Creative Parking

You're probably familiar with those Smart Cars. They are very small. They are so small that the driver of one of them parked perpendicular to the curb in a parallel parking space. The back of his car didn't come past the sides of the other cars. He got a ticket, though. I wonder if he contested it. After all, he wasn't taking up more than his allotted space.
Washington D.C. is adding streetcar lines, which should be in use by early 2012. I once lived in a city with a street car, and it was really, really handy. In D.C. I use the Metro. The problem with the Metro, though, is finding a parking place at the station. Right now, I take the bus to the station and then transfer.
There is a bus stop right around the corner. I love mass transit, but I still drive my car more than I should.

What Happened to the Society Page?

Does the society page still exist?
You know what I mean. I'm talking about those pages in the newspapers featuring the town's socialites (rich people). Like this:
On May 15, a coming out party was held for Miss Royal Blaine Bankhead, a local debutante. The party was given by her parents. In attendance were 100 guests. The Bankhead's lovely home was festooned with white lilies, and Miss Bankhead graciously received guests in a white chiffon frock trimmed with Chantilly lace. It is rumored among those in the know that an engagement party may be in order for Miss Blythe Blaine Bankhead, the older sister of the honoree.
Tables were draped in white linen, and a centerpiece of lilies and orchids adorned each table. Guests danced to the music of Johnny Juke's Orchestra. The buffet featured a champagne fountain and tea sandwiches.
I always wondered what it would be like to be important enough to be named on the society page. Did I envy those people? I have to admit I did. But the society page, as far as I can tell, is no more.

George Washington: "Openly Abused"

Dear Mr. President:

You are roundly abused in the media, but you are in august company. In Janet Whitley's biography of Abigail Adams (Little, Brown and Co., 1947) she quotes Abigail as saying, "'Since the last election the President has been openly abused in the National Gazette...abused for his levees as an ape of royalty; Mrs. Washington abused for her drawing-rooms; their celebration of birthdays sneered at; himself insulted because he has not come forward and exerted his influence in favor of the army. They even tell him that a greater misfortune cannot befall a people than for their President to have no competitor; that it infuses into him a supercilious spirit, renders him self-important, and creates an idea that one man only is competent to govern. They compare him to a hyena and a crocodile; charge him with duplicity and deception.'" (pg. 254)

We Americans elect people and then despise them. Being in political office requires a very thick skin.

Hang in there.

Congratulations! You're a Corporal!

Although Veterans' Day honors all veterans, we forget the eleventh day of the eleventh month originally honored the end of what was optimistically called "The War to End All Wars." No one could imagine the human race being so insane as to fight each other after that war of airplanes, gas, and biological warfare. Fighting again would surely destroy the world.

My great-uncle was in that war. He was a country boy, and that was a good things. First, the soldiers were drilling with sticks: there weren't enough guns. My Uncle Roy had hunted his whole life, so he had an obvious advantage over the poor city boys who were shipped to France, handed a gun, and sent into combat.

An officer asked, "Can anybody here drive?" and my Uncle Roy raised his hand. "Congratulations. You're a corporal!" he said.

To all veterans: thank you.

Voting by Louse

The lice selected the mayor in Hurdenburg, Sweden, in the Middle Ages. "The persons eligible sat around a table, with their heads bowed forward, their beards resting on the table. A louse was then put in the middle of the table. The one into whose beard the louse first adventured was mayor for the ensuing year." I read this passage in Rats, Lice, and History, by Hans Zinsser (pg. 184). Obviously this method left women out of the running, so maybe we could modify it to allow female "persons eligible" to put their hair on the table, so it would have to be at least as long as Sarah Palin's.
Just think: partisanship would be rendered obsolete.

I miss you, Ida Jane

I've been dreading writing about this, so I'll make it short. My sweet dog, Ida Jane, died night before last. It was totally unexpected. I miss her so.

Ida Jane's Advice to a Puppy

I never have trouble thinking of something to write about. I do have trouble choosing what to write about.

Ida Jane is always a good subject. This weekend we are to look at a litter of puppies. It is a foregone conclusion: one of them will join the Hawkins pack.

My son says he gets to name the puppy because “I will be doing most of the work.” His naming the puppy is a foregone conclusion, but his doing puppy-related work has nothing to do with it. I will be doing most of the work. That is a foregone conclusion.

We ascribe human emotions to our dogs. We can’t help it. Yesterday Ida met a wiggly little puppy on our walk. It wiggled and jumped, and generally acted silly, as puppies do. Today we saw the same puppy. The person said to it, “SIT.” The next sound was the puppy's bottom hitting the sidewalk.

I said to Ida Jane, “SIT.” She looked at me with disdain. “SIT!” This time I pushed her butt down. She sat, but it was clear she was in no hurry.

