I have always adored Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry for their wit, intelligence, and insight into the human scene, so when I saw that Mr. Laurie had written a novel, I had to read it. Yes, "The Gunseller" is droll, filled with arcane information about the global, illegal gun trade, and astute, especially on the male psyche when confronted with a pretty woman. This is not great literature, nor is it exactly a crime drama, though there are crimes aplenty. The protagonist/narrator has a quip for every occasion. Laurie can make murder funny. As I read the book, I kept having to remind myself of the seriousness of the book's subject. It will never replace "War and Peace," but if you enjoy British wordplay, vivid characters, and a tangled plot, you will like this novel.
I had never heard of Susan Hill until a friend loaned (lent?) me "Howard's End is on the Landing," a memoir cum booklist that Ms. Hill compiled during a year of "reading from home." For a year, she purchased no new books, instead returning to her own copiously filled bookshelves for books as yet unread, as well as old favorites. Susan Hill is a few years older than I, but we are of the same generation. We share the same cultural and literary references and a very similar approach to literature, though she is English and I am American. She loves books the way I do, so as I read her comments about books and authors she knew or has met, I felt I was in the presence of a kindred spirit. I learned about writers hitherto unknown to me who I will now certainly track down and read, and I read with delight her accounts of the Sitwells, T.S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, C. P. Snow and his wife Pamela Hansford Johnson (am I the only person on this side of the pond who has read them?), Iris Murdoch, and the list goes on. Hill is herself a novelist, and I already have one of her novels in my pile of books to read. I am grateful to her for introducing me to some new (to me) writers and for her judgments about books I too have read. We do not agree on everything though. She dismisses Australian and Canadian literature, even though she does mention Alice Munro and Mavis Gallant. I love them; she doesn't. She is a Christian and includes the Bible and The Book of Common Prayer on her list of 40 essential books. She appreciates the silence of the cloister and writers who have found refuge in monastic life. I guess I feel about that the way she feels about Canada: I'd rather not go there. This is a gem of a book that has short chapters and is easy to read. Only occasionally did I stumble; she has an authorial "tic" whereby she repeats phrases for emphasis and it becomes annoying. (I have spent a few minutes searching for an example and found none, but I'd say there are at least half a dozen of these constructions in the book, enough to leap off the page and eventually lose their punch.) Now I am ready to get down to business and read through (much of) her list myself.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
"Jaw, jaw" better than "war, war"
There are days when I wish everyone would just shut up.
I concede that is too much to hope for, so I might as well add my words to the rhetorical tsunami overtaking our country. After all, so long as we're still talking and not seeing fisticuffs on the floor of the Senate, I guess there's still some hope that political violence can be avoided. I know that when I see a foreign governmental body erupt in shoving and hitting I want to laugh--but not for long. If it can happen in (help me out here--I know I've seen televised footage of such activities, but I can't remember where they occurred)_______, it can happen here. We are not immune.
Let me state categorically that I do not believe Glen Beck, Rush Limbaugh, or even Sarah Palin is responsible for Rep. Giffords' shooting, so let's take that out of the equation, as Jon Stewart did. I do, however, hold the Right responsible for the inflammatory speech and abandonment of logic that has us all so stirred up. Here's what worries me: a growing segment of our population feels betrayed and marginalized--for good reason. I see too many parallels with post-Weimar Germany, when the German economy failed, and the middle and lower classes rose up to support Hitler. I'm not saying Glen Beck is Hitler; what I am arguing is that a restive middle class (lower middle class) does not bode well for the future. Hitler was able to articulate the people's anger, provide an explanation for their situation that absolved them of responsibilty, and reinstate national pride. Anger, blame, hubris. How many times have we heard politicians (from both camps) and talking heads say the people are right to be angry? How many times have we blamed the Chinese or the Europeans or the Mexicans for our problems? How many times have we heard that America is, and ought to be, the best country in the world and a beacon to the rest of humanity? Our political discourse has morphed into a moral debate in which the Right demonizes the Left. OK, so there's Keith Olbermann. I bet most Tea Partiers don't even know who he is. But EVERYONE knows Glen and Rush and the divine Ms. P. Both sides are not equally guilty.
Instead of arguing about whose rhetoric is more inflammatory (I've already given my opinion on that), why can't we debate POLICY? Let's assume the Right gets what they want: the status quo ante for health care, the expulsion of undocumented immigrants from Latin America, increased Presidential power (provided the President is Republican). What would be the results? Insurance companies would make even more money and have even more say in what kind of care people get--what else is all that paperwork for? Millions would slip between the cracks and live with anxiety and the real prospect of financial ruin. The low-level jobs that provide a foundation for our standard of living would disappear. Congress would become increasingly irrelevant, a place where people shout at each other (or the TV camera) while the President assumes more and more control, as we saw with Mr. Bush.
