"The rough edges of society are often in need of filing down." That is often-used dictum in many appellate rulings involving cases of intentional infliction of emotional distress. It is more or less the grown-up version of the dictum heard on the playground, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me." So, okay. But even if they don't hurt, at the very least they have the power to make us grumpy.
Two incidents occurred yesterday that caused me to think about those rough edges. I will begin by stating that I don't see (or rather feel) those scratchy bits too often. I live in a very small city in the American South and, believe it or not, people are generally pretty polite here. There is an abundance of Yes, Sir-ing and Yes, Ma'am-ing and pardon me, please and thank you going on. When my children were very small a friend from "up North" called me on the telephone. One of the kids answered and when asked if I was in said, "Yes, ma'am. I'll get her. Please hold." She asked me, "HOW do you get them to do that." The answer was simple. I didn't. It was just part of the culture and all their friends talked the same way they did. They heard it in school, they heard it at play. I imagine it is different in the big cities of the South, like Atlanta for instance, but where I live we're still pretty quaint. People may caution an errant youngster to "Be still or I'm going to wear you out." And a teacher might "fuss" at you for forgetting your homework yet again. But generally speaking it's all fairly benign.
And so, you see, blatant acts of rudeness - which may go unnoticed elsewhere - stick out like a boil on Jimmy Durante's nose here.
It was time for lunch. I generally don't go out at lunch but yesterday was a beautiful day and I wanted to be out in it. I figured I would drive over to the new biggest-ever-in-these-parts-grocery-store and check out their deli. Along a busy stretch of a 4 lane city street I had to stop for traffic. There was a red light and about 5 cars ahead of me and then another intersecting street. Stopping before the intersecting street (so as not to block the traffic coming to the right and left) was not only the polite thing to do, it is also the law. It is a fairly long light but I was listening to an Agatha Christie audio book so the wait didn't bother me.
There was one car stopped behind me and as I glanced in the rear-view mirror I could see him shouting - I presumed to himself - which seemed strange enough. But then he suddenly threw his car into reverse in a screech of his wheels and whipped into the left hand lane, swung around me, made a right turn into the intersecting street and then into a gas-food-mart parking lot. When he got out, he turned to my direction and glared hard. He didn't pull up to the gas pumps, but stomped into the mart instead. He was probably a young man badly in need of cigarettes and I stood in his way for an agonizing 2 or 3 minutes...which I guess can SEEM like hours when one needs a smoke. What disappointed me most was that he was a soldier. A part of me - the careless part - the part that doesn't think about consequences before bamboozling my way into something - said, "Go into that market this minute and tell that boy to behave himself. Especially when he is a representation of so many people who give so much." The Mom in me wanted to "wear him out." But when the light turned green my sensible alter ego stepped on the gas pedal and drove on. It was a small encounter - well, near encounter - and I don't know why it made such an impression on me, but it did and I thought about it several times that day. And I'm obviously thinking about it again.
The second incident occurred - again - at a traffic light. This time I was the third car in a line of about 6. When the light turned green, the first car went through the intersection but the car in front of me was obviously not paying attention. You won't hear people honking their horns very much around here. Folks who are stopped behind you will sit for a few minutes hoping you'll wake up. After they figured you've fallen asleep or died they will give the horn a little "tap" to shake you out of your lethargy. Then everyone waves..."Thanks" or "Sorry" or "Yeah, well, okay"...and goes about their business. However yesterday one of the cars behind me laid on the horn, which was more irritating than the slacker stopped in front of me, and was so unusual I wondered if the driver might be from someplace like New York or Massachusetts or New Jersey where such things are common practice. Naturally, the fellow ahead figured it was me and not only flipped me the bird he rolled down his window to do it and flew his finger-flag thusly for a good half-block. "It wasn't me," I mouthed. But he sped off in a fit of pique.
These incidents reminded me of something that happened in London a few years ago. I took one of those big black cabs to the Chunnel station where one catches the channel train to France. I wanted to tip the cabbie 20% and was trying to make the dollars to pound/Euro conversion quickly in my head. I handed him some bills and asked, "I'm sorry, what would 20% of the total be?" I meant well but I must have offended him because he retorted angrily, "I'm a cab driver not a bleedin' mathematician," and took off...zoom...zoom. I stood in the street watching him go, stunned silent, wondering what I had said that made him so upset. It stuck with me and I can see it as clearly as if it happened last week.
So, what is my point? We move about in society minding our own business, usually with the best of intentions - or at the very least no intentions whatsoever - and every once in a while we get snagged by one of those sharp edges. Like any sharp edge it feels rough, or scratchy, or it can hurt. It usually takes us by surprise because if we could predict where they lie in wait we could avoid those prickly parts. Perhaps that is why we remember them. They come as a surprise - they shock - they bewilder. We are left without the chance to explain or defend or question or resolve.
I have no idea what the moral of the story is. Perhaps it's that no matter where you live or where you go, they are out there. Hopefully not in abundance. When confronted with them we must remember the words of the inimitable Teddy Roosevelt: "Speak softly,but carry a big fat file."
