on tape or Led Zepplin during my morning commute to work, I have the radio tuned into a local talk show. Several weeks ago I was mentally arranging my work day and only half listening to the radio. But something the host said caught my immediate attention: James Swanson was in town and would be speaking that evening to promote his latest book, Bloody Crimes: The Chase For Jefferson Davis And The Death Pageant For Lincoln's Corpse.

I can't remember if I read Swanson's Manhunt last year or in 2008, but it was one of the best books I read that year. In fact, it remains one of the most interesting books I've read in recent memory. It recounts the twelve days spent by John Wilkes Booth from the assassination of Lincoln to his capture and death. Like the author, I have always been fascinated by The Civil War. It was probably that fascination which lead me to a life-long love of history in general and fostered my declaration of a major in college. Growing up as a child in Chicago, Illinois, Abraham Lincoln was the most revered figure of all the American giants we learned about in school - as was befitting a state in the union which adopted the motto "Land of Lincoln." Few eighth grade field trips did not include a trip to Springfield to visit Lincoln's tomb. His birthday, February 12, was a holiday. Schools and many businesses were closed. Most families I knew had a portrait, bust or statue of Lincoln somewhere in their house. The most popular picture was the same one that graces our penny. Our house held a bronze bust of Lincoln which was given away as a promotional advertisement by Lincoln Savings and Loan. I would be willing to guess the bank is long gone or gobbled up by a conglomerate; but, the bronze bust of Lincoln is still sitting on one of Shorty's bookshelves. And, of course, he was particularly special since he and my sister shared a birth date. (She would wish me to point out, month and day only...not year.)

Despite my Yankee upbringing, and my inbred reverence for Lincoln, I also grew up with a romantic melancholy for the Old South, fostered no doubt by movies such as Jezebel and Gone With The Wind (both well before my time, I hasten to add, but still accessible to me). Those tales of the South painted pretty pictures of life in the great plantation houses made wealthy from cotton and tobacco crops. Looking through the prism of Hollywood in the 30s and 40s, the films seldom exposed the evil upon which much of this wealth rested. But slavery was a fairly well-covered topic in school. Intellectually, I knew that a system which enslaved one human being to another was, at its soul, wicked. Such a society would, and should, fail. But there were other stories as well. Stories of privilege and plenty, of ideologies battling each other, of broken lives and devastated homes, and bodies lying in farm fields. Stories of a way of life coming to an abrupt end.

When I moved South over twenty years ago, I was surprised at how much The Civil War was still being fought in the minds of my new neighbors. Whereas, it was a topic covered in school and sometimes in film up North, it was always distant history. Down South, the war between the states was viewed through a different lens. I came to realize the memory of the war was kept fresher because most of the blood shed in that bloodiest of wars was shed on southern soil. The legends were kept alive by the proximity of the battlefields, the crumbling ruins, the monuments. Even today, you will raise the temperature of the room by recalling the memory of General William Tecumseh Sherman. To say he is still reviled around these parts is an understatement. One speaks his name with caution for there will be at least one denizen of the South present who will surely consign his soul to the devil. Speak it with a Yankee accent at your peril. Sherman is best known as a human juggernaut who burned as much of the south as he could on his March to the Sea, sparing nothing in his path until he reached Savannah. Savannah, I am most grateful to say, he gave to President Lincoln as a Christmas present instead of torching it to the ground. (But perhaps he was kind to small children and dogs.)

After learning James Swanson was to speak at one of the churches downtown, I decided I would go home after work, grab my copy of Manhunt, and head out to hear him. Swanson was a treasure trove of historical fact, but mostly I remember the anecdotes and odd tidbits. For instance, Swanson owns a locket containing a lock of Lincoln's hair which was cut as he lay dying. The locket is framed and hangs in his bedroom. Imagine walking past Lincoln's hair every morning and evening. I was stunned when he said Jefferson Davis, the President of the Confederate States Of America, was a guest at the Savannah home of Hugh M. Comer, stood on the veranda and gave a speech to a cheering crowd of thousands of people who packed into Monterey Square. Stunned because at that very moment my car was parked outside the front door of that house. When I walked back to my car on that quiet evening I stood for a moment and tried to imagine how different it must have appeared on May 3, 1886. I tried to imagine a noisy throng gathered to hear Davis speak. I listened for ghosts. All long gone, I heard nothing but a whippoorwill calling.

I found Swanson to be a very engaging and friendly fellow. Being a Yankee, and great admirer of Lincoln, I told him I felt guilty that a small part of me was hoping John Wilkes Booth would make it through the dragnet. Swanson threw his head back and laughed. "You know, I was in Chicago when a woman came up to me and said, 'I hate you, James Swanson.' I was taken aback for awhile until she added, 'You made me like John Wilkes Booth.'" "Are you satisfied that you know him now?" I asked. He smiled and said, "Ahhh".

As I told a lady standing next to us who had not read Manhunt, it is a marvelous historical work that reads like a thriller. Even though I knew how it ended, I thought just maybe he'd get away this time. Of course, things worked out the way they should have. Artfully, without turning Booth into an heroic or sympathetic figure, Swanson succeeded in making him human. I broke a promise to myself not to buy Bloody Crimes at the lecture, but in the end I figured...what the hell...and picked up a copy.

Swanson appeared to have a good time working the room. Savannah is an easy place and I think he felt that ease. He seemed in no hurry for the evening to end. I handed my two volumes over to him for his signature, thanked him, and walked out into the quiet night. I got into my car and tossed the books on the passenger seat. When I got home, I put the books on my night stand. It was only later, just before I turned out the light, that I flipped open one of the covers and read, "To Linda _____, my fellow traveller - North and South - on the journey to discover John Wilkes Booth."

Felony and Mayhem

2010-11-02T15:25:00.004-04:00

I've missed you, missed you, missed you. I have so much to tell you, but where to start. Let's talk about books, shall we?

One would think that with shelves heavy with books I have yet to read I would have no trouble finding something just right. But the sad fact is, of late it has been all fits and starts - with nothing quite right. A trip to the bookstore was in order. Sometimes nothing else will do – not even the library...or the shoe department at Macys. I usually haunt a small, locally owned (and home grown) bookstore on one of the squares downtown. It’s the sort of little shop with creaky wooden floors, low ceilings, over-stuffed furniture, and “rooms.” Being an independent bookseller, it is staffed with people who actually read most of the books in stock - an often overlooked but valuable fringe benefit. Go often enough and someone will eventually learn your reading taste and be able to set your compass to true North. But, it’s hard to compete with the big boys. As a result some of the books are a bit more expensive than one would find at a large chain. And, obviously, the boundaries of its real estate prevent it from holding as many titles as one would find at a mega store. Nevertheless, for sheer meandering through stacks, it is my bookstore of choice. You are welcomed at the door with the tinkle of a little bell, and a smile, and a greeting for a “good” time of day. But I was on the other side of town meeting with a client whose store is spitting distance from Barnes & Noble. And so what’s a girl to do? True, there was also the lure of my discount membership. I am almost ashamed to say how fickle I am in my loyalty when a 5% discount is involved. I caved. I was not sure what I wanted although I felt certain I would know it when I found it. A stroll down the Fiction section merited nothing; I moved on to the Mystery aisle.

It was there, on a top shelf, I came across a series of books published by Felony & Mayhem Press with Art Deco covers reminiscent of 1936 movie stills. Although they publish several “vintage” authors, these volumes were written by the late British author, Margery Allingham. An inside page proclaimed that books published by Felony & Mayhem were originally published prior to 1965 and featured “the kind of twisty, ingenious puzzles beloved by fans of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr.” Aside from the delicious name of the publishing house, the book titles themselves were too seductive to resist: Police At The Funeral, Death Of A Ghost, The Case Of The Late Pig, Dancers In Mourning, and The Fashion In Shrouds. But I could only allow myself one and eventually chose The Crime At Black Dudley. Joyous find! What fun! It was the jolt my happy-reader-button needed. Even better, Black Dudley introduces Allingham’s “gentleman sleuth”, Albert Campion. Better still - there are more.

I fully appreciate that the cliche of the English manor house in the middle of nowhere, filled with eccentric house guests, and murder committed in the dark during a parlor game has been so overworked it should itself fall dead with a thud. But it works. It even seems fresh.

Although obviously well known to many readers, Margery Allingham was new to me. I therefore lay claim to her as my very own discovery. Usually newly found authors come my way through the suggestions of others. I am very puffed up that I stumbled upon Allingham without any hints from the outside world. How I blithely worked my way through Miss Marple, and Hercule Poirot, and Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew without bumping into Allingham I shall never know. Chalk it up to one of the benefits of an inadequate education, perhaps. Since she was a fairly prolific writer prior to her death from breast cancer in June of 1966, (the same month and year I graduated from high school) knowing there are other volumes waiting for me when what I am reading gets dreary feels a little like opening the pantry door and finding provisions in store for a blustery winter.

A few days after my great discovery, I met the author of one of the best books I have read lately. I was carrying Black Dudley at the time, having just a few more pages to go until the end. I am afraid I spent more time discussing Allingham than John Wilkes Booth. Nevertheless, he was gracious - and I think his interest was piqued. But that’s another story for another time.

Savoring

2010-10-11T10:03:00.008-04:00

I've been away. Not far away. Not even away away. Nevertheless, it has been a trip. I am happy to be back in familiar surroundings.

Had I gone away on a roller coaster, it couldn't have been a more raucous ride. There was renewed grief in the one year anniversary of a personal loss; the joyous homecoming of a much-loved child and her new found love; the wonder of being a tourist in my own city; the melancholy of saying good-bye once again. But most of all, I've been taking a journey with someone I love down Independence Road. The road has not yet come to an end, but the pavement is pitted and broken. Weeds and roots of trees are working their upheaval; it is getting very difficult to maneuver. Can there be anything but a Dead End around the next bend? For now, there is at least dappled sunlight on that road. But I can see the spreading canopy in the not so distant horizon and it threatens to choke out every shaft of light.

To counter such dark effect, I escaped. Lunch at the beach, a walk along the pier, standing on the still parapet of a Civil War fort and trying to imagine life in that place at that time. All were welcome diversions. But if I was forced to name one place where I truly felt everything would work out okay, I would probably say the happy and friendly confines of my kitchen. As much a science laboratory as an art studio, it welcomes me into its Nantucket Gray-ness. I make things there - the sweet and the savory. But there is more to the kitchen than cooking. In the final analysis, we crave not only that which feeds but that which nourishes.

My kitchen is not a wonder of modern technology. The oven is as old as the house and lists gently to the left. If I baked cakes its uneven kilter might matter more. But I don't, so it doesn't. The clock and the timer stopped working long ago; but, I've never really needed a buzzer. A fragrance, an aroma, will usually tell me all I need to know. I am confident in those surroundings. There are no granite countertops. The dishwasher, though fairly new, never worked very well. A month after the warranty ran out, it refused to drain water. A month after being repaired it refused to fill with water. (The man who fixed the dishwasher was a recent Russian emigre and I could not understand anything he said. When I asked him what was wrong with it, I could have sworn he said, "You don't want to know." He probably said something else, but a faint dread kept me from asking for clarification.) I wash dishes by hand and actually enjoy the hot sudsing up while I look out the windows of the breakfast room. I muse that something must be done with the garden, once my pride and joy. I've allowed the weeds and wild grasses to claim dominion for far too long. "When the fall weather is here," I tell myself.

As I said, I am confident in my kitchen. I am confident, for instance, that if I melt three tablespoons of butter and whisk in three tablespoons of flour and cook them gently, and if I then add just the right amount of milk or cream, a bechamel will evolve. With the warmth of freshly grated nutmeg and a sprinkling of Parmesan I have created something very close to perfection. There is an alchemy to cooking. Beef browned in a Dutch oven with carrots and onions, drenched in red wine, and then left to cook slowly will produce a maddeningly succulent dish without any great effort. Magic. Where else in life do our dreams so consistently realize themselves?

This weekend I had five plums...

...and I made a tart

....with a bit of flour, sugar, butter, baking powder and an egg.

It satisfied more than hunger.

I Thought I Could, I Thought I Could...

2010-09-20T09:58:00.004-04:00

On the third trip to ACE Hardware on Saturday morning, little Juliana, standing behind her cash register, asked, "Are you back again, Miss Linda?" She advised that I find "a guy to start your engine." Hmmm.... She's a sweet young girl from, I think, Jamaica so I refrained from making a quip about finding a man to get my motor running. But I was sorely tempted since I almost never waste an opportunity to be knee-slapping hilarious and can usually come up with a clever one-liner. This time I just let it alone.

I was living in a MasterCard commercial:

Additional Spark plug: $2.99
Blaster: $4.99
New Gas can: $3.49
Fresh Gas: $2.69
Fresh Motor Oil: $5.00
Engine Starter: $3.59
Siphon: $5.99
Fine sandpaper: $0.69
Liz Claiborne jeans: $64.00 (when bottle of motor oil slipped out of greasy hands, hit patio and bounced back up.)
Conquering Combustion Engine: Priceless

If I had to diagnose what was wrong with the lawn mower, I would make a stab that the carburetor and fuel line needed to be cleaned. It wasn't the spark plug and it wasn't the air flow. However, I admit I am not at all certain. After my third trip to ACE I came home armed with product called Blaster, a pink liquid that gets sprayed into the spark plug housing. (I forgot to put the spark plug back on first time around and it all spurted out, but now I know better.)

From 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., I tinkered with Sparky. I sanded out the inside of the spark plug cap. I tried to adjust the throttle. I stared into the carburetor. I siphoned out the gas and oil and replaced both. After the second dose of Blaster "the Sparkster" started up with a great smoking growl...only to die within seconds. I held down the throttle, pulled the cord, and he roared to life. Once again he fizzled. Again and again we engaged in that dance, Sparky and I, for what seemed like hours. The sun rose higher and warmer. At last, hot, grimy, and exhausted I sat on the patio steps and murmured calmly, "I hate you." And then I did what one does with machines when all else fails. I pulled myself up and kicked him. Swift and hard.

Was it the Blaster? Did Sparky get bored with the game? Or was it genuine fear of injury to movable parts? Who can say. But on Saturday Sparky acquiesced. On the very next attempt he sputtered, then belched and began to hum.

In triumphant joy I pushed him toward the lawn. He putt-putted happily. He did a mighty fine job when all was said and done. We'll have to have another go at it later in the week, however, since I was too exhausted to do more than attack the worst parts of the lawn.

Afterward I let him rest in the cool shade of a Magnolia tree before putting him away. I felt proud of myself and happy Sparky won't be thrown into a landfill any time soon. I think he must be happy about that as well. I'm not certain but as I wheeled him into the garage I do believe I saw him wink at the new edger. She's a new model and is quite good looking, if a little too thin. With any luck, she might be just what he needs to keep his motor running.

The Little Engine That Won't

2010-09-17T09:39:00.007-04:00

Tempus fugit...what can I say. And the older one gets the tempus fugits even faster.

Let me fill you in on the latest dilemma. I've spent the greater part of the week on a particularly thorny problem. I've expounded before on landscaping issues which are part and parcel of living in my subdivision. There are rules. Actually, it is a very nice place to live. I love my neighbors, and the Homeowners Association is pretty good at planning little events to help keep it a real community. But there are rules, and I'm breaking one of the cardinal ones with my grass. I don't want to break the rules, but I do not take defeat lightly. So here's the scenario. I no longer have a landscaper. He was too expensive. He made more per hour than I do. But he was good. When you think about it, being good at what one does for a living - keeping consistently at peak best through the day-in and day-out grind - is not as easy as it's cracked up to be. No denying it. He was good. I simply could no longer afford the luxury.

As I've written before, I found a power mower in my garage. I dusted it off, oiled it up, and it sputtered along all summer - until two weeks ago. It's not an old mower. I pull the cord, the motor spins, but it doesn't kick in. (I have a John Deere riding mower in the garage as well, which also doesn't work and which needs to get hauled away on a trailer for servicing, but that's another story.) This is what I have learned about power mowers - they need three things to start: air, fuel, and a spark.

I learned how to change the spark plug - nothing. I learned how to change the air filter - still nothing. I drained the gas and re-filled it. Dead. Yesterday, I decided I'd clean the carburetor - at least I think it's the carburetor. I learned that when I press the little red "prime" button, a squirt of gasoline shoots through an opening inside what I think is the carburetor, and then into the part of the engine that houses the spark plug. Should it do that? I sat on the patio steps and thought hard about it - trying to get into the mind of the combustion engine. The spark that the spark plug is supposed to make probably ignites the little squirt of gasoline and that sets the whole caboodle in motion. Is that how it works? Could that be right?

I've tried getting a copy of my owners manual on-line. There is an owners manual for my lawn mower, all right. But instead of it being an owners manual for the walk-behind power mower, it's a manual for a leaf blower. The leaf blower manual is not much help. Did I mention that being good at one's job is admirable? Things should just work right. Is that a tall order? I want my lawn mower to work. I want the owners manual for the mower to be for the mower and not for a leaf blower. Should I print off the leaf blower manual anyway just in case I buy it one day? Did someone make a mistake and switch the two manuals? Maybe if I pulled up the manual for a leaf blower I'd find the manual for the lawn mower.

The lawn situation is getting pretty desperate, so I will have to hire someone to cut it. That should give me another week or two to tinker. I don't think the problem is the starter spring. Until yesterday I didn't even know there was such a thing as a starter spring. But I learned how to change that as well, just in case.

My reading assignment for the weekend will be to learn everything I can about the combustion engine. I cannot allow it to win. Like Winston Churchill, I will fight on the land...I will fight on the sea...I will never give up.

Wrestling the lawn mower into submission is one of my loftier goals. It's right up there with baking a flaky pie crust. (The secret is vodka.) I'll let you guess for which one.

A Glimmering At Last

2010-08-30T09:54:00.006-04:00

Several months ago I made the decision to enter a national short story competition. There is a small cash prize for the winning entry, which would certainly be nice, but even more attractive is the publication of the story in a major magazine. In addition, the magazine would pay the author its going rate for a short story. I have approximately 6 months to submit something.

Between you and me, I realize I have very little chance of actually capturing the prize. I've read past submissions and the entrants are obviously professional writers. Nevertheless, I've been wanting to embark on a new challenge, to jump head-first into something a little over my head (which, incidentally, is also how I learned to swim).

That was May. It is now the end of August. Obviously, I realize that if one is to write a story - any kind of story, even a disaster - it helps if one has a topic. A Theme. In my spare time, I've spent the last few months "writing" as follows: I sit, pen poised, waiting for genius to strike. It does not. I stare, blankly, at the wall, at the paper, out the window. I get up and stretch, arms overhead, arms back, bend this way, then bend that way. Sit back down, pick up the pen, and stare blankly.

I believe I can speak a good story. Funny things have happened to me quite a lot all my life. Even if something wasn't particularly funny (or even pleasant) at the time, I've found that with a few embellishments and the right dramatic flourishes I could turn a ho-hum event into a fairly good yarn. But a written story isn't helped by slapstick and pratfalls, so it was useless to pull them from my ditty bag. And let's face it, it's difficult to write about dead air...white space.

My first hurdle, then, was pretty basic stuff...come up with an idea for a story. It sounded easy enough, complete novice that I am. I'm sure there are writers who have heads like treasure chests - filled with an abundance of sparkling gems...ideas of all shapes and sizes that snap, crackle and sizzle with brilliance. Sadly, I am not one of them. My ideas, when they came at all, were more reminiscent of wet cotton wool than of richly brocaded tapestry.

After months of listening to those ideas falling with a solid thud, I sat down and wrote a letter to a friend of mine. As I finished it, my son Charlie stopped by to borrow my lawnmower and he asked me what I was doing. I told him I was just finishing a letter, and I also told him about the competition. "I can't think of anything to write about," I said (in full gloom). He stopped a second, patted me on the back, and said brightly, "You will." And he was off with my mower and gas can. I stared down at the letter. I realized I didn't have my friend's address. I wrote 6 pages of a letter that I could not mail.

I sat at the table, drumming my fingers with one hand and holding my chin with the other. I stared out the window. I hoped Charlie wouldn't kill my lawnmower by running it in the rain. I looked at the state of my own lawn. It was finally green, but it was sadly in need of a haircut. I should have used the lawnmower myself first, and then leant it out. Why didn't I think of that? I looked down at the letter - at what seemed like a complete waste of time. Obviously, the place to start would have been securing the address. Doing it the other way around made no sense at all. Blink...blink...blink...I had it! Just like that! Only three months, four days and a few hours. Just like that!

Strange how the mind works. One thought leads to something else completely unrelated, and that unrelated thought leads on to another unrelated thought, and before you know it, you've arrived at the place you were seeking - no map, no compass, no night sky to guide you.

And so, it's one foot in front of the other.

Thursday At Random

2010-08-23T11:21:00.013-04:00

Although I promised myself "No More Books," I cheated. A box arrived last Friday with four new ones and I set out immediately to read Becoming Queen Victoria by Kate Williams. The only review I had read about it was by someone who stopped at page 80 because s/he was already one-fifth into the book and no Victoria had as yet appeared. Sometimes I just have to shake my head at people - and wonder. That Victoria should have become queen at all was an unforeseen event that sat on the shoulders of other unforeseen events, i.e. but for this...that. The unfolding of how her reign ever saw the light of day is one of the major themes of the book. I doubt anyone keeping bets in 1796 would have placed favorable odds on the way things ultimately worked themselves out. The first half of the book concerns itself with those twists and turns of fate and establishes Becoming as the operative word in the title. I spent a wonderful weekend reading and enjoying it. Nevertheless, it had a few flaws. I found two typographical errors which jumped out at me like a warts on Mona Lisa's nose. One word "compained" which should obviously have been "complained" would have been easily found with Spellcheck. In addition, there was a very poignant episode that Williams only touched on briefly that I think deserved to be covered in more depth. Victoria (an only child) and her mother, the Duchess of Kent, had a strange and estranged relationship. The Duchess, obviously power hungry, struggled to maintain control over her daughter; Victoria rebelled and tried to push away from her domineering parent with even greater force. Williams spends a great deal of time documenting their troubled relationship. When at last she became queen, Victoria snubbed her mother in small but significant and often cruel ways. Upon the death of the Duchess of Kent, Victoria told her eldest daughter that she never felt her mother loved her. How sad. But as she sorted through her late mother's belongings, she discovered the duchess had kept every little keepsake, every note, every piece of clothing, every lock of hair, every snippet of handwriting which was Victoria's. Obviously, her mother cared very deeply for her. Victoria was such a prolific journal keeper and letter writer, I have to imagine she revisited her relationship with her mother and expressed more fully some feelings of remorse. There's always a human story behind history, isn't there.

After finishing Becoming Queen Victoria I jumped right into The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. What fun! I am severely miffed, however. Another great story idea not conceived by me. My copy has a little ribbon bookmark bound into it...the second recently purchased book with such a feature. Is this the rebirth of an old trend in bookbinding? If so, I like it. Until now, I think the only book I have with ribbons in it is my old and obsolete Daily Missal. I can understand why it needed so many ribbons. They were there to keep your place during Mass as you jumped from the Ordinary (which itself is further divided into the Mass of the Catechumens and the Mass of the Faithful) to the Gospel to the Epistle and back again. There's a lot of jumping around in a Catholic missal. The ribbons in my missal are red, yellow, green, black and white but I could never remember which color belonged where, so I was always on the wrong page notwithstanding ribbons. Now most parishes use monthly throw-away magazine-y type things cloyingly called "missalettes." I find them totally unappealing and irksome - much like a ball point pen that gets thrown away when the ink is used up. But, having a ribbon in a novel is lovely. That's something I can get behind. And since there's only one - no confusion.

Is there anything more joy provoking, more warmly welcome in the kitchen than the smell of the spice cupboard? Mine is slightly narrow and three-shelved and filled with all sorts of exotica: cumin and cinnamon, sage and rosemary, garam masala, smoked paprika, bay leaves. Thrown together in a pot, all at once, no doubt they would be locked in mortal combat - the culinary equivalent of cacophony in a barnyard. But residing in the cupboard, they live in peaceful harmony: Tellicherry peppercorns rubbing shoulders with coriander...ginger and oregano and nutmeg all getting along. Sometimes I open the spice cupboard solely because I want to inhale. Oh! the evocative smells - of the summer sun, and burning leaves, and Christmas, and the mystery of far-away places all at once. When the mood to organize strikes, I try to coerce them into alphabetical order. It never lasts, though. The dried garlic insists on sitting next to the pumpkin pie spice, and the marjoram always hides in the corner. Just the word...Spice...is a wonder. When we seek the spice of life we invariably mean that which makes us happy, which brings us joy. We spice up our love lives, and sometimes use spicey language when angry. Open your spice cupboard and breathe in its warmth. Go ahead. Take a moment. Be transported. As I rummage around to search for just the right flavor - hard on the trail of that elusive chord - the bottles clatter softly in a muffled promise of happiness to be experienced in the perfect dish. But it's the perfume that gets me. Every time - it's the perfume.