Remember, dogs can hear sounds we can’t. That’s how one of those silent dog whistles works. It’s silent to us because the frequency is higher than our ears can hear, but the dog hears it with no trouble. Maybe they can “talk” to each other when we think they are silent. Maybe they speak on doggy frequency when we think they are just sitting there looking obedient.

I wonder if Ida Jane was saying to the puppy: “Puppy, it is evident you have a lot to learn. When they say ‘SIT,’ you don’t have to sit right away. Make them wait. Otherwise you’ll spoil them.”

It SOUNDS exactly like something she would say.

Reformed Dog: Day Two

Ida Jane and I went for our second walk without the training collar. I set the pace; she walked.

Yesterday she kept my pace, but was about six feet behind me, pretending to be very, very submissive. Right.

Last night my husband reminded me: heel means the dog’s head is even with your left knee. I had never made Ida heel because we always tripped over each other. I made a huge discovery today: when the dog is heeling properly, nobody trips anybody. She was perfect, just like a show dog, keeping my pace. Yesterday she seemed to tire, and I was worried about her stamina. Today, if dogs could sweat, it would have been, for her, no sweat.

Her health has improved amazingly in twenty-four hours.

We still have a problem with Ida and rain. Sometimes, not all the time, when it is raining, Ida will not let you know she needs to go out, and will do her business somewhere you don’t want her to – like the bed, the couch, the rug in the living room.

There is no logic to it. During our horrible snowstorm, she went out perfectly, even though the drifts of snow were so high only her nose stuck out. I’ve given up trying to figure out this dog.

I don’t want to humanize her: dogs are different from humans. For example, we think of a crate as a cage. She thinks of it as a safe den, and sleeps in it all the time. We think of a hug as affection. Dogs are not sure what hugs are all about. To them, it is confinement. A good scratch behind the ears: that’s wonderful.

But today she didn’t ask to go out. In fact, she was reluctant to take her walk, even though the rain was warm. She had already done her business, though. She had sneaked around and peed on the rug, but not the usual rug. She peed on the bathroom rug, which lies on a tile floor. Clean-up is a snap. She’s never done that before, but if she pees in the house again (and she will), I hope she does it in the bathroom. (In Ida's defense, she pees in the house only once or twice a year.)

Ida Jane is named after my Aunt Ida, my mother’s sister, who did things her way, just like her namesake.

Good name.

How to Walk a Dog

Did you know dogs need to walk? I didn’t say “be walked.” I said walk.
Evidently this is what dogs and wolves do in the wild. The pack walks (or runs). The alpha wolves are in front.

Today the dog and I walked. I set the pace and told her to heel. Actually she was several feet back, but she kept up. I was the pack leader; she was the follower; we both got a good workout.

I had been "walking" her using the training collar. I very seldom had to tighten it, but when I had tried walking her without it, she would try to walk ahead and pull on the leash. The trick is, I think, is to set a steady pace; I walked, she followed. I broke a sweat and she was breathing hard.

I know she is overweight, but I really didn’t know how to help her. I didn't know how to do something as simple as walk the dog. Before, walks were me following her, and her scratching and sniffing. She walked me. Today I walked her.
Apparently fish swim, birds fly, and dogs walk. Without it, the world is a strange and frightening place for them.

After eight years, Ida Jane, I finally know what to do.

Health Care will Stay Reformed - No Matter What

You think the President is crazy and the Democrats in the Senate are crazy too?

Fine.

You plan to throw them all out in November? Fine.

Just remember this: health care in this country will NEVER go back to the way it was before. Never. Why?

Because of this bill, someone like me, who has preexisting conditions out the wazoo, knows he/she can get insurance. I can't think of anyone I know who doesn't have some condition the insurance companies could classify as preexisting.

Can you imagine trying to repeal that part of the bill? How successful do you think you would be?

Example two: A person can keep a child on his parents' health care plan until he is 26, not 21, as before. Don't give me the "pull himself up by his own bootstraps" speech. You try to get a job with decent insurance. Sure, Walmart, etc. gives insurance (they didn't do that in Maryland until the state legislature made them do it), but it is minimal. I don't know about you, but I want my kid to be able to afford the medical care he needs, period. When he's 26, he's on his own. By that time he'll have a job that isn't flipping burgers, a job with insurance.

Do you think any politician would touch either of these provisions?

No matter what - health care is, not will be, reformed.

I realize there are some parts of the bill you don't like, and you're going to get them repealed. Fine.

But overall, history was made on Sunday. The Senate will pass some version of the bill. Health care in the country will never be the same.

The real change has come. I suspect that was the President's plan all along; people are ready for a change. They may disagree about the changes. Fine. That's America. But change has come.

I Didn't Get in to Sewanee

I just sent off my Bread Loaf application. I haven't blogged since March 4, I see, because I have been racking my brain trying to write something.