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
She's B-a-a-a-c-k
But flowers! I can do flowers. Flowers have always seemed fairly independent – just a little watering and a little deadheading and voila. I had no intention of trotting over to the garden center this Saturday but the thought came to me as I was doing errands that, on such a beautiful day, it was the place that made the most sense.
Years and years ago - what seems now like a lifetime ago because it was - I gardened. I grew flowers. I spent every weekend outside planting and pulling and watering and coaxing. On my birthday I would receive gifts like garden gloves, spades, clippers, sun dials, garden figures. One day while I was in the garden tending to a mound of Lantana, my next door neighbor ran over to tell me he had seen a hummingbird! "A humming bird!" he exclaimed. With my pruners I pointed to the feeder I set up between our yards. "Yes, they've been invited." It was a simple encounter, but seeing him so excited made me happy and I've remembered it ever since. Sadly, I think that was the last year I had hummers come to visit.
Life is fluid and things change. Sometimes (perhaps often) one gets thrown a curve ball and one's focus has to change as well. And in all that changing and figuring out and thinking hard and working even harder, little bits of yourself can get chipped away. It is almost imperceptible because the process is a slow one; but, it is a steady one. The truth is I had larger problems to solve than leaf mold. As a result the beds got buried under seasons of autumn leaves and eventually gardening gifts seemed impractical. Oh, every now and then I'd plant something in a pot or two but I never really returned to what I would call gardening gardening. That full-throttled, hearty digging, compost enriching, all-morning pruning, water soaked dirt fest. I stopped spending winter days looking through seed catalogs.
The happy news is that caught in time that fragmented and tangential change of course can once again be set right. It's like waking from a long nap and finding that the light has adjusted. It is brighter or darker, more golden or more fiery. Different...yes. But it is still all around and helping things to grow.
And thus awakened from my nap I spent the morning at the garden center considering the way the violet petunia looked with the chartreuse creeping jenny and debating if the dusty miller could get along with the orange Gerbera. I felt the pieces falling into place and I was once again on vaguely familiar ground. True, I had forgotten all the Latin names for the plants - something at which I was fairly proficient in the long-ago. But I recognized their faces and eventually we will become familiar friends once again. Admittedly it's just a small beginning, but I hope to stick with it. Outside is such a nice place to be and when I look over the terrain I envision all sorts of possibilities. Real gardeners are always looking for places to turn new earth. I just might be signing up for those seed catalogs after all.
I'm also sending out fauna invitations. I bought a bag of small bird seed (millet and the like) and one bag of Black Oil Sunflower seeds. Although my feeder is supposed to be squirrel-proof, I saw one very clever fellow hanging upside down by his hind legs and scooping out a pawful this morning. I am on the hunt for a baffle that will slip over the stand. I try to discourage squirrels since they are apt to rent out my attic during the winter and are very undesirable tenants. The cardinals honed in right away. Who else might come? In hopeful anticipation I brewed up a batch of nectar.
Coming back to gardening feels good. Coming back feels right. And, with enough enticement perhaps the hummingbirds will come back as well. Perhaps I should hang out a sign, "All Organic and Home Brewed." It might work.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Marcie And Life
I don't hang around Facebook very much...mostly just to spy on my offspring...but I recently read the post of a dear friend, whose name is not Marcie but that's what I'll call her. It said, "I love my life. I hope you love yours..." I was just about to post a glib response, like "Yeah, I'd love your life too" or maybe "Wanna' switch?" But I did not. I did not because I paused and thought about what she said. I thought about it slowly..."I love my life." Marcie did not say, "I love life." We all - well most of us - love life itself, especially considering the alternative. No. Marcie wrote that she loves her life. As I thought about it - and continued to think about it for days - the profoundness of that brief comment settled somewhere very deep.
It lingered. The thought hovered over my head like one of those dialog balloons and intrigued me so much that I began to ask members of my "team" at work whether he or she loved their life. Not life, but their life. "Why...are you dying?" was the first response of a Mr. Smarty-Pants who is in the midst of a divorce, and who then responded, "No, I hate my life right now because I either have to sleep on a friend's couch or live in my car." Another said he loved his life on the weekends but only if there was beer in the fridge. Obviously, I was not going to get anything close to meaningful responses from this crowd so I dropped the query and they all seemed very much relieved. The subject of the conversation changed to something a little more comfortable - I think it was basketball. Nevertheless, the obvious question - the one I avoided asking was: Do I love mine? It's something to think about, isn't it.
I'm not trying to sound all Existentialisty, which, of course I couldn't do if I tried since I remember very little about it from my college philosophy class other than that it made my head hurt. I do recall something about first existence and then experience...or was it the other way around? Or was it essence and not experience? Or none of the above? In any event, "I love my life" demonstrates a philosophical attitude that is easy to understand if you know the person who holds it.
