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.