I didn't get in to Sewanee; I don't think I'm ready for Sewanee yet. I need to write more.

The submission I sent to Bread Loaf was fourteen pages. I usually write short - and I had cut a lot of extraneous material, so I thought that was positive.

Saint Patrick's day was the third anniversary of my stroke, and thank you, Lord, I am here to write about it.

Life is good.

Common Sense and Pride

Sometimes what you want is not what you need.
Sometimes pride trips you up.

I want to go to Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference this August. I want to see some of the friends I made last year. I want to stay off campus in an air-conditioned hotel room so I have my own bathroom and a cool place to put my feet up.

Last time I left early. The heat was unbearable. Vermont people think they do not need air conditioning. They fool themselves. They make jokes about how Southerners do not prepare for snow – but they don’t prepare for heat.

The conference is held in a rickety old hotel which isn’t quaint, just rickety.

So why do I want to go?

Pride. It’s the oldest conference in the country, the most prestigious, and I want to get invited twice. Common sense says, Nancy, you’ve been once – your first try. You have nothing to prove. Common sense is right.

Common sense says, Nancy, you don’t have anything to work on in workshop.
Common sense is right. The well has been utterly dry lately.

Common sense says, Nancy, if you get into Sewanee they have AIR CONDITIONING. Common sense is right.

Sometimes what you want is not what you need.
Sometimes pride trips you up.

The Real Mary Clementine

The real Contrary Mary Clementine was my grandmother. She was, herself: practical, meticulous, curious, creative, fit, cooking challenged.

She always signed her name "Mary," and she was not a warm fuzzy grandmother, although she loved me.

She ran the farm after her husband died, the grandfather I never knew.

All her life she knew nothing but work. I have never met anyone in my family who had a good thing to say about her father. According to one member, he was "the devil." He worked all his children like slaves until the girls escaped by marrying and the boys by physically beating him up.
I look at the family photo. There he sits, like a king on a throne, solemn, severe, surrounded by his family. I have forgotten how many children he had. (He was married twice.) Who knows what a horror his childhood must have been, to have produced such a monster.

Mary Clementine was the second child. I remember her teaching me to stitch a seam. Her stitches were tiny. Mine were not. When I showed her my seam that had a tiny mistake, I asked if it was all right. She just smiled at me. I did it over.

My mother once told me: "You are like your grandmother. You like to work and read." She always read. It was at her house I first read Grit, a funny little tabloid (in size, not in content)full of recipes, hints, stories (It was the Chicken Soup series before there was such a thing.) I remember the smell. Something about the newsprint or the paper had a salty, bacon-like smell.

And speaking of bacon, she could cook bacon. She could cook bacon because it was pre-seasoned. If she cooked, say, a peach pie, the crust would be perfect, but the filling would be bland, bland. "I don't love cinnamon in my pies," she would say. She would use the word "love" for "like."

She cut her own hair; it was always about two inches long, all over her head, and it curled magnificently. She cut her hair this way because it was practical. The typical grandmother hairdo - in a bun- took too much fuss. And yet she was a beautiful woman.

She was ninety-six when she died. She had to be in the nursing home for the last two weeks of her life. Her doctor was amazed; "She has the heart of a twenty-five year old," he said. He couldn't believe she had had a heart attack in her fifties. Her heart wore out, because she kept it working hard until the very last. I'm not as fit now as she was.

She wore out; she didn't rust out. I hope she knows I loved her.

With Apologies to Andrew Lloyd Webber

Memory
My computer lacks memory
that is why it is stalling
and taking my time.
It's not snail-like
a snail could go faster than this.
Now my screen light- isn’t on.

Memory
I’ ve purchased some memory
from the Amazon website
so I can get done.
I know somewhere
There’s someone to install it.
But for now I- just muddle on.

Every icon
Seems to flash a fatalistic warning.
The cursor flutters
And the screen light gutters.
I need this in the morning!

Memory
I downloaded some pictures
That take all of my disc space
But I mustn’t give in
When the mail's here
The parcel from Amazon comes
And a new page- I’ll begin.

It was a Radish; Now It's a Lemon

I live in a three-bedroom house, built in 1952. In the fifties a family of four or five people, or even more, would have lived here. It was a big house. I still think of it as a big house, because the house where I grew up is even smaller. But with this house, there is no way I can keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses have left me way, way, behind.

The Joneses live in mansions. Our house has a mansion on either side, like, say, a cow between two elephants If either house fell this way, mine would be toast.

My house is a rancher, or as it is called here, a rambler. Neither appellation is close to the truth. We’re certainly not on a ranch, and our house can’t ramble anywhere, but the yard is big enough for it to take a stroll, at least. On a yard as small as mine, a mansion looks like a bowling ball on a luncheon plate.