If you asked her, I do not believe Marcie would ever say her life has been perfect but it is different from the lives many of us live in one important respect: Marcie really concentrates on doing good. That is how she lives her life but I'm not sure she goes about it with that intent upper most in her mind. I think "doing good" might just come naturally to her - like some people can play the piano without taking lessons. So does looking at the glass half-full. She reminds me of the phrase, "Getting what you want is not the same as wanting what you have." And looking back over the years I've known her, I can honestly say that even when things in her life were less than sunny, Marcie has been able to maintain an aura of happiness about her - I guess you could say she possesses that rarest of qualities: "a touch of grace." It is fun to be around her and when you part you really do feel better about life - in general and your own.
So, yes, I can see how she is able to say "I love my life." It's a mighty fine one..mighty fine.
It lingered. The thought hovered over my head like one of those dialog balloons and intrigued me so much that I began to ask members of my "team" at work whether he or she loved their life. Not life, but their life. "Why...are you dying?" was the first response of a Mr. Smarty-Pants who is in the midst of a divorce, and who then responded, "No, I hate my life right now because I either have to sleep on a friend's couch or live in my car." Another said he loved his life on the weekends but only if there was beer in the fridge. Obviously, I was not going to get anything close to meaningful responses from this crowd so I dropped the query and they all seemed very much relieved. The subject of the conversation changed to something a little more comfortable - I think it was basketball. Nevertheless, the obvious question - the one I avoided asking was: Do I love mine? It's something to think about, isn't it.
I'm not trying to sound all Existentialisty, which, of course I couldn't do if I tried since I remember very little about it from my college philosophy class other than that it made my head hurt. I do recall something about first existence and then experience...or was it the other way around? Or was it essence and not experience? Or none of the above? In any event, "I love my life" demonstrates a philosophical attitude that is easy to understand if you know the person who holds it.
If you asked her, I do not believe Marcie would ever say her life has been perfect but it is different from the lives many of us live in one important respect: Marcie really concentrates on doing good. That is how she lives her life but I'm not sure she goes about it with that intent upper most in her mind. I think "doing good" might just come naturally to her - like some people can play the piano without taking lessons. So does looking at the glass half-full. She reminds me of the phrase, "Getting what you want is not the same as wanting what you have." And looking back over the years I've known her, I can honestly say that even when things in her life were less than sunny, Marcie has been able to maintain an aura of happiness about her - I guess you could say she possesses that rarest of qualities: "a touch of grace." It is fun to be around her and when you part you really do feel better about life - in general and your own.
So, yes, I can see how she is able to say "I love my life." It's a mighty fine one..mighty fine.
Monday, February 17, 2014
To Everything There Is A Season; And A Time For Every Purpose
Holden began her journal on January 1, 1906 and continued to capture the change of seasons through the use of her keen eye, careful hand, and beautiful artwork. Not exclusively a diary, as the year progressed she also included a few of her favorite poems (Byron, Burns, Wordsworth, E. B. Browning) and her personal observations of the world around her. Edith Holden worked as an illustrator following art school and her work has been published in several books, but rumor has it that she never allowed anyone to look at this diary. And apparently no one did until nearly 70 years after her death when it was discovered on a bookshelf in a country house. I can imagine what a spectacular find that would have been for any book lover!
In 1911 Edith married a sculptor, Ernest Smith and moved to Chelsea. They had no children.
On March 16, 1920, while she was attempting to gather the buds from chestnut trees, she drowned in the Thames. She was only 49 years old.
After my sister gave me this lovely diary, I learned that it was a popular coffee table book when first published. But it is also an inspiration for would-be diarists, journal keepers, bird watchers, naturalists, and just plain folks who like to get outside and observe nature - perhaps even an encouragement to make a record of one's own.
Certainly, few of us have the artistic talent of an Edith Holden, but even without the illustrations, it is delightful to know that on December 27, 1906, "in the paper today it reports that all Britain lies under snow from John O'Groats to Land's End for the first time for six years." Or that on the 30th "[t]he blackbirds and thrushes are usually rather shy, and fly away at the approach of any-one but now they only hop away to a little distance and sit watching with their bright eyes from beneath the friendly shelter of a bush, waiting to go back to their feast of crumbs."
But the promise of Spring is the promise of Spring. It was so back then, and so it is now. In 1906, on what would decades later be my birthday, Edith Holden went to Stratford on Avon and "walked to Shottery across the meadows. On the way I gathered Hawthorn blossom from the hedges and saw fields yellow with Buttercups and banks of blue Speedwell. The Dandelions were a wonderful sight along the railway cutting."
I would like to have known her and through her diary I almost feel I do. As it is, I'm not much of a painter, but this might be the year I invest in some brushes and a box of watercolors. It's never too late to learn, and if this diary proves anything it proves that to everything there is a season. Edith would approve.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
She Doesn't Care Much For Literature
"She doesn't care much for literature, she just wants to read a good book." Who said that or something like it? I read it recently...I don't know...somewhere. The where and the who escape me. But when you think about it, unless one is an academic, don't we all just want to read a good book? It is the reason I read book blogs, and a little of why I write one myself. It is also how I get myself into a bit of trouble every now and then.
I was looking at my on-line library account this morning and began to realize exactly how out of hand things are getting.