Perfect Ten

2010-08-13T10:29:00.007-04:00

Bibliophiliac posted an interesting meme the other day which I think I'll borrow, seeing as it's Friday and I have little thought for anything other than getting through the pile of work on my desk, and then falling headfirst into home repair projects this weekend - none of which seem very interesting. Without further ado:

Award Presentation for Ten Characters From Literature I Love Or Love To Hate (In Random Order):

1. Best Change Of Character By A (Um..) Character: Jean Valjean, Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. Since I've always imagined him to look like Louis Jordan, I've been smitten with him from the very beginning. But, he is also such a redemptive and ultimately unselfish character how could I not love him?

2. Best Character In A Bit Part: Monseigneur Charles Francois Myriel, the bishop of Digne, Les Miserables. Considering the heft of the book he is a minor character and yet a pivotal one. Without one particular act of human compassion by this priest there would be no story, no Monsieur Madeleine, no factory in the town of Montreuil, and no home for the orphaned Cozette, no stage upon which Jean Valjean can play out his selfless love. He certainly made the most of his limited page space.

3. Most Single-Minded And Relentless Villain Who In The End Is More Pitied Than Despised: Officer Javert, Les Miserables. Since Les Miserables is my favorite book out of all I've ever read, this post must necessarily be top-heavy with it. Poor inflexible Javert. He is so wedded to his belief in the law he does not fathom that laws can be unjust. This inability to reconcile justice with mercy is his undoing and in the end, there is nothing for the reader to do but pity him. He also brings much of the suspense to this party.

4. Most Unsinkable Heroine: Scarlett O'Hara, Gone With The Wind, Margaret Mitchell. Yes she's willful. Yes she's spiteful. Yes she's a little selfish. But we love her nevertheless. Perhaps it's her buoyancy. We're left with believing she will eventually have it her way. Her determination is a little reminiscent of the aforementioned Javert. We hope hers is a happier ending.

5. The Crazy For Love Award: Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy. What was she thinking? Abhorrence to fakery is one thing. Devotion to love is another. But wasn't there a saner alternative? I read Anna Karenina right after finishing Gone With The Wind. Both heroines were bright lights to which others were drawn. Both were haunted by love and desire gone awry. But whereas one struggled (albeit selfishly) to survive intact, the other simply crumpled. These two would never have been friends. Scarlett would probably have described Anna as "mealy mouthed." If I was asked who I'd rather have a drink with it would most certainly be Scarlett. But I loved both books.

6. Best Friend Award: Winnie The Pooh, A.A. Milne. I can't even find the words, so I'll simply quote: "Some people care too much. I think it's called love." "Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

7. Father Of The Century Award: Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee. It isn't always easy to do the right thing. But there are times when one person, standing for something good and true, is stronger than an entire crowd in opposition. (Also bestowed Lawyer Of The Century Award.)

8. Best Lead In Tragedy Of Lost Dreams: Nick Romano, Knock On Any Door, Willard Motley. A large and gritty book, I can't think of a character I've more wanted to save than Nick. It is the story of a young Italian-American (although the author Willard Motley was African-American) growing up in Chicago's Skid Row...an altar boy with hopes of one day becoming a priest. How different his life played out. It is quite simply a crushing masterpiece. First published in the 1940s, I'm not sure if it is still in print. If you can find it do not let it slip through your fingers. It is just one of those books that will still be with you years...decades...hence.

9. Best By-The-Book Detective: Sam Spade, The Maltese Falcon, Dashiell Hammett. I love Sherlock Holmes. I love Hercule Poirot. I love Miss Marple. But Sam...Sam is a bad boy. Sam is a tough guy. Sam was fooling around with his business partner's wife. Sam doesn't like his partner, Miles Archer. But when your partner gets killed "you gotta do something about it." And when you fall for a murderess, well, you gotta do something about that too. 'Cause no matter what...you ain't gonna take the fall for nobody. "All we've got is maybe you love me and maybe I love you. Maybe I do. I'll have some rotten nights after I've sent you over, but that'll pass." By the book, Sam, all the way. After finishing The Maltese Falcon I talked like a gangster for an entire week.

10. Best Coming Of Age Award: Huw Morgan, How Green Was My Valley, Richard Llewellen. Huw's voice is perfectly pitched as he recounts the elegance, beauty, drama, tragedy, desire and majesty of simple lives in a Welsh coal mining town. It is one of the most beautiful novels I've ever read, and even brushing by it in thought makes me feel as though I will cry.

I am certain that once I hit the "send" button, all the other characters I know and love, and know and hate, and know and love to hate will be jamming the lines demanding to know why they were excluded. So let me just say to them here and now, before they get rowdy and belligerent, before they attempt keep me up all night, this was not an exhaustive list. There will be other lists, other opportunities to shine. After all, what's that line, Scarlett? "Tomorrow is another day."

Dropping In

2010-08-06T09:59:00.009-04:00

Well, hi there. No - no you didn't come at a bad time at all. I was just about to make myself a fresh pot of Gunpowder Green if you'd care to join me.

What's that? You'd like a good stiff drink instead? I think that can be arranged. Let's see. I have vodka in the freezer...a-a-and some brown stuff in the bar. Oh! There's a little bit of rum left over from when I had house guests in January.

No, I don't have wine. I find that if I keep red wine in the house I drink it. Did you know that a small bottle of wine has over 700 calories?! A small bottle of wine has only 5 glasses in it, and 5 glasses of wine is nothing as far as I'm concerned. (Rummaging noisily.) There's a little sherry. (Calling over shoulder from built-in bar cupboard.)

Yes. I have olives but they have pits. Calamata I think.

Well, if you don't mind I don't either. Shaken or stirred?

Please, sit. You can use that small pillow for your back. The one that says, "I cannot live without books....Thomas Jefferson." John got that for me from the Smithsonian. All Jefferson's books are preserved there. Don't you just love Old Tom?

I'm sorry I don't have any munchie snacks to go along with your drink...although I do have some unsalted almonds in the freezer. I should have something tucked away for "when guests drop by unexpectedly." You know, like articles in women's magazines suggest. Only I never have unexpected guests drop by...until now that is.

Oh no no no. I didn't mean to suggest...I mean, it's perfectly fine...Uh...(I should have vacuumed the carpet this morning instead of playing Nintendo.) Have a nut? They're thawed out by now.

These? That's my reading stack. I just finished Someone At A Distance by Dorothy Whipple.

Well, I never heard of her either until recently. It's a shame she disappeared; she's making a come-back though. Persephone Books has republished some of her work and made them available again.

No, Persephone...like the Greek goddess...Haides' wife. The one who ate the pomegranate seeds. They have a bookstore in London - not Haides and Persephone the goddess -Persephone Books has a bookstore.

Apparently, there is a Persephone reading group and the book they are discussing this month is Someone At A Distance. Luckily for me, it seems to be the one Persephone book in the entire Live Oak Library system.

No, I didn't mean I'm lucky they only have the one. I'm lucky they had that one since that is the one I wanted to read. Something really should be done about it.

About what? About the fact that they only have one Persephone book.

You know, I checked this one out on Wednesday and already finished it. Two days. Less than that, really, since I checked it out at noon.

Fast read indeed. Even though it was over 400 pages it took no time at all. You see, the thing is it's a very simple yet well-told story. For the life of me I couldn't tell you what made it so difficult to put down. It has no action, no suspense. And almost from the beginning there is an inevitability to it. The dialogue between the family is cloyingly sweet throughout much of the book. And yet I simply could not put it down. I read it when I should have been working. I read it when I should have been sleeping. I just read it until I was finished. And then I thought about it quite a lot. Odd for such a simple story, don't you think?

Definitely. I would read another by Whipple if I could find one; but, I am on a very tight book budget and am using the library more and more these days.

Well sure I could order it directly from Persephone Books, but shipping costs from England would make that pretty pricey. How much is 10 pounds in dollars these days? The rate of exchange changes so much, it's hard to keep up. I just usually double it in my head and figure I'll be in the ballpark.

I doubt you want your glass re-filled this early in the...oh, you will. Delighted. I'll be back in a tick.

Here you are. Slante. Oh dear, my fault. I shouldn't have filled it so close to the top. Not to worry. Vodka doesn't stain the carpet. Another good reason not to keep wine in the house.

What's that? White wine? I don't like white wine. No, really. I don't want to try to acquire a taste for it. It's either too sweet or tastes like an oak tree.

Well, right now I'm reading O Pioneers! What did you say? That exclamation point that appeared over my head just now? That one? It's part of the title. Yes, very clever. It's very short and I'll have it finished by today. I drove out to Tybee to pick up Death Comes For The Archbishop also by Willa Cather and Middlemarch by George Eliot after work yesterday only to find out they are closed on Thursday! Excuse me? That exclamation point? Oh. No...that time I was exclaiming. Yes, I understand. It can be confusing.

What a strange day to be closed. Thursday. Which reminds me, I have finished the first four of the Thursday Next series and have the fifth, First Among Sequels, sitting on the stack.

That's what I thought, too, but I was wrong. The next one doesn't come out until March 2011. Fforde is supposedly calling it, "One Of Our Thursdays Is Missing."

To be honest I wasn't all that upset to find the library closed. I mean, when the library is across the street from the ocean even a closed library is a nice place to be. I'll go back to get the books today. I might even stop and get an ice cream at that little shop.

Uh, no I don't think I'll join you in one - it's a little early for me. But I'll be most happy to get you...right...right away. I'll just put it in a fresh glass while I'm at it.

(I better re-think the Vodka Lime Chicken I planned for dinner tonight.)

Letters From The Heart

2010-07-29T11:45:00.014-04:00

Their voices sit silent for years - sometimes decades - until I open the envelopes and they begin to speak to me again. With each pen stroke they confide in me, they encourage, they amuse, they comfort, they cheer, they inspire and, at very rare times, they sadden, hurt or disappoint me. But they all have a commonality...hopeful anticipation at their arrival and a jump in the heart. A letter! They begin, “Dear Lin,” Dear Grads,” “Dear Lindy,” “Sweetheart,” or just plain, “Hi, Grad!”

A written letter requires something of oneself. "I will tell you who I am," it whispers, "if you will but listen and read between the lines." The writer's thoughts pour from the brain, through the heart, down to the hand, through the ink and onto the page. He or she reveals the vulnerability that lies within all of us. A written letter says, "I was thinking of you and only you at this place in time." A written letter is kept, never deleted.

Every once in a while, but not very often, I will go to the trunk where my letters are kept and begin to read them. It is almost always a bittersweet experience - as much pain as pleasure perhaps. And still, something makes me want to revisit them now and again.

They recounted broken hearts:

“Hi, Grad...my love life is really a mess! It’s my own fault though. I did exactly what I told myself not to do. I fell and I fell hard. I guess I knew all along that Denny was too good to be true. I saw the punches coming but I was too stupid to duck. So, the hurt and the pain take over from here...is there anything in this whole stinking world worth caring about?...Some things you have to find out for yourself. ALL MEN ARE BASTARDS! A.M.A.B So much for my sob story. I’m on my second river so I guess I’ll close now.
Love, Walsh.” (Name changed ever so slightly to protect the unrepentant.)

A coming of age:

“Dear Lin, I address you from an entirely new and decidedly sophisticated 20 year old vantage point. I not only have passed out of the difficult years - but have actually finished one whole day of honest to God real work...I ache to be able to write - poetry, i.e. This is my one and only fitful & dull effort of this season:

“A wagoner’s red roses
and a Plantation Jerusalem
wait in the furrows...” Best love, J.”

The poem she continued to pen was quite lovely. I disagreed with her self-criticism...but then I always have. I doubt I ever made that clear.

And warnings of lurking dangers tucked into the joys of living a large life:

“Dear Lin, I know you are most likely trying to read this letter and walk to class at the same time which means you are most probably not looking where you are going and are likely to take a great fall (like Humpty Dumpty). If you insist upon such a dangerous undertaking, please watch out for cars, motorcycles, potholes, kids on tricycles and other pitfalls along the way...I sat with the band for the last show. When Cleo came on, Greg ran up on the stage and kissed her. At the finale Jerry came rolling and they carried him off stage, as usual. Greg did about a 15 minute trumpet solo and the audience went wild. I didn’t think they would ever let him stop playing. We finally got out of there and went to Mass and then to Forees for breakfast. I got home at 6:00 a.m....Father L. presented my mother with a dozen red roses and named her “Queen of the 1967 All Hallows”. Now there’s no living with her. I asked her to pick me up from the “L” tonight and she said she didn’t see why a queen had to run errands...As Always, P.”

My mother’s letters were always newsy and, in retrospect, reflected her deep concern over financial matters and her desire to “do more” for me - and her worry that I might be lonely:

“Dear Linda, how’s my darling college daughter? Did you meet the girl from LaGrange who lives down the hall? Did the other sophomores get there? Have you made any friends?...I hope the $5 helps. I wish it could be more. I can send you $10 when I get paid....I am saving for the next semester so don’t worry about anything. I just want you to concentrate on your studies, Love, Mom.”

Although I worked every summer to help pay for my tuition, my parents still had to do most of the heavy lifting to provide for my education. My sister rolled up her sleeves and added her shoulder to the wheel in what was to become a family effort to insure that I graduated on time (is there a platitude I've left out?):

“Dear Lindy, I simply can’t borrow any more money from the credit union. Judi is going to pitch in, but the way I see it you will still need to borrow $400. I am enclosing a letter from Ms. W. at the school who says she will be able to help you with a National Education Loan. I am enclosing her letter because I think it was very sweet of her, and she speaks so highly of you. I felt very proud. (Mom would never have been convinced that the last sentence of the letter which read, “We have great anticipation that Linda will be an alumna in whom we will take great pride” was a boilerplate paragraph and appeared in every such letter written to a parent. My Mom believed it and that is really what mattered in the long run. I never tried to burst her balloon). P.S. Judi is sending you $10. Love, Mom.

In reality, Ms. W didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat. She was apparently able to help me secure a loan, however. That much of her letter to my mother was sincere.

Some of the letters tell me that so-and-so “can’t wait” to meet me, and “I told them about all your funny stories.” In fact, my funny stories appear to be a rather constant thread that runs through the letters over the years. Sometimes I cringe at the thought of “Grad the clown” or Grad The Class Cut-Up. Cringe because that wasn’t me at all. Cringe because I was really very quiet and inwardly shy. The funny stuff seems to trickle out as a theme as the years stretch toward the end of the letter-writing era. I suspect life gets in the way to some extent and human interaction takes on a more sedate and reserved tone. Although in retrospect, "funny" might have been a loftier goal than "sophisticated." I was never able to pull off the latter successfully anyway.

I have no letters from my father. I do have some snippets of his handwriting, however. For instance, I nagged him mercilessly until he wrote something in my Eighth Grade Graduation Keepsake Book. Dad had a unique mode of written communication. He posted “Notices” by the telephone in the kitchen.

“NOTICE: Mama - take my shaver to the repair shop.”

“NOTICE: Lindy - stir the stove-top.” (He loved to make soup or spaghetti sauce, so that is most likely what he meant.”

“NOTICE: Who left the bathroom light on? You know who you are.”

But my all time favorite, the creme de la creme of NOTICES, the Daddy-est dad-ism, the transcendent and unsurpassable DAD NOTICE:

“NOTICE: I told youse that cat would get that bird. But youse wouldn’t listen. I came home and found fedders all over da place, but no bird - I hope youse are happy.”

I can see him sitting at the gray Formica kitchen table penning this Notice Of Doom. I watch him pause after making that long “dash," grasping for the perfect coup-de-grace - the final denouement. “I hope youse are happy.” It drips with his frustration and disgust at our apparent cavalier attitude concerning the health and safety of the parakeet. Truth be told, he was bluff and bluster on the outside, but was arguably the most sloppily-sentimental one in the family.

Yes, Dad. Just remembering that NOTICE makes me happy. It was so tragically funny it overshadowed the grief and loss I’m sure I felt over the lost parakeet. From darkness, light. Even now, when I need a quick dose of “happy” just recalling that NOTICE acts as pure glucose for my weary soul.

So there they are. Tied with ribbons and lovingly stored in a steamer trunk. My letters; memories of my family and of my friends. Friends who have remained constant, friends lost to time, friends lost to death, friends lost to simple stupid neglect. They live in envelopes of various colors and sizes, bearing stamps from all over this Big Blue Marble of a world we inhabit. They tell the stories of lives lived - their lives and mine. They tell them over time and over distance. They tell them one word at a time.

When In Doubt, Steal An Idea

2010-07-13T12:14:00.011-04:00

The Curious Reader: Grad? Oh, Grad? You really need to come up with something to write about. I am growing very tired of languishing. You need to go someplace or do something...bore, bore, bore.

Grad: Oh, God, it's you again. I'm afraid you are growing into a pest of heavy-duty proportions. I have created a monster who is always pulling at my sleeve.

The Curious Reader: Ahh! Shall I call you Mary Shelley, then?

Grad: Your attempt at humor, is it?

The Curious Reader: Not too subtle?

Grad: Decidedly not. If I borrow a meme from other bloggers, will you please be still for a few days while I get some work accomplished? My banker, my bartender and my bookie will appreciate it.

The Curious Reader: You have a bookie?

Grad: (Groan) Never mind.

Books I Haven't Read: (A Purloined Idea from Bookman)

1) The Bible. I haven't read the Bible. The only portions I've read are the Gospels and Epistles used as readings at Mass. I have an old Bible History text book that was my sister's, but I haven't read that either. Very odd since all the schools I went to, including the one in Ireland, were Catholic institutions.

2) Not The Secret Garden nor Alice Through the Looking Glass nor any of Anne of Green Gables. What was I reading in those callow days? Most likely detective stories.

3) I read Twilight and liked it, but my interest sputtered out half-way through the second book. What was the title? Eclipse? New Moon? I can't even recall that; I gave it away to someone. Everyone else is wild about the series so I'm sure the problem is with me.

4) Anything by Willa Cather. I can hardly believe it, but it's true.

5) Aesop. I had a copy of Aesop's Fables which my eldest son read and re-read as a child. He knew all the stories and characters and loved to tell me about them. I am familiar with many of the tales but only through his eyes and his retelling.

6) Alexandre Dumas. No Three Musketeers, no Count of Monte Cristo. But I am determined to right that wrong.

7) The Little Prince by Antoine de St. Exupery. This is shocking to me. I read every night to my children, but alas, I did not introduce it to them. I do have a grandson, so there is redemption for me I trust.

8) The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Laroux. I did see the play at Albert Hall in London, however. It was the most magnificent thing I've ever seen on-stage. Actually more thrilling than any movie I've seen as well.

9) D. H. Lawrence. I tried, honestly I did.

10) Number 10 I have reserved for something I did read, but really shouldn't have. I think I felt I had to prove something to myself. Or maybe I got drunk one night and began to read it on a dare. I read it while a student in Ireland so that could have had something to do with my folly. In any event, I wish I could get back the time spent reading the damn thing. I could have spent that time reading one of the above more worthwhile works, or getting a manicure, or learning to dance the Macarena. So here it is...the most boring book of all time (including The Story of Cutlery) (drum roll, please)...Ulysses. I think James Joyce figured the publisher was going to charge him for every period he used. Go ahead and read it if you insist, but it should come with a warning label so you know what you're getting into. Why it is a classic I couldn't say. Someone with a lot of letters after his name probably labeled it brilliant, and that is all it took. Personally, I wonder whether Joyce wasn't smoking something funny when he wrote it.

2010-06-25T09:33:00.008-04:00

As I read my way through the Shakespeare plays I cannot help but wonder about the boy he might have been. Was he annoyingly cerebral? Could he relate to other kids who said things like "Hey dude" rather than "Harken!" Did his mother want to stuff a rag in his mouth to stop him emoting? Or tell him to shut up and eat his oatmeal? Was he a little prissy pants? Somehow I don't see William Shakespeare as the stud-muffin-heart breaker of Stratford on Avon. Geniuses rarely fit in and I imagine he had a rather rough time of it.

I left Henry VI, Part I with poor Joan being lead off to the stake (proving unequivocally that smoking can be dangerous to ones health) and Suffolk gloating Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king and realm. Politics, power and greed. Will we ever learn? I'm waffling on my original idea of reading all the plays in chronological order. For one thing, I don't know that I have the ability to recognize the intricacies of the Bard's evolution as a writer. For another, I don't think I care. At my age I read for fun. So, perhaps I'll continue on to Part II (which does make some sense) or say "to hell with it" and read Love's Labour's Lost. (Stay tuned, details at 11.)

Getting back to what I planned to tell you all along, I closed the back cover of Wolf Hall (reviewed at length by better minds than mine - suffice to say I loved it) and was once again on the prowl. A little background information is in order here: A few months ago I wandered into the library and saw a display entitled "Librarian Picks..." with volumes and audio books recommended by the library staff. Among these was an audio version of The Well Of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde. I picked it up and began to read the back of the case.

"Have you read the Thursday Next books?" a voice asked over my shoulder. I turned to find the diminutive, graying librarian attempting to maneuver a push-cart of books destined for re-shelving peering at me over her glasses which were festooned with a kind of Edwardian grill-work.

"No, I've never heard of them or Jasper Fforde. New glasses!"

"Prada...only fake," she whispered tapping the rim.

"Very becoming."

She smiled. "I strongly recommend them...the books not the glasses" Now she twittered a little, but softly because, after all, we were in the library. "But I'd begin with the first one first."

"Do you have that one on audio?"

"Not at this branch, but we can get from another branch in a few days."

"Well...that's okay. I was looking for something to listen to right away so I'll just start with this one."

She gave me that okay-suit-yourself-don't-listen-to-me look, held it for a moment, and disappeared into the stacks preceded by the slightly wobbly cart.

But by the time I listened my way through one-third of the book I knew. As much as it pained me, I returned the audio book unfinished. The librarian knew her stuff. I had to start from the beginning. Starting in the middle was like trying to eat a sumptuous meal with a head cold. I was missing too many nuances of flavor. I wasn't just reading a book. I was entering a new world and I needed the backstory...I had to learn the language.

That weekend found me at Barnes and Noble where I bought The Eyre Affair in paperback (I also purchased a hardback version of the 5th book in the series, First Among Sequels, at a super-deluxe bargain price that I simply could not pass up.) The Fforde was put on the back burner of my reading stack. And so it was that after having finished Wolfie I was wandering down my upstairs hallway and spotted The Eyre Affair on a bookshelf. I snatched it up as quickly as a frog does a fly. Rarely have I fallen into a book so effortlessly (which oddly enough is much of what the series is about). So mesmerized was I by the writing, the story, the premise that as I neared the end I was afraid of "running out" of Thursday Next.

I stopped at the library last Friday and picked up Lost In A Good Book and The Well Of Lost Plots (book version). When she saw me the librarian said, "I knew you'd be back for these." Which brings me to a sidebar discussion: The benefits of a small library, or a small bookstore, or a small grocery...or a small local bank for that matter, are much the same. You are known by your name if you go in often enough. The people who work there look out for you. They keep an eye out and know when something seems amiss. "We've got some nice lamb chops, Miss Linda," "Morning Mrs. ___. Got your deposit? How's Katharine doing?" "We just got so-and-so's latest book. It's right up your alley." Oh, there are drawbacks, surely. Not enough copies, few exotic ingredients, no Panko crumbs - that sort of thing. But by and large (or by and small) big is better in some departments but small is better for others.

The weekend looms long - being the Fourth of July. I'm half-way through Lost In A Good Book and am trying to pace myself, debating if I should go ahead and check out Something Rotten...just in case of an emergency. What if it rains all weekend and there is nothing to make me feel guilty about laying around reading? Eating only things I can handle with one hand? What if I really and truly can't put Lost In A Good Book down? And immediately jump, crazed and as unstoppable as a juggernaut, into Well Of Lost Plots? And it gets to be Monday afternoon and the library is closed for the holiday and the Thursday Next well has run dry? (I'm slightly dizzy and my colon is giving me a worrying feeling at the prospect.) There is always First Among Sequels as a fall-back but I don't want to read out of turn. Nope. I'd better take precautions. I'll have to prepare - stock the provisions. I'm off to hunt down Something Rotten, so I must run along now.

Oh yes. Before I go...Are you sitting down for the best news? The 6th Thursday Next adventure comes out this month...in fact I think next week. Once I have the new book in my hands, and have read the last word on the last page of that latest book I promise to start a twelve-step program. But for now, there's joy in Bookville!

Happy Fourth of July. Happy Birthday good ole U.S.A.

"Brush Up Your Shakespeare"

2010-06-22T11:14:00.008-04:00

I've never been a reader who can have more than one book in progress. Juggling multiple reads has always felt uncomfortable in an odd and inexpressible way. But when reading a long-ish book (Anna Karenina, Armadale, and Noble House come to mind) or a flat-out tome (Les Miserables) I have often felt the need to break away and let my mind settle briefly elsewhere.