Obama is not trying to accrue more personal power. More than any President in my long memory he has been conciliatory and open to discussion. It is the Right that has stone-walled. He is desperately trying to keep America a civil nation. It remains to be seen how effective he will be in this endeavor. What is apparent is the push (from the Right) to adopt more and more laws restricting this or that behavior. The Right calls for free speech, until one of its own is challenged. The Right wants a free-for-all of guns in the mistaken idea that regulation is the same thing as strangulation. The Right demands that everyone abide by their definition of marriage, even if it denies the individual's right to choose his or her own life path. They say, "Don't mess with ME," then turn around and say, "Here's what YOU have to do."
The danger of violence is real. Some of us remember the 'sixties, when civility all too often turned into carnage, and there was plenty of blame to go around. Crosses were burned in the yards of black people, Southern sheriffs brutalized law-abiding citizens, innocent people were killed and injured by Left-wing fanatics, and heiresses were kidnapped. When words fail, bullets follow. That is why it is essential that we keep talking, no matter how tiresome it may seem. We also need a crash course in logic and logical fallacies. Glen Beck's arguments by analogy are worth no more than the chalk he illustrates them with. Reasonable limits on gun ownership are not a slippery slope on the way toward emasculation. Fairness, not religious doctrine, should be our guide. I, for one, will listen to an argument that is well-reasoned, supported by evidence, and presented in a respectful tone. When slogans substitute for substance--"Don't retreat, reload!"--I not only stop listening; I get angry too, and I don't like the way that feels.
I concede that is too much to hope for, so I might as well add my words to the rhetorical tsunami overtaking our country. After all, so long as we're still talking and not seeing fisticuffs on the floor of the Senate, I guess there's still some hope that political violence can be avoided. I know that when I see a foreign governmental body erupt in shoving and hitting I want to laugh--but not for long. If it can happen in (help me out here--I know I've seen televised footage of such activities, but I can't remember where they occurred)_______, it can happen here. We are not immune.
Let me state categorically that I do not believe Glen Beck, Rush Limbaugh, or even Sarah Palin is responsible for Rep. Giffords' shooting, so let's take that out of the equation, as Jon Stewart did. I do, however, hold the Right responsible for the inflammatory speech and abandonment of logic that has us all so stirred up. Here's what worries me: a growing segment of our population feels betrayed and marginalized--for good reason. I see too many parallels with post-Weimar Germany, when the German economy failed, and the middle and lower classes rose up to support Hitler. I'm not saying Glen Beck is Hitler; what I am arguing is that a restive middle class (lower middle class) does not bode well for the future. Hitler was able to articulate the people's anger, provide an explanation for their situation that absolved them of responsibilty, and reinstate national pride. Anger, blame, hubris. How many times have we heard politicians (from both camps) and talking heads say the people are right to be angry? How many times have we blamed the Chinese or the Europeans or the Mexicans for our problems? How many times have we heard that America is, and ought to be, the best country in the world and a beacon to the rest of humanity? Our political discourse has morphed into a moral debate in which the Right demonizes the Left. OK, so there's Keith Olbermann. I bet most Tea Partiers don't even know who he is. But EVERYONE knows Glen and Rush and the divine Ms. P. Both sides are not equally guilty.
Instead of arguing about whose rhetoric is more inflammatory (I've already given my opinion on that), why can't we debate POLICY? Let's assume the Right gets what they want: the status quo ante for health care, the expulsion of undocumented immigrants from Latin America, increased Presidential power (provided the President is Republican). What would be the results? Insurance companies would make even more money and have even more say in what kind of care people get--what else is all that paperwork for? Millions would slip between the cracks and live with anxiety and the real prospect of financial ruin. The low-level jobs that provide a foundation for our standard of living would disappear. Congress would become increasingly irrelevant, a place where people shout at each other (or the TV camera) while the President assumes more and more control, as we saw with Mr. Bush.
Obama is not trying to accrue more personal power. More than any President in my long memory he has been conciliatory and open to discussion. It is the Right that has stone-walled. He is desperately trying to keep America a civil nation. It remains to be seen how effective he will be in this endeavor. What is apparent is the push (from the Right) to adopt more and more laws restricting this or that behavior. The Right calls for free speech, until one of its own is challenged. The Right wants a free-for-all of guns in the mistaken idea that regulation is the same thing as strangulation. The Right demands that everyone abide by their definition of marriage, even if it denies the individual's right to choose his or her own life path. They say, "Don't mess with ME," then turn around and say, "Here's what YOU have to do."
The danger of violence is real. Some of us remember the 'sixties, when civility all too often turned into carnage, and there was plenty of blame to go around. Crosses were burned in the yards of black people, Southern sheriffs brutalized law-abiding citizens, innocent people were killed and injured by Left-wing fanatics, and heiresses were kidnapped. When words fail, bullets follow. That is why it is essential that we keep talking, no matter how tiresome it may seem. We also need a crash course in logic and logical fallacies. Glen Beck's arguments by analogy are worth no more than the chalk he illustrates them with. Reasonable limits on gun ownership are not a slippery slope on the way toward emasculation. Fairness, not religious doctrine, should be our guide. I, for one, will listen to an argument that is well-reasoned, supported by evidence, and presented in a respectful tone. When slogans substitute for substance--"Don't retreat, reload!"--I not only stop listening; I get angry too, and I don't like the way that feels.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Whither Obama
Like many progressives these days, I am disappointed that President Obama hasn't put the Republicans in a half-Nelson and wrestled them to the ground. I have my own ideas about why this has happened--or not happened. If only we had faced the mundane problems that any nation faces, I believe Obama would have proved to be a good President, with the potential of becoming a great one. Sadly, too much went wrong: the disastrous economy, the oil spill, the endless wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Had he even been able to focus on just one of these, things might be quite different, but he faced a trifecta of catastrophes.
