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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Why I Don't Volunteer
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.
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.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Finding Treasure
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.
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.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
I Planned To Procrastinate But I Decided To Wait
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Winning
"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.
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.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I'll Give You Stormy Weather
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.
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.
Monday, December 6, 2010
We Need A Little Christmas
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.
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.
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