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.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
I Am Grad, And I Approve This Message
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Creep Factor
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.
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.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Sea Wisdom
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 .
Friday, August 5, 2011
...And As It Writes, Moves On
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Gumption
"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.
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.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Fish Art
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.
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