The mansions all look alike. I believe they are supposed to resemble farmhouses, but they don't look like the real farmhouse, which is two blocks down. (All of my neighborhood used to be a farm.) The real farmhouse is a medium-sized frame house on what, for this neighborhood, is a huge lot, but actually is just enough. A kid could hide-and-seek here; there are places to hide. Not so with these mansions. The yard is too small.

Of the eleven houses on our block, five are huge. It is inevitable: more mansions are coming. When we see the temporary power pole, we know the house is doomed, and with it go the trees.

I called the house on the corner the radish house because it used to be that color: not maroon, not terra cotta, but radish red. Every tree on that lot came down before the monstrosity went up.

Even our "desirable" neighborhood could not sell this house. The realtors tried to find a buyer, but none of them could find anyone with such bad taste.

After a year or so, someone painted it yellow. The radish is now a lemon. Again, it sat empty for months. Who would have guessed that people want a yard with trees?

We say our house is a hovel between two castles, but we're joking. It's more of a cottage: cozy, and just big enough.

I'm Still Here

I was looking at some old pictures of myself – back when I was in my thirties. (I’m not saying how old I am, but the thirties were some time back.) I was gorgeous. I really was. Did I think so? No. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I never thought of myself as beautiful, and so no one else did either.

I’m beginning to think beauty is a matter of attitude – a matter of confidence. But now that I’ve got the confidence, I don’t have the looks. In fact, I have to work hard to keep from looking like a bag lady. I’ll bet a lot of you feel the same way.

What I’m trying to lead up to is my explanation of why my blog is late today. I had my hair cut and colored. It takes a long time – two and a half hours altogether, once a month. My hair used to be black. Now it’s medium brown. If I didn’t color it, it would be gray all over. I used to have worlds of hair. Now I fluff it around so my scalp isn’t visible.

I’m beginning to hate the whiny sound of this post, so I’ll stop. If you are in the bloom of youth as you read this, go look in the mirror. You look great. You really do. Enjoy it. I wish I had.

I’m not going to end this post on a negative note. Every time I start feeling bad about how I look, I think,

Be glad you are still here.

I almost wasn’t. Two years ago on St. Patrick’s day, I had a stroke. I was driving on the Washington DC beltway at the time, in a stick shift car.

I’m still here. My legs and arms and speech were not affected. I managed to park my car in a no-parking zone, and it didn’t even get towed.

I refuse to dwell on what was or what could have been or what I’ve missed in my life. That way madness lies. I want to enjoy every minute of whatever time I have left. Right now I sit here listening to my grandmother’s clock tick, in a comfortable chair, with dinner almost ready, and my husband coming in the door right now. Life is good.

Ida Jane Instructs

If you have read this blog for a while (bless you!) you will remember Ida Jane, my dog. One of my readers, Pam, said Ida Jane should be wearing prison stripes. She’s right.

Now my husband wants ANOTHER DOG – not instead of, in addition to. He thinks another dog will make Ida Jane sane. Note: I don’t say restore her sanity. She never had any. But when we brought the cute wiggly puppy home from the shelter, all we saw was how intelligent she was. That’s the problem.

Ida Jane is very, very smart. She’s also nuts.

She doesn’t attack the mailman (or anybody else). It’s not that kind of crazy. Ida Jane is female, and like a typical female, she turns her depression inward (chewing on her foot) instead of outward (biting).

Her foot itches. She is allergic to all kinds of things. Fortunately she’s not allergic to Purina Dog Chow. (She was allergic to a more expensive brand, bless her heart.) I’m not sure what to call the itchy places on her foot. If she had them all over (heaven forbid) it would be a rash.

If she would LET THE ITCHY PLACE ALONE, it would get well. She doesn’t. She licks it, and licks it, and licks it. She wears a bandage over the last itchy spot, sprayed with this yucky stuff called Bitter Orange, so she won’t chew the bandage off. She’s on Prozac too – three and one-half tablets every morning.

She is not insane because she is neglected. She is home all day; I am home all day. She is walked morning and evening. (If I let her off leash, she might be mentally stable, but she’d be physically stable too, as in squashed flat in the middle of the road. She’s a houndish sort of dog. Nose to ground, follow scent, ignore traffic.)

“Her problem is not her foot,” husband says. “It’s between her ears.”

True.

“What she needs is another dog.”

“Ida Jane is the older dog, and she is trained,” (True, she sits, stays, heels, and so forth) so the younger dog would learn from Ida Jane."

That is what I am afraid of. I can imagine the lessons:

Ida: You’re new around here, and I will show you how to...
Puppy: Obey the humans? Huh? Huh?
Ida: No.

Puppy: Huh?

Ida: Part One: This long cushy thing is a couch. It is for dogs to lie on, but only when the humans aren’t around.