But the problem is not simply the bad luck of unfortunate events. Obama's real "problem" is that he's too nice, too reasonable, and finally too conciliatory. In most circumstances these would be admirable qualities, but a President needs to be more of a Bobby Knight and less of a cheerleader. I cringe whenever I hear him say, "I am responsible...." For a less-than-perfect oil clean-up, for wars he didn't start, for an economy he didn't create. When Harry Truman said, "The buck stops with me," he was being fiesty. When FDR said, "I welcome their [Republicans'] their hate," he was not cowering in fear of "mis-speaking" or shilly-shallying. Obama seems to want to follow in those stalwart's footsteps, but his feet aren't quite big enough.
I desperately hate to say this, but I fear that race may be an issue here. I have no doubt that Obama is capable of strong speech and a calculated show of temper, but I sense his reluctance to be perceived as anything other than a reasonable black man who is non-threatening. I am thrilled we have a black President. Michelle Obama is right to be proud of America for that reason, if not for that reason alone. But the President seems to be trying too hard to be the Sidney Poitier of politics. He's the "guess who's coming to dinner" black man who is so perfect no one can fault him, at least not for his manners. I appreciate his desire to set the tone in Washington, to make a space for reasoned discourse and respectful disagreement. Unfortunately, his enemies refuse to play that game. These Republican bullies, like bullies everywhere, zero in on the nice kid in the class. And the sad thing is, the bullies often win. I wish it were otherwise; I wish intelligence, morality, and compassion came out on top every time, but the truth is, bullies usually get away with it. It saddens me to think that our first black President may be seen as one of our weakest, not because he is a weak man, but because he is a nice one.
But the problem is not simply the bad luck of unfortunate events. Obama's real "problem" is that he's too nice, too reasonable, and finally too conciliatory. In most circumstances these would be admirable qualities, but a President needs to be more of a Bobby Knight and less of a cheerleader. I cringe whenever I hear him say, "I am responsible...." For a less-than-perfect oil clean-up, for wars he didn't start, for an economy he didn't create. When Harry Truman said, "The buck stops with me," he was being fiesty. When FDR said, "I welcome their [Republicans'] their hate," he was not cowering in fear of "mis-speaking" or shilly-shallying. Obama seems to want to follow in those stalwart's footsteps, but his feet aren't quite big enough.
I desperately hate to say this, but I fear that race may be an issue here. I have no doubt that Obama is capable of strong speech and a calculated show of temper, but I sense his reluctance to be perceived as anything other than a reasonable black man who is non-threatening. I am thrilled we have a black President. Michelle Obama is right to be proud of America for that reason, if not for that reason alone. But the President seems to be trying too hard to be the Sidney Poitier of politics. He's the "guess who's coming to dinner" black man who is so perfect no one can fault him, at least not for his manners. I appreciate his desire to set the tone in Washington, to make a space for reasoned discourse and respectful disagreement. Unfortunately, his enemies refuse to play that game. These Republican bullies, like bullies everywhere, zero in on the nice kid in the class. And the sad thing is, the bullies often win. I wish it were otherwise; I wish intelligence, morality, and compassion came out on top every time, but the truth is, bullies usually get away with it. It saddens me to think that our first black President may be seen as one of our weakest, not because he is a weak man, but because he is a nice one.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year's Resolution #1: Books I Have Read
I wish I'd started this years ago, but better late than never. This year I resolve to keep a list of all the books I read, along with a bit of commentary to help me remember them, as I tend to forget one book as soon as I pick up the next.
The following are actually books I read in December, 2010, but I figure they give me a running start.
"A Summer of Hummingbirds" by Christopher Benfey. Emily Dickinson, Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and the artist Martin Johnson Heade were all caught up in the 19th c. hummingbird craze. This book details the small literary and artistic world these figures inhabited and explains why hummingbirds were so important to each of them. I'd never heard of Heade before, but the others are, of course, very familiar. This book is a pleasure, not because it provides deep analysis, but because it presents novel information and fresh interpretations of old favorites.
"A Presumption of Death" by Jill Paton Walsh & Dorothy Sayers. Jill Walsh took notes left by Dorothy Sayers after Sayers' death and put them in a novel set during World War II. Lord Peter is off on a secret mission, while Harriet Vane, his lady-wife, copes with wartime privations and anxieties with her two young sons at Talboys. This is one of those closed-community mysteries, where suspects are limited to a discrete number of individuals. I never read mysteries for the plot and don't really care "who-done-it". What I relish is the atmosphere and the psychology of the characters. This book describes wartime England, bringing to life a time just before my own birth. It gives me a glimpse into the world as my parents must have known it, when victory against Hitler was anything but certain, and ordinary people often rose to heroic heights.