In taking a recent pause from Wolf Hall (which I am enjoying enormously) I wandered over to my bookshelves. A two volume set of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, acquired at some point while I was still in high school, caught my eye. Oddly, there is no publication date in either. Upon opening Volume I, I noted that in apparent youthful exuberance I had placed a small check by the plays I had read. They included A Midsummer Night's Dream, Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, The Merchant of Venice, King Henry IV (Parts I and II), The Taming of the Shrew, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus. Although I know I read Cymbeline, it wasn't checked off. Perhaps by that time I had grown up enough to stop keeping score. In any event, some Shakespeare was just the ticket for a little diversion. I thought about the tiny check marks. Was it my early intention to read my way through everything Sweet Ole Bill wrote? And if not, why not? Why not! And so, I shall. They are perfect interludes, beautifully crafted and each one short enough to read in an evening. So, that's my plan...to read every play and sonnet contained in those two volumes and tick each one off as I go.

The first unchecked play was Titus Andronicus - and so that is where I began. I dived in knowing there was some debate whether this play was actually written by Shakespeare. Many scholars reject it as one of his plays altogether. Others argue that, at most, Shakespeare may have made some suggestions to its real author regarding character development. Its style is certainly alien to Shakespeare's in the copious blood department. It was a stunning 16th century version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I know Shakespeare was quite the innovator but...who knew? Not being a fan of slasher movies, I found it more than a little disturbing and quite unlike Bill. Example: "And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, receive the blood: and when that they are dead, let me go grind their bones to powder small, and with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked, to make this banquet; which I wish may prove more stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast." (Scene II, as Titus cuts the throats of Chiron and Demetrius and Lavinia collects their blood in a basin.)

I was grateful when Lucius (one of the few principal characters to survive with all his limbs, his head and his throat intact) delivered the plays final lines, spoken as he throws the body of Tamora to the beasts and birds of prey rather than provide her with a burial. It was so him.

And so, I staggered to the sink to wash the blood off my hands 1) relieved Titus Andronicus was over, and 2) buoyed in the knowledge I would never have to read it again. I was also grateful it was not my introduction to Shakespeare. I doubt I would have been a repeat customer. Of course, Saw II fans would probably enjoy it.

Because I am trying to read the plays in chronological order, the next is King Henry VI, Part I written in about 1590. It is said to have been produced on the stage in March 1591 and received rave reviews by the audience. William Shakespeare would have been about 26 years old, as if there isn't enough to make underachievers feel queasy. (Someone...please tell me he lied about his age.) Once again, there are some qualifications as to the plays complete authorship and experts can't quite agree that this one is "All Shakespeare - All The Time." It was probably a collaborative effort; most critics concede it contains Shakespeare's "touch," at least.

Looking ahead, perhaps something a little lighter, Maestro? I see Love's Labour's Lost waiting in the wings.

One day I hope to visit the Bard's final resting place.

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.

Of course, you could skip Shakespeare altogether and simply sing Cole Porter:

Brush up your Shakespeare,
Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.
Just declaim a few lines from "Othella"
And they think you're a helluva fella.
If your blonde won't respond when you flatter 'er
Tell her what Tony told Cleopaterer ,
If she fights when her clothes you are mussing,
What are clothes? "Much Ado About Nussing."
Brush up your Shakespeare
And they'll all kowtow.

Sleep well, Bill. Try not to roll over.

Something Wonderful

2010-06-02T15:44:00.008-04:00

When I was a young girl I would awaken in the morning and say to myself, "Something wonderful is going to happen to me today." Do understand - I didn't merely hope it...or wish it. I believed it. I trusted it. I went armed into the world wrapped in the warmth of it. Quite often something wonderful didn't happen. That never seemed to matter. Although totally unreasonable, the "not happening" never altered my belief that it would. When the next morning arrived I knew that something wonderful was going to happen to me that day.

At some point I stopped saying it to myself. I wish I remembered when, or how old I was, or why. It was some time after college, perhaps, but I can't be certain. It wasn't cold turkey but rather a gradual weaning off. Quite simply one day it dawned on me that I had lost it somewhere...somehow. I hated that I had lost it. It made me feel instantly older and burdened and very tired. Oddly sad and slightly darkish. Out of sorts. I mused, "Not with a bang, but with a whimper." And although he was writing about something far more serious and not about my lost belief, I nevertheless felt a kinship with T. S. Eliot.

I decided I would begin to say it to myself once again every morning and get it back. But I found it really is not as easy as that. What made it work for me...what made it real...was that I believed it - really and truly. I suppose life and experience take their toll.

But in all my years on the planet I have never awakened in the morning saying, "Something terrible is coming. Something dark and insidious with long, oily fingers reaching for the throat. Something mean and grim and seemingly unstoppable." Until now. Georgia has approximately 100 miles of coast - ocean and beach, marsh and wet lands. It is a fragile and tender place. It doesn't belong to us but we belong to it. The marshland in particular is quiet and hushed. Walking along a trail on Cockspur Island, 5 minutes from my home, I can hear the marsh sounds - frogs, fish jumping, gulls, rustling reeds. Traveling farther up the road one comes to the ocean and the beach and the sight of dolphin fins rising up and down in graceful arcs. The usual cast of characters, the terns, skimmers, pelicans, egrets and other birds are present doing what they do: preening, pecking, dozing, taking flight, diving, calling, filling the sky.

The most recent prediction is that the oil may very well be carried around the Florida Keys and up the eastern seaboard destroying life as it goes - a phosphorescent, unctuous, aquatic equivalent of Sherman on the march. There is even the possibility it will cross the Atlantic and despoil those shores.

I am angry. I am angry at a reckless and cavalier company. I am angry at the feckless, flatfooted and delayed response of Washington and our "leaders." (In quotes because I see very little leadership being displayed.)

I have heard that the gush may not be quelled until Christmas! How much of the coast I have come to love will remain?

Maybe private and government resources will work together to come up with a solution. Maybe we can put politics aside and bring together the worlds best and brightest minds in an effort to find an answer. Maybe if we all clap very loud Tinkerbell will live. Maybe something wonderful will happen tomorrow.

Ode To Suburbia

2010-05-20T11:24:00.006-04:00

All through the winter, when the lawn was dormant and nothing grew, my "lawn man" was apparently mowing my dead grass. I never noticed any difference in my dead grass from the time I left for work in the morning to the time I returned after dark in the evening. I didn't notice any difference in my dead grass when I walked the dog on Saturday evenings, nor did I notice a change in it when I went out to get the paper on Sunday mornings. Still brown. Still asleep. Status quo on the dead grass. I didn't notice anything about the dead grass until I received a bill from my "lawn man" in March in the amount of $375 for services from November through February - for mowing the dead grass every three weeks - just the front lawn.

So now it's Spring and the grass is no longer dead. The grass has decided to awaken from its slumber. Quite frankly, I can't afford my lawn man now that there really is grass to mow.

This weekend I ventured into the garage (a place I hate almost as much as the attic). Behind some old doors and under a box of roof tiles, I found the power mower. Not the John Deere riding mower. That one was over in the corner next to a trunk I had in college. The John Deere won't crank up. I have no idea what is wrong with it. In order to get it repaired, the John Deere dealer has to come over and put it in a trailer and haul it over to the shop. But until the garage gets emptied out, there's no way to get the John Deere out of the garage.

I was grateful that the mower was close to the door, and with some shifting and pushing and pulling, I was able to get it outside to take a look at it. I wiped the cobwebs off, filled it with gas and put lawnmower oil into the oil case. "Push red button 3x." I did. "Hold down throttle and pull cord." I did. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, sputter-sputter-cough-cough....roar...off we go. Third time's a charm

The mower hasn't been used in years. I think it needs new spark plugs. If I could find the owners manual I would be able to tell where they are on the machine and learn how to change them. It will chug along for a while and then give a gasping, choking sound. If I push the handle downward causing the deck to rise slightly, it chugs again. (I'm not a mechanical engineer, but I think that symptom tells me there is an air flow problem.)

My lawn. Admittedly, my lawn is more weeds than grass. On the other hand, my neighbors' lawns are beautiful. The men go out every Saturday morning in their bermuda shorts and socks with brown loafers and work on their lawns. It shows.

I got home from work at around 7:00 p.m. last evening. The lawn looked ghastly. The weeds had grown like - well - weeds. So after changing into "yard clothes" I pulled the lawn mower out...pressed the red button 3x...held down the throttle and pulled the cord. Instant start. Good sign.

Putt-putt-putt down the driveway and onto the lawn. I see a youngish man (late 30s) coming up the street walking his dog. I see him a lot. I've seen his dog taking a dump on my lawn on several occasions. He's one of the "newbies" in the subdivision. Moved in several years ago; total renovation. Young professional. Cocktail party type. Nice house, good lawn, great landscaping. He waves. I give him the "hi-dee-ho" with my chin because if I let go of the throttle the mower will stall, then stop, and I may not get it started again before dark. He slows down as he gets to the edge of my property. His dog sniffs around. He stops, takes in a wide shot of my lawn, and starts to speak in a tsk-tsk tone.

"Gee. You're lawn is really gone, isn't it."

What I thought: Nice to meet you too, rude little snotnose. You're from the North East aren't you? Or from L.A.? The product of too much smoke and dust and a thin ozone layer.
What I said: "Well, its a process. Um - I can't let go of the throttle so you'll have to speak up."

"Oh! Sure!" he shouted. "I spent $$$$ (here he divulges a large price tag) on having my lawn re-sodded last Spring."

What I thought: Idiot boy. I could have had a face lift with that.
What I said: "Yes, it's very expensive."

"This year I'm seeing weeds."

What I thought: Duh.
What I said: "Oh."

"I think the seeds might have blown over from your yard."

What I thought: They didn't blow over, dweeb. I sent them over...special delivery...just for you.
What I said: "Huh?"

"Yeah, those seeds blow with the wind, you know."

What I thought: Like the wind that blows into one of your ears and comes out the other, douche-pie?
What I said: "I guess that would depend upon which way the wind is blowing."

"Well, they look exactly like the weeds you have," taking in another expansive view of my weedy lawn.

What I thought: Are you filing a paternity suit? Did you do a DNA sample? You cracked the case, oh great genius. My weeds travel up the street in the dark of night to spawn on your lawn.
What I said: "Weeds of a specific species have identical characteristics - like all plants."

"You should probably rip the whole thing out and re-sod."

What I thought: I guarantee you something's going to get ripped out if you stand there one more second.
What I said: "Well, gotta go chop the heads off my weeds."

"Good seeing you."

What I thought: And if your dog shits on my lawn one more time, you'll find it on your windshield the next morning.
What I said: "Same here."

Thoughts That Go Bump In The Night

2010-05-12T09:36:00.008-04:00

It began uneventfully. Bed at 10:00 p.m. as usual. Hours later something awakened me. A dog barking in the distance? A car door closing? I glanced at the clock: 2:00 a.m.

"If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get four more hours of sleep."

But the "night thoughts" started. Random, stupid, annoying things that keep the mind awake:

That conversation earlier today - no, I guess that would be yesterday now. Why do we say African-American? I would bet that very few Americans have ever put a toe on Africa. My buddy P** is African-American. She hasn't been to Africa. Does she even call herself African-American? I've never heard her say, one way or the other. Make a note to ask P** about that. What about people of color who live in...let's say...Scotland? They wouldn't be African-American...surely.

There are a lot of syllables in that phrase as well. We like to abbreviate everything, so that's odd. We're getting lazy. Names of leaders...There was FDR, and JFK, and MLK - and then the shortest of all - W. Then there's LOL and TBA and FYI. "I've got the 411 on that."

If I fall back asleep right now, I'll get 3-1/2 more hours of sleep.

What program was it tonight - no - by now it was last night - someone said, "I bet most Americans can't even name the 9 Supreme Court Justices." I think I could. Rogers, Ginsberg, Kennedy, Scalia, Alito, Stevens, Sotomayor - I wonder how she spells her name. S-O-T-O-M-A-Y-O-R. Right? Now I lost count. Alphabetically - Alito, Bader-Ginsberg, Kennedy, Rogers, Scalia, Sotomayor, Stevens, Thomas. I wish I had a camera with me when I met Clarence Thomas. Why didn't I think to bring a camera? I could have asked someone to take our picture. He's short for a man. I wanted to genuflect and kiss his ring when I met him. I got so nervous. I think I said something dumb - I can't recall. Did I name nine? No. Eight.

If I fall asleep right now, I'll get almost 3 more hours of sleep.

I had a feeling Snape would turn out to be a good guy in the end. In fact I knew it. I told John so. I knew it right from the first. I don't forgive J.K. Rowling. That was mean, what she did. And that comment she made about Dumbledore. If it didn't happen to the character in the books, it didn't happen, right? I mean, they can't have a life outside the books themselves.

Did I let the cat in?

Did I turn off the oven?

What ever happened to those Northern Nights sheets? The sage ones. They were crisper than these. These are Egyptian cotton and soft. Maybe I need crisper sheets. Am I cold? Should I get up and get another blanket? I'll wake up too much if I get up, and...

If I fall asleep right now I'll get almost 2-1/2 hours more sleep.

Oh, blast! I have to get my car tags tomorrow. No - I guess that would be today. Why do I have to get them again? I just got the car in February. Didn't I pay tax, tags and license at closing? Make a note to pull the paperwork out of the glove compartment. Why do they call it a glove compartment? Does anyone ever put their gloves in the glove compartment? Why not call it the paper compartment, or owner's manual compartment. I don't think the car has a cigarette lighter. On second thought, I know it doesn't. When did they stop putting cigarette lighters in cars. I don't smoke. It doesn't matter.

I did let the cat in, right? I remember calling him. I'm not getting up. I know I did. Didn't I? I turned the oven off, I'm sure...but I think a light is on downstairs.

My hours weren't good enough last month. I have to do better this month. Let's see...this Friday is the half-way point in the month. After Friday I'll have 11 more work days - no 10. Because the 31st is a holiday. So, I have to be at...what? 80 by Friday. What do I have so far? Was it 40? or 42? or was it 38? If I do ten hours a day for the last ten days, that's 100 right there.

If I fall asleep right now, I'll get another 2 hours of sleep. That will be fine. Good enough anyway.

Lord...it will be "bagels in the kitchen" at work tomorrow - I mean today. They do that every time someone has a birthday. I wish they'd just forget about mine. I usually skip the bagel thing. But I'll have to have one tomor...today. It will be for me. So I have to. I hope they don't make me eat the bagel while they watch. I'll say I'm taking it back to my office to "save for later." Damn carbs. Well, then, I'd better give up red wine if I don't want carbs. No more wine. Maybe just for the occasion and then that's it. I'm serious.

I wonder what movie is in the DVD player? I wonder if I can work the clicker in the dark? Oh, good. You've Got Mail. I did it. There's the tune..."Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true..." Give up. Watch a movie...Breyer! Justice Breyer. That's nine. Does he spell his name like the ice cream? I'll look it up tomorrow - or today. "If only I could have a puppy, I'd think myself so very lucky..." continues the tune.

If only I could fall asleep right now, I'd get 1-1/2 more hours of....zzzzz

Perhaps A Barge Down The Nile

2010-05-06T13:32:00.005-04:00

A wasted day. An absolutely wasted day. I hate days like this...days when I arrive at the office with every intention of being productive. But after I walk into my office and sit down in my big blue leather chair a funk settles over me. I drum my fingers on the desk and stare out the window, I groan every time the phone rings. I Google Castles in Ireland, or the cost of flying from Atlanta to Heathrow in - let's see - six months from now. Then I remember how I hate flying. How about Nova Scotia? I can actually drive all the way to Nova Scotia. What is there to see and do there? And I spend the next hour flitting from Nova Scotia to Prince Edward Island to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and up to Mackinac Island. (My mind never goes very far west, nor any more south than where I currently am).

Some time ago (well...in truth some decades ago) I was at a party in Hawaii at a friend's condo - which had a lovely view of Diamond Head. We were a group of about 8 or 9 from all over the world, drawn together because not many of us could afford to fly back home very often (or in my case ever) for years at a time. So we became family to each other, spending holidays hanging out together. All young, all hopeful, all very clever (or so we thought - things aren't always what they seem to be, alas.) One of the guys in our group was into psychology. I can't remember now if he was working on his Ph.d. or not, but as I recall he worked in the field. In any event, at this particular party "D" was listening to me expound on some thing or another. I am quite confident I droned. He was a very rapt audience, looking very intently at me (he was also rather drunk). I finished my point. Silence. Seconds passed. He continued to stare me down. Discomfort mounting, I was about to shout, "Okay - What?" when he said, "Linda, for you, analysis would be a complete waste." He took another swig of whatever he was drinking, hiccuped, and fell asleep on the floor.

I am now trying to remember why I told you this story. Oh, yes. Here it is: I never have to wonder why I feel the way I feel, or why I think the way I think, or do the things I do. I just know myself. I am not sure if that is an unusual trait. I'm so used to it, it doesn't seem at all odd to me. Maybe it is something one is born with - like being right-handed, or being able to tie a cherry stem into a knot with ones tongue, or being very very limber. (Which reminds me -most competitive swimmers are born with a ligamentous laxity in their shoulder joints, which in the rest of us might be diagnosed as Multidirectional Instability but for them makes them better swimmers. In other words, my abnormal can be someone else's normal.)

So, I do not have to ask myself why I am staring into space and thinking of castles in Ireland. I know why I can't focus properly on tasks at hand, whether it is answering my business correspondence or cleaning out the hall closet. I know myself, you see. I need a vacation. I have not had a vacation since my eldest son was in the 5th grade and we went to the mountains for a week. He will turn 30 this summer. How pathetic is that?

Well, blast and damn I've had enough! I'm fired up and I'm going to do it. And I'm not just talking about a long weekend visit with family. This year I am going on a Vacation - (note the capital "V"). A real one. I'm going to pack my bags and brush the dust off my traveling shoes and...well...just go. I might pin a map to the wall and throw a dart. I might travel by pack mule or by paddle wheel up the Mississippi. But go I shall. Blessed relaxation - with nothing to do but read and drink those little drinks with the paper umbrellas. I'll remember to take lots of pictures - maybe from the top of a pyramid.

Renaissance Tinky

2010-05-05T09:38:00.017-04:00

My dear pal, Tinky Weisblat, (well, we've never actually met, but that's one of the marvelous things about the blogosphere, right?) is not only an author, a food writer, a fabulous cook, the holder of a doctorate in American Studies and a masters degree journalism, she has a marvelous blog named In Our Grandmothers' Kitchens which you really ought to visit regularly. Tinky is also a gifted singer (or, chanteuse, as she would say). ("Well big deal," grumbles Grad. "I've got talent too, 'ya know. I'm am practising my Hula Hooping and I bet I could beat the snot out of her if it ever came to a contest." Yeah, you go, Grad.) Tinky's blog often has an event- driven theme, and in honor of the running of the Kentucky Derby she created a link to her beautiful rendition of My Old Kentucky Home, and with any luck, I'll be able to get the link to work correctly so you can enjoy it as well. Songs about the south always make this Yankee a little teary-eyed. I love your voice, Tinky, but how about a little Led Zeppelin? Stairway to Heaven or D'yer M'aker perhaps. So, okay (with Tinky's kind permission) here goes...let's see if I can do this ... http://www.merrylion.com/downloads/music/Kentucky%20Home%20with%20Band.mp3

Woo hooo! Success!

Did I mention that I am available for all sorts of agent-type promotions. My commission is a mere 20%...off the top.

Veredictum

2010-04-28T09:23:00.015-04:00

I left the office Friday afternoon forgetting to take Wolf Hall with me. I didn't miss it until that evening when I sat down to read. Do you know that sinking feeling of wanting to get back into a delicious book and being thwarted? Of course you do, I need not have asked. I was squarely faced with a dilemma. Do I drive back to the darkened and deserted office at that time of night to retrieve it, or take something else off the shelf? I turned my attention to the new stack of books recently purchased at The Big Book Sale and my hand lighted on Shroud by John Banville. Only a little over 250 pages, I assumed it would be an easy read for the weekend. After 50 pages I realized it was not a novel I could readily settle into for the night; I had no desire to spend that particular evening with Axel Vander, the narrator. After the day I had the thought of strapping him on was just too much. Banville writes so beautifully I will return to it; but, I do not anticipate it will be a pleasant reunion.

"I would lie to her, of course; mendacity is second, no, is first nature to me. All my life I have lied. I lied to escape, I lied to be loved, I lied for placement and power; I lied to lie. It was a way of living; lies are life's almost-anagram." Dissect Axel Vander's person hood and that is what you would find at his core.

Old Axel hit upon one of my raw nerves; I am already not liking him very much - or trusting him very much. Lying is useful to cover bad behavior, obtain something not deserved, or avoid punishment (usually justified). "I need that good grade," "I don't want to go to jail," "I want that job," or the ever popular, "My wife would leave me." Right, right. You're saying we all tell a lie now and then. Yes, certainly not every baby is beautiful and not every hair-style becoming. So perhaps you weren't exactly campus queen (if that sort of thing is important to you) but you did run, and you did come in second - so it's almost true. No, no, no. We are not talking about those kinds of - well - let's call them embellishments of the truth. And telling the Nazi SS, straight-faced, that there is no one hiding in the attic is a lie I would have proudly told (assuming the requisite courage). The lies that deceive the trustful soul - those are the lies I'm talking about, the lies that wound.

Some people find themselves wading through lies every day - trying to sift through facts in the hopeful expectation that truth will pile up in a little heap and untruth will be caught in the fine mesh. We are expected to hold the belief that when someone raises their hand and swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but...the oath in itself is the truth. But I've always wondered what good is there in an oath that spews from the lips of a skilled (or in Axel's case a proud) liar? It makes no sense.

Why should truth hold such currency with us? I would offer this: lies have the capacity to destroy lives, ruin careers, end marriages and stab trust in the heart. You only need to look at the headlines for affirmation. Whether it be politics or love or closing the deal, truth is the net below the trapeze. Liar and Cheat, I should hope, is an epitaph to be avoided. So I ask myself, why should I want to spend any more time with Axel Vander? I can't redeem him, and I do not wish to engage him in conversation. But I can pity him and re-affirm my belief that there is something satisfying in speaking truth. I can also take pleasure in the mouth-feel of Banville's prose. Even a cursory reading of Shroud reveals that saving grace in the book. Perhaps I've judged Axel too soon. After all, I've only just brushed shoulders with him. Nevertheless, "I lied to lie," echoes in my ear. The question I have for you, Axel, is this: "Are you lying when you say you lie? If lying is what you do, are you lying about that too?" What a pretty problem. Or more likely, not so pretty one. I guess I'll wait to find out; I'll try to keep a fair and enlightened mind. But between you and me, I'm inclined to believe Axel Vander is a complete and utter tool.

The Big Book Sale Re-Visited

2010-04-21T09:36:00.005-04:00

On April 10 I attended my third Big Book Sale at the library. This time it wasn't held at the Main Branch downtown but at a brand spankin' new one located about 45 minutes from where I live. But, it was a lovely Saturday morning, the drive was pleasant, and I was listening to a good book so I didn't mind the commute.

When I stepped out of the car I became immediately aware that I had forgotten my canvas bag at home, so it was probably a good thing I had limited myself to spend only $10.

It was my first time in this branch, a bright and open modern structure with lots of windows, high ceilings and plenty of light filtering through the tall Live Oak trees outside - thick with spanish moss. It had a sculpture I'm not sure I understood which consisted of thick glass discs made of different colored whirled glass. At first I thought the discs were designed to catch the sunlight and filter reflected colors into the room, but the discs were attached to a wall above an entry into the main stacks, so light was not able to penetrate them. It reminded me of the bottoms of water tumblers strung together with wire. I liked it.

I turned my concentration to the combinations that $10 made possible. Ten hardbacks; 20 paperbacks; 5 hardbacks and 10 paperbacks; 8 hardbacks and 4 paperbacks; 5 paperbacks and 7 hardbacks with 50 cents left over. Exactly how many combinations could I come up with? The mental exercise became an obsession and I began to drive myself nuts, "Damn and blast," I said to myself. At least, I thought I said it to myself. One of the problems with living alone is that one speaks out loud to dogs, cats, plants and oneself. I don't pay attention to myself at home, I just let myself prattle on. But when heads turned to stare at me in the line, I turned and looked behind me as well in a "who was that" effort at deceit. I doubt it worked.

I went back to staring at the sculpture trying to appear nonchalant; and, as I pretended to ponder its arty-ness, a sturdy and efficient-looking librarian addressed the politely waiting crowd to my complete and grateful relief.

"You will find that this auditorium is much larger than the one at the main branch. Which means you will also find that there are a greater number of books for sale."

Yipee! (I double checked - I had not shouted it out loud). I started salivating; but, also thought "Curse the budget! Curse the canvas bag sitting on the dining room table."

She continued:

"Please note that there are several glass doors inside the auditorium marked 'Fire Exit.' Do not use those doors under any circumstances because the alarms will sound and the fire department will automatically be summoned."

I assumed that the warning would not apply if a fire did break out and that she believed we were all intelligent enough to figure that out without being told. I liked this librarian. She gave the impression of someone solidly in charge of her new terrain, delighted to see so many faces gathered for the sale, but determined to keep order nevertheless.

I studied the crowd. There were a lot of families with children in tow and about the same number of "seniors." There was not as much diversity as one sees at the downtown book sales, certainly not as many art students, but there was the same happy almost festive feeling as the clock ticked down to 10:00 a.m.