The following Holds are waiting for me to pick up, which I have to do by tomorrow or they will be put back into circulation:
Life After Life, Kate Atkinson
Tell The Wolves I'm Home, Carol Rifka Brunt (a copy each of the audio and the paper book)
Lucky Break, Esther Freud
However, after I do pick them up the traffic backup will get very dicey since I already have the following out on loan:
From Time To Time, Jack Finney
Time And Again, Jack Finney (which I am currently reading);
A Pale View Of The Hills, Kazuo Ishiguro
Started Early, Took My Dog, Kate Atkinson
Caleb's Crossing, Geraldine Brooks
The Time Traveler's Guide To Medieval England, Ian Mortimer;
The Summer Book, Tove Jansson
The English Girl, Daniel Silva
Murder is Easy, Agatha Christie (audio)
Bring Up The Bodies, Hilary Mantel (audio and my current commute read).
All are due at the end of the month, although I can renew them. Nevertheless, I will probably return the Jansson and the Mortimer unread this weekend, along with Caleb's Crossing, which I was only going to read for a book club. I wasn't crazy about Brooks' Year of Wonders and I probably would not read anything else by her at my own choosing. I will probably return The English Girl, which pains me. Well, let someone else read it and I'll get around to it this summer perhaps. Silva's books are good beach books. And Agatha might have to go back since I am fully into Bring Up The Bodies, which is over 12 hours long, I only drive one hour per day, and I drive it 5 days per week. Easy math tells me it will take weeks to finish it.
Since I'm talking about it, is not Hilary Mantel's writing just exquisite? I mean really. Today, as Cromwell was remembering the sounds at Austin Friars, he notes that one of those sounds was "the whisper of ink across a page..." Can't you just hear it yourself? Can't you see the quill, and the wooden desk, and the precious paper? All of that in an economy of words that is nothing short of brilliant. If my car didn't know the way to work without my telling it how to get there I would probably be in Macon at this very moment. But it does and I'm here. The frustrating thing about an audio book is the inability to rewind to that precise thing one wants to hear again. I will probably buy a copy of the book in any event, so I'll be able to find it again.
And, of course, there are the books I own. I couldn't wait for River of Smoke, the second book in the Ibus trilogy by Amitov Ghosh to be published but held off reading it for so long that I may have to re-read Sea Of Poppies first because I can't remember many details other than the fact that I loved it. But I didn't find it an easy book to read, so I am not looking forward to diving back in.
I have no idea what made me order The Long Ships by Frans Bengtsson right before Christmas, but apparently it was a "must have" and when it came in the mail I had nearly forgotten all about it. A friend and colleague gave me three thrillers last month which are still on the back seat of my car by authors I never read. Scott Turow, Baldacci (whose first name I can't remember), and another one whose first and last name I can't remember. He also gave me The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling that is currently sitting on the floor under my office desk and has been for several months which makes it one less space for the cleaning crew to vacuum. Although I'd like to read them, none are high priority. I always worry about being asked about them. Touchy situation when someone actually hands you a book and expects you to read it.
I am expecting the sixth Flavia de Luce book, The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches by Alan Bradley, to be shipped out to me next week from Barnes & Noble. [Ah-ha!! Steve Berry! That's the one whose first and last name I could not remember. I suddenly did. Frightening.] When it arrives I know I'll drop everything else and will probably finish it in a weekend.
I know I need a solid reading plan; but, I would follow it only so long and then someone in a blog would mention something absolutely wonderful...such a good book...a book that you can read read. You know the kind I mean. And when they did, I would fly off the handle and track it down with single-mindedness only to find that when I eventually did get it into my hot hands I would be off on another tangent. It is just so...so...well, I don't have to tell you. You know.
I was looking at my on-line library account this morning and began to realize exactly how out of hand things are getting.
The following Holds are waiting for me to pick up, which I have to do by tomorrow or they will be put back into circulation:
Life After Life, Kate Atkinson
Tell The Wolves I'm Home, Carol Rifka Brunt (a copy each of the audio and the paper book)
Lucky Break, Esther Freud
However, after I do pick them up the traffic backup will get very dicey since I already have the following out on loan:
From Time To Time, Jack Finney
Time And Again, Jack Finney (which I am currently reading);
A Pale View Of The Hills, Kazuo Ishiguro
Started Early, Took My Dog, Kate Atkinson
Caleb's Crossing, Geraldine Brooks
The Time Traveler's Guide To Medieval England, Ian Mortimer;
The Summer Book, Tove Jansson
The English Girl, Daniel Silva
Murder is Easy, Agatha Christie (audio)
Bring Up The Bodies, Hilary Mantel (audio and my current commute read).
All are due at the end of the month, although I can renew them. Nevertheless, I will probably return the Jansson and the Mortimer unread this weekend, along with Caleb's Crossing, which I was only going to read for a book club. I wasn't crazy about Brooks' Year of Wonders and I probably would not read anything else by her at my own choosing. I will probably return The English Girl, which pains me. Well, let someone else read it and I'll get around to it this summer perhaps. Silva's books are good beach books. And Agatha might have to go back since I am fully into Bring Up The Bodies, which is over 12 hours long, I only drive one hour per day, and I drive it 5 days per week. Easy math tells me it will take weeks to finish it.