"The Birthday Present" by Barbara Vine (aka Ruth Rendell). This "birthday present" is not your typical necktie or diamond bracelet. It is, in fact, a kidnapping with erotic overtones. It concerns the contemporary English middle class and pits "normal" family life against something a bit more decadent. Vine/Rendell never shies away from sensational material, but her style is so down-to-earth her books never seem truly salacious. Her characters, at least some of them, tend to go to extremes, showing by contrast the fragility of what most would call normal.
"The Naming of the Dead" by Ian Rankin. I love Rankin's detective John Rebus. He is sixty-something in this book, overweight, out of shape, with a bit of a drinking problem. Imperfect in a word. But he is clever, dogged, and willing to break rules if that will produce results. His integrity is impeccable, and he is loyal to his friends. Maybe it sounds perverse, but I enjoy watching the parallel tracks of the soon-to-be-retired detective: his uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious and his shambolic life. Two brothers have died, one Rebus's, and the novel is about grief, regret, and the bonds of family, as well as murder most foul and corruption at both the local and the global levels. The action takes place against the backdrop of the G8 conference of world leaders in Edinburgh, Scotland. George W. Bush makes a brief appearance when he tumbles off a bicycle and scrapes his knuckles. And Tony Blair flies in and out, trying to be everywhere at once. The Iraq war figures in, and the restoration of order that we expect from mystery novels is no guarantee that the world will have the same kind of resolution.
"The Collected Stories" by Mavis Gallant. Like many Canadian authors, Mavis Gallant has not achieved the recognition she deserves. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say she is a writer's writer. I would put her in the same company as William Trevor, Alice Munro, and Lorrie Moore--masters of the short story all. Gallant is Canadian, but most of her stories take place in Europe or, most often, Paris or provincial France. I would not read a Gallant story for a neat plot or a clever ending. I do read her for her atmosphere and her study of broken or wounded characters. As Lionel Trilling put it, "The world's great literature was not created by a bunch of happy chuckleheads." Mavis Gallant is rather melancholy, which is perhaps why she appeals to me and my somewhat morbid sensibility. Unlike Rankin's novel that brings recent world events into focus as a backdrop to its action, Gallant's stories are internal. Lives unfold beneath the shadows of disappointment and failure. For some reason, this appeals to me, not because I am sad but because I know that many are, and my sympathies are engaged. Some lives are blighted; that's a fact. One of the graces of literature is its finding beauty even in the dark.
"Here's Looking at Euclid" by Alex Bellos. This book was something of a departure for me. I usually stick to fiction, history, or biography; "Euclid" is all about mathematics, a subject I avoid whenever possible. This book won me over right from the start. It's not about solving problems, and it doesn't ask questions whose answers may be obvious to others but are totally opaque to me. It didn't make me feel embarrassed by my lack of math skills, which I have been ever since my parents were first called in for a teacher conference when I was in third grade. Bellos's unique book is a compendium of interesting facts about the origins of numbers, the remarkable things that math can do--whether it be in the form of puzzles or the formulation of technological wonders--and a plethora of mind-blowing information about infinities. Yes, plural. He discusses some of the great mathematicians, past and present, from Pythagoras to Euler, as well as "lightning calculators" (those individuals who can compute with huge numbers in their heads in a matter of seconds). I am no better at solving math problems (beyond simple addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division) than I was before, but I now have a much greater understanding of the appeal of math. Math is not magic, but this book makes it seem magical. It contains a world of wonders.
The following are actually books I read in December, 2010, but I figure they give me a running start.
"A Summer of Hummingbirds" by Christopher Benfey. Emily Dickinson, Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and the artist Martin Johnson Heade were all caught up in the 19th c. hummingbird craze. This book details the small literary and artistic world these figures inhabited and explains why hummingbirds were so important to each of them. I'd never heard of Heade before, but the others are, of course, very familiar. This book is a pleasure, not because it provides deep analysis, but because it presents novel information and fresh interpretations of old favorites.
"A Presumption of Death" by Jill Paton Walsh & Dorothy Sayers. Jill Walsh took notes left by Dorothy Sayers after Sayers' death and put them in a novel set during World War II. Lord Peter is off on a secret mission, while Harriet Vane, his lady-wife, copes with wartime privations and anxieties with her two young sons at Talboys. This is one of those closed-community mysteries, where suspects are limited to a discrete number of individuals. I never read mysteries for the plot and don't really care "who-done-it". What I relish is the atmosphere and the psychology of the characters. This book describes wartime England, bringing to life a time just before my own birth. It gives me a glimpse into the world as my parents must have known it, when victory against Hitler was anything but certain, and ordinary people often rose to heroic heights.
"The Birthday Present" by Barbara Vine (aka Ruth Rendell). This "birthday present" is not your typical necktie or diamond bracelet. It is, in fact, a kidnapping with erotic overtones. It concerns the contemporary English middle class and pits "normal" family life against something a bit more decadent. Vine/Rendell never shies away from sensational material, but her style is so down-to-earth her books never seem truly salacious. Her characters, at least some of them, tend to go to extremes, showing by contrast the fragility of what most would call normal.