The librarian stood sentinel at the double doors, glancing up at the wall clock and then down at her watch in synchronization toward the big moment. She withdrew the key from her pocket turned the lock and swung open the doors.

There was no big rush; we filed in in an orderly fashion. Inside the auditorium long neatly prepared tables held what seemed to be miles of books, displayed pages down and spines up, in two rows per table. One walked up one side of the table to look at the titles, made a turn at the end of the table, and then came down the other side. There were also the dreaded boxes under the tables, which I basically avoided notwithstanding my Total Gym workouts. The books were categorized and clearly marked History, Adult Fiction, Cookbooks, Biography, etc.

I hate to bring this up, but there was a very nice-looking, tall, gray-haired man behind me who had apparently anointed himself with the most odious cologne during his morning toilette. Everywhere I walked, there he was - right behind me. He wasn't following me, but he was definitely on the same trajectory. I wondered if he lived with a woman. Surely not. Surely if he did, she would have set a match to the bottle, or hidden it, or would have insisted on separate bedrooms until he changed his scent. But I was wrong. As I was leaving I saw them walking toward their car. They were dressed exactly alike; both were wearing pink shirts and khaki slacks. They made a perfect pair: he odoriferous/she with no sense of smell. They were a sweet couple (at a distance).

There were almost too many books and I had to be back to the island by noon. So, I basically had only an hour to make my choices. It was impossible to "do" the entire room. There was only one specific book I had hoped to find, Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. I was shocked when I walked over to juvenile fiction and it was the first book I saw.

Here's what I came home with:

Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech (because it was recommended by Janell at Spare Pages and by several other bloggers, and I liked Chasing Redbird)

Strawberry Fields by Marina Lewycka. I grabbed this one for no reason. Since then I've done some checking and it has gotten fairly good reviews, so maybe it was kismet.

Spider's Web by Agatha Christie. No need to explain that one.

Shroud by John Banville. I've not read any Banville and I remembered it was on that list I say I care nothing about.

Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. I remembered seeing this book at the bookstore but never picked it up. When I read the cover and learned it was set in the Civil War era I thought I'd give it a try. Just today, I learned that in 2003 it was made into a major motion picture starring Jude Law...a testament to how out of touch I am.

Dinner With Anna Karenina by Gloria Goldreich. I liked the premise of a book club as a theme (and although I've heard that theme has been done to death in novels, I've not read one.) When I got the book home I did a little Google-ing. Apparently it is one of those books one loves or hates (a la The Story of Edgar Sawtelle for which there seems to be no middle-ground). The fact that one reviewer called it a "clunker" worries me a bit. I'll give it a try; it can always be re-donated to the library for the next Big Book Sale.

Red River by Lalita Tademy. Again, I had not heard of this book or author (which doesn't mean a thing, really) but it had a Civil War theme and the description on the book jacket sounded promising.

Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith. I loved Gorky Park so I took a flier on this one.

The Joy of Chinese Cooking by Lo Mei Hing because the recipes seem easy to follow, the food looks marvelous, and I just might cook something from it.

The Naked Chef Takes Off because Jamie Oliver is just plain adorable (and was only 25 when he wrote this - not his first - cookbook - bloody under-achiever!)

One last note - my total should have been $9.50 because Cold Mountain is a paperback, but the volunteer charged me a dollar. I was tempted to correct her - on principle - but I behaved myself and said "Thank you" instead. I might regret that decision the next time I get a $5 parking ticket for want of a quarter.

Ten Things

2010-04-15T09:14:00.016-04:00

"I wish to thank the Academy..." Oops - wrong award. The Beautiful Blogger and Honest Scrap Awards have been graciously bestowed upon your humble servant by the most perceptive (wink wink) Bibliophiliac (have not figured out how to do links, but you can find that delightful blog in the list over yonder) with the instruction to tell 10 things about myself, and then to award the same honors to 10 other blogs that I admire. (Which will be the easiest thing about this entire endeavor).

I don't much like myself as a subject. I am truly boring. So, we'll start with the obvious:

(Grad climbs upon her soap box and clears throat and speaks):

"As mayor of the Munchkin city, in the county and the land of Oz..."

"Psst,"

"Hmmm? "

"No, wrong script. This is the one 'ya want."

"Oh, quite right."

(Applause, applause - hoots and hollers)

Grad, feigning to waive the crowd to silence ("Might as well milk this one to the last drop") as she "tut-tuts" the honor bestowed - with false humility and wondering if she remembered lipstick - addresses the adoring throng. "Thank you. Thank you my friends. We are gathered here - today - at this momentous moment of momentous-ness -- Err - to pay homage to..Um...ME! Yep! ME. I accept these awards with a fulsome heart. Ten delightful and hitherto unknown facts about Oh so wonderful wonderful Moi are as follows:

1. I am as boring as watching dust settle; but

2. My children think I am the best mother that ever walked the planet. Of course, I brainwashed them unashamedly. In my defense, loyal fans can be hard to come by so sometimes we just have to grow our own.

3. Twenty-one years ago I built a house that was supposed to be the home of my dreams. The dream turned into a big, hungry elephant that eats peanuts by the shovelful; alas, my shovel is often too small. I spend most of my free time devoted to its care and feeding. At times I am certain it hates me; at other times I think it merely loves to play tricks on me. Still, it's home and it is where I am happiest.

4. True and enduring love has eluded me all my life. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I've been lucky in so many other things my dance card was deemed full by the powers that be. Or...it could be (refer here to #1).

5. I have a happy soul and I am pretty good at making people laugh.

6. I believe in God and in heaven. If I'm wrong, no harm done. If I'm right, I hit the jackpot.

7. I've kissed the Blarney Stone.

8. I love people and have wonderful friends; but, I am a very solitary person. Having to go to work everyday probably saves me from being a recluse.

9. I want to be a writer when I grow up.

10. I want a red Hula Hoop, just like the one I had as a kid. And after I bring it home, I'm taking it into the backyard to practice (to the utter horror of my neighbors to be sure) until I become just as good at it as I was then. (I won a neighborhood Hula Hooping contest one summer. That I even remember such an un-auspicious occasion is probably number 11 in this list, but that would exceed my quota).

Well, dear friends I could go on, and on, and on about ME...What? What's that? Did I hear someone shout, 'More'?'" (She hadn't but mused "what the hell.")

Then I shall gladly bow to popular demand and proceed to start from the beginning. Ahem. There were gale force winds on the day I was born to poor but proud parents who were descended from the royal line of the House of Scrabowski in the county of Droznovia, nestled in the hills outside..."

Expounding prolifically, she failed to take notice that the crowd had slowly dispersed to a little pub around the corner. Apparently everyone was in need of a good, stiff drink. Grad, as was her wont, went home alone - in the rain - to eat a bowl of cold gruel.

Extremes

2010-04-12T10:01:00.007-04:00

Just as I pulled into the parking lot of the library on Saturday morning for The Big Book Sale, I listened to the last lines of Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. The most I will say about the book is that it was profoundly moving and I recommend that you read it. No. That's not quite right, either. I urge you to read it. I would almost pay you to read it. Why? Because I care about you. As you begin to read you may wonder how the whole thing will tie together in the end. But be patient. Thou shalt be rewarded.

The audio book I listened to was beautifully read by several voices - at least three that I could discern. It might actually be the sort of book better experienced in audio than read in the traditional way. I'll leave that up to you.

Feeling the need for something totally light-hearted after Extremely Loud, and on the advice of the librarian, I picked up the audio version of The Well Of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde and am loving loving loving my daily commute because of it. (Remind me to send that librarian flowers). Why oh why haven't I heard of this series starring literary detective Tuesday Next? I think I should probably have started with the first book, The Eyre Affair, but it's too late now. No jumping out of the roller coaster in mid-roll. Thursday, a JurisFiction agent, has applied for a vacation assignment through the Character Exchange Program (a program designed to allow bookpeople a change of scenery; there had been a spate of characters actually escaping from their books, you see, and one simply can't have that!) and she has been assigned to Caversham Heights, an unpublished crime novel in the Well Of Lost Plots. The Well is comprised of 26 floors of "dingy sub-basements" beneath the Great Library. It is here that unpublished books are "constructed, honed and polished" to make them ready for a place in the library, where they can then be read by Outlanders (people in the real world). As Tuesday explains, "The failure rate is high."

An added delight is the reading by Elizabeth Saztre, who has a lovely voice and a bright British accent absolutely perfect for the task.

Bibliophiles of the world, rejoice. From thought provoking and wrenching to sheer unbounded fun - what a wild ride is reading!

What Have I Been Doing?

2010-04-07T10:22:00.006-04:00

Like the Alice's White Rabbit, I am always running late these days. "No time to say, 'hello,' 'goodbye,' I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" And I am also buried in time sensitive projects. But, dear Curious Reader, I really did want to drop you a line to let you know that (a) I am not trapped under a heavy object, (b) I am not in jail, (c) I have been reading.

I couldn't bear to continue with the last chapter of House of Mirth via the audio book because I trusted the reader would screw it up. Instead, I went to the library, pulled a copy off the shelf, and sat in a quiet corner to finish it. And as I always do when I come to the last sentence of a well-loved book, I closed the cover and sat holding it for a while. I wanted to cry; I was also quite angry at Edit Wharton.

After I finished The Glass Palace, I jumped right into In The Woods by Tana French. I avoid stories that involve child rape or murder. My reasoning along those lines is that I sadly cannot avoid learning of these events in the stark reality of life; but, I can certainly avoid rubbing elbows with the subject matter in a novel. Nevertheless, so many people were raving about it I decided to give it a try and concur with my friends that it was a good and suspenseful read. I look forward to reading more by this author. In the library copy I had, someone has drawn a "?" below the last paragraph. I think I know what he or she meant. Not all mysteries had been solved, and I am speculating we will see Adam Ryan again someday.

I began Uncle Silas by Sheridan Le Fanu and settled in comfortably - enjoying it more and more with each page. But then...a package came!! From half-way around the world. I couldn't wait to get into the house to open it; so, I sat on the front steps and carefully pulled the "to open" tab. There was Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel sent to me by the lovely Fugitive Pieces. I get excited every time I get a new book. Especially when it's a gift. But a gift from someone I've never met - how kind and thoughtful was that? I mean, really. (Pssst. Come closer. She may slip into the room without me noticing. I don't want to spoil the surprise. But I thought and thought about what I could do to say "thank you." It had to be something unique. Something she can't come by where she lives. I came up with "a something"...not much...but it will take an afternoon. A sunny one. I might slip out this Friday to do it. I can't say anymore. Just in case there are spies. But...I can't wait.) Ahem. So, there was Wolf Hall and there was Uncle Silas. Thankfully, Uncle Silas is so good and so worth savoring that I will not be tempted to storm through it just to start Wolf Hall. But it gives me a warm and satisfying feeling to know that something good awaits, and that my immediate reading future looks bright.

I tried listening to An American Wife on audio, but returned it to the library after a couple of discs. I really didn't care for it very much. I guess I felt that if one is going to write fiction, then write fiction...not an unauthorized biography masquerading as fiction. There was something about it which gave me the feeling I was wasting precious time. The same feeling I got as a kid eating too many marshmallow Peeps. But the bottom line is I wasn't finding it very interesting. (The reader was very good, however.) At present, my commute is taken up with listening to Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer - which is hilarious, and touching, and sad, and very very good. So good in fact, I bought the paperback edition of Everything Is Illuminated.

Well, that's about it folks. O! One last thought. I shredded the poxy list! Why? The new 1001 Books To Read blah-blah-blah came out and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth has been removed! As far as I can discern it was the only one removed. Wouldn't you know it had to be the only book on the list I read which post-dated I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I guess it makes some bit of sense. After all, books are published every day and when one of them makes the list, another has to be lost if the list is to be limited to 1001.

On the horizon - April 10 - another Big Book Sale at the library. Before I became anti-list, I would have definitely carried it with me. God forbid I should rely upon my own sense of taste! So I will NOT be tempted to print off another copy, and the author of the list can "Succotash my Balzac, dipshiitake!" as Oskar Schell, the nine-year old narrator of Extremely Loud would say. (Gosh, that felt good.)

The Glass Palace

2010-03-29T10:10:00.008-04:00

I finished The Glass Palace by Amtav Ghosh last week. I am sad to say it left me completely underwhelmed. It isn't an awful book; some of it is really quite good. In fact, it begins very promisingly before it starts to deflate. One of the problems with the novel is that it doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up. Is it a family saga? An historical narrative? An expose of the evils of colonization by the British Empire and its effects on South East Asia in general, Burma in particular? It could have been all these things, and it certainly tried, but it never quite gelled into one cohesive story. Missing too was the enthralling storytelling I found in Sea Of Poppies. Ghosh himself seemed to grow tired of the book and the last 100 pages came off as a flurried slap-dash attempt to quickly tie up loose ends. I felt like a dinner guest who was being rushed to the exit the minute I put down my dessert fork. "What's your hurry? Here's the door."

Do publishers employ editors anymore? There are novels in which every word has a place in the story (House of Mirth comes immediately to mind because I am listening to the final chapter on audio book); but, I have found that sloppy editing is my main complaint with novels these days. The Glass Palace could have benefited from the blue pencil had it been used to whittle down this 500 page book into a tight, well-told story of about 350 pages. Certainly, the author is talented enough. As it is, the book suffers from a multiple personality disorder which could have been successfully treated. Although not a complete waste of time, I hate to admit this book was a disappointment.

Living Lean

2010-03-23T10:09:00.014-04:00

Grad's rounding the bend...she's racing down the straight-away...toward the finish line. One week to go to prove a budgeted life is workable. Except for the mortgage (which has always been an automatic draft) all bills were paid (or scheduled on-line) on the first day of the month-regardless their due date. That one small change in habit has done wonders for sleep. No longer do I sit straight up in bed, in the middle of the night, in a panic that I've forgotten to pay the electric bill and am facing disconnection. All my monthly expenditures, fixed and discretionary, are now on a spreadsheet. Every dollar has a name. Every one. I love my spreadsheet. I pull it up on the computer and look at it, tweak it, gaze at it lovingly. "Who's the most adorable spreadsheet in the world? Hm?? Whooo? (tickle-tickle) That's wight. Widdle YOU." Well, maybe it hasn't come to that extreme, yet. But I ask myself, how did I manage all these decades without such an unflinching taskmaster? The answer is, not very well. The fixed stuff was easy, of course. But the discretionary spending has been the real challenge. It is much too difficult to say "no" to myself in a bookstore, so I spend a lot more time in the library.

I am staying far away from the kitchen-ware store. I've promised myself that for every gadget that comes to live in my kitchen, another must be banished. Since I can't abide waste, a replacement is allowed only upon something else's demise. That has been difficult. And sad...so sad. No more All-Clad cookware - not even the roaster I desperately desired. No more Lock 'n Lock storage containers, which already fill up an entire cabinet, even if they do make the pantry so neat. No cute rooster towel holders, no microfiber dish towels. No!

The third danger zone I face is the grocery store. I hate grocery shopping, and my modus operandi has always been to dash in, fill the cart up as quickly as I can with whatever looks good, and get out. This strategy does not work on a budget. I now take a more studied approach. Although I like to cook, I don't usually follow recipes. The paradox here: I own more cookbooks than any other type of book. I am shocked at the realization. Apparently, I horde them as well. What other explanation could there be for owning four copies of Joy? Actually, they are different editions, so that must be the answer. I have six books by Julia Child and only recently did I realize that two of them are identical (they only have different covers). I own every cookbook written by Ina Garten and Nigella Lawson, and several by Lidia Bastianich. But - with the exception of Julia, Joy and Ina - I seldom, if ever, cooked from them.

A written budget is a challenge. A test. Like trying to survive in the forest with nothing but a Boy Scout knife. It is a thing foreign to me. I am not saying I have heretofore been able to spend freely. Quite the opposite. I just never quite got around to putting it down - in figures I can look at. I simply came off the month with an incredulous look on my face. "Where had it gone?" But staring down the cold, hard reality of a spreadsheet brings it all into focus. So things have changed. As a result, faced with self-restriction of the most tangible sort, I now take out the aforementioned cookbooks and actually decide what I will prepare for lunches and dinners that week. I check what I already have in the pantry or freezer or fridge, and what needs to be used up.

Although I love nothing better than a rare bit of roast beef, or a Cornish game hen with wild rice stuffing, I am eating more vegetarian meals now. I found a lovely (and sometimes fearsome) recipe that combines bulgur and green lentils, and which embraces the odd, left-over bits of fresh broccoli rolling around in the vegetable bin, or a wayward spring onion, the tomato that didn't make the cut in yesterday's salad, the juice from the part of the lime left over from my gin and tonic (I am still debating whether alcohol should be included in the food budget, or is more the domain of the "miscellaneous" column of the spreadsheet.) It accepts all comers, that bulgur-lentil thing-y. Which is why it is lovely, of course. The fearsome part? Although bulgur and lentils together produce a complete protein, they also produce...how to put this delicately...flatulence. I suggest that if one embarks down the bulgur-lentil road, one does so gradually or one works Beano into one's food budget. (Forgive me for broaching the subject, but I wish someone had warned me.)

I have also discovered that I am willing to make concessions on some things - the store brand frozen veggies are just as good as the "Ho-Ho-Ho" brand with the picture of the green dude wearing a pea-pod suit for instance - but not on others. I'll pay the extra two bucks for the organic milk and cage-free, vegetarian-fed chicken eggs, as well as the organic limes and lemons if I'm using the zest. Oh, that reminds me...I always use the zest, it freezes wonderfully.

For years I only bought artisan breads...those hearty, hefty loaves with crusty crusts and dense yet yielding insides. I also love baking my own loaves and find the long process enormously gratifying when I have lots of time. But bread-baking isn't very practical as a daily office. I have a bread machine. A bread machine is one of those contraptions that I bought and then stuffed into the pantry after a try or two. I didn't like the texture of the bread baked in it. But I have since discovered that I can throw all the ingredients into the machine and simply run it through the dough cycle. All the real work having been done for me, once it has risen, I simply take it out of the machine, knead it a few seconds (more for my benefit that for its) and let it rise without any further help from me while the oven heats up. Bang it into the oven, and pull out a perfectly-textured artisan loaf - for less than half the price at the bakery.

I suppose I shouldn't get too puffed up yet. I still have a week to go - I could blow it with an ill-timed visit to Barnes and Noble, or a sojourn in the shoe department of Macys. And, although this whole thing has been a revelation to me, I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that I am the last person on the planet who hasn't followed a strict, written-down budget all along. I should have been the first. Certainly, no one has ever accused me of being financially solvent.

With luck, and some self-control, I just might be able to retire and, like Sherlock Holmes, keep bees - or something. Of course, there's always the possibility of Prince Charming coming to the rescue. In which case, it's caviar my dears!

Voices In My Head

2010-03-15T13:23:00.007-04:00

Not all audio books are created equal. I've been listening to Wharton's House of Mirth, and am not loving it solely because I cannot abide the narrator's voice. When simply reading without embellishment her voice is pleasant enough - a little Kathy Turner-ish maybe. But unless adept at it (let's say a Robin Williams or a Meryl Streep) I wish narrators would not attempt a collection of voices to represent the characters. In the version I have, the deep-throated and hackneyed interpretation of Lawrence Seldon's voice was at first amusing, and then became downright annoying, as it makes him sound like "wolfie" dressed in Granny's clothing emoting, "Oh so better to see you with..." or a thinly moustached, slick-haired debaucher of young women urging, "Have some Madeira, m'dear," while twirling his waxed handlebars. It is escrutiating to the point I dreaded any conversation involving poor Mr. Seldon, and so I will have to brace myself for more to come. A shame really, since I am enjoying the story itself. The narration is such a...I guess the word is "distraction." And, of course, Wharton's language is so richly beautiful, I regret not being able to linger over a passage that strikes me. Audio books travel at their own pace. I suppose I could fiddle with the buttons and replay the portions I particularly like, but that's not so easy when eyes are on the road. However, since it is the only way I will be able to get it read within the next few months, I am resigned to hang in there. This is the first audio book where I have run across this particular problem. Naturally, I wouldn't want the text read as though being done by an automaton, but I think it's possible to find a happy medium. Mine is, of course, purely subjective criticism and I imagine others have found this particular audio edition delightful.

On the opposite end of the enjoyment spectrum, The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon, written by David Grann and narrated by Mark Deakins was spellbinding. The background story surrounds British explorer and member of the Royal Geographic Society, Percy Fawcett's unrelenting quest to find an Eldorado-like lost city deep in the uncharted Amazon that he named simply: "Z". In 1925, Fawcett (after already trying and failing multiple times), his 22 year-old son Jack, and Jack's friend Raleigh Rimell disappeared during an expedition into the Amazon jungle. What happened to them remains mere conjecture. All that is known for certain is that they were never heard from again. There were many subsequent attempts to "rescue" the lost men, which resulted in the deaths of hundreds of others bent on solving the Fawcett mystery, and thereby garnering a sort of immortality. Numerous theories have been offered to explain Fawcett's fate. But none of those theories have been supported by any tangible proof. The truth is impossibly illusive. Grann, a writer for The New Yorker magazine and an admitted "couch potato," set out on a mission of his own to retrace the steps of the Fawcett group. Luckily, he survived to tell this wonderful tale. The Lost City of Z is part personal memoir, part biography and a totally mesmerizing adventure tale filled with Indians who could sling poison arrows with the precision of surgeons, maggots that crawl into human flesh and fester there, maddening insects, and fish and animals (not to mention cannibals) that would love nothing more than to make a meal of a hapless adventurer. It was so gripping it was almost dangerous to listen to while driving; one should be concentrating on the road. "How did I get on my driveway? I was just on the Upper Xingu badly in need of bug spray and a bath." Interspersed with listening to the book, I would Google Earth the Amazon coordinates where the Fawcett group was last seen, and then "fly" overhead, northward. That was close enough for me, and scary enough for me since my idea of roughing it is a hotel room without room service.

I understand a movie based on the book and starring Brad Pitt is due out in 2012. Although I think Pitt is too pretty for the role, not gritty enough, I will be in the audience with the largest tub of popcorn they sell.

Awake and Arise

2010-03-04T11:42:00.011-05:00

I have been caught in a Rip Van Winkle-ish maelstrom. I leaned too far over the edge and was sucked into its vortex and am only now flogging my way out. So...okay...probably too dramatic a description, but that's how it seems. Blink and weeks have flown by. I don't know if it's because I've just been very busy in my personal and professional life, or crazed about reading my way through that lousy 1001 books to read before you keel over list, or spend half of my leisure hours in a stupor of wonder at just how much needs to be accomplished on that house of mine.

At any rate, The Curious Reader has been neglected, and yet, ever faithful, it sits and waits. Perhaps I have just had nothing of particular interest to say. Boring oneself with one's own thoughts does not trigger any creative drive. In such an atmosphere it is better to remain silent. Not that any of my gems are all that gem-y. And, come to think of it, one simply does not HAVE to have an opinion about all things. So (blink-blink) I awaken and stretch and yawn and plop back down into the comfort of my little blog. The dripping sink will continue to drip, the bookmark will stay in its place, and I am "out of the office" for just a moment while I recount "some kinds of crazy."

First and foremost, Katharine moved away. She's off to find her fame and fortune in the big Windy City. Although she was born there, she's a totally southern chick - True Grits (Girls Raised In The South). Fully realizing she's all grown up, all I saw was a little girl with skinned knees packing up her car with her clothes and (most importantly her shoes), and some sandwiches I made for her. As I watched her car drive away, I wondered where the years had gone. "The last thing I remember," I said to myself, "I was forty and she hadn't started school yet." The intervening one and twenty are nothing but a blur. But, as Shorty said (in one of those awesome and brilliant moments when she is once again, briefly, herself), "You raised her to fly on her own. You have to open your hands and let her take flight." And then she added, "You know, like when we let Sparky go." Uh-oh. Moment gone. "Mom, we didn't let Sparky go. It was Tommy, and we didn't let him go either. He flew out of the bathroom window and although we hunted all over the neighborhood, we couldn't find him." "Really?" "Yes, and while we were looking, a neighbor said he'd just found a parakeet. But it wasn't Tommy. This parakeet was yellow. So we took her home instead and called her Peaches....remember?" "Of course I do. Don't be silly." Katharine didn't have to leave by an open bathroom window, but I still find myself scouring the neighborhood looking for her. Is she out on the patio, or crossing the lawn? Do I hear her foot on the stair, or her keys turning in the lock? Some mornings I walk down the hall to awaken her...but stop before I reach her door. Old habits die hard.

Then, there is the book list. I am really not at all concerned about reading all the books listed on that confounded list. However, reading the list made me realize that there is so much out there that I have not, and will never, experience. It has become an obsession with me lately to use all my free time to read as much as I can. In that regard, I've taken to reading books on tape rather than listening to the radio in the car, and while doing the dishes and cooking rather than having the television on, and turning off the television by 9:00 p.m. and reading until it's time to turn out the lights. There is a danger there for someone such as I. Reading is such a solitary pursuit, and not being a very socializing type to begin with, I realize I'll have to make a special effort to spend time with friends and family. Otherwise, it's totally feasible that someone could drop by one day and find a big pile of dust, and discover it is I. Of course, by then they may have missed me at work when they come to the realization that an eerie quietude has descended upon my office and no snoring emanates from within.