Puppy: When the humans aren't around? Would I be doing something bad?

Ida: Not bad. Convenient.

Puppy: What does that mean?

Ida: Never mind. No more questions.

Puppy: Yes, Ida, yes, Ida, anything you say, Ida, you’re the alpha dog, Ida, I’m just...

Ida: I’m glad you know your place. On to part two – the refrigerator.

Puppy: That big box?

Ida: That big box has treats in it.

Puppy: But I can’t open it.

Ida: Yes, you can. Put your nose here, so...Good. Now what’s in here? It’s a huge piece of cow!! Won’t that be yummy? Snack time!

So...I pose the question: would another dog be a good thing or a bad thing? Comments needed, please.

What is Home, and Can You Go There?

“Home is where the heart is.”: Shakespeare
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.”: Robert Frost
“You can’t go home again.” Thomas Wolfe

Writers have a lot to say about home. It is one of the themes of a human life. Home makes us who we are.

If hearing voices or seeing illusions means a person is crazy, then I am certifiable. My characters come to see me all the time. Writing books say “build” a character. Mine come already built. It’s my job to get to know them better. Home shapes these people.

Example: A man grows up with no real home – no family, and when the devil tempts him, he succumbs and then realizes what he has done.

A woman marries a charming man. He is a charming liar. He violates the marriage vows and has the audacity to want to come home. She refuses.

A woman“grows up” and moves away. When her husband dismisses her, she realizes she has never been herself – just what he wanted her to be. She goes home, but on her own terms.

A family is so ashamed of a relative they won’t let her come home, dead or alive.

I encourage your comments about home. What is home?

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Ann Tyler Does It Again

I hope ya’ll like the new look of the blog (if anyone is reading this – thanks!)

I had been saving Noah's Compass, the new Anne Tyler book, like you save a particularly delicious piece of candy. She is my favorite author.

This book is a character study – her specialty. Liam is a sixty year old school teacher forced to retire. He never particularly liked teaching anyway. He is in the process of simplifying, paring down, trimming away all the little extras of his life. He has no close relationships except with his philosophy books. He’s a bit like Malcolm in Accidental Tourist, going through life unattached. Then he moves into a smaller apartment, goes to bed, and wakes up in a hospital. He has been attacked, but he has no memory of anything other than going to bed.

As always, Ann Tyler has us rooting for this odd bird. He’s someone I probably wouldn’t particularly care for if I knew him in real life, but she manages to make me care what happens to him. Getting to know people – fictional or real- is the main reason I read fiction, I think. Human beings are endlessly fascinating, and endlessly the same. What Shakespeare observed about human feelings and failings is just as true now as it was when he wrote it.

I think we also read fiction because we don’t want to be alone. Increasingly we are separated, each of us in our houses at our computers. That’s why we like reality TV. It’s a community we become a part of when we turn on the set. If gossip is a sin, then we all sin all the time. Of course we talk about people. We need to.

I wish we had more face to face conversations though. As wonderful as email and video conferencing and Facebook are, they are not substitutes for a party with interesting people. Which reminds me – it’s time I had people over. (But right now we have three feet of snow and more on the way. I’ll have lots of time to plan, won’t I?)

Why I Read Fiction

I hope ya’ll like the new look of the blog (if anyone is reading this – thanks!) 

I had been saving the new Anne Tyler book like you save a particularly delicious piece of candy.  She is my favorite author. 

This book is a character study – her specialty.  Liam is a sixty year old school teacher forced to retire.  He never particularly liked teaching anyway.  He is in the process of simplifying, paring down, trimming away all the little extras of his life.  He has no close relationships except with his philosophy books.  He’s a bit like Malcolm in Accidental Tourist, going through life unattached.  Then he moves into a smaller apartment, goes to bed, and wakes up in a hospital.  He has been attacked, but he has no memory of anything other than going to bed. 

 

As always, Ann Tyler has us rooting for this odd bird.  He’s someone I probably wouldn’t particularly care for if I knew him in real life, but she manages to make me care what happens to him.  Getting to know people – fictional or real- is the main reason I read fiction, I think.  Human beings are endlessly fascinating, and endlessly the same.  What Shakespeare observed about human feelings and failings is just as true now as it was when he wrote it. 

I think we also read fiction because we don’t want to be alone.  Increasingly we are separated, each of us in our houses at our computers.  That’s why we like reality TV.  It’s a community we become a part of when we turn on the set.  If gossip is a sin, then we all sin all the time.  Of course we talk about people. We need to. 

I wish we had more face to face conversations though.  As wonderful as email and video conferencing and Facebook are, they are not substitutes for a party with interesting people.  Which reminds me – it’s time I had people over.  (But right now we have three feet of snow and more on the way.  I’ll have lots of time to plan, won’t I?)

More Snow?