Since I'm talking about it, is not Hilary Mantel's writing just exquisite? I mean really. Today, as Cromwell was remembering the sounds at Austin Friars, he notes that one of those sounds was "the whisper of ink across a page..." Can't you just hear it yourself? Can't you see the quill, and the wooden desk, and the precious paper? All of that in an economy of words that is nothing short of brilliant. If my car didn't know the way to work without my telling it how to get there I would probably be in Macon at this very moment. But it does and I'm here. The frustrating thing about an audio book is the inability to rewind to that precise thing one wants to hear again. I will probably buy a copy of the book in any event, so I'll be able to find it again.
And, of course, there are the books I own. I couldn't wait for River of Smoke, the second book in the Ibus trilogy by Amitov Ghosh to be published but held off reading it for so long that I may have to re-read Sea Of Poppies first because I can't remember many details other than the fact that I loved it. But I didn't find it an easy book to read, so I am not looking forward to diving back in.
I have no idea what made me order The Long Ships by Frans Bengtsson right before Christmas, but apparently it was a "must have" and when it came in the mail I had nearly forgotten all about it. A friend and colleague gave me three thrillers last month which are still on the back seat of my car by authors I never read. Scott Turow, Baldacci (whose first name I can't remember), and another one whose first and last name I can't remember. He also gave me The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling that is currently sitting on the floor under my office desk and has been for several months which makes it one less space for the cleaning crew to vacuum. Although I'd like to read them, none are high priority. I always worry about being asked about them. Touchy situation when someone actually hands you a book and expects you to read it.
I am expecting the sixth Flavia de Luce book, The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches by Alan Bradley, to be shipped out to me next week from Barnes & Noble. [Ah-ha!! Steve Berry! That's the one whose first and last name I could not remember. I suddenly did. Frightening.] When it arrives I know I'll drop everything else and will probably finish it in a weekend.
I know I need a solid reading plan; but, I would follow it only so long and then someone in a blog would mention something absolutely wonderful...such a good book...a book that you can read read. You know the kind I mean. And when they did, I would fly off the handle and track it down with single-mindedness only to find that when I eventually did get it into my hot hands I would be off on another tangent. It is just so...so...well, I don't have to tell you. You know.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Please Drop In And Stay Awhile
If you would come over to the house and sit down beside the fire - it's cool enough this time of year, especially in the evening, to warrant a nice little fire - I might brew us a good pot of tea. Earl Grey, perhaps. I might even take down a bottle of a modest brandy (you like brandy, don't you?) and then we could settle in and talk about what we've read this year. Please pull up that wing-back chair. That one right there is quite comfy.
I had these chairs made for me...let me see...25 years ago. I selected the frame style and then the fabric and waited six months for them to be completed. The cushions are filled with down - soft on your bottom. A little less wear on the derriere, so to speak. The cost seemed frightening at the time, but I knew they would last forever - or at least longer than I would - and they have not disappointed. I clearly remember how old they are because on the very day they were finally delivered my daughter took a crayon and drew a lovely picture of a "princess" on the back of one of them. She was almost 4. She was also very considerate because she chose the color pink! At the time, the chairs were covered in a woven fabric depicting thistles in pastel shades of blue, and gray and pink. The princess blended in after a going over with a soft cloth and some Ivory soap. I know it sounds crazy, but I wanted to leave just a bit of the princess remaining - a slender finger pointing to a blue thorn; the hint of a happy smile peering above a curling vine. The chair was officially in the home of a family with children and it was appropriate that it should settle in just as it did.
So please do settle yourself in as well. If you are still a bit chilly you can wrap that knitted shawl over you. I don't believe in heated rooms, to the frustration of the gas company, because all the oxygen gets sucked out of them. They also dry the skin and give me twitchy airways which are things I can live without.
The best books read this year were all great surprises and I never would have guessed they would be the ones to make the cut. One of the assistants at the office insisted I read a book by Stephen King that she had just finished. Years ago I read The Dark Half, which by the way I read over a monstrously stormy weekend with all the attendant lightening and cracking thunder. Perfect for a book that scared the bejeezus out of me. After that I've never been tempted to pick up another King. She was so enthusiastic, however, that I actually plunked down fifteen bucks and ordered a copy of 11/22/63 from Barnes & Noble. It's hefty - over 840 pages - and I hoped I could stay engaged long enough to finish it. We've all been there. You're reading a book and at some point you're thinking about fixing the drip in the kitchen sink or how to get that spot out of the rug where the dog decided to punish you for forgetting to pick up his Milk Bones at the grocery. You drag yourself back to the page and re-read that paragraph again, this time with your brows furrowed in forced concentration when the next thing you know you're wondering if you paid the lawn guy. That didn't happen with this one. I had a really hard time putting it down and restrained the urge to find out how it ended by jumping to the back and reading the last few pages early. But I didn't. I waited and it was worth the wait. I seldom suddenly burst into tears on the last page of a book, but I did on this one. I did not expect that to happen. I was a mess.