"The Naming of the Dead" by Ian Rankin. I love Rankin's detective John Rebus. He is sixty-something in this book, overweight, out of shape, with a bit of a drinking problem. Imperfect in a word. But he is clever, dogged, and willing to break rules if that will produce results. His integrity is impeccable, and he is loyal to his friends. Maybe it sounds perverse, but I enjoy watching the parallel tracks of the soon-to-be-retired detective: his uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious and his shambolic life. Two brothers have died, one Rebus's, and the novel is about grief, regret, and the bonds of family, as well as murder most foul and corruption at both the local and the global levels. The action takes place against the backdrop of the G8 conference of world leaders in Edinburgh, Scotland. George W. Bush makes a brief appearance when he tumbles off a bicycle and scrapes his knuckles. And Tony Blair flies in and out, trying to be everywhere at once. The Iraq war figures in, and the restoration of order that we expect from mystery novels is no guarantee that the world will have the same kind of resolution.
"The Collected Stories" by Mavis Gallant. Like many Canadian authors, Mavis Gallant has not achieved the recognition she deserves. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say she is a writer's writer. I would put her in the same company as William Trevor, Alice Munro, and Lorrie Moore--masters of the short story all. Gallant is Canadian, but most of her stories take place in Europe or, most often, Paris or provincial France. I would not read a Gallant story for a neat plot or a clever ending. I do read her for her atmosphere and her study of broken or wounded characters. As Lionel Trilling put it, "The world's great literature was not created by a bunch of happy chuckleheads." Mavis Gallant is rather melancholy, which is perhaps why she appeals to me and my somewhat morbid sensibility. Unlike Rankin's novel that brings recent world events into focus as a backdrop to its action, Gallant's stories are internal. Lives unfold beneath the shadows of disappointment and failure. For some reason, this appeals to me, not because I am sad but because I know that many are, and my sympathies are engaged. Some lives are blighted; that's a fact. One of the graces of literature is its finding beauty even in the dark.
"Here's Looking at Euclid" by Alex Bellos. This book was something of a departure for me. I usually stick to fiction, history, or biography; "Euclid" is all about mathematics, a subject I avoid whenever possible. This book won me over right from the start. It's not about solving problems, and it doesn't ask questions whose answers may be obvious to others but are totally opaque to me. It didn't make me feel embarrassed by my lack of math skills, which I have been ever since my parents were first called in for a teacher conference when I was in third grade. Bellos's unique book is a compendium of interesting facts about the origins of numbers, the remarkable things that math can do--whether it be in the form of puzzles or the formulation of technological wonders--and a plethora of mind-blowing information about infinities. Yes, plural. He discusses some of the great mathematicians, past and present, from Pythagoras to Euler, as well as "lightning calculators" (those individuals who can compute with huge numbers in their heads in a matter of seconds). I am no better at solving math problems (beyond simple addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division) than I was before, but I now have a much greater understanding of the appeal of math. Math is not magic, but this book makes it seem magical. It contains a world of wonders.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Snowbound in Carolina
I look out my kitchen window and see white everywhere. Ordinary branches are transformed into giant lace by thick lines of snow. The sky is white, and everything is silent. I wonder why we find snow so magical? I assume that unless you are an Eskimo you too marvel at feathery flakes sifting through the light from street lamps, laying down a white blanket over bare earth and the stalks of dead flowers.
I spent a good deal of my life in northern climes--western Pennsylvania, upstate New York, Ontario. When I was a child, I loved snow because it meant snow forts, sledding, and snowmen. Later, when I was a young mother and it took a solid hour to ready my kids for an outing--snowsuits, hats, mitts, scarves, boots--I started to question the sanity of those who choose to live such strenuous lives. By the time the kids were ready to brave the elements, someone invariably had to go to the bathroom. I didn't find snow so magical then.
I've said many times that I don't care if I never see snow again, but today I think I must take that back. I had forgotten how a snowscape outside can make indoors feel cozy and protected. I know there are children out there who are getting to use their sleds at last. I'm glad I don't have to brave the cold to take my grandsons to the hill across the street from their house, but I can imagine their thrill as they swoosh over the snow with tingling cheeks. Children know what to do with winter. Kids who can scarcely be persuaded to walk to the corner of their street in April will trudge three miles to a friend's house if there's a foot of snow on the ground, as my sons did once.
"Where are the snows of yesteryear?" I find they have been locked in my heart as memories I had almost forgotten. I haven't changed my mind about snow really; it's good to know it will melt and be gone soon. But for today it's fun to cuddle up with a cup of hot tea and a good book and pause to listen to the silence of the snow.
I spent a good deal of my life in northern climes--western Pennsylvania, upstate New York, Ontario. When I was a child, I loved snow because it meant snow forts, sledding, and snowmen. Later, when I was a young mother and it took a solid hour to ready my kids for an outing--snowsuits, hats, mitts, scarves, boots--I started to question the sanity of those who choose to live such strenuous lives. By the time the kids were ready to brave the elements, someone invariably had to go to the bathroom. I didn't find snow so magical then.