More snow coming! Everywhere I go, I hear it. Twelve to twenty-four inches! The blizzard of ’93 all over again!

It reached forty degrees yesterday, and a lot of snow melted. I can see most of the ground in my backyard. But as my grandmother used to say when snow remained on the ground, “It’s lying on the ground, waiting for some more.” In other words, if it isn’t warm enough to melt it all and quickly, then you’ll have more.

I just got back from walking the dog; I only fell once. I landed on my butt with its protective padding. No harm done. The sky is blindingly blue; the reflection of sun on snow is dazzling. We’re going about our business. I’m off to the grocery store. The snow will start tomorrow afternoon, and I’ve got to beat the rush.

I hope you enjoy the weather wherever you are!

President Garfield’s Addiction

History barely mentions President Garfield. Probably, like me, you don’t remember what he looked like. Lincoln and Washington, now – I”ll bet even space aliens have heard of them. Remember, radio waves go out into space. (Can you imagine what space aliens think of us after hearing I Love Lucy, the Jackie Gleason Show, Bugs Bunny? )

I digress. Back to James Abram Garfield, the last President to be born in a log cabin, the President assassinated by Charles Guiteau; President Garfield loved to read.

I know this from Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation. She describes the past so vividly; she makes our national saints (like Washington and Lincoln) human, and best of all, she is very, very funny.

Sarah Vowell says, “If there is a recurring theme in Garfield’s diaries, it is this. I’d rather be reading.” I’m with you, Mr. President.
I don’t believe the poor man wanted to be President all that much anyway: he stumbled into it. He’d probably rather have had a good book.

Again, from Sarah Vowell we learn Garfield had a chair made for him. He could lean against the high side, and flop his legs over the low side. I don’t have a special chair, but crosswise sitting must be what all reading addicts do. It’s my favorite reading position too.

His friend Charles Sumner would run into Garfield at the Library of Congress. Charles Sumner is remembered as the poor man who was nearly beaten to death on the floor of the Senate by the Senator from South Carolina. Sumner was passionate in his condemnation of slavery, but he short on personal charm, it seems. But he loved to read.

I’ve become fond of these guys.

Contrary Mary Clementine: The Pleasures of Rereading

Contrary Mary Clementine: The Pleasures of Rereading

The Pleasures of Rereading

I reread. If it’s a good book, I read it twice. If it’s a very good book, I may read it twice, put it aside, and then read it again later. If it’s a WONDERFUL book, I will reread it until eventually I can quote long passages.

I do not know how many times I have read Huckleberry Finn – two hundred times? Five hundred? P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves stories: one hundred times. The Patchwork Planet, by Ann Tyler: ten times. Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon stories: fifteen times (I’ve had it longer than the Ann Tyler book. Watership Down, by Richard Adams, fifty times.

But, you say, look at all the books you have never read! Why are you rereading? There are several reasons. If I haven’t been to the library or the used bookstores lately, I run out of new books. I don’t stop reading; I’m always reading, so I reread some of my favorites. Sometimes I read them to see how they are constructed. Why is that funny? What did I like so much? Can I imitate it in my writing? And sometimes I reread like a child pulls out a worn teddy bear; it comforts me.

I don’t hang on to books as a rule; I pass them on to someone else. If I kept all my books, I simply wouldn’t have room for them. I’d have to get another house just to store books. If I keep a book, it is special. One of my favorite books is a school textbook that belonged to my father: The Silent Reading Hour. When I was a child I read and reread these charming stories, and then I read and reread them to my child. One of the great pleasures of reading is reading them aloud to the next generation. Some books are meant to be read aloud. Robinson Crusoe is a bear to read to yourself – all those compound and complex and compound-complex sentences, all those clauses and phrases, but read aloud, the language is natural, flowing, eloquent.

I envy you if you are reading any of these books for the first time. Reading a book for the first time is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. But the good books and the great books are old friends.

Politicians - not Evil

"He who tries to please all, pleases none."
Remember Aesop's fable about the man, his son, and a donkey? If you don't, look here: http://bartleby.com/17/1/62.html

Keep that fable in mind when you read Game Change, by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin. Because of this book, I have only read about a third of Barbara Kingsolver's Lacuna,and I love Barbara Kingsolver. (Remember The Bean Trees and Pigs in Heaven?) When Game Change came out I knew I had to read it right then.

Game Change reads like a thriller, and the characters--you couldn't make them up. The subtitle is Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime. He could have put John Edwards in the title too, but it was unwieldy enough as it was, with two authors' names on the cover.

The authors have impressive credentials. John Heilemann writes on politics for New York magazine. I've never read the New York magazine, so I wasn't particularly impressed, but he's also written for The New Yorker., the Holy Grail of writers; the home of James Thurber, E.B. White, and for a long time, Garrison Keillor. Mark Halperin, his co-author, is the senior political analyst for Time magazine. Clearly, these guys run with the big dogs.