The other big surprise was the audio version of The Invasion Of The Body Snathcers by Jack Finney. I am not a huge fan of audio books, but I get them from the library because I like to "read" during my commute to work. This particular version is read by Kristoffer Tabori and his voice and tone are pitch perfect. I am also not a fan of Science Fiction, or at least I wasn't until now. The story was a perfect blend of humor and horror and suspense.
I found two new authors this year: Louise Penny and Jeanne Ray. I don't know where I heard about Penny (but thank you Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are). Litlove over at Tales From The Reading Room suggested Ray. (And if I knew how to link to her post on Julie And Romeo, I would do that here.) As much as I liked the Julie, I loved Eat Cake and cared about every one of those wacky, flawed, funny characters. That is a lot of what it's all about, right? Spending time with people you like and cheering for them to be happy. That one was a real gem.
Louise Penny writes a series of mysteries starring Armand Gamache, Chief Inspector of the Surete du Quebec. Also known as The Three Pines Series, in the books I've read so far Gamache goes about solving unconventional homicides by sifting through loads of suspects, strange characters, and the requisite red herring or two or more. In a word, they are good, my favorites so far being The Beautiful Mystery and How The Light Gets In.
There was a little book suggested by, I think, Stefanie over at So Many Books that was subtly magnificent. Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressmann Taylor is so short it can be read in about an hour. Not really a book, but more of a short story, it is positively gripping and amazing and all those other superlatives and I hope you will take a little time to find it (I downloaded it to my Kindle) and read it. There will be almost no investment of time, but it will stay with you I promise.
John Adams, by David McCullough has been sitting on my bookshelves for a long time and I finally got around to reading it early this year. Do most Americans even realize what we owe this man who became the second President of the United States? McCullough will educate them. The book is really a love story. The love of a man for his country and the love between the man and his wife, Abigail. What a pair that would be to have over for dinner. Since I've been reading about time travel, that might be a good destination.
I've re-read a couple of favorites this year which will always be "the best" reads, Goodbye, Mr. Chips, by James Hilton and the Harper Lee masterpiece To Kill A Mockingbird. The ones we know and love and can almost recite by heart are always on the best list, like the comfy flannel shirt - the one that can't be replaced even when the buttons fall off and holes pop open at the elbows.
Speaking of comfy, may I pour you another brandy? As I do, kindly tell me what you've been up to and what you've been reading. You have my undivided attention. I'll be giving a presentation on the topic of "Communication" next year for a professional organization I belong to, so I had to learn how to do it myself. It seems I've been doing it wrong all these years. Did you know that listening is the first step in being an effective communicator? Who knew? I guess my mother was right all those years ago when she advised me, "If you're talking, you're not learning." Wisdom, right there. Right..smack...there. So I am listening with all of my ears. What is that you say? No, I only have two.
Oh...and please help yourself to another cookie. They're gluten free.
I had these chairs made for me...let me see...25 years ago. I selected the frame style and then the fabric and waited six months for them to be completed. The cushions are filled with down - soft on your bottom. A little less wear on the derriere, so to speak. The cost seemed frightening at the time, but I knew they would last forever - or at least longer than I would - and they have not disappointed. I clearly remember how old they are because on the very day they were finally delivered my daughter took a crayon and drew a lovely picture of a "princess" on the back of one of them. She was almost 4. She was also very considerate because she chose the color pink! At the time, the chairs were covered in a woven fabric depicting thistles in pastel shades of blue, and gray and pink. The princess blended in after a going over with a soft cloth and some Ivory soap. I know it sounds crazy, but I wanted to leave just a bit of the princess remaining - a slender finger pointing to a blue thorn; the hint of a happy smile peering above a curling vine. The chair was officially in the home of a family with children and it was appropriate that it should settle in just as it did.
So please do settle yourself in as well. If you are still a bit chilly you can wrap that knitted shawl over you. I don't believe in heated rooms, to the frustration of the gas company, because all the oxygen gets sucked out of them. They also dry the skin and give me twitchy airways which are things I can live without.
The best books read this year were all great surprises and I never would have guessed they would be the ones to make the cut. One of the assistants at the office insisted I read a book by Stephen King that she had just finished. Years ago I read The Dark Half, which by the way I read over a monstrously stormy weekend with all the attendant lightening and cracking thunder. Perfect for a book that scared the bejeezus out of me. After that I've never been tempted to pick up another King. She was so enthusiastic, however, that I actually plunked down fifteen bucks and ordered a copy of 11/22/63 from Barnes & Noble. It's hefty - over 840 pages - and I hoped I could stay engaged long enough to finish it. We've all been there. You're reading a book and at some point you're thinking about fixing the drip in the kitchen sink or how to get that spot out of the rug where the dog decided to punish you for forgetting to pick up his Milk Bones at the grocery. You drag yourself back to the page and re-read that paragraph again, this time with your brows furrowed in forced concentration when the next thing you know you're wondering if you paid the lawn guy. That didn't happen with this one. I had a really hard time putting it down and restrained the urge to find out how it ended by jumping to the back and reading the last few pages early. But I didn't. I waited and it was worth the wait. I seldom suddenly burst into tears on the last page of a book, but I did on this one. I did not expect that to happen. I was a mess.