I've said many times that I don't care if I never see snow again, but today I think I must take that back. I had forgotten how a snowscape outside can make indoors feel cozy and protected. I know there are children out there who are getting to use their sleds at last. I'm glad I don't have to brave the cold to take my grandsons to the hill across the street from their house, but I can imagine their thrill as they swoosh over the snow with tingling cheeks. Children know what to do with winter. Kids who can scarcely be persuaded to walk to the corner of their street in April will trudge three miles to a friend's house if there's a foot of snow on the ground, as my sons did once.
"Where are the snows of yesteryear?" I find they have been locked in my heart as memories I had almost forgotten. I haven't changed my mind about snow really; it's good to know it will melt and be gone soon. But for today it's fun to cuddle up with a cup of hot tea and a good book and pause to listen to the silence of the snow.
Monday, December 20, 2010
One Perfect Christmas
I've always loved Dylan Thomas's "A Child's Christmas in Wales." To me it is the perfect, certainly the most poetic, expression of what Christmas is all about. I am what you might call a secularist, but I still welcome Christmas. I love the fragrant Christmas tree with its ornaments and lights, especially when some of the ornaments have tiny hand prints on them or are made out of popsicle sticks and cotton balls.
I've had many good Christmases, some better than others, rarely a bad one. But one Christmas stands out in my mind; I call it my one perfect Christmas, when I came the closest to recreating the spirit captured in Dylan Thomas's magical tale.
I was living in Canada with my then-husband and two young sons, four and 15 months. It was our first Christmas in the this land of snow and short winter days, where English and European traditions intermingled. I decided to embrace as many of them as I could and have the best, most beautiful Christmas ever. No, I didn't do anything remotely Martha Stewartish, no gilded turkey skeletons as a centerpiece or over-the-top light display. But this was the year I did make everything, beginning with fabric wreaths and homemade Swedish Christmas bread as gifts for family and friends, cookies by the dozen, and of course a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. I dug out an old-fashioned recipe for homemade mince meat that included suet and meat as well as the apples, raisins, and candied fruits we are all familiar with. There was a world of difference between my mincemeat pies and the ones with canned filling. In those days I was adept at making pie crust, and my pies were--well--divine. Hot homemade mince pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream can be enough to make you weep.
The piece de resistance, though, has to be the Christmas tree we tramped over hill and dale to find. The four of us joined another couple and their little girl to go in search of the perfect tree. The tree farm played Christmas carols over a loudspeaker, in case our mood wasn't already sufficiently festive. The snow lay deep on the ground, and my sons' cheeks were like bright red apples in the cold. The little one couldn't navigate the snow drifts, so I carried him, his arms and legs stuck out in his snowsuit like a doll's. I carried him, and we walked what seemed like miles, with him growing heavier and heavier with every step. Still, we pressed onward, sure the perfect tree lay just ahead. At last we found a tree that did indeed meet all our expectations. It was tall and thickly branched, and its shape was classic. My husband cut it down, and we began the walk back to our car. Let me tell you, the return journey was a lot longer than the journey out. The sun sank toward the horizon, shadows lengthened, and my son felt like an anvil in my arms. My husband had the worst of it though. Dragging the tree all that distance gave him a hernia, so although the tree only cost us $2.00, we paid for it in other ways later on.
We met more friends for a supper of homemade soup and bread, relieved to be back in the warmth of our friends' home where we could shed our wet boots and heavy coats. The house was warm, but the air was tangy with the cold we brought in with us. Little kids ran around in their sock feet, while the grown ups thawed out with hot mulled wine. We were so young, just at the beginning of our long adulthood, with so much that was unknown still ahead of us. We inhabited a space of relative innocence, when all a young family needed to be happy was healthy children, good friends, and the confidence that we would always be brave and strong and happy.
The next day we put up the tree. The house we lived in had 12-foot ceilings, but the tree had to be shortened to fit into the living room. It's hard to judge the size of a tree when it's standing outside, just as a new couch is always much bigger in your living room than it was in the store. Ah, but it was a gorgeous tree. When only the Christmas-tree lights were turned on, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and the darkness outside rubbed against the windows like the velvet noses of reindeer, we were complete. Now my sons are grown and I also have a daughter who has two sons of her own. None of them remembers that Christmas, alas, but in my memory it will always be my one perfect Christmas.
I've had many good Christmases, some better than others, rarely a bad one. But one Christmas stands out in my mind; I call it my one perfect Christmas, when I came the closest to recreating the spirit captured in Dylan Thomas's magical tale.
