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?)