The other big surprise was the audio version of The Invasion Of The Body Snathcers by Jack Finney. I am not a huge fan of audio books, but I get them from the library because I like to "read" during my commute to work. This particular version is read by Kristoffer Tabori and his voice and tone are pitch perfect. I am also not a fan of Science Fiction, or at least I wasn't until now. The story was a perfect blend of humor and horror and suspense.
I found two new authors this year: Louise Penny and Jeanne Ray. I don't know where I heard about Penny (but thank you Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are). Litlove over at Tales From The Reading Room suggested Ray. (And if I knew how to link to her post on Julie And Romeo, I would do that here.) As much as I liked the Julie, I loved Eat Cake and cared about every one of those wacky, flawed, funny characters. That is a lot of what it's all about, right? Spending time with people you like and cheering for them to be happy. That one was a real gem.
Louise Penny writes a series of mysteries starring Armand Gamache, Chief Inspector of the Surete du Quebec. Also known as The Three Pines Series, in the books I've read so far Gamache goes about solving unconventional homicides by sifting through loads of suspects, strange characters, and the requisite red herring or two or more. In a word, they are good, my favorites so far being The Beautiful Mystery and How The Light Gets In.
There was a little book suggested by, I think, Stefanie over at So Many Books that was subtly magnificent. Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressmann Taylor is so short it can be read in about an hour. Not really a book, but more of a short story, it is positively gripping and amazing and all those other superlatives and I hope you will take a little time to find it (I downloaded it to my Kindle) and read it. There will be almost no investment of time, but it will stay with you I promise.
John Adams, by David McCullough has been sitting on my bookshelves for a long time and I finally got around to reading it early this year. Do most Americans even realize what we owe this man who became the second President of the United States? McCullough will educate them. The book is really a love story. The love of a man for his country and the love between the man and his wife, Abigail. What a pair that would be to have over for dinner. Since I've been reading about time travel, that might be a good destination.
I've re-read a couple of favorites this year which will always be "the best" reads, Goodbye, Mr. Chips, by James Hilton and the Harper Lee masterpiece To Kill A Mockingbird. The ones we know and love and can almost recite by heart are always on the best list, like the comfy flannel shirt - the one that can't be replaced even when the buttons fall off and holes pop open at the elbows.
Speaking of comfy, may I pour you another brandy? As I do, kindly tell me what you've been up to and what you've been reading. You have my undivided attention. I'll be giving a presentation on the topic of "Communication" next year for a professional organization I belong to, so I had to learn how to do it myself. It seems I've been doing it wrong all these years. Did you know that listening is the first step in being an effective communicator? Who knew? I guess my mother was right all those years ago when she advised me, "If you're talking, you're not learning." Wisdom, right there. Right..smack...there. So I am listening with all of my ears. What is that you say? No, I only have two.
Oh...and please help yourself to another cookie. They're gluten free.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Christmas 2013 And Looking Ahead
We've come to the end of another year. And, of course, what would the end of the year be without my boring you with a list of my favorite books read this year?
But first, it seems only natural that I should discuss Christmas - not my favorite holiday, I admit. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love the "true meaning" of the day. What I have always dreaded is the stress. But this year I found a way around all that. It was quite simple really. Who knew?
1. What goes up, must come down. Keep decorating simple. For years I erected the 10+ foot behemoth that lurks for 11 months of the year in its two coffin-sized Tupperware cases - dangerous to drag down the stairs and difficult to pull back up. It takes an evening to set up and requires one to concentrate on the alphabet (is this row "W" or "V"? And although I know the alphabet and have for a very long time, I still have to recite it as I go from row to row to be certain which one comes next. One year G was attached before F and the result was a very strange looking tree.) A pox on that jazz. This year I opted for a fresh Frasier Fir not too much taller than myself...and a nice sturdy stand and Voila! I had tons of lights and ornaments left over, but I used the most important ones...the homemade ones. It turned out grand.
No outside lights, just a wreath on the door. No elaborate crystal things hanging from the chandelier. No life-sized Santas waving hello-ho-ho or reindeer nodding their heads in unison, red-noses twinkling. Nope. Just a few orbs that glowed, and flowers from my brother and sister-in-law, and a rosemary bush trimmed into the shape of a Christmas tree.
(I had second thoughts about the red lights over the fireplace. Definitely over-kill and a mistake; I took them down but not before I snapped a picture. I put the glowing orbs on some candle-holders I've had and I think I'll keep them up all year long. I just won't turn them on. I figure if people stop suing each other and decide to get along, I'll be out of a job and I can always set up a tent using the glowing orbs to tell fortunes. You know, to pay the mortgage. I can blacken one of my front teeth, dress in gypsy attire, and become
"Madame Gradskaya - Seer and Teller of Fortunes". Credit me with always thinking ahead.)
So, that was about it.