I was living in Canada with my then-husband and two young sons, four and 15 months. It was our first Christmas in the this land of snow and short winter days, where English and European traditions intermingled. I decided to embrace as many of them as I could and have the best, most beautiful Christmas ever. No, I didn't do anything remotely Martha Stewartish, no gilded turkey skeletons as a centerpiece or over-the-top light display. But this was the year I did make everything, beginning with fabric wreaths and homemade Swedish Christmas bread as gifts for family and friends, cookies by the dozen, and of course a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. I dug out an old-fashioned recipe for homemade mince meat that included suet and meat as well as the apples, raisins, and candied fruits we are all familiar with. There was a world of difference between my mincemeat pies and the ones with canned filling. In those days I was adept at making pie crust, and my pies were--well--divine. Hot homemade mince pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream can be enough to make you weep.
The piece de resistance, though, has to be the Christmas tree we tramped over hill and dale to find. The four of us joined another couple and their little girl to go in search of the perfect tree. The tree farm played Christmas carols over a loudspeaker, in case our mood wasn't already sufficiently festive. The snow lay deep on the ground, and my sons' cheeks were like bright red apples in the cold. The little one couldn't navigate the snow drifts, so I carried him, his arms and legs stuck out in his snowsuit like a doll's. I carried him, and we walked what seemed like miles, with him growing heavier and heavier with every step. Still, we pressed onward, sure the perfect tree lay just ahead. At last we found a tree that did indeed meet all our expectations. It was tall and thickly branched, and its shape was classic. My husband cut it down, and we began the walk back to our car. Let me tell you, the return journey was a lot longer than the journey out. The sun sank toward the horizon, shadows lengthened, and my son felt like an anvil in my arms. My husband had the worst of it though. Dragging the tree all that distance gave him a hernia, so although the tree only cost us $2.00, we paid for it in other ways later on.
We met more friends for a supper of homemade soup and bread, relieved to be back in the warmth of our friends' home where we could shed our wet boots and heavy coats. The house was warm, but the air was tangy with the cold we brought in with us. Little kids ran around in their sock feet, while the grown ups thawed out with hot mulled wine. We were so young, just at the beginning of our long adulthood, with so much that was unknown still ahead of us. We inhabited a space of relative innocence, when all a young family needed to be happy was healthy children, good friends, and the confidence that we would always be brave and strong and happy.
The next day we put up the tree. The house we lived in had 12-foot ceilings, but the tree had to be shortened to fit into the living room. It's hard to judge the size of a tree when it's standing outside, just as a new couch is always much bigger in your living room than it was in the store. Ah, but it was a gorgeous tree. When only the Christmas-tree lights were turned on, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and the darkness outside rubbed against the windows like the velvet noses of reindeer, we were complete. Now my sons are grown and I also have a daughter who has two sons of her own. None of them remembers that Christmas, alas, but in my memory it will always be my one perfect Christmas.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Ralph Waldo Emerson Strikes Some Sparks
Having recently read Sarah Bakewell's biography of Montaigne, I was interested to read an essay in Harper's Magazine about Emerson that includes a discussion of Montaigne's influence on him. I think I feel about these great essayists the way I feel about opera: I absolutely love certain arias and passages, but I find listening to an entire opera tedious. What I liked about the Bakewell biography was the quotations she extracted from the density of Montaigne's prose. The Harper's article includes some thought-provoking quotes from Emerson as well, just enough to get me thinking....
"...after thirty a man [or woman] wakes up sad every morning." I'll come back to this.
This resonated with me: "The style of middle age is a style of reappraisal, a style characterized by hesitation, by uncertainty, by the objects of the world rather than the passions that transport us from this world." Remember that passage in Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms" where Hemingway dismisses abstractions like "glory" and "honor" and says the only things that matter are the names of the roads. I believe Emerson was saying something similar.
I've been doing some reappraising of my own, especially now that I am over 60 (how is that even possible?), and I find my mind keeps turning to the past, specifically those things and moments that, for me, encapsulate the feeling I had--or remember having--when gleams of intense well-being shone through the tapestry of my life. I don't think of these chinks of time as nostalgia; that's a more diffuse longing for a past of supposedly better times. I'm not sure I find that particularly healthy. I guess I'm a bit like Proust; these illuminated moments are usually triggered by a smell or the feel of the air on my skin or the cry of a mourning dove. One sense feeds into a whole world of associations that don't so much transport me from the world as impress me more deeply into it.
I spoke in praise of objects over abstractions, and here I am going on in a most abstract way. So enough of that. I would like to try to describe one of these memories and what it means to me, though I'm already sure I won't be able to do it adequately. The thing is, I want to make you FEEL the same thing I do, and I am nearly certain that is impossible. Still, I will try.
I am addicted to tea--regular English Breakfast but ordinary Lipton's will do in a pinch. When I raise my mug to take that first sip and breathe in that fragrant steam, I am--for a brief moment--thrust back through time to the small town in Indiana where I grew up. I can see our small backyard with my father's flower beds. Gladiolas were his favorite--bright, gaudy flowers that stood upright and proudly announced themselves. It is summer, though still cool in the mornings. I have been ill for a long time, and I am ten years old.
This morning I am allowed outside because it is finally warm enough that I won't get a chill. The sun warms me; it seems to soak right into my bones, yet that freshness of early morning mingles with the warmth so that I feel cool one minute and almost too warm the next. My mother brings me a cup of tea, or perhaps it's my blue-willow tea set with the tiny cups. At ten I did not know that I was destined to become an ardent Anglophile, but I already had the English taste for tea beautifully served. I am not strong yet, but I no longer feel dizzy when I stand up and I can finally believe that one day soon I will be well.