Jumbled in with gearing up for Katharine's move and my reading surge and home maintenance issues, is the Total Gym. I am using it, but am slowly realizing that I will never look like Christy Brinkley, no matter how much time I spend on it. (Just, please God, do not let me start looking like Chuck Norris.)

My current book life is as follows: During the last month or two I've re-read The Maltese Falcon, and finished Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett, Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (on tape). I'm doing something I've never liked doing, which is reading more than one book at a time. The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse is thin and fits in my purse (one never knows when one will be stuck in a line someplace with nothing to read but one's checkbook register) and is being read in tandem with The Glass Palace by Amitov Ghosh. (my current "at home" read). I just picked up House of Mirth by Edith Wharton and The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon by David Grann - both on audio CD. After the Ghosh, I'll begin An Academic Question by Barbara Pym and then Uncle Silas by Sheridan Le Fanu. The latter I got with a gift card from Barnes & Noble. Like all book lovers I agonized over what to get with my precious card. These things must be handled with deep care and only after careful consideration - lest a mistake be made and the card is wasted on something that will disappoint. I am not certain, but the cover looks mighty familiar. I hope it is only because it is fairly creepy, and not that I have already read it. I am 17th in line on the library wait list for Wolf Hall. Seventeenth? Groan! Probably all followers of Doctordi, and I lay the blame for my long wait on her conscience.

Finally, I've been working on my budget and take satisfaction in saying I have been faithful to it. I had been spending like Congress of late (and not at all like a drunken sailor who spends only his own money) and got fed up enough to rein it in. There is a perverse pleasure in seeing how well one can live on how little. And there is a euphoria in paying off debt. Wouldn't it be just as lovely and peaceful to bank away posts as it is dollars? I'll have to work on that one.

Next time around, I might get to talk to you about one of the books I've finished...provide you with an erudite and insightful synopsis of character and plot...OR...perhaps we'll simply discuss how to make soup!

"To Date"

2010-02-18T11:50:00.010-05:00

It may be just a sign of age...but I've been spending a lot of time worrying about all the books I will never read. I've gone so far as to calculate the number of books I could read in a month - using moderately reasonable expectations - to arrive at a yearly presumption of books I can finish. Then, using a life expectancy test, I calculated the number of years I have left to live (barring unforeseen events) and arrived at the grand total of 1,536 - books not years.

This latest obsession was triggered by my printing off a copy of Listology's "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die"(reprinted from the book of the same name by Peter Boxall). With yellow highlighter in hand, I was equipped to cross off the ones I'd read. Plentitude! "What a cinch," I told myself. I have been an avid reader all my life. And being a woman of a certain age, a rather long life. My eyes scanned down the first page. I drew a blank. "Well, no bother. I've certainly read a lot from the second page." My palms began to sweat. "None? Not one?" I was a woman on the desert with a parched throat..."Water...," cried a small, squeaky voice. I turned the page over to see if some of the titles ran around to the other side in a game of hide-and-seek. "Don't play tricks on me."

Ever so carefully, I slowly turned down one corner of page 2 to sneak a peek at the top half of page 3. "Enough is enough! Do you hear me?" More resolutely (and by this time seething with outrage) I grabbed my yellow marker poised to pounce on...something. "Stupid list." "You.. stupid...shitty...list!" I was now at the top of page four. I spoke out loud, "173. Wise Children - Angela Carter". "What the..." Not only did I not read it, I had never heard of it.

I turned page four over and slapped in down on the table, thinking to myself, "I should have read Bonfire of the Vanities. I had it in my hand, for God sake." I tried to wonder what I picked up instead. Whatever it was, it was not on page four of the list, nor, as it turned out, was it on page five. To my credit, some of the titles were on my To Be Read List. I mused that the kind of stress I was now placing upon myself was counter-productive to living to 93 (which, by the way, is the number I have to reach to read 1,536 books.) I hoped that my mind would hold out that long. What, after all, was the use of a list if I forgot what it was for? Another fearful thought crossed my now feverish brain - there would always be more books. New books. Great books. In a never-ending stream, like "The Sorcerers Apprentice"...on...and...on...and...I roused myself from my stupor and resumed the task at hand. "The task at hand, Grad," I said out loud, "is to see how many of these titles you have read...to date." I have always loved the term "to date." It resounds with hope. It reminds me of Shorty. Whenever I said, "I can't," she would tell me, "I'll let you say, 'I can't' as long as you add one more word." "What's that?" "The word 'yet'." "Okay, so 'to date'...that's better. Keep that in mind. To date."

Page six. "Maybe it's time to cheat. Just a bit." Ragtime was on page 6, and I tried to read Ragtime. It was my recollection that I hated every minute of reading Ragtime. I stopped reading it after a couple of chapters. But...does it count? "No, Grad, it doesn't count. And neither does The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch just because you checked it out of the library once." Damn and double damn.

Resignedly, I flipped to page seven. "No one will know unless you tell them" I reasoned. But I cursed my inadequate education. Where did all that tuition go? Were all my literature professors asleep at the switch? Did they never anticipate their students being confronted with such a list? Did it ever occur to them they had the power to spare those young, eager minds the humiliation of not reading a single one of the first 365 books on the 1001 books list? To feel - in a word - stoooopid? "A pox upon them", I shouted.

And then...there it was. Like a shiny coin. Like a drop of water in the desert. Like a sudden sweet note in an otherwise discordant cacophony. Right near the top of page seven. Number 367. Isn't that a lovely number? 367. Kind of rounded and angular at the same time. If I played the lottery, I might play 367. I was saved from the shame of illiteracy. And for the first time, I proudly swished my marker through I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. "My, what a lovely yellow." Victory! No longer feeling constipated, I proceeded.

My spirits and self-esteem were restored as I got farther down the list. I was brutally honest with myself (otherwise, what was the point?) Although I knew I must have read some of the titles in school - Catcher In The Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, Stranger In A Strange Land, Lord Jim - I didn't count a book unless I actually remembered reading it. I gave myself a pass on remembering what the book was about, however. Things were bleak enough without having to recall the plot. Likewise, if I was confused over whether I'd read it or simply saw a film version of it (Breakfast At Tiffany's, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, The Third Man) it wasn't counted. In every instance, I tried to err on the side of not having read the book.

I came up with only 60 read! SIXTY! So there's good news and bad news. The bad news is that I've read only sixty. The good news is that if I don't get hit by a bus and eat all my veggies, I'll probably have time to get to all 1001.

The question is, do I really want to? There were several on the list that I really did try to read but since I didn't finish them, I didn't count them (Herzog, Ragtime, The Magus). I attempted to read Herzog and The Magus when they came out as book club editions when I was in my late teens. I might not have been mature enough to appreciate them, but I'll give myself a few bonus points for actually selecting books at that tender age which would one day make it to "the list". The only time they have been off the shelf since then has been to either move my place of residence, or to dust.

So with drooping spirits I sat with my pitiful "list of the unread." My "list of shame!" My list of the "great unwashed brain." I began to wonder what I've been doing all my reading life. Where had I been? I stared at the bookshelves. Unnerved and disappointed, I wandered over to them. I ran my hand along the spines of books gathered during the course of decades. Some of them almost 50 years old. The shelves were filled to capacity. Certainly not all the books have been read; but I would say most of them have. A good number of the titles are non-fiction - mostly history. A bit heartened, I remembered "the list" was of novels only, so that accounted for some of my "reading gap." Looking more closely at my collection and the list, I realized the list had some swiss cheese-like holes in it. There was no Wizard Of Oz, no Red Badge Of Courage, no L. Frank Baum or Stephen Crane period. There was nothing by Washington Irving. Amitov Ghosh wasn't there, neither was Nectar In A Sieve by Karmala Markandaya. No Barbara Pym. And, although John Steinbeck was there The Pearl was not. It dawned on me that there was no way to compile a list of all the books that "must" be read, and, in any event, to read blindly from a list did not make one a well-rounded reader. It brightened my spirits to realize that any list such as this is simply a tool. Like a road map (or to be a bit more current a GPS), it says "go this way, take that turn, stay on this path."

Nevertheless, the best surprises are in the side trips...up and down the hilly road which is not on the map, and which is covered with golden autumn leaves that go whoosh when you drive past and then rise up and swirl around like a cloud of stardust... and which make a picture in the rear-view mirror that you will never forget.

Armadale

2010-02-10T10:09:00.014-05:00

What a labyrinth you have built for us, Wilkie Collins; and, how deftly you grab the imagination and lead us through it. When we finally reach the end, we are a little rattled by where we've been and blink at how bright the sun is. Armadale is an experience.

For a Wilkie Collins book Armadale is hefty. His longest novel, it is also one of the most intricately woven and complex. For all that, it was not well received when first published. Most critics hated it, and it was not enthusiastically accepted by the reading public. Certainly, it shocked the morality of the day dabbling as it did in murder, revenge, drug addiction, lust (for both love and money), and wives who tend to poison their husbands. But old taboos give way, and what was once considered mere melodrama - at its worse - is now viewed with a more favorable eye.

The book begins in Switzerland, where a dying Allan Armadale lays in a hotel room desiring to bare his soul. The only other person in the small town who speaks English is another guest in the hotel...a stranger who agrees to pen the confession. After extracting a promise that the document would be sealed and put in the hands of his lawyer, who would in turn reveal the contents only to Armadale's son when he became of age, he anxiously began to reveal his terrible secret.

How can I explain the background of this novel? First, you must understand there are really four Allan Armadales. Their history, and keeping it straight, was one of the pitfalls I encountered in the early part of the novel, and is why I had to keep going back to re-read sections of the book. Well, hang on...here goes.

The first Armadale we meet, i.e. the dying Armadale, had a godfather who possessed a vast fortune. Godfather Armadale had a son named Allan, who he disinherited for being a veritible lout. When godfather Armadale died, he left his considerable fortune to his godson, with the stipulation that he change his name to Allan Armadale. The disinherited Allan Armadale disappears, godson changes his name, and confusion beings.

After taking possession of his inheritance, Allan Armadale falls in love with the portrait of Jane Blancard, the daughter of family friends living in Madeira, and is determined to marry her. They exchange letters and promises. However, just before he is to board a ship to Madeira, Allan becomes mysteriously and deathly ill, having had been poisoned by his clerk, known to Allan as Fergus Ingleby. Ingleby takes Armadale's place on board the ship bound for Madeira. Of course, I am certain you can figure out who Fergus Ingleby really is, and you are right. He is none other than the disinherited Allan Armadale, who was determined to seek revenge for the loss of his inheritance.

Once the wealthy Allan Armadale is well enough to travel, he wastes no time sailing for Madeira to collect his bride, only to find upon his arrival that Jane had married Ingleby, under his true name of Allan Armadale, and was fleeing on a timber ship called - a bit ironically - Le Grace de Dieu. Ingleby has informed Jane of his true identity, but she is in love, so it doesn't matter. However, knowing her father would disinherit her if he learned the true identity of Ingleby-Armadale, Jane seeks the assistance of her young maid, Lydia Gwilt, to forge a letter in the handwriting of the wealthy Armadale, thereby keeping her father ignorant of the facts.

Learning the young couple was preparing to set sail from Madeira, wealthy Armadale signs on for the journey disguised as a crew member. He goes unnoticed by Jane and her husband. He has every intention of doing harm to the impostor who robbed him of his bride. And so, he plots. Fate intervenes (as it does continually throughout the novel) and a hurricane scuttles the ship. Allan saves Jane, but follows Ingleby-Armadale below deck. And as Le Grace de Dieu takes on water, Armadale confronts his rival and locks the door of the cabin where Ingleby is standing, leaving him to drown in panic.

Although she cannot prove Allan is responsible for her husband's death, her heart is lost to him forever in any event. Allan travels to Trinidad, guilt his all-consuming and constant companion. There he marries a half-cast woman, who endeavors (unsuccessfully) to provide him with love, and does (successfully) provide him with a son, which she named Allan Armadale. But Armadale lives with a haunted conscience that depletes his life of any happiness.

Flash forward to Allan Armadale now dying in Switzerland. He had only recently discovered that Jane Blanchard was pregnant when her husband drowned, and had given birth to a son who was one year older than his own son, and who she named, obviously, Allan Armadale. (By the way, that Allan Armadale inherits a vast fortune from the Blancard side of his family tree, whereas the dying Armadale's son will grow up poor and orphaned). Superstitious, and afraid that the inevitable conclusion to his crime was evil stalking his son, he dictates his shocking confession and includes the proviso that the young man never cross paths with anyone involved with the events disclosed in the document. The novel is unrelenting in its fatalistic approach, so it is inevitable that the young Armadale will cross paths with everyone involved.

So far, my narrative has covered only the background story which populates the first one-fourth of the novel. If you can believe it, the plot only thickens.

Fatally intertwined with all four Allan Armadales stands Lydia Gwilt - a beautiful femme-fatale with long, flame-colored hair and porcelain complexion. Gwilt is a forger, an addict, a bigamist and has a bad habit of poisoning her husbands. Despite these flaws in her moral compass - or more likely because of them - she is the most complex and intriguing of all the characters in the book. One contemporary critic called Gwilt "one of the most hardened villains whose devices and desires have ever blackened fiction." Well, perhaps that was true in 1866. Female villains have come a long way since then. She remains, nevertheless, a female character who is the antithesis of a heroine. Her plotting, scheming, murderously cold-heart makes her all the more interesting. Certainly more interesting than the sweet, gentle, almost simple-minded Ms. Milroy who vies with Gwilt for the love and affection of Jane Blanchard's son, Allan Armadale. In fact, there were moments when I felt a sympathetic affection for the unrepentant gold digger. She possessed a lovely wickedness which was the product of a hard life. But if Collins was trying to craft a completely debased and utterly unlikeable personage in Lydia, I think he overplayed his hand. A little too much grief, suffered at too young an age, files down her rough edges just enough to make her redeemable.

And then, of course, there's the other young Allan Armadale...the son of the Allan Armadale who died in Switzerland. Disavowing his real name, he calls himself Ozias Midwinter. If I tell you he and Allan Armadale not only meet but become as close as brothers, or that he also falls in love with Lydia Gwilt, would you be at all surprised?

There are a number of fascinating supporting characters which Collins has drawn with a very fine brush: Gwilt's conniving accomplice in crime Mrs. Oldershaw; the old and pitifully love-starved Mr. Bashwood; the smarmy abortionist-turned-sanatorium director Dr. Downward; the precise and stringently ethical lawyer Mr. Pedgrift. They add depth and flavor to a well-boiled pot.

Armadale was not an easy read...at least not the first 250 pages. The intricate plot requires the reader to stay fully engaged, or be resigned to go back and re-read sections. But, just as going up an incline takes more muscle than going down the other side, the last third of Armadale picks up pace enormously and the reader has to hold on to his (or her) hat as it spirals to a suspense-filled conclusion.

I admit, the plot in Armadale relies on frank melodrama and unbelievable coincidence. It requires the reader to place some faith in a supernatural engine that drives the train of the story. But the ride is splendid, the passengers are fascinating, and the journey, though a bit long, is never tedious.

The Land Of Good Intentions

2010-02-03T21:03:00.010-05:00

It is the New Year (after all). Perhaps you don't make resolutions - which is a very prudent way to live. I seldom do. But years ago, in one of those New Year's resolutions moments, I bought a Total Gym. I purchased it from a TV presentation on (should I be ashamed to admit)...QVC? No. Actually I am not ashamed, although I should also make a confession that I have an addiction to Lock-And-Lock storage containers, which are a big seller, I understand.

For years the Total Gym sat in a room I almost never stepped foot in, gathering dust and cobwebs. The room is called a "bonus room" which, for those who do not know, is a room that is crafted over a built-in garage. When I had the house constructed, I made certain that the bonus room was accessible from the upstairs, so it could function as a fifth bedroom, rather than just a room over the garage. It is a big room. Probably 21' x 21'. It was also a way to keep an eye on the children, since, when they were young, it functioned as an upstairs "family room" which housed the kids' books and toys and games and TV and everything else that shrieked "play time". The bonus room was their domain. They could be kids there, and play, and paint, and maintain a general state of disrepair - as most children are wont to do. When the children were no longer children, and moved away, the bonus room became a catch all of things I no longer needed or wanted - i.e. things in limbo. Is it any wonder that the Total Gym would be relegated to this vast wasteland of geography? A veritable Land Of Good Intentions left unexplored,.

Oh,but no longer, my friends! No! This very evening I have moved the Total Gym into my very own room - into the walk-in closet. After re-installation, I even spent 15 minutes working out on it according to the video that came with the machine. Yeah. Only...15...minutes. I am here to state...I feel rather...um...wonderfully out of breath and...um...I think...this...(puff...puff)...is..the..start of a..ah...beautiful..gasp...friendship...and...ah...I...will certainly be in...gasp...much better shape...any...time...real...soon...(oh lord)...so eat...your hearts out. Tomorrow, I advance to 18 minutes! There's no stopping me now. (She said before...kerplunk)...and as I'm laying here, trying to catch my breath, please note I posted two postings today...which....(try to breathe, Grad)...wasn't easy.

Rerun

2010-02-03T10:19:00.005-05:00

Folks, I have bitten off way more than I should have. Although I think staying busy and engaged is what keeps us healthy and alive, we can all overdo. I really want to tell you about my new automobile. I don't get excited about cars, but this is LOVE. But no time now. So, I am going to cheat and reprise a post I made on The Curious Reader Cooks (which I just started and which will have a very short life-span). And if I can get through my work schedule, I'll be back to tell you what I'm reading now and about Armadale (Burp) and my lovely new friend, "Rex the Wonder Car."

-------------------

Why oh why do I start things? Like midnight grouting, and wallpaper stripping, and making Glace de Viande from scratch (redundant since it is the ONLY way to make it , i.e. from scratch) on the same day company is coming to dinner...and starting another blog. I mean, really, I hardly have time to keep The Curious Reader going, and now TCR is cooking and blogging about it as well. I will go, or perhaps already have gone, completely mad.

So, the Hannukah dinner went well. I used a cookbook snatched at the Big Book Sale for guidance, not being Jewish myself. But Joan Nathan is, and in her lovely book, The Jewish Holiday Table, she gives instructions on how to do a brisket. It was not so much a recipe as a method. With her at my elbow, I placed the brisket in one of those lovely enamel cast iron cooking vessels (not the French-made one, but a perfectly fine American substitute), and shoved it into the oven at 200 degrees for 9 hours. Yes! You heard me correctly. What could be easier? The latke recipe I borrowed from my friend Tinky (you can visit her at In Our Grandmother's Kitchen via the link at The Curious Reader) as well as the Harvest Salad. Tink told me that anything with oil in it was appropriate. Celebrating a holiday or festival not mine own has become yet another interest of late. In preparing for Hannukah, I re-read the story of Judith and Holofernes. Now there was a fellow who lost his head over a pretty girl if ever there was one.

For Winter Solstice (in honor of Stefanie and Bookman of So Many Books - also linked at TCR) I made a fabulous vegan dish I found on the internet. A Red Lentil Curry Soup with Sweet Potatoes and Greens, accompanied with freshly made bruschetta topped with tomatoes, olive oil and basil (an odd ingredient for winter, but delish nevertheless), followed by a dessert of figs. I had always known that at winter solstice is the shortest day of the year. But I did not realize that birth, death, and re-birth are also associated with the holiday, and that the slow lengthening of the days following the solstice gave ancient people hope that the sun was returning to warm the earth. That thought is very comforting to me.

Next up? Why, Robert Burns birthday, of course! The icon of Scotland will celebrate another birthday on January 25; I will be drinking a little Scotch. There will be no Haggis, but perhaps Chicken with Apples and Whisky sauce, accompanied with homemade Oatmeal Bread? Any twirling tartans who happen to be in the neighborhood are welcome.

Company Comes With Four Mistakes

2010-01-21T13:35:00.008-05:00

I seldom have overnight company, so last week was a bit stressful. People I really like, but don't know very well yet, came into town for several days and I was happy to put them up at my house. It's a big house - which can be both good and not so good. I tidy up every weekend, of course, and keep the bathrooms and kitchen clean. I vacuum the carpets and clean the hard surfaced floors with a steam mop. Things usually look just fine. But, when company is coming to stay I look at my house with a whole new perspective...under a jeweler's loupe. It is only then that the hallway closet takes on importance, or I lay awake at night worrying over the stuff collecting under the sink. I see all imperfections. I sniff around the place; I debate whether I should buy new linens. "Will they notice that hole in the drywall the plumbers left when they searched for a leak?" (I got a quote from a fix-it fellow which was quite reasonable. After I said he had the job, he never came back. I think he under-priced himself and had second thoughts). Well, they could hardly help but notice it. A foot square and directly above the powder room commode, it stands out. I figured I'd just act as though it wasn't there, and address the issue if it came up in casual conversation. But what of the upstairs bonus room that I use to store things I don't want to see, but haven't gotten rid of? Or the the downstairs back bathroom with half the tile pulled up and half the wallpaper pulled down? I could spend an entire week explaining the history of each state of disrepair, and the plans that are in the works for a course correction. I finally decided to lock a couple of doors - just in case. Assessing the situation, I decided to re-grout the guest bathroom Monday night after work. (Surely...I mean...doesn't every hostess re-grout when company comes? Forgive me. I'm out of practice, so I could be over-estimating the planning and logistics involved with house guests.)

The instructions told me not to use the shower for 72 hours following grout application - but I failed to read the instructions prior to starting the project. So, that was my first error in judgment. Using my best grade-school math, I rapidly calculated that my company would be arriving in 48 hours, and although I might delay the disaster of a shower upon their immediate arrival, I had every expectation they would both shower on Thursday morning thereby giving me a mere 58 hours of grout-drying time. The thought of my guests' shower gel mixing with fresh grout while they tried to loofah sent chills. Having already committed myself, there was no turning back and nothing to do but pray to the grout gods for mercy and a quick dry. Aside from that, the actual act of applying grout was more difficult than I had anticipated - by biblical proportions. Being dead clever with caulk, I assumed grout was mere child's play. I caution you, do not assume the ease of applying caulk in any way compares with the agony of applying grout. I did. That was my second mistake.

I really need to get one of those stylish chains to hang my glasses on. My eyesight isn't what it used to be up close. When I'm reading I can blame it on age making my arms shorter. The thing about grouting bathroom tiles is there is just a thin, thin groove that the grout must sit in. It is not supposed to slop over onto the tile itself. But I tried to muddle through without my glasses and decided I'd take a more laissez-faire approach, and simply clean it all up after I got an entire wall done, wiping the grout off the tiles when the whole shebang was finished. Which was mistake number three.

By the time I had emptied the first container of grout I began to realize that grout dries fairly hard fairly quickly. This was about the time I searched for my glasses to re-read the instructions on the back of the tube. (I was at a meeting at work the next day and was surreptitiously scraping grout from the frames with a thumbnail the whole time.) CLEAN TILES WITH WET SPONGE WITHIN 5 MINUTES. DO NOT ALLOW TO DRY ONTO SURFACE AREA. Okay...so out to the garage to get the paint scraper to painstakingly skritch-skritch-skritch the tiles - carefully so as not to destroy them.

By the early hours of the morning, it looked lovely. (Me, not so much)

Over the course of the next few days, I was able to relax and not worry so much about the house. By the way, the sunroom looked splendid in its new Nantucket Gray coat; the trim a shiny crisp white. Very spiffy. My new friends were bowled over when I told them the story about The Girl Graduate - insisting I pull out the little book to show them - and the yearbook. They asked the same question I did, to wit: Who could part with this?

My guests made me feel at ease as soon as they walked in the door. "Let's have a drink," they called out. I was happy. Maybe...just maybe...I can take a deep breath and enjoy myself. Everything might work out after all. On top of that, they went to the liquor store to get what I did not have stocked in the bar (in a word - rum and whisky). And being very good guests, indeed, they got the big bottles. They even told me to keep the leftovers when the visit was at an end.

Who knows, I might entertain more often.

Oh, the fourth mistake? The meatloaf. Ah...but that's another story.

Please Pass The Gravy

2010-01-05T06:07:00.019-05:00

I am at a great banquet. The table is set with double damask linens and fine bone china and the heaviest silver. The doors to the dining hall swing open and a parade of waiters carrying large domed trays march in solemnly. There is foie gras, filet de Boeuf en Croute, braised sweetbreads garnished with truffles and olives, duck confit. All well and good, you may say. But the dishes keep coming... the coq en pate, the coquilles Saint-Jacques are placed on my plate. The first forkful is sheer delight, such a rich blend of spice. Complex, intriguing flavors are perfectly pleasing to the palate. But as the evening wears on, and the dishes keep coming, my taste buds reach overload, my head becomes dizzy. One more bite of goose liver and I will be dangerously unwell. Furtively I reach for the button on my waistband and I yearn for some bicarbonate. (What wouldn't I give for one...good...burp - ahhh). Yes, the food is splendid but there does not seem to be any end to it, and the chewing is wearing me out.