Surprise! Politicians are not inherently evil. No one goes into politics to make money. Whether you win or lose, you will spend lots of money, and at the end of it all, whether you win or lose, you will be in the red. They could make much, much more money in a company or on Wall Street, but they don't. Their defining characteristic, as I see it, is egos the size of the U.S. itself. And they are as stubborn as mules, all of them, whether their party's symbol is a donkey or an elephant, they are all mules.

If a politician sticks to his principles and never flip-flops, that politician will never be president of anything except the PTA and the Garden Club. No one would want an elected official who could not change his mind in light of changing circumstances or receiving new information. Successful people adapt, but in politics adapting is flip-flopping. You can stand by your principles until the cows come home, but you'll stay at home unless you can change your mind. It is impossible to please everybody, but you have to try: that is, flip-flop.

Successful politicians have superhuman stamina. Imagine giving six speeches a day in six different places. Imagine reading briefing papers and holding staff meetings instead of sleeping. And the campaign for President starts earlier and earlier. We're already hearing about 2012. I have a new respect for those people who run for office; they suffer in my stead.

Running for office is hell on a marriage. Cindy McCain really didn't want John to run. She was concerned about her two sons in Iraq, for one thing. She thought their being the sons of a would-be President would be, in effect, putting signs on their backs: SHOOT ME. I have a new respect for her; she must have breathed a sigh of relief when the whole thing was over.

American is a land for the rugged individual. Who else would be able to come to a strange land and survive? But every one of those rugged individuals, then and now, knows exactly how the country should be run, and if you are foolish enough to ask, he'll tell you.

Somebody has to be in office; I'm just glad it's not me.

Layers and Layers

Today I started a new project. I envisioned a book of short stories something like Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon monologues, with the same characters appearing throughout. So I sat down this morning and pounded out 1309 words and sent the story to everyone I know, practically.
I thought about reading or(or rereading for the umpteenth time) one of the Lake Wobegon stories, but I resisted the temptation and plunged right in. An hour and a half later I was done. I read it, and it looked pretty good. I knew I had a writers' group meeting tomorrow, so I posted it on our site with a note -- this is very short,if there is time after other people read what they brought. I proofread the paper, but didn't edit it. I like to let a piece of writing sit and jell for at least twenty-four hours before I start picking at it. But this one, I thought, was an amazing first draft.
Then I wondered how many words were in a Lake Wobegon story. The only way to find out was to type one of the stories out and then use the Word Count tool on the computer. Before I had read past the first paragraph, I knew Garrison Keillor's story was waay out of my league -- a stratospheric distance, in fact.
His story had 2,190 words - about twice as long as mine. But while my little story had six characters mentioned, his had fifteen. The number of characters was less important than the number of stories within the story -- all woven together.
It is something to shoot for, I guess, but it is discouraging to realize you are still building with wooden blocks while they big guys are raising skyscrapers.

Save Me from the Chickens

A couple of weeks ago the gardening column in the Thursday Post was about the joys of having chickens in one's back yard.
Then he said the laws in Montgomery County were so restrictive that one couldn't raise chickens within the county limits.
My response: Keep the laws as they are.
But, he would say, "That is guv'ment in ma business, interferin' with my rights!"
Government protects me from people like you. It is not your right to have chickens in your yard if they interfere with my right to the urban life I chose.
I am paying for a chicken-free neighborhood. I grew up with chickens, rabbits, and a goat next door, but my parents paid MUCH lower taxes than I do. If Russellville had any zoning laws, I don't know about it. I choose to live in Montgomery County and pay higher taxes so I won't have to live next to a farm.
If this guy is so sure the majority of us want to live next to chickens, let him call his county councilperson. When the bill to restrict chicken laws is discussed, I will be there with all my friends who LIKE urban living - who don't want roosters crowing at three a.m. -- who don't want hawks and coyotes coming to my neighborhood to see what's on the menu for lunch. (And it's not just chicken that's on their menu -- it's small dogs and cats.)
If you want to live without zoning laws, move - move AWAY from me - and have all the chickens or llamas or ostriches or water buffalo you want.

The Good Old Days Were Awful

If you read my post yesterday, you know children from 5 years old and up worked just like adults in 1851. We don't have that in the U.S. any more, though, sadly, it still exists.
But today I'm thinking of something we have gained -- the internet. I love it.
I love Facebook - found a friend yesterday I thought I'd lost forever. I joined a writers' group. I've found recipes. I've found out how to keep the dog out of the refrigerator (at least most of the time). I've ordered lots of cool stuff. I've learned a lot. I'm blogging.
The internet is like anything else. It has some disgusting sites - because some people do disgusting things. But it has much, much more good than bad -- just like people, I believe, are more good than bad.