That harmony of my senses lifts me into a state of mind that seems to hover above the grass, the flowers, the scent of hot tea. In that hovering I feel what I can only call bliss--a suspension of joy that hangs in my mind as the breeze hangs in the branches of the pussy-willow I planted last year. This is the part that is hard to describe. I can tell you about the smell of cut grass or the flagrant blossoms of my dad's flowers or the feel of a teacup cradled in my hands, but the sense I am trying to capture is ineffable. Today when I am sad or unwell, I try to imagine myself back into that scene where I was a child made serious by my illness but still untouched by the storms and tribulations that lay just ahead of me. I was at the apogee of happiness, caught in that moment just as the incline begins to fall. It is a moment tethered to the world around me as it was then, but it exists only in my mind.
Wordsworth spoke of "spots of time" when memory becomes meaning. Perhaps that is what I am trying to evoke. This sounds comforting, yet I agree with Emerson that after thirty everyone wakes up sad in the morning. At least, I agree with him insofar as it applies to me. I don't usually feel sad in the morning, but in unguarded or empty moments--like those upon first waking--I feel a sadness that clings to me like a spider web. I did not feel this melancholy when I was a child, and I believe that summer memory I have just described is important to me because that was the last time life was uncomplicated and the only world I knew was lovely and safe.
"...after thirty a man [or woman] wakes up sad every morning." I'll come back to this.
This resonated with me: "The style of middle age is a style of reappraisal, a style characterized by hesitation, by uncertainty, by the objects of the world rather than the passions that transport us from this world." Remember that passage in Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms" where Hemingway dismisses abstractions like "glory" and "honor" and says the only things that matter are the names of the roads. I believe Emerson was saying something similar.
I've been doing some reappraising of my own, especially now that I am over 60 (how is that even possible?), and I find my mind keeps turning to the past, specifically those things and moments that, for me, encapsulate the feeling I had--or remember having--when gleams of intense well-being shone through the tapestry of my life. I don't think of these chinks of time as nostalgia; that's a more diffuse longing for a past of supposedly better times. I'm not sure I find that particularly healthy. I guess I'm a bit like Proust; these illuminated moments are usually triggered by a smell or the feel of the air on my skin or the cry of a mourning dove. One sense feeds into a whole world of associations that don't so much transport me from the world as impress me more deeply into it.
I spoke in praise of objects over abstractions, and here I am going on in a most abstract way. So enough of that. I would like to try to describe one of these memories and what it means to me, though I'm already sure I won't be able to do it adequately. The thing is, I want to make you FEEL the same thing I do, and I am nearly certain that is impossible. Still, I will try.
I am addicted to tea--regular English Breakfast but ordinary Lipton's will do in a pinch. When I raise my mug to take that first sip and breathe in that fragrant steam, I am--for a brief moment--thrust back through time to the small town in Indiana where I grew up. I can see our small backyard with my father's flower beds. Gladiolas were his favorite--bright, gaudy flowers that stood upright and proudly announced themselves. It is summer, though still cool in the mornings. I have been ill for a long time, and I am ten years old.
This morning I am allowed outside because it is finally warm enough that I won't get a chill. The sun warms me; it seems to soak right into my bones, yet that freshness of early morning mingles with the warmth so that I feel cool one minute and almost too warm the next. My mother brings me a cup of tea, or perhaps it's my blue-willow tea set with the tiny cups. At ten I did not know that I was destined to become an ardent Anglophile, but I already had the English taste for tea beautifully served. I am not strong yet, but I no longer feel dizzy when I stand up and I can finally believe that one day soon I will be well.
That harmony of my senses lifts me into a state of mind that seems to hover above the grass, the flowers, the scent of hot tea. In that hovering I feel what I can only call bliss--a suspension of joy that hangs in my mind as the breeze hangs in the branches of the pussy-willow I planted last year. This is the part that is hard to describe. I can tell you about the smell of cut grass or the flagrant blossoms of my dad's flowers or the feel of a teacup cradled in my hands, but the sense I am trying to capture is ineffable. Today when I am sad or unwell, I try to imagine myself back into that scene where I was a child made serious by my illness but still untouched by the storms and tribulations that lay just ahead of me. I was at the apogee of happiness, caught in that moment just as the incline begins to fall. It is a moment tethered to the world around me as it was then, but it exists only in my mind.
Wordsworth spoke of "spots of time" when memory becomes meaning. Perhaps that is what I am trying to evoke. This sounds comforting, yet I agree with Emerson that after thirty everyone wakes up sad in the morning. At least, I agree with him insofar as it applies to me. I don't usually feel sad in the morning, but in unguarded or empty moments--like those upon first waking--I feel a sadness that clings to me like a spider web. I did not feel this melancholy when I was a child, and I believe that summer memory I have just described is important to me because that was the last time life was uncomplicated and the only world I knew was lovely and safe.
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