That is how I would describe my experience in reading Armadale by Wilkie Collins. It's not that it is poorly written - I think its brilliant. It's not that it is long - my favorite novel is Les Miserables, after all. I really don't know why it is taking me so long to finish. I only know it is like an everlasting lollipop. First published in serial form beginning in November 1864 the final chapter was posted in June 1866. At the rate I'm going, it may take me a year and a half as well. Perhaps this novel is more manageable in small bites. But there is such a tangle of intrigue, and background, and plot in Armadale, I am not at all certain that approach would work well either. Even reading it straight through, I find I have to go back and re-read portions just to get the history straight in my mind once more.

I fully expect Armadale to become one of my favorite Wilkie Collins books when I finally reach the words "The End" on page 678. As I am only on page 293, I am resigned to belly up to the table for a while longer. (Oh, here comes another tasty tidbit - could it be chocolate mousse?) "Oh, Garcon, warm up the gravy, please. I'm going in for seconds."

Year End Thoughts

2009-12-28T09:36:00.018-05:00

The last present is opened; the remnants of the (very rare) rib roast is in the freezer awaiting resurrection as Beef Wellington, the lovely glow of Mimosas on Christmas morning has worn off - life has resumed and I finally know what day of the week this is.

Only a few days are left in the year and, like everyone else, I am reminiscing about many things, some pleasant and some not. Actually, January 1 is really just another day in the string of days that makes up our lives. But because we segment our lives into years, I guess it is a good time to reflect on the way the year played out. Now, about my reading life, let me say I had lofty goals.

Unfortunately, I didn't reach my reading goals this year - real life got in the way. In addition, I have been stuck on Armadale by Wilkie Collins for weeks now. That in itself has set me back several books on my TBR stack. But for the fact that it's Wilkie, I would have given up in frustration and moved on to something else. The story is actually very interesting - and sufficiently "twisty," but I think Wilkie could have economized on the character and plot development a bit and whittled down the 600+ pages by quite a few. I've never been inclined to read multiple books at the same time (even though I got two really nifty bookmarks for Christmas), so I'm determined to plow through the remains in order to get to the rest of the reading stack.

I had planned to tell you about my favorite and least favorite reads; however, like a mother reflecting on her children sleeping peacefully in their beds, picking a favorite is almost impossible. Conversely, the worst rushes to the finish line unchallenged. It is the only (read) book I have on the shelves that I will gladly give to a new home, and I feel more than a little guilty that it is so unloved. It's enough to make one want to read another bowser just so the two can keep each other company.

Yes, yes, I know. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski received rave reviews - some readers going so far as to say it is one of the best books of all time - comparing it to Shakespeare's Hamlet. And, after all, it was an O-o-o-o-prah book, so that seals the deal. I found it plodding, over worked, and just plain too long. I could feel it trying very hard to be precious. So I, and about 10 other people on the planet, say "blah" to this book. I give it my "Golden Toilet Plunger Award" being, I think, the only book I can say I truly hated.

In the disappointing category, I will have to nominate The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. I was predisposed to really love it, but for some reason it just failed to resonate with me. The plot was ripe with promise, but it never bloomed. In fairness, somewhere in the middle of it I got a shipment of books from Barnes & Noble. I am like a bumble bee in a field of flowers when a fresh new book arrives all crisp and fragrant. I think I might have been a tad anxious to flit on to the new pretty flowers and became itchy to finish the Setterfield. I raced through the last third of it and perhaps didn't give it the attention it deserved. I did like Setterfield's writing, and I might try it again one day. But, I don't know. There are just so many books to read....

Okay, enough kvetching. Among the books I loved, in no special order and certainly not a complete list:

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, which was unique in its premise, beautifully written and hauntingly sad and hopeful at the same time.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. A book on the journey through grief, this memoir touched me in a very personal way, and introduced me to the straightforward yet lyrical writing of Didion. Perhaps some of its appeal for me was the timing. In any event, it was among the best of the best.

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett. This little novella was so clever and funny and bright. It is the perfect little book to read when life is gray and nasty and needs a quick injection of warmth.

Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. This novel is the first in a proposed trilogy set in the 19th century with the slave ship Ibus, the Opium Wars and swashbuckling adventure at its core. I flat out loved it. The characters are so sharply drawn and unique they could have been created by Dickens. The intricate story line, in fact, is very Dickensian. The reader may initially have a little difficulty with the vernacular Ghosh uses in the dialogue, but there is a glossary in the back and, like learning a language by hearing it and speaking it, after a time one gets the gist. Ghosh writes brilliantly; and, on the the strength of this book, The Glass Palace is next on my reading list.

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman is in the young readers genre, but adults will miss a wickedly wonderful read if they pass up this 2009 Newbery Medal Award winner. Nobody Owens is orphaned when his entire family is murdered in their beds. Escaping by chance, "Bod" wanders into a graveyard and the resident ghosts elect to raise, nurture and educate him, together with the man appointed to be his Guardian. The graveyard is the only place where Bod is safe, and outside its gates the murderer awaits to finish his task. I actually broke into sobs at the end of the book. This is an easy to read book (as it should be considering its intended audience) which should not be missed at any age.

The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick was unlike anything I had experienced before. Not really a graphic novel, this is a big book of beautifully written prose interspersed with pencil sketches which actually provides a continuum of the story. The words and the pictures interlock like the fingers on both hands to become one whole - neither will stand alone. The sketches pull the reader into the story much like a film would. And although it is very cleverly told, the story, taken by itself, is delicious.

The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. I read the first chapter on line. I can only recall one other occasion when reading the first chapter of a book totally grabbed me. (Harry Potter And The Sorcerer's Stone. There was just something about Prof. Dumbledore and Prof. McGonagall standing out on a muggle street in the dead of night which made me want to read more.) This is a short book, and so utterly Wilkie that any follower will be rapturous.

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen is what one reads instead of actually running away to join the circus. The protagonist, Jacob Jankowski, tells his story from the perspective of a 93 year old man who resides in a nursing home. It weaves in and out of the past and present, as he relives his life traveling with a third-rate circus during the Depression. Gruen has populated the tale with strange (sometimes wonderful, sometimes twisted) characters that ride the circus train from small town to small town. We get to go along for the ride. It was a super read.

There were more books, of course. Happily for me, most of them were good. But the unfinished stack looms tall and appealing, and time is a very cruel master. So, onward!

Christmas Magic

2009-12-12T11:20:00.004-05:00

Have you heard of the tradition of Secret Santa? You exchange names with friends or co-workers and then do small acts of kindness for that person during the days leading up to Christmas - anonymously. I've been receiving little gifts from my secret Santa the last couple of weeks, and I've been thanking my S.S. through little rhymes delivered over our network's e-mail system. The latest gift was a lovely snowman kitchen mitt. I brought him home last night, and a very strange thing happened. This will be the rhyme I post on Monday when I return to work, but it tells a tale so fraught with Christmas magic, I have to share it with you as well. (wink)

The Snowman and the Hula Girl:

The snowman on the oven mitt
Came to my house, a Christmas gift.
Around his new found home he looked
Saw pots and pans and cups on hooks.

Across the room - so sweet - so shy -
Another kitchen mitt he spied.
A Hula girl with lips ripe red,
A wreath of blossoms on her head.

She wore a skirt of island grass.
A fetching Polynesian lass.

The snowman, pierced by Cupid's dart
Called out with aching, melting heart,
"Oh Hula girl, I am quite smitten.
You are the most beguiling mitten.
You fill my head like summer wine.
Please say you'll join your mitt in mine."

The Hula girl, now teary eyed,
First paused - then sighed - and then replied,
"You are of frost and I of sun,
You're snow and ice, of which I'm none.
There is no way we can be one,"
She answered soft and warm as rum.

What happened next I cannot say.
I only know love has its way,
And in the darkness of that night
Courage reigned and fear took flight.

At break of day what do you think
I saw beside my kitchen sink?
Upon the counter they reclined,
Side by side, their thumbs entwined.

What miracle joins ice and fire?
Well - - nothing less than love's desire.

"The Time Has Come," The Walrus Said...

2009-12-07T10:20:00.032-05:00

..."To talk of many things: Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages and kings...

And also of Thanksgiving, and Nantucket Grey walls, and preparing for Christmas, and of course, the Big Book Sale.

Katharine spent Thanksgiving with Uncle Rudy and his family. She folded the napkins and sent me this photo. I counted my blessings...not the least of which were hearing the happiness in her voice and seeing photographs of her smiling again.

Now, on to the Big Book Sale!

Lydia Bastianich, Jamie Oliver and Joan Nathan to add to the cookbook collection. It's hard to see the spine on the Nathan book, but it's titled The Jewish Holiday Kitchen. Kitchen Confidential is there because my son purloined my other copy when I was 3/4 of the way finished. Only difference, I paid $15.00 for my first copy and .50 for this one!

Villas At Table is more a treatise on the joy of eating than a cookbook, although it does have some recipes. Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell was published under a different name (which escapes me) in the U.K. and The Poisonwood Bible I've already explained.

The Wizard of Oz was the first chapter book I ever read. I was thrilled to find this volume of The Sea Fairies by L. Frank Baum at the sale (despite the rather grotesque and creepy cover illustration).

The DuMaurier was published in the sixties and is, I believe, set in Cornwall. This is a book club edition and it will fit in nicely with The Glass Blowers and The Flight of the Falcon, which I got as a teenager when they came out as book club selections. Du Maurier was my favorite author in high school, along with Dickens, and Arthur Conan Doyle. And The Hudson River In Literature speaks for itself.

A Louise Mae Alcott book I'd never heard of - about obsession and stalking. A Long Fatal Love Chase was published about 100 years after her death, was it not? Very un-LouisaMaeAlcott-ish I should think. Whatever was Louisa thinking under those lilacs? Still waters...

Please don't laugh. As soon as I saw it I absolutely HAD to have this book from 1955. Apparently, I need not have worried about someone arm wrestling me for it. I would hate to think of its fate had I not saved it from the dump pile. It still has the little card pocket glued into the back cover and sign out card. Poor little thing had only been checked out about 8 times since it first came out. ("That MUCH?" said one of my daughter's friends. Always a smarty pants.) But Mr. Himsworth, an Englishman, is totally enamoured with his subject. He addresses it with such gusto! Oh, it gets even better (or worse depending on your perspective). This book began as a series of lectures. So...people actually got dressed and went to a hall somewhere to hear Mr. Himsworth wax poetic about cutlery and, hopefully, stayed awake. Mr. Himsworth's lectures were a - destination. And if that were not remarkable enough, some editor somewhere actually suggested he work the lectures into a book, and then a publisher published it!! How cool is that? You can't imagine how much there is to know about the story of cutlery until you start to think about it - which apparently few people ever do. Please note, it is not a history of cutlery - but rather the story of cutlery. A subtle yet important distinction. Cutlery has a story to tell, and Mr. Himsworth was the one to tell it. Perhaps not a book you take to bed on a cold winter night, nevertheless it has a quirky charm I could not pass up. As an aside, the back cover shows a lovely depiction of a pair of shears.

The complete stash.

Running in Heels is in there simply because it looked like fun, and The Mitford Bedside Companion for reasons I cannot now remember, especially since I've never read any of the books in the Mitford series.

Now, the Nantucket Gray walls:

This is the sunroom (my flash wasn't working very well, but you can get the general idea of the stencils - oh - hello, Grad. I can see your reflection).

Magnolia Blossom and a better picture of the magnolia blossoms (soon to be history) The walls will be (what else?) and the trim work will be a glossy bright white, rather than the dull creamy white it is currently. The photo is crooked, but I assure you the door, in reality, is not. I'll unveil my "after" pictures, well...after.

The sunroom will soon become the same Nantucket Gray, shown here in my kitchen. The feeling it evokes is calm and restful - not gray and depressing as the name might imply. I've never been to Nantucket, but I would like to see where my Nantucket Gray would fit in. By the way, the illustrations come from the 1926 Radiograph yearbook, from The Girl Graduate fame. I didn't take Evie and Viola's yearbook apart, though. I wouldn't have had the heart. However, the 1926 Radiograph was from Duffy's senior year. The drawings represent Humor, Organizations, and Athletics, and are delightfully art deco. There is one additional plate entitled "Seniors" which will also go up on the wall - as soon as I find the identical frame.

Tonight I'll go home and put up the Christmas tree. I might begin taping off the woodwork in the sunroom. On Friday I'll open my nice new gallon of paint, purchased at the hardware store on Saturday (together with a wonderful squeegee that extends up to 7 feet for cleaning those tall windows.) And who knows, I might just crawl into bed with The Story of Cutlery and a glass of wine after all.

Its In The Bag

2009-11-19T11:08:00.007-05:00

I just got back from The Big Book Sale at the library, and although I plan to take a nice little picture of my stack as "show and tell," here's how the morning went down.

Unfortunately, because I have a meeting at 1:00 p.m. (which has now been pushed back an hour), I had to wear something professional, i.e. a suit. Not my original plan, but the shoes are the thing. Those are easy to change, and besides, I have more shoes under my desk than I do in my closet at home. I tend to pad around barefoot in my office or in bedroom slippers, so no dressy type heels for TBBS.

I brought two black canvas bags that I use to carry home my groceries. Each has a little zippered pocket sewn inside - a perfect place to carry the necessary cash. They are deep enough to hold my glasses. That was a good thing since I forgot to buy a "granny chain."

At approximately 9:45 a.m., I set out (sans purse) with my two black bags and walked the two blocks to the library - no parking woes; so far so good - and found myself 16th in line. Also good. While the minutes ticked away, I glanced through the latest copy of Book Pages and periodically looked down the line that was forming hoping to see my old gentleman friend. Of course, I might not have recognized him had I seen him, but I was a little disappointed to be honest. Then at precisely 10:00 a.m., the double doors to the room were opened and we filed in. It was a much much smaller crowd this time, and there was no getting swept up in a sea of humanity. Oddly, the frenzy of last time added to the excitement. The crowd was a mixed bag of all ages and ethnicities - all united in the love of a good (and cheap) book.

My first stop was the cookbook table. Standing at the table was a very professor-ish looking fellow with a neat, short gray beard wearing a turtleneck sweater. All he needed was a pipe and beige corduroy jacket with leather buttons to fit into a stereotype of some sort. Of course, I don't know if he was a professor (BUT our world-famous art college has an academic building right next door to the library, so....) He was very dishy. "Dream big," say I to myself. Anyway, just as I reached down to pick up Lidia's Family Table by Lidia Bastianich his hand lighted on the same spine and we both pulled our hands back, and smiled at each other shyly.

"Go ahead," I said.

"No, no. I think you saw it first," says the dreamboat.

"No...really," said I.

He paused a second and looked deeply (or so I say) into my eyes. I tried to remember if I had refreshed my lipstick before I left the office. A little color is needed after a certain age. And as I was trying to mentally assess my appearance, he spoke.

"How important is this book to you?" He was smiling.

"Not very. How important is this book to you?," say I. (That's right, work the room Grad, a little voice says. I may have batted my eyelashes here, but I would hate to admit as much.)

"Not important at all. So you win..."

okay, here it comes - brace yourself

"...Ma'am." MA'AM??? Did that dude just call me Ma'am? That gray beardy dude?

"Yeah...well, thanks," I sniffed and shoved the damn book into my bag - my first grab. I wanted to shout, "And furthermore I bet you're not really a professor at all, so stop trying to pretend!" But I didn't. Poor fellow. I imagine he was left wondering what he could have done to offend the little old lady in the black suit with her pince-nez falling off the tip of her nose.

But the cookbook table was not a waste of time. I picked up my fill (including one by Jamie Oliver) and moved on to adult fiction. This was the most difficult area to wade through. Not only were books on the tables, they were under the tables as I expected. With my new (black) suit, it was best that I not kneel. Bending at the waist with my bum sticking out similarly didn't work for obvious reasons (small aisles and ample bum). Not to mention the fear of having my back go out and being stuck like that for days...and the problem posed by walking back two blocks dragging the bags of books on the sidewalk like a Neanderthal. Squatting was dangerous as I was not at all sure I could get up. Unless I could see the title clearly from an upright position, the bottom books were basically off limits. But I did pick up one from below - The Poisonwood Bible. Now, I wasn't going to go after it at first, but as soon as I lifted it out of a box a woman came up to me and said, "I loved that book. But it's so sad." Okay, you had me at first but now I'm not so sure. And then a second woman came up and said, "You have to read that book. I love that book." In the bag it went, not so much because I really wanted it, but I was very reluctant to disappoint these two ladies by not taking their recommendations. I probably could have sneaked it back into the box, but why take the risk of offending? After all, we're only talking $1.00.

After about 45 minutes I found myself not looking at the books so much, but listening to the conversations of the people who were there. One lady, obviously a teacher, was telling another lady, "I'm taking these back to my classroom. This is a great opportunity for me to get books that the kids want to read." A man and a woman arrived with post office bins on a hand cart in which they were grabbing armloads of volumes. In the bins they had children's books, and mysteries, fiction, and who knows what else, which they were taking to a shelter. A mother was saying to her little girl, "Which ones do you like? Which ones will you choose?" And her daughter's eyes were as large as saucers at the prospect. The kids' books were .50, so she could have as many as she could hold.

The one thing that I've noticed about The Big Book Sale (now that I am no longer a novice) is that the people who go there are just plain nice. There seems to be an effort to wait your turn, to stand back after awhile and allow someone else to get to the stack in front of you. There were a lot of "pleases" and "thank yous" (which, to be honest, are pretty typical for the South, so not a real surprise). There was no pushing, no shoving. The whole room shouted, "God Bless You," when someone sneezed. And, except for that one grizzly, old broad in a black suit with pince-nez perched on the end of her nose who had been standing at the cookbook table, everyone behaved themselves.

As I made my way to checkout, I spotted The Mitford Bedside Companion by Jan Karon. I thought I might have read someone blog about that one but I couldn't remember. It became my last grab.

Final tally (not sure how many books - I'll have to unpack when I get home) was $12.50.

Oh, and as I walked back to the office I passed several real professors on their way into the building next door. Male art professors, no doubt. I could not repress a smug smile as I watched. They all wore a turtleneck sweater, all wore either a tweed or plaid a jacket, and all carried books under one of their arms. Not one of them was smiling. There's poetic justice there...somewhere.

Gearing Up For The Big Book Sale

2009-11-16T13:12:00.004-05:00

The time has come at last - I am giddy with excitement! On Thursday, November 19 at 10:00 a.m. the main library is once again having The Big Book Sale. Even better news...after my old firm merged with the new one I now work only one block away from the main library. I don't have to get into the car and drive for miles and fight for a parking space blocks and blocks away. I was a neophyte at the last big book sale and I came ill equipped, i.e. uncomfortable shoes, nothing in which to tote the books, and I had not practiced bending and getting up (not a small consideration for a woman "of a certain age.")

I learned to arrive early, with something to read to pass the time. However, there was such a friendly crowd last time that I found myself having a very pleasant conversation with the elderly gentleman standing in front of me regarding the virtues of Johnny Mercer's song lyrics. He was the one who told me, "You should have brought a bag to tote your books home, young lady." I seldom use the word "tote," it's such a southern expression, I thought him simply charming. The fact he called me "young" didn't hurt either.

When the big double doors were opened to the room where the big book sale was being held, I simply let myself get swept along with the tide. I landed at the cookbook table and my first grab was the huge and heavy "The Way To Cook" by Julia Child. A $50 book that I bought for $1. All hardbound books were $1 and all paperbacks were .50. Since I didn't have a tote, my purchases were limited to what I could carry (although when I got to the cashier, I was given some plastic grocery bags). This year I will be armed with my canvas grocery shopping bags emblazoned with Kroger or Publix - each strong enough to hold a huge frozen Thanksgiving turkey and all the trimmings and, so I figure, up to the job.

I still have to train, however. Many of the best books are in boxes on the floor and one must get down and dirty, and then be able to stand up. I don't have a lot of time to work out, but some squats are in order for the next few days. Experience has also taught me not to carry a purse. It gets in the way and I am absent minded enough to set it down and lose track of it. I think a jacket with a zippered pocket for the cash, my glasses on a chain, and my hair secured in a pony-tail are precautions which will work well for me.

I wonder what treasures await. I already feel the thrill of the hunt - like one of the big cats in the wild, stalking its prey - sniffing the air with nostrils flaring, low steady breathing, ears upright and listening, careful deliberate cautious steps. Of course, I am from the big city and know little of the big cats in the wild. For all I know, I may have just described a bovine chewing its cud in some sunny pasture. The point is...they are out there...perhaps being set by classification on and under tables right this very minute. Just a block away from where I now sit. Cookbooks and thrillers, poetry and home improvement, fiction and autobiography. Where will this year's tide take me (and believe me, one DOES get swept along with the sea of humanity that invades the big book sale) I wonder. My hands itch at the thought.

Thanksgiving turkey AND the Big Book Sale all in the same month. Life is good.

Going Gray

2009-11-12T09:49:00.005-05:00

There is something about the autumn light this year. It seems so steely gray, perhaps reflective of my current mood. Or could it be the residual effects of Hurricane Ida, which is roiling around in the Gulf? I hear she is to work her way north and then east, grazing Savannah. Maybe there is a scientific explanation after all. Nevertheless, I have memories of a more rosy-golden Fall light. Of course, now that I think of it, I have rosy-golden memories of just about everything. I could ask myself if I remember only what I choose to remember. Is it a control thing? "I think therefore it was." Perhaps that should worry me a bit, but that is basically my outlook so I will have to embrace it.

Feeling befuddled and not in control is just not my style. In such a state, there is only one place to turn...the house. I was standing in my Nantucket Gray kitchen the other morning musing over how lovely the color looks late in the morning. Connected to the kitchen and breakfast room by a large doorless entry is my sunroom with more windows than walls (as the name "sunroom" would suggest). The focal point of the sunroom is a large, arched window which rises from practically the top of the ceiling (pretentiously called a "cathedral ceiling" - although if it really were in a cathedral it would be a very puny cathedral indeed) - almost to the floor. At present, the room is painted in "Magnolia Petals," a sort of blush - not quite pink and not quite peach and not white - a pinky blush is the best I can describe. It's the color of the inside of the magnolia flower near the stamen - hence the name, I imagine. Across the room from the arched window is a set of white double doors made of paned glass that lead into the library (which is what is was called on the blueprints. I seldom refer to it as the library since it also sounds pretentious. I usually call it "the room with the bookshelves." Somehow, Lindy from the southside of Chicago would not have a "library" in her house). It sounds all right so far; but, here is where it gets rather ghastly. Around the big wall of windows, arch and all, and around the double doors, I long ago stenciled a garland of magnolia blossoms. (You know, to tie in with the name of the wall paint. How clever of me!) I warn you, it gets worse. At the top of the windowed arch, and over the other door in the room - the one that leads onto the patio - I stenciled pale green bows with flowing tendrils. It was 1989 and the model home I saw in the subdivision was likewise painted. I thought it was stunning, and it probably was...in 1989. You would think that raising 3 rambunctious kids in the house would have ruined the "Magnolia Petals," but an upstairs playroom and seasonal wall washing has kept everything remarkably intact. So let's fast forward to 2009. The sunroom is now a relic of bad taste. I think it is time to sand down the magnolia petals and paint over the "Magnolia Petals" and go Nantucket Gray all the way.

In a completely coincidental happenstance, my sister, my eldest son and my grandson will all be coming into Savannah tonight - for different reasons. John is leaving for Afghanistan in a week and he and Jayden are coming home...home to spend some family time. I'll get to perch him (the baby, that is, not John) on my lap and read the library books I have for him. Judi is coming to check on Shorty - who is getting extremely forgetful and drives her car like a bat out of hell. If I'm lucky, I can get Judi to install my new kitchen faucet. (One day I'll have to tell you about all the things she can do.) With all that, the magnolia petals will bloom another week. Their days are numbered, however, and on Sunday I will be off to ACE Hardware to get a couple of gallons of Benjamin Moore's Nantucket Gray.

I'm giving Katharine a treat for Thanksgiving - a week in Chicago with her beloved Uncle Rudy. She was only 4 years old when we moved away and does not remember anything of that wonderful place where she was born. Rudy's boys, who seemed so much younger than she when they were young, are now her contemporaries and friends aside from being her cousins. Strange how a few years separating people in childhood melt away in adulthood. She will be in very good and gentle hands, and has been happier than I've seen her in some time. It will be hard not having her here, the first holiday we've spent away from each other. Nevertheless, she will return home with great stories to tell. And as for me, after dinner at Shorty's with the family that remains, I will be able to spend a very long Thanksgiving weekend with Benjamin Moore - with whom I am quite smitten.

Have I told you how much I love the hardware store on the island? I have often thought of challenging myself to do all my Christmas shopping without leaving the island. I could probably do it all at the hardware store. Aside from a bookstore, it is like heaven on earth.

It will be good to be back at the hardware store. It will restore a sense of normalcy in a very abnormal couple of months. I'm looking forward to turning my attention to the house once again. It needs nurturing. It needs to know I love it because this is where my memories live. It needs to know that, no matter where I am, it will always be home. Home...next to "love" it is the best of all words.