2. Avoid the Mall. I tried to do as much shopping as I could on the Island. What I couldn't find here, I ordered on-line. But if one pays attention and shows some creativity there are a lot of cool things to find right in one's own backyard. The WI Farmers Market has a few vendors about whom I am wildly and madly mad. My favorite is a beekeeper - he prefers apiarist - who lives on the Island and sells lovely honey and honey-based soaps (pumpkin spice, frankincense and myrrh, rosemary mint; lavender and mint and on and on). And then there is the artisan pasta maker who also sells a magnificent red pepper sauce in lovely distinctive jars. Who would not welcome a basket filled with any of that? I haven't even mentioned the breads, and cakes, and artisan jams and jellies. Speaking of which, I made my own Hot Pepper Jelly and Savannah Cheese Straws as gifts for some friends this year.
The peppers were purchased at a local farm stand. And there is always ACE Hardware...my Saturday morning mecca..the great and bountiful land of EVERYTHING...of barbecue accoutrement, sun hats, garden gloves, kitchen gadgets, outdoor clothing - some of which are suitable for safari in the event you are going on one - fishing equipment, scented candles, camping gear, rifles, small appliances, chimineas, night shirts with cute pictures of dozing cats, cushy warm socks, necklaces made of small Christmas lights that actually twinkle, work shirts, jeans, boots, Crocs for men, women and children, dog beds, yard flags, plants, garden ornaments, fountains, and...as long as I'm there I might as well pick up a few paint chip samples since I'm always painting something, right? And how about a new caulk gun? I can always use that. Who needs the Mall? Not I.
3. Get invited to dinner.
So there you have it...my prescription for a stress-free Christmas. And it was!
So on to books...but I've run out of time I'm afraid. I'll have to save that for another day soon. In the meantime, But wait! my my...what is that I see in your future? Come closer, my dear. Don't be shy. Look carefully...my crystal ball is misty...misty...what's this? The light is breaking through...the mist rises...yes...yes...it is becoming clear...and clearer. I see...what?...I see...Yes! I see a bright and happy New Year, filled with joy and happiness and many many books for you, my pretty (or handsome) one. Madame Gradskaya is never wrong...the Orb Sees All! (You may put a dollar in the jar...all tips are welcome.)
Happy, Joyful New Year, my friends.
But first, it seems only natural that I should discuss Christmas - not my favorite holiday, I admit. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love the "true meaning" of the day. What I have always dreaded is the stress. But this year I found a way around all that. It was quite simple really. Who knew?
1. What goes up, must come down. Keep decorating simple. For years I erected the 10+ foot behemoth that lurks for 11 months of the year in its two coffin-sized Tupperware cases - dangerous to drag down the stairs and difficult to pull back up. It takes an evening to set up and requires one to concentrate on the alphabet (is this row "W" or "V"? And although I know the alphabet and have for a very long time, I still have to recite it as I go from row to row to be certain which one comes next. One year G was attached before F and the result was a very strange looking tree.) A pox on that jazz. This year I opted for a fresh Frasier Fir not too much taller than myself...and a nice sturdy stand and Voila! I had tons of lights and ornaments left over, but I used the most important ones...the homemade ones. It turned out grand.
(I had second thoughts about the red lights over the fireplace. Definitely over-kill and a mistake; I took them down but not before I snapped a picture. I put the glowing orbs on some candle-holders I've had and I think I'll keep them up all year long. I just won't turn them on. I figure if people stop suing each other and decide to get along, I'll be out of a job and I can always set up a tent using the glowing orbs to tell fortunes. You know, to pay the mortgage. I can blacken one of my front teeth, dress in gypsy attire, and become
"Madame Gradskaya - Seer and Teller of Fortunes". Credit me with always thinking ahead.)
2. Avoid the Mall. I tried to do as much shopping as I could on the Island. What I couldn't find here, I ordered on-line. But if one pays attention and shows some creativity there are a lot of cool things to find right in one's own backyard. The WI Farmers Market has a few vendors about whom I am wildly and madly mad. My favorite is a beekeeper - he prefers apiarist - who lives on the Island and sells lovely honey and honey-based soaps (pumpkin spice, frankincense and myrrh, rosemary mint; lavender and mint and on and on). And then there is the artisan pasta maker who also sells a magnificent red pepper sauce in lovely distinctive jars. Who would not welcome a basket filled with any of that? I haven't even mentioned the breads, and cakes, and artisan jams and jellies. Speaking of which, I made my own Hot Pepper Jelly and Savannah Cheese Straws as gifts for some friends this year.
3. Get invited to dinner.
So there you have it...my prescription for a stress-free Christmas. And it was!
So on to books...but I've run out of time I'm afraid. I'll have to save that for another day soon. In the meantime, But wait! my my...what is that I see in your future? Come closer, my dear. Don't be shy. Look carefully...my crystal ball is misty...misty...what's this? The light is breaking through...the mist rises...yes...yes...it is becoming clear...and clearer. I see...what?...I see...Yes! I see a bright and happy New Year, filled with joy and happiness and many many books for you, my pretty (or handsome) one. Madame Gradskaya is never wrong...the Orb Sees All! (You may put a dollar in the jar...all tips are welcome.)
Happy, Joyful New Year, my friends.
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