I love it.

Glimpses into History

I am a nerd. Or I'm like the Elephant's Child - full of "satiable curiostity"

I just finished reading Florence Nightingale's Notes on Nursing
.
Fact: (The year Nightingale is referring to is not mentioned, but I am guessing 1851.) "A curious fact will be shown by Table A, viz.,that 18,122 out of 39,139, or nearly one-half of the nurses, in domestic service, are between 5 and 20 years of age."

Imagine hiring a five year old.
Imagine a five year old as a nurse, in charge of a sick person.
Imagine sending your five year old to a stranger's house to work.


On a lighter note, she condemns crinolines, which were then fashionable. I think crinolines are hoop skirts. Nightingale deplores nurses wearing crinolines because it is hard for the nurse to move about the room without knocking something over and disturbing the patient, or the skirts could brush against a flame and catch fire.

She continues:
"I wish, too, that people could see the indecency of their own dress as other people see it. A respectable elderly woman stepping forward, invested in crinoline, exposes as much of her own person to the patient lying in the room as any opera dancer does on the stage. But no one will ever tell her this unpleasant truth."

In other words, ladies, when you bend over wearing hoops, the hoops turn up and reveal your backsides to the world, and most of you don't wear underwear.

Not a pretty sight.
"

So Much for Family Values

The partisan bickering isn't going to end any time soon. When Pat Robertson (who thinks the Haitians are to blame for the earthquake because they made a pact with the devil) has a seat of honor at the Virginia governor's swearing in, (as a graduate of Pat Roberts's "university," what would you expect the governor to do?) and the party that claims "family values," elects a male nude model, when the de facto head of this party is Rush, when the vice-presidential candidate of this party doesn't know why there is both a NORTH and a SOUTH Korea...

Why would this former Republican return to the fold? Where are the middle of the road GOP members, and why aren't they screaming?

Lincoln is spinning in his grave. Bring back the party of Lincoln.

Who knew?

I've been cleaning my house -- really cleaning my house. This is significant for me because it results from a profound life change. For a very long time I was teaching. And I was profoundly clinically depressed. I didn't clean my house. Now I am as sane as I'll ever get, I suppose. I feel much better, anyway (thanks to ECT), so I've been tackling the accumulated dirt.
That's how I discovered my plastic wood-look window blinds are really sort of translucent. I discovered this because I cleaned them. With the layer of dust, they appeared opaque.
This is hardly the discovery of the ages. I suppose it pleases me so much because it shows how far I've come. I feel better. Much better.

I'm not Neat, OK?

This morning I have been playing with paper: specifically, crepe paper. I like to play with paper. Go on, admit it. I bet you like to play with paper too.

I said I LIKE to play with paper. My paper creations? They're usually as good as the next person's, if the next person happened to have ten thumbs. I can't seem to do neat. I couldn't do neat in second grade, when my lowest grade was in handwriting, and I couldn't do neat in sixth grade, when I was supposed to make a science notebook: my drawings of amoebas and cells and such were accurate, but they were messy. I erased a lot.

But you don't have to be good with something to enjoy it, do you?
I was stuffing crepe paper into gift bags this morning. Each bag contained a small token for the founding church members who are still alive. (Our church was founded in 1955.) In each bag was a little token for each of the founding members of our church: those good souls who have been members since 1955. The crepe paper was so pretty: red, a dark forest green, and a glowing royal blue. With gift bags, you can be a messy person and still be okay.

When I was in second grade, we had a "debate." The question: "Is neatness a necessity?" We all knew which side would win, of course. Would a group of elementary teachers actually consider the possibility that neatness was nice,that neat papers are easier to grade, but neat is not the same as correct.

I'd rather have correct.

I can't write twenty pages! Are you crazy?

Once writers start writing regularly, they need to do it. Yes, I said need. It’s sort of like coffee. The first few days you really miss that morning jolt of caffeine, but then coffee isn’t vital to your well-being.
I’m not sure why I need to write, but I do. While I was in Alabama during Christmas, I really missed my computer. Sometimes I’m on a plane, say, and I just have to write, so I look around for any paper. I wrote on the back of the barf bag once.
This writing is not brilliant prose. I just need to see my thoughts on the page.
I can always write, but I can’t always write a particular manuscript.

I have been trying to write twenty to forty pages (!) to submit as an application to Sewanee writers’ conference. Some people write long. Not me. I write short. I’ve got short bits about the 1830 Chickasaw Indian removal, the Civil War, finding a skeleton, getting a divorce, going to high school, being a janitor, belonging to a garden club, Confederate monuments, Volkswagen keys... But none of them are expandable. They are not expandable because I am sick of all of them. I have yet to create a character that really fascinates me and keeps my interest. If there are any characters wandering around loose out there, come on over.