The Year Of Magical Thinking

2009-11-01T10:47:00.005-05:00

Before October 1, 2009, I had experienced grief twice in life. Sadness, lonliness, loss - these had been more frequent visitors. But grief...twice. Grief bangs on the door demanding it be opened. And try as we will, there is nothing to be done but to allow it entry.

Life changes fast,

Life changes in the instant,

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends,

The question of self-pity.

With those words, Joan Didion begins her memoir The Year Of Magical Thinking, a journey of grief which began with the sudden death of her husband, writer John Gregory Dunne, and the concurrent grave (and subsequently fatal) illness of their only child. In her simple, clear and yet poetic prose, Didion draws the reader into her private world. A review in the San Francisco Chronicle correctly stated that Didion's journey was both personal and universal. I will leave it to those who use words for a living to fully review it. To me it was, simply put, beautiful. In Didion's words I found shared thoughts and feelings and movements. "Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it," she cautions.

When grief came calling, I longed for the image in the Superman movie. The scene where he flies up into space, and races around the planet at such speed that he reverses the spin of the earth and turns back time. If that could only happen, I told myself, I could change everything. Maybe I could control how things turned out. I would have a chance to fix it.

I could have another chance. I could, for instance, decide not to dive into my friend's swimming pool. Afterward, when the doctor told me I needed bed rest I wondered about that day -- about diving into the pool. Was that the fatal moment? The thought of it tormented me. He also told me not to read books about problem pregnancies. I wondered how he knew. Had my husband told him about my obsession? And so I laid in bed, my contraband reading material my constant companion. And when it happened, it happened so fast there wasn't time for anything. No time for an ambulance, no time for monitors, no time for anything. Medical records I read later noted my emotional state as a "flat effect." "Flat effect." Like a deflated balloon or a tire that wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. That pretty much summed it up. I grieved in silence; no drama. It was not that I wanted to die, I just didn't care if I lived. A flat effect...for as long as it took.

Two years before my nephew had died. He was two years old and an outwardly perfect and beautiful child. But the appearance belied the facts. We were told early on. We knew. Medical science was working on it and getting close but had not...quite...gotten...there...yet. Soon after he died it did get there. Joan Didion points out how open we are to the persistent belief that we can somehow avert death. If only I had...if only I hadn't.

And then Rob. In the early morning hours of October 15, two weeks after his death, I dreamed I awakened and walked into the hallway outside my room. Rob was standing there with another young man. Rob made a sweeping motion with his hands down his body, toward the floor, and said, "See, Linda, I'm fine. We're both fine!" I looked at the other young man, taller and thinner than Rob. they were both smiling. I threw my arms around Rob's neck and hugged him tightly. I could feel his back - his muscular upper back. I could feel his grip. "I love you, Rob," I said. "I love you too..." And then he said something I will never forget "...and I love Katharine and I can continue to love Katharine through you and through everyone who will ever love her." I stood back and smiled at him. And just that quickly they were gone.

Several days ago, two weeks after my dream, I was looking through a drawer and found a piece of lined notebook paper. Opening it I realized it was a letter to me from Rob written during his next to his last deployment. For a strong man, his handwriting was tiny and delicate. Some words so small they were hard to decipher. It was the sort of letter a young man writes to a mother telling her about the girl he loved. The girl was my daughter. His words were so heartfelt and sincere, they could never be doubted. But what resonated for me were the last few lines. He wrote, "I can't wait to come home and give you a hug. A massive hug." Is that what he did? Or had I stored that snippet of his letter somewhere in my subconscious? Tucked away safely. Was I simply determined to control the one thing...the one thing I could put right?

Near the end of A Year of Magical Thinking, Didion writes, "I realize as I write this that I do not want to finish this account. Nor did I want to finish the year." As the days passed, as winter became summer and then fall, she feared that memories would become clouded; that the instant of her husband's death would became "less raw." She came to realize that we try to keep the dead alive to keep them with us. But she also realized that if we are to live ourselves, we must let go. We must relinquish the dead. We must survive our own days, or months, or years of magical thinking.

"You Satisfy My Taste Buds Beyond Measure"

2009-10-13T09:36:00.013-04:00

Why Julia Child came to my mind this morning I cannot say - but there she is. Last month my daughter and I went to see Julie & Julia. Katharine read the book and couldn't wait to see the movie - which we both loved.

I feel a special connection to Julia Child, although our lives never intersected. When I was living in Chicago with two children under the age of 4 and hugely, lumberingly pregnant with Katharine, I would settle the boys down to their lunch at 11:30 a.m., and then their nap time at noon. I would lie down on my own bed and turn on The French Chef. Being pregnant, it was difficult not to fall asleep despite my most valiant efforts. But I usually made it through to the end, always enthralled with her humor, her high spirits, her enthusiastic desire to show us how to eat. No. No, I'm wrong there. Not just eat. How to savor would be more accurate. Although I didn't know her, of course, I would nevertheless bet my bank account that Julia Child savored life as well as food.

There are just some things that go together naturally: Thunder and Lightening, Ying and Yang, Sean Connery and Me (just seeing if you are paying attention) Abbott and Costello, Life and Food. We feed people we love during happy times and tragic times. We nurture them with our gentle caresses and our baked lasagna. We wrap them up in our arms and in our flaky pastry. Our love bubbles over, like our chicken pot pies and homemade jam.

Julia Child made challenging dishes approachable. I remember making Lobster Thermador from her Mastering The Art Of French Cooking, Vol. I - which I still have, but which has lost both its front and back covers - for a small dinner party when I was a (fairly) young bride. It really did take all day (although it probably shouldn't have since the lobster turned out a little overcooked). What I remember most about making the dish was the joy I had in its preparation, the smell of butter and cognac and thyme and tarragon, and the pleasure I had in presenting it to my husband and friends.

For years I attributed my rich and unctuous Boeuf Glace/Glace De Viande recipe to Julia, but I am apparently mistaken about it's origin. Alas, I cannot find it in my old, faithful, battered, cookbook. You see, my knee jerk reaction is to lay all my gastronomic successes at her doorstep. Perhaps that is so because it isn't really the cooking lesson, but the living lesson, that is at the heart of feeding someone.

In my favorite episode of The French Chef, Julia boils lobsters. In the final moments, before the now-famous theme song begins to play and the credits begin to roll, she sits down at the table and ties a huge napkin around her neck. Every time I see it, I laugh aloud. Julia is poised to dig into life and lobster with an unrivaled gusto.

It is fitting to end this post with a poem written by her adoring husband, Paul Child, for her birthday in 1961:

O Julia, Julia, cook and nifty wench,
Whose unsurpassed quenelles and hot souffles,
Whose English, Norse and German, and whose French,
Are all beyond my piteous powers to praise --
Whose sweetly rounded bottom and whose legs,
Whose gracious face, whose nature temperate,
Are only equalled by her scrambled eggs:

Accept from me, your ever-loving mate,
This acclamation shaped in fourteen lines
Whose inner truth belies its outer sight;
For never were there foods, nor were there wines
Whose flavor equals yours for sheer delight.
O luscious dish! O gustatory pleasure!
You satisfy my taste buds beyond measure.

Well, if you can read that without feeling all slobbery and wildly romantic, a serving of diced potatoes sauteed in duck fat until brown and crisp should be administered to you immediately. With perhaps a nice glass of something red and robust.

Life And Faith

2009-10-12T11:04:00.006-04:00

Life has been on my mind lately. So has faith. Life and faith. What do they expect from us? Do they sit on some throne high above us? Joined by Death? Faith sitting in the middle with Death at its left hand and Life at its right?

Yesterday, I was driving aimlessly in the car on some forgotten errand. I suddenly became angry with - of all people - my Father. "I know you love me, Dad," I shouted, "so why haven't you proven that there's something else? That when we die, we still live? That you are still aware, still loving us? Can't I get one damn sign from you, for God's sake? Is that really too much to ask?" (After which spewed forth some rather obnoxious swear words which, though not typical of me, nevertheless felt awfully good.) I looked over at the car next to mine and saw the "crazy person alert" look on the driver's poor face. It was Sunday. He was all dressed up and probably going to church. I didn't go to church this Sunday. I wasn't quite certain anymore. I had lost my bearings. My compass pointed everywhere except in the right direction.

I have heard people remark that God doesn't give us more than we can bear. To which I say, "Bull**it." God gives us much more than we can bear. Which is where Faith comes in. I was looking for a sign from my father that I am on the right track when I believe that the spirit continues to live, even after its vessel has died. After thinking about it more calmly, however, I decided that Faith is believing in something that cannot be subject to proof. That by its definition, Faith defies reason.

Before the drive ended, I realized that I had been driving in silence, with the radio turned off. I switched it on, and there was a discussion being had about a recent wedding. A man was talking about his daughter's wedding day. The first words I heard of the conversation were, "On our way to the church, I told my daughter it wasn't too late. We could still turn around if she wasn't sure." It swept me back to a January day in 1971. My Father took my arm in his and lead me to the waiting limousine. As he held my train and veil, I slipped into the backseat, and he slid in beside me. On the ride to the church, he gently picked up my right hand and held it in his, "You know, Lindy, it isn't too late," he said. "We can still turn the car around if you want to." Dad and I laughed about it for years and years.

Was it the sign I begged for? Who can say. Maybe it was; maybe not. In any event, it came after I had already reclaimed the peace I craved. Faith is, I have decided, a gift that you don't send back.

Why?

2009-10-03T15:17:00.005-04:00

It was Thursday night. My daughter was in Charlottesville, VA visiting John (my son, her brother). They had done the Jefferson Winery that day. I told her the next day they needed to visit Montecello (does that translate to heaven's mountain? If not, it should). I was surprised to see that I had missed a second call so soon after speaking to them both. The voice mail was from John, "Mom, call me back. It's urgent." I heard what I thought was his baby crying in the background. It wasn't his baby. It was mine.

Soon after we said our good-byes, Katharine got a second phone call. Katharine had lost her sweetheart. He was gone. A casualty war. A casualty. That sounds so impersonal, doesn't it. It was Afghanistan, not Iraq, as I had originally thought. It didn't matter from where. Rob was gone. It really didn't matter from where. He used to be here, now he is not. Now he is gone. Just that quick.

She didn't sleep that night, but the next morning, Katharine made the 9 hour drive back home. I begged her to wait for me to go up and get her. But she could not wait. I stood at the window when it got close to the time she would be arriving. "There she is," I whispered. And I ran out the front door to meet her. I gathered her up in my arms. My poor child. My grieving darling. My little girl.

It has been difficult, these last few days. We will leave for Melbourne, FL on Tuesday night, and will be there to greet the casket on Wednesday. Thursday we will sit at Rob's wake. Friday we will help his adoring family bury him. Helpless. Stunned and helpless. Impotent.

The one question she has asked me, over and over again, is, "Why?" "Why, Mom?" The cruelest question there is. It is the one question I have for God, if I'm fortunate enough to ask it. It is THE question of all questions.

So, today, I will make some soup and try to get her to eat. She's so thin already. Her friends are here. She has so many. They are amazing, these young men and women. I wish she would get some sleep. I wish she would eat something. At night I go outside, so I can scream into my fists, so I will not further upset her. His mother, Wendy, pleads "How do I bury my son?" How indeed. How I hate these questions...these hard questions. These questions with no answers. This is a hurt I cannot fix. A hurt I cannot kiss away. I can do the sparrow with the broken wing. I can do the bully in the playground. I can do the frizzy perm on prom night. But this I cannot do. This is way above my pay grade. This is too much. Too cruel. Too hard. And yet, there is no choice but to put one foot in front of the other, and do what must be done.

Over the next days, months, years, we will continue to ask the Why question. If we are patient, will an answer ever come? If we listen long enough and hard enough, will an answer ever come?

Blog, friends, it isn't necessary to comment. I don't know if I have the heart to get back on-line for awhile and may not see the comments for weeks. But, God bless you all. (Yes, I still believe. Angry? Yes. Confused? Certainly. But I still believe). Never miss the opportunity to say, "I love you." As much as you can. If you pray, please pray for strength for Rob's family and my precious one.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

2009-10-02T11:16:00.005-04:00

For Robert Sanchez, Soldier, Patriot, and Friend, who was killed in Kandahar Province, Afghanistan on October 1, 2009
.

And when [he] shall die, take him and cut him up in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will fall in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. William Shakespeare

Once Upon A Time...

2009-09-17T08:34:00.017-04:00

...there was a little girl who lived in a very big city. In fact, it was one of the biggest cities there ever was in the whole world. But, she didn't think of it as big; it was simply home. Every now and then her mother took her and her brother and sister into the "downtown" of the big city. She didn't know why it was called "downtown," but it meant riding on a train up in the air - a train her mother called an "L"," and looking into pretty store windows, and having lunch at a restaurant called Jacques. They always dressed up to go "downtown," and that made it special too. Downtown was like a tall forest, but the trees were made of brick and concrete and steel, and stood straight and tight like broad-shouldered giants standing arm-in-arm. The little girl's name was Lindy, and she loved going into the brick forest. She wasn't at all afraid, even though her mother insisted they all hold hands so no one would get lost, and even though some people downtown talked to themselves right out loud.

Lindy wasn't the little girl's real name; but, it was the name her father gave her and the only name he ever called her. He told her about a man who flew across the Atlantic Ocean all by himself and made it safely to the other side. His name was Charles Lindbergh, and although Lindy's father didn't care much for the pilot's political ideas (which her father declared were "rusty") he liked a song that was written about Charles Lindbergh. Lindy's father loved to cross his right leg over his left, and give Lindy a ride on his foot while he sang, "Lucky Lindy up in the sky, Lucky Lindy flying so high." And - whoosh - up he'd ride Lindy and then - boom - down she would go. This game made them both happy. Although Lindy's father didn't care much for Lindbergh, he did think he had "guts," and guts were very important to Lindy's father. But when he talked about Charles Lindbergh's guts, Lindy's mother would narrow her eyes and tighten up her mouth, and say something about using words that the children might repeat, and guts was not one of the words she wanted the children to repeat. Nevertheless, Lindy's father was determined to win the argument, and Charles Lindbergh had guts...so guts it was and guts it was going to be no matter what mother thought about it.

There was nothing in the little girl's life that caused her to fear anything, until the night she was awakened by the sound of someone talking very low and far away. It sounded like her father's voice, but her father's voice was big and deep. Deep like a well...like when she and her sister would stand on a wooden soda crate and yell down the almost empty rain barrel and the sound would come booming back at them. She got out of bed and carefully crept towards the living room and peered around the corner. The room was dark, except for a small lamp. Her father was sitting in his chair with both of his feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped in front of him. A cigarette with a long ash jiggled in his clenched fingers and an almost empty bottle of amber liquid stood sentinel on the floor. He was talking about a dog of long ago named Moochie, and about how a man in a car swerved to hit Moochie, about how her father chased the man as he drove away, how he ran for blocks down the city streets until he collapsed from exhaustion. Her father called the man bad names that Lindy knew would cause her mother's eyes to narrow and her lips to tighten. She looked to see if someone else was sitting in the darkness; but, her father was alone. She realized he was crying. Now she felt afraid. At the time she didn't realize that fathers cried. As she got older, she would learn that the good ones did.

A short time after she saw her father cry, Lindy began to have a nightmare. She was in a tunnel that looked like a subway station with gray walls, a gray rounded ceiling and a dark, wet pavement. Then she heard the "ba boomp ba boomp" sound, like the last echo of a train's retreating wheels, then a growl, and a hiss. And without turning around she tried to run, but her feet were lead. The dream came back again and again, and she became afraid to go to sleep. Then one night, while being chased by the unknown beast, she struggled to scream. She tried and she tried and finally let out a yelp that woke her up. Standing by her bed was her mother. "Had a bad dream, honey?" Her mother crawled into her bed and drew Lindy close and stroked her cheek. "Do you know what courage is, Lindy?" "Being brave?" the little girl responded. "Well, Courage and Bravery are sisters. Courage is a little older and wiser and lives up here," she said, tapping Lindy's forehead. Then she placed her hand where Lindy's heart beat and said, "Bravery lives here." Lindy looked over at the crib where her brother was fast asleep and asked, "Do they have a brother?" Mother's eyes followed Lindy's and she smiled knowingly. "Well, baby, their brother's name is Fearless." "And where does Fearless live?" With that, Lindy's mother tickled her feet until they both laughed. "He lives here where he can run, and jump and climb things he shouldn't."

"The next time you have the bad dream, I want you to use your courage and turn around. And then I want you to use your bravery and stare right back at the monster. And then Fearless can take over and chase the monster away! How does that sound?" It sounded like a pretty good idea. Lindy's mother turned out the light and sat on the floor next to the bed, and petted her hair. Her mother's perfume was Wind Song, and Lindy knew her mother was close because the familiar fragrance wrapped her up like a blanket. Eventually, the bad dream returned; but, Lindy was prepared with a plan - and it actually worked. The only glitch was Fearless. He ran backwards and out of the tunnel (so the monster might still be there.) But the nightmare was gone forever. When she told her father about defeating the monster with her Courage, Bravery and Fearlessness, Lindy's father was proud of her. "You got guts, kid," he said with a wink.

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

2009-09-10T16:32:00.004-04:00

I've been asked to select some titles for the next Slaves of Golconda book. At first I hadn't the ghost of an idea. I mean, it really was murder coming up with a theme. It was a devil of an assignment that haunted me. I think you now get the drift.

Autumn is here at last. The nights are growing cooler and soon leaves will turn their most brilliant hues - their last hurrah before...Death. Why do we love to be frightened? In what was my most recurrent nightmare, I was being chased by a frightful, demonic figure. As I tried to flee, my feet became leaden and I slogged forward knowing that right behind me breathed a beast. I was always just outside his reach. And then one night I discovered that I could run as fast as the wind with one...big...catch. I had to turn around and run backwards, thereby forcing myself to face the creature that roared and raged, ready to devour me. The nightmare never returned after that night. I had learned to face my fear, and by facing it I had defeated it. Perhaps that is why stories of mystery and suspense, of ghosties and ghoulies and monsters under the bed hold a certain goose-pimply charm for us. So, in honor of Halloween (my favorite holiday) I thought a little mystery, murder, mayhem or "things that go bump in the night" might be in order. Follow me....if...you...dare!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD by Agatha Christie

First published in 1926, and considered to be one of Christie's most controversial mysteries, the Murder of Roger Ackroyd breaks all the rules of traditional mystery writing. A widow's suicide has stirred rumors of blackmail, and of a secret lover named Roger Ackroyd, who was found stabbed to death in his study. The case is so unconventional that not even renowned detective Hercule Poirot has a clue how to solve it. For many Agatha Christie fans, this was her masterpiece.

THE MALTESE FALCON by Dasheill Hammett

The Maltese Falcon is a detective novel - one of the best ever written. It is also a brilliant literary work, as well as a thriller, a love story, and a dark, dry comedy.

It involves a treasure worth killing for, Sam Spade - a private eye with his own solitary code of ethics, a perfumed grafter named Joel Cairo, a fat man named Gutman, and Brigid O'Shaughnessy, a beautiful and treacherous woman whose loyalties shift at the drop of a dime. These are the ingredients of Dashiell Hammet's coolly glittering gem of detective fiction, a novel that has haunted three generations of readers. (from Google books).

THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE by Robert Lewis Stevenson

Published in 1886, this is one of the best known of Stevenson's novels. It concerns the way in which an individual is made up of contrary emotions and desires: some good and some evil. Through the curiousity of Utterson, a lawyer, we learn of the ugly and violent Mr. Hyde and his odd connection to the respectable Dr. Jekyll. A brutal murder is committed. The victim is one of Utterson's clients, and the murder weapon a cane which Utterson had given to Dr. Jeykill. And so, the lawyer becomes entangled in the strange world of the physician who has created a drug that separates the good in human nature from the evil - and the despicable Mr. Hyde.

THE WOMAN IN BLACK by Susan Hill

Set on the English moor, on an isolated cause-way, at a mansion in the bleak, flat wetlands - with no neighbors in sight, the story stars an up-and-coming young solicitor who sets out to settle the estate of Mrs. Drablow. Routine affiars quickly give way to a tumble of events and secrets more sinister than any nightmare.

Often compared to Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, the book starts peacefully and builds to a frightening crescendo that, according to one reviewer on Amazon, "will haunt" you."

Are you game to take a sojourn (perhaps foolishly) into Eel Marsh House? What awaits you there? If you do, will you ever be the same? (I'm getting all spine-tingly just thinking about it.)

----------------------------------------------------------------

Happy Halloween! Oh, I haven't learned how to link yet - but you can always Google. *The blurbs and reviews are taken from various sources.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...

2009-09-08T13:24:00.002-04:00

...which is how Snoopy perennially starts the novel he attempts to write from the roof of his doghouse.

Day One - Grad Writes A Novel:

I placed my laptop on the table in the breakfast room - the sunniest place in the house. It has a view that used to be quite lovely. That was back in the days when I had just learned to garden and threw myself into it with a frenzy. I planted and read and mulched. I deadheaded and weeded, misted and watered. Whatever I touched blossomed and thrived. Then something happened to my magic touch. The view is still green, but invasive vines seem to have choked out all the flowers, except for the Confederate Jasmine and Carolina Jessamine that have grown heavily over the arbor.

I cleaned the breakfast room windows at the beginning of the summer, except for one. A large, striped spider (a huge spider - the size of my palm) had built a magnificent web over that one and I didn't want to disturb it. My children have begged me to get rid of Flash Too (her name), but I'll have to wait until I have the time to catch her in a glass and transport her to the back of the yard (where she should have spun her web in the first place - like Flash One did several years before). One would think she could have picked a better piece of real estate - safety-wise. But I think she rather likes sunning herself.

Okay, so, hands on the keyboard. But, first I decided a pot of tea on the table would benefit the flow of thoughts (which I was certain would come fast and furious) and so off to the pantry. What kind of tea? There's Raspberry Lemon, Red Zinger, Earl Grey, Sleepytime (no, bad choice), English Breakfast. What's in that canister over in the corner? Oh, Apricot Tangerine. Just think I'll rearrange the middle shelf as long as I'm standing here. Why isn't all the tea in one place, the coffee in another, the canned goods arranged by type? The empty storage containers should be in the cabinet near the fridge, not in the pantry.

So, an hour later and I've forgotten that I wanted to brew a pot of tea. The pantry is in order. Back to the table, hands on keyboard.

Did I remember to pay the guy that cuts the lawn? The front yard looks truly awful and needs edging and mowing. I'm afraid my neighbors are talking about it. I'll just give him a call. Did I pay you? Will you come on Tuesday? In that case, should I tape the check to the door? No? Mail will do? I'll stop by the post office on my way to work on Tuesday. Thank you, thank you.

Let's see, I was in the middle of something. The laundry? The laundry!! I ran out of laundry detergent. Must run to the grocery store before I forget. They are having a sale on turkey breast, I think. So, let's see - turkey breast, stuffing mix, onions, chicken broth. We'll have Thanksgiving dinner in September! The leftovers will make great pita sandwiches during the week. Get pita bread, avocado, lettuce and tomatoes.

End of Day One of Grad Writes A Novel. At this pace, I should be published very soon.

The Girl Graduate: And So Adieu

2009-08-24T16:52:00.015-04:00

As darkness fell on May 26, 1903, a large and happy crowd gathered at the pleasant little house on Main Street. Lively music drifted out into the cool, spring evening as revelers enjoyed an elaborate wedding supper in honor of John and Estella, just married at St. John's Church. And thus, Evelyn's parents were tendered as a newly wedded couple. They welcomed Evie, their second child, into the world on May 11, 1906.

She was a happy child and a good student. And, although she had a large circle of friends and was actively engaged in outside activities, she was, at heart, a quiet girl. I suspect The Girl Graduate: Her Own Book, was given to her for her 17th birthday, just months before senior year at WHS. In any event, she began her journal in June of 1923, starting with a "Hike To Homer," accompanied by Viola, and Dorthea and someone identified only as "M," during which she collected fern fronds and flower petals, which she later carefully pressed into her little book.

Painstakingly, she chronicled the small and large events of the next year: the wedding announcement of a sister, the marriage of a teacher, the victories and defeats of the basketball and football teams (with numerous photographs of Duffy cut from newspaper accounts of his athletic prowess), the parties, dances, and club events at school. In short, she documented the life of a teenage girl during that most special of years - the year of evolution from child to woman. How impossible it was to read her journal and not be hopeful for her - even fearful for her. And each time I took the book into my hands, I prayed that the promise of youth had been fulfilled in reality. But, unlike Viola, Evie was illusive and ephemeral, and I worried about her.

After crossing the stage to receive her diploma, Evelyn stepped over the threshold of the Winona Opera House into the night, and began her adult life. Although I struggled for several years to find some thread to follow, some clue that would cast me in the right direction, the mystery of what happened to her remained. Whereas Viola actively threw herself into the community following graduation, Evie seemed to have evaporated into memory. The obvious burden I had was to determine whether she had ever married thereby changing her last name. I had limited my search to the 12 years immediately following graduation, the typical marrying years, with no luck. But as I expanded the time line, I was rewarded. On August 17, 1942, the announcement of her marriage to Rex appeared in the Winona Republican-Herald. So, Evelyn had married late in life, and I had her married name.

I wondered about the man who finally wed Evie - where they met, how long they courted, and what he looked like. I assumed she met Rex in her thirties - perhaps at work- and I feared she may have married him only as a recourse from spinsterhood. But, I was wrong. As I was preparing to write about Evie, I took out the 1924 yearbook once again to look at her graduation picture. My eyes wandered down the page, and for the first time I noticed Rex - young, blond, sweet-faced Rex. They had known each other since high school; I wondered what had taken him so long to ask the question.

In July of 1942, Rex sold his interest in a successful implement store (which had doubled its volume in sales steadily since it was started in 1938), and he and Evie moved from Winona to Madison, Wisconsin. Soon afterwards, Rex joined the army and the couple was stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia. It was in Georgia that Evelyn gave birth to her only child, James Emil, in December of 1945. She was nearly 40 years old.

There are no other facts of Evie's life that I can share with you, other than that there is a grave site at St. Mary's Cemetery in Winona with the names of three people inscribed: Rex 1908-1981, followed by James 1945-1991, and finally Evelyn 1906-1993. The dates tell some of the story. They explain why there was no one left to treasure The Girl Graduate, and why it found its way into that little antique store, and ultimately into my hands. It speaks of a mother who outlived her only child, the heartache which must have followed, and - if you believe - a joyous reunion at last. At least, that is what is settled in my own mind.

I choose to believe she enjoyed a full and happy life with Rex, that she found fulfillment in a life quietly lived, and that finding her book was not mere chance. I believe it was a gift.

Evie: Optimism, Viola.

Viola: Optimism, Evie, and a touch of faith.

Grad: Faith and optimism are sometimes all we have, dear hearts. And considering the alternative...

Evie: Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! Might as well look on the bright side. Isn't that right, Vi?

Viola: Indeed...yes...indeed! I've always said so. I'm famous for it.

Evie: Yes, of course...but, we are not talking about you at this moment, are we dear?

Viola: W-e-l-l, really Evelyn...

Grad: Come now, don't argue. Oh, I almost forgot about Duffy! Let me them about Duffy.

I must say one last word about Duffy. He went on to receive a degree in Journalism from the University of Wisconsin. He returned to Winona, raised a family of boisterous sons, and wrote a sports column for the Winona Republican-Herald for many years entitled, appropriately, "The Duffer." I never had any doubt about him.

So, that is all there is to the story I promised you. I ask your forgiveness in the clumsiness of its telling. I hope you understand that it if it had not been for a series of seemingly random events, it would never have been told at all. If there is a lesson to be learned, perhaps it was meant for me alone to decipher. And if there is no lesson? Well, that will be all right too.

Evelyn: Well, what do you think she will do now?

Viola: Perhaps she will put it all away, up in the attic.

Evelyn: Or, perhaps not. We lived in some pretty colorful times when we were young, Viola. It was The Jazz Age, afterall.

Viola: I still think she will box it all up and put it in the attic. What more is there to tell?

Grad: I might and I might not. It seems like a small story, I agree. But, maybe each one of us adds our own story to the one already told. And it becomes a larger story and then it becomes our history. Maybe we must tell our own stories while we are able, rather than leave it to chance? Rather than leave it to someone else from another place and another time....Is that the lesson? Evie?...Vi?

But they were gone. Perhaps there was a bridge game or a newcomer who needed to be eased through the first pangs of homesickness.

"They could have at least said good-bye," I thought, a little disappointed. I would have liked the chance to say good-bye - or hello.

The Girl Graduate: Part V: Viola In Bloom

2009-08-10T11:05:00.019-04:00

Viola sat at her bedroom window wistfully watching the falling snow. The wind was catching small sections of it, creating little frosty cyclones. Oh, how she wished she was outside to feel both wind and snow upon her face! There would be no chance of that - none whatsoever, unless she was lucky enough to get to the front door without anyone taking notice. As she gleefully pondered how she would pull off her great escape, she settled back into her chair and closed her eyes. In just a few weeks, she would celebrate her 100th Christmas. Notwithstanding the big fuss made over her last birthday, she was not certain that crossing the century mark was all it was cracked up to be.

Viola: I was not a hot house plant, after all. Surely a little cold air and a romp in the snow would have done no harm.

Grad: I imagine they just wanted to protect you, Viola. You could have caught cold, or fallen on ice and...

Viola: And what? What is there to fear at that age?

Grad: You've got a point there, Vi.

In her reverie, Viola thought about the telephone call from the stranger - something about Evie's little graduation book. She might forget what she had for lunch yesterday; but, she had no trouble at all in remembering fine details of the long-ago past. The faces of the Class of 1924 remained crystal clear to Viola; they never aged. The old woman who stared back at her from the mirror this morning was the one she could not recognize. Was it really 83 years ago that she delivered her valedictory address, she mused? She could still recite portions of it by heart.

Anyone entering Viola's room at that moment would have thought she was napping. Why did people assume that the ancient did nothing but doze, she fussed inwardly. In point of fact, she was wide awake, and young once more. It was another December - the winter of 1925. Once again she was in charge of planning an event - the annual reunion ball. Her mission was to arrange a program that would be in keeping with the "spirit of the occasion for renewing old memories of life at Old W.H.S." to be held on January 1. When she walked into the ballroom, even she was enthralled with the elaborate decorations. Viola had never felt more beautiful. She had selected a dark green silk frock with long sleeves that ended in a ruffle at each wrist. The drop waist skirt consisted of three soft tiers which, she rightly imagined, would float beautifully around her slim figure as she danced. As the strains of "I'll See You In My Dreams" filled the hall, she and a handsome young man (who I do not believe was Joseph) took to the floor - they danced all night. "If I live to be one hundred," she thought, "I will never forget how happy I am tonight." She never did forget.

As I reported previously, Viola and Joseph got "quietly married" in 1931. He became a successful lawyer; she stayed at home and raised the children which, I have no doubt, brought her satisfaction and joy. I do not know how she filled her days, but knowing Viola as I do, I am confident she filled them well. Joseph died suddenly when Viola was 57. For the first time in her life, she charted her course according to her own compass.

She would later tell her granddaughter that her life did not begin until Joseph died. She would always laugh when she said it; nevertheless, there was truth behind the wink. Joseph left her financially comfortable, and no one would have been surprised if his widow had decided to live out her days gardening and attending the theater. But such a life was not for our Viola - most definitely not.

Instead, Vi went to work. First, as an administrative secretary (apparently still utilizing what she learned in "short and type" class). And then, after attending college and receiving her four-year degree in business administration at the age of 70, as an accountant. By the way, Viola graduated from college with Honors (No surprise there, Vi), and became a charter member of the External Studies Honor Society at Winona State. Her late-in-life accomplishments continue to be a great source of pride to her family.

Viola did not retire until after she turned 80, and lived on her own until she was 95. From newsletters published by the retirement home to which she moved, it is apparent that she remained in the thick of things. Viola breathed deeply of every minute she was given.

I had planned on visiting Viola after the holidays in January 2007. I was to pack up Evie's little book, and the yearbooks. I had so many questions for her; however, I found myself in an odd situation. Whereas, by that time she was a friend to me, I was merely a stranger to her. I wasn't certain how I would ask the questions for which I wanted answers: whether all the girls had a crush on Duffie (as I surely did), whether she had learned about her paternal grandfather's suicide, her thoughts on marriage and careers, what she would have done differently. Finally I decided I'd just say hello and tell her about my journey back in time. I'd let her lead the way, and the rest would fall into place. Nevertheless, I still had to explain what I was doing there, and I was very nervous. She might find the whole project a ghastly waste of time. But I was also certain that if our roles were reversed, she would press on. So press on it was.

Viola died on January 11, 2007; we never had our meeting.

I was stunned and saddened and angry at myself for not searching harder. I could have found her a full year earlier; I could have traveled during the holiday.

Viola: Well, don't feel too badly, my dear, it could have been worse. You might have come to call when a Vikings game was on, and I would have been too busy to see you then. You would have had to wait until half time.

Grad: I was fore-warned that you were quite a Vike's fan.

Viola: Rabid, Grad, rabid.

Grad: (In a whisper so soft it could only be heard by dogs) Go, Bears.

I wish I had had the chance to tell Viola how greatly I admired her and what an inspiration she was and continues to be - how much I miss her even though we never met. I'll try to remember to breathe deeply, Vi, especially when the wind is blowing and the snow is falling and the seas are too rough to be safe. I'll try to remember to breathe deeply especially then.

The Girl Graduate, Part IV: Chance or Fate

2009-07-14T09:55:00.013-04:00

There are those occasions in life when fate and chance intersect at the perfect moment. On such occasions it matters little which element is fate, or which is chance. The reasons why this story should have been lost are many; the fact that it survived still bewilders me.

Looking back on my own journey, I believe that discovering the yearbook of the Class of 1924 was more of a catalyst to pursue this story than was Evie's journal. Whereas the journal piqued my interest; the yearbook gave breath to characters who would otherwise have been merely names in a diary. It was through the yearbook that I was drawn into these lives lived so long ago; even more, it provided me with small threads of information which, when knitted together and then pieced with other small threads, proved to be invaluable.

Whether the resurrection of the 1924 Radiograph was fate or chance, it only narrowly made it to press. The yearbook had been abandoned by prior classes due to lack of funding. But our intrepid seniors were unwilling to yield to such historical precedent (a determination that served some of them all their lives.) By way of dances, and bridge parties, bake sales, balloon sales, and advertising they inched toward the needed goal. By mid-year, it was clear that a major money-maker was sorely needed. Not only money, but time, was about to run out. Brilliant ideas are born out of desperate times. The "wiener lunch" was conceived as the last ditch effort to "save the Radiograph." And who was at the forefront of the endeavor, you might ask? Viola, business manager for the Radiograph, rolled up her sleeves and with the precision of a field marshal sending her troops into battle, coordinated the potato peeling, the cabbage chopping, and the wienie roasting to successfully serve 200 lunches to students and faculty, returning a profit of $40.00 - enough to publish the yearbook.

Pure and simple, Viola is someone who succeeded. I believe she did so quietly, and without fanfare, but there is no doubt she succeeded. As the top student in the Class of '24, Viola was offered scholarships to six colleges, including one to my Alma Mater. She chose to pursue a two year degree at the local teachers college (which would later become Winona State University, and which would play a major role in this story). It surprised no one that she graduated with honors in academics, and in athletics. Nevertheless, I was a little disappointed to learn she set her feet in that direction, for I do not believe Viola was following her passion in doing so. It is far more likely that she took the route which was most expected of her. She most surely had already met Joseph, the boy she would eventually marry, and his course was set in a particular direction. Her compass reflected his.

Joseph was, in his own right, an excellent student who attended the local Catholic school. Viola attended the Lutheran Church, and I often wonder if this dichotomy deadened both families' enthusiasm for the union. Joseph graduated from the University of Minnesota School of Law in 1929. By 1931 he was working as a lawyer in Rochester. A small article in the Winona Republican-Herald in August of that year notes that a "miscellaneous" bridal shower was given for Viola at the home of her parents. Since the evening was spent "playing bridge at three tables" it was obviously a small gathering.

In late August 1931, Viola and Joseph were quietly married at St. John's Church in Rochester. "The couple was unattended," read the newspaper. Those four words made my heart ache. The bride wore "a brown costume with accessories in harmonizing shades." I wonder if Joseph thought to present her with a small bouquet to carry, or if she might have at least worn a flower in her hair. Not everyone has, or indeed wants, a wedding of white froth and orange blossoms. That is not what saddens me about Viola's wedding day. The fact that they seem to have embarked on married life without the warm embrace of family or friends does bother me. The distance between Rochester and Winona is a little over 50 miles; and, even in 1931 would not have been a difficult journey, especially without the challenges of winter roads. Why was there no mother, or father, or sibling present; did the marriage cause a rift? Did Viola's family still suffer from questions arising from an old suicide? Were the families opposed to the marriage on religious grounds? I have no answers. If she had not been raised a Catholic, Viola certainly continued to practice as one after her marriage.

Viola and Joseph settled in Stewartville, where Joseph practiced law. He was apparently successful and opened a second office in Rochester; Viola stayed home to raise at least four children, 3 boys and 1 daughter. There is no evidence that she pursued any of her own artistic pursuits during this period. It would have been in her character, however, to fulfill her role as wife and mother with excellence.

There is an insurmountable frustration involved in telling some one's story with only a skeleton of a life to consider. I can tell you where Viola started, where she wandered, and where she eventually settled, but the essence of a person can only be the stuff of speculation with information that sketchy. Once again, as has happened so often in my pursuit of this story, fate or chance or something else intervened. I lose track of Viola as she lived out her role of wife and mother. I do not pick up any trace of her until many years later; but, I eventually do find her. And no one was more surprised than I was.

Grad: Viola, it is no surprise to me that what comes next is really the best part of your story.

Viola: Life must be lived...all of it. But, have you discovered what you were meant to learn yet?

Grad: About you?

Viola: No. What you were meant to learn.

Grad: About chance?

Viola: Oh, I don't believe in chance.

Grad: Fate, then? Like Shakespeare once said? The answer lies not in our stars but in ourselves, or something like that?

Viola: I don't believe that things are written in the stars, either. What would be the challenge in that? Keep thinking; you'll figure it out.

Grad: Well, had I known there would be a test involved afterward, I might not have started this.

Viola: Yes, you would have. You most certainly would have.

The Girl Graduate, Part III: Viola Takes The Stage

2009-07-06T10:55:00.020-04:00

It was the evening of June 12, 1924. The weather was unsettled and cooler than usual for that time of year. Lightening buzzed and crackled far off in the southeastern sky. The threat of rain hung in the air. But tonight marked the coming of age of the Class of 1924 and nothing could dampen their spirits.

The week had been a full one. Commencement Services held on June 8 at the First Congregational Church included scripture readings (which would be unheard in a public school today), a quartet of voices performing "O, Come to My Heart, Lord Jesus", a sermon entitled "A Good Investment," by the Rev. Ostergren, several hymns and prayers and finally the Postlude (the other end of a Prelude) consisting of an unspecified work by Vincent. The Senior Class Play, A Midsummer Night's Dream, had been performed - to rave reviews - the night before. All that remained was this final step forward.

Viola: I didn't think about it at that moment, but it would be the last time we were all together in one place.

Evelyn: Didn't you allude to that in your speech that night? I seem to remember you saying something about it being "a brief and fleeting moment, held aloft by a fragile gossamer cord..."

Viola: Evelyn, I do believe you are making that up.

Evelyn: No. No, on second thought I am quite sure of it.

Viola: I cannot imagine I said anything of the sort. You perhaps have my speech confused with Lucille's. She was always so dramatic - a regular Agnes Ayres in "The Sheik".

Evelyn: With Rudolph Valentino! "Captured and Carried Away!" Isn't that how the newspaper put it?

Viola: Whatever are you talking about?

Evelyn: You know, "The Sheik...A story of stolen love that has sent a new thrill through the English speaking world."

Viola: Ah, yes. But, I was making the point that Lucille was more apt to dramatics than was I. "Fragile gossamer cord" indeed - surely attributable to her.

Grad: I appreciate getting the fine details correct. Ladies, don't be shy, just jump right in whenever you feel the urge. Now, Viola's story...where shall I start?

Viola: I've always found the beginning the most logical place.

And so I shall. It was October 19, 1906. Theodore Roosevelt announced that he would once again be a candidate for the President of the United States if it appeared that William Randolph Hearst was to win his bid for governor of New York. "If the democrats win in New York, the next democratic candidate for the presidency may be William R. Hearst." This was a prospect Roosevelt regarded as a "calamity." He would therefore yield to popular demand, "cast aside a personal preference for private life," and accept another term as president - for the good of the country, of course.

Alberta Gallatin was appearing at the Winona Opera House in the N.Y. Lyric Theatre success, "Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall" complete with the original electrical effects. Tickets were selling for $1.50, although lesser desirable seats could be had for as little as 25 cents.

Men's wool suits, promising "long and satisfactory wear" were on sale for between $8 and $25 at the Columbia Clothing Store. Why was one man not as well and fittingly dressed as another, you might ask? The owners of the Columbia Clothing Store had the answer. "It is because of carelessness in buying".

But most important to my story, Viola was born. Her father's name was Edward; and, although I know her mother's maiden name I have not as yet been able to discover her first name. As was the custom then - and often remains so now - once a woman was married, she had little identity of her own separate from that of her husband. Viola's mother - when she was referred to at all in newspaper articles - was therefore identified only as "Mrs. Edward (blank)." Edward was a very young father, being only 21 years old when Viola was born. She was followed in fairly close succession by a brother, Harold, and a sister, Cleora.

I wonder about Edward's childhood and whether it might have been blighted in some way. If so, did it seep into Viola's young life as well? Despair and unhappiness are all too often legacies passed from one generation to the next.

Edward's father, Herman, was born in Germany in 1851. I do not know when he immigrated to the United States, but by 1886 he was residing in Winona, and Edward had been born. He owned his own tailor shop, although the fact that he and his family lived above a bakery suggests it may not have been an entirely profitable enterprise.

Was darkness always skulking silently around the edges of their lives, waiting like an opportunistic thief? Or was it a bold interloper who sat at the table with them every night and loudly dominated their dinner conversation? I will never know. Whatever its relationship to Herman's family, it made its presence felt on a bright June day in 1907.

On that particular morning, Edward's father had his breakfast, as usual, with his family and went to his tailor shop. At around 10:00 a.m. a customer entered the shop, having made an appointment with the tailor to alter some clothing. Finding the shop empty, he entered the little work room where Herman often did his cutting and sewing. Herman was sitting in a chair and the customer called out to him. When there was no answer, he called out again, and yet again. Advancing closer, the customer realized that Herman was dead; a revolver was lying on the floor at his side. Herman apparently placed the revolver against his right temple, just above the ear, and pulled the trigger. He had taken the precaution of loading all six chambers; only one was needed. Whatever it was that he could not face will never be known. Herman took all the answers with him.

During the investigation that followed, it was revealed that Herman had hinted at suicide the previous week. His sons were so concerned they confiscated their father's pistol. The night before his death Herman walked into the gun shop, just before closing time, and purchased another.

When her paternal grandfather took his life, Viola was almost 8 months old. Her father was 22. One has to believe there were residuals to this tragedy. If and in what way they affected Viola's life is pure speculation. And yet, surely this event would have had a profound effect on her father, and in turn, on her. Perhaps the family never spoke of it. Nevertheless, I am certain she would have known this sad family history. Its burden on her personally, or whether it had any effect on who she became, is impossible to say.

Evelyn: Where are we, Grad?

Grad: We're at the lagoon on the street where I live.

Evelyn: It seems to be a good place to think.

Grad: At this time of day, the sun sits too low in the sky. The light hurts the eyes.

Evelyn: Maybe this is a good place in the story to pause...just for a little while.

And so it is.

The Girl Graduate Part II: A Clue Is Found

2009-06-26T14:07:00.028-04:00

I continue with my tale. But before I move my story of Evelyn and Friends forward, I must tell you how I found the next and a most important piece of my puzzle.

October in Winona is breathtaking. At that time of year, the bluffs are in full autumn color, so golden and luminous it hurts the eyes to look at them too hard. I had returned. Was it the year after I found the journal? Or was it longer? I can no longer recall. In any event, I was back ostensibly to attend another reunion; but, in reality I wanted to unlock some small part of the mystery it was my mission to solve, to wit: What happened to Evie? What happened to her friends? The Winona Public Library is an imposing, domed building standing at the corner of 5th and Johnson Street, and that is where I began my search.

On the second floor of the library stood a statue of Hebe, the daughter of Zeus and Hera, an original work by Antonio Canova. As the cupbearer of the gods on Mount Olympus, Hebe has always personified the beauty of youth. It seemed somehow fitting that she should be standing there, one hand raised high holding a pitcher, the other hand lower, holding a cup. The beauty of youth... and beyond. That was the story I was trying to tell.

Just outside the room where Hebe resided, and tucked under the domed ceiling, was a mural painted by Kenyon Cox called The Light of Learning. As it is described by others, "in the center, robed in the green of eternal youth and wearing a decorative modification of the shield of Minerva, sits Learning, lighting her torches..." To the right sits Romance, to the left Philosophy. History writes on her tablet, and Science holds a globe and compass. The mural was donated by William Hayes as a tribute to his wife. I wondered how many countless times Evie and her friends looked up at that mural and if they had ever considered its meaning.

Viola: Does she really need to go into all of this? Why doesn't she just get on with it?

Evelyn: Viola, be patient and let the child tell the story in her own way. You were always trying to run things.

Viola: Well, at least when I ran things, they ran! Don't forget, I was editor-in-chief of the Hi-News.

Evelyn: Now, how could I possibly forget that.

Grad: Ladies, please hush. It's difficult enough piecing this story together without interruption. You'll just have to trust me.

Evelyn: Go ahead, dear. Continue.

Grad: Now, where was I?

Evelyn: The library, dear

Oh, right. Finding nothing helpful in the library, I wandered back into the rough October afternoon. Dusk was approaching and the light was the kind of steely gray that blooms slowly, then fades into twilight. I walked down to Third Street then toward Main and I saw what I thought might be the little antique store where I had found Evelyn's book a year (or several) before. Tingaling went the little shop bell as I stepped inside. Yes. It was the very same place. And back there was the rack, and down there was the shelf.

The still-dusty shelf contained old magazines, and almanacs, and city directories. The directories might prove helpful, I thought, and I tried to find something dating back to the 1920s. The oldest were from the 70s, and did not contain any of the last names for which I searched. Another dry hole. But...wait. Two odd looking volumes bound in dark green paper, pebbled to resemble faux leather, sat side by side, one shelf up.

Do you believe in destiny? Or fate? Or divine providence? Or perhaps a soft whisper in your ear which you cannot explain, telling you to look here, or look there? As incredible as it sounds, I reached for the first volume and stared in silent disbelief as I read the inscription, "WHS 1924." What I was holding in my hands was the high school annual for the Class of 1924. Evelyn's class.
The owner of the annual had written her name inside on the bookplate. "This is Esther's book," I said softly to myself. I recognized her name from some of the school newspaper articles in the journal. At the top of page 8, I saw my first clear picture of Evelyn. "So this is you." It was a pretty face, oval, with soft eyes. A flip of the page, and there was Viola. Viola - serious, determined and beautiful. A little saying went along with her picture, "To do her best in every way, Keeps Viola busy all the day."

Excitement building, I hastily turned page after page. "They are all here, they are all here!" There's Duffy, Pearl, and Mr. Henry. Here's Lucille dressed as Puck in A Midsummer's Night Dream, and Lucille and Earl leading the Grand March into the prom, "artistically decorated with Japanese lanterns and brightly colored streamers...." Mr. Bowe getting carried down the length of a hall on the shoulders of a group of rooting boys on Jinx Day, and the Buck-Schott trio providing music at the Basket Ball Banquet. I was particularly captivated by Duffy. If I had been a member of the Class of 1924, I would surely have been in love with him. Although the strange thought crossed my mind that, at one and the same time, he was both younger than my children and older than my father.

Evelyn: You're right. That is very odd. You are stuck right in the middle, aren't you, dear? Duffy was the cat's pajamas.

Viola: Duff had very nice looking legs, don't you think, Evie?

Evelyn: Oh, yes. And he was such a lovely dancer; could he cut a rug!

Viola: Do you remember, "Barney Google, with those goo-goo-googely eyes."

Evelyn: (Laughing...and whispering something into Vi's ear.)

Viola: Oh, Ev, you are naughty.

Grad: Ahem, if you please...

The last dozen pages of the yearbook were devoted to advertisements from local businesses, and it was over these pages that Esther's friends wrote notes of congratulations and promises to "always remember the great time we had in short and type class," or "will never forget the fun we had in Pen and Spelling," or "fond memories of those fudge parties in Commercial Club" or the one that made me cry. It began, "Sweetest angel child, I've the whole back page to myself to tell you how much I love you...."

The yearbook had not been Evie's, but it really didn't matter. The other green covered yearbook book was from the Class of 1926. I bought them both (one just never knows). So, at last the friends that populated Evelyn's diary had faces to go with the names; and, what was true for me before was made even more compelling with this new find. I now felt connected to these young men and women. I was sharing their past. I sought their future. I began my search in earnest little knowing how long it would take. There was no turning back.

Now, at last, you have all the background information necessary for me to continue. I am pleased to present to you two people of whom I am most fond. I shall begin with Viola.

Viola: Well, are we there at last? I think perhaps this tale could use some rather ruthless editing. Did I mention I was editor-in-chief of the Hi-News?

Evelyn: Viola, we've been friends all our lives - and then some. So I hope you will not be offended if I ask you to please put a sock in it.

Viola: For your information, I'm perfectly capable of telling my own story. I just hope she gets it right (her hands fluttering in agitation.) (Pause) Did you say beautiful?

Grad: I most certainly did; and, you most certainly were.

Evelyn: (to Grad) Proceed, Oh Troubadour.

Grad: First I have to catch my breath - and pour a nice stiff drink.

I turned my back and heard a definite, "Harumph."