The Novel That Keeps on Giving

David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest has been my Waterloo. I began reading this book in 2007, checking it out of the library and renewing it twice. I bought a paperback copy and continued to chip away. I'm currently on page 358 out of  more than 1000. The book is brilliant but not for everyone. It's fairly difficult to read, with it's interruptive footnotes, and challenging to read standing in the subway. Jest makes the case for a Kindle.

My 21-year-old son Harry asked me if I had the book. "Yes, but why?" I admit I was surprised. "A bunch of my friends are reading it and discussing it in a Google book group." I admit I was shocked. I knew precisely where the novel is, because it mocks me whenever I walk by it.

The book group consists of Harry's friends who graduated form Vassar College (where Harry is a senior) all of whom competed in cross country and track (as does Harry). I see runners as a thinking lot, partly because in long training sessions they have what feels like endless time to think about things other than pain. But why choose  Infinite Jest for your first discussion group? Maybe because the main character, still in high school, is a genius as well as a highly-ranked tennis player, under extreme pressure to perform. He also smokes a  lot of marijuana and is socially inept. In addition, the book has many laugh-out-loud scenes.

When Harry finishes Jest, probably in two weeks, I intend to plod on. I must finish it someday or the jest's on me.
 

Listening to Books

In my mind, there's nothing like reading a real book. My local library is excellent, so access isn't the problem as it is for some. I do end up schlepping tomes around when I could use a smaller electronic device, but it's not a real book.

I drive a lot where I live. While I can easily walk to town, I have to drive to appointments that are usually at least a half an hour away. Why not spend all that time listening to a book on CD? My husband and I had once listened to an an English mystery novel on a long road trip, and the experience was enjoyable enough. A couple of weeks ago, I took out A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore. She's a great writer, introduced to me by my niece, Rebecca, who was one her students in the graduate program at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. Moore has a number of short story collections, of which I may have read, Like Life.

Briefly, A Gate at the Stairs, is about a young college student named Tassie who gets a part-time job as a babysitter for a middle aged couple who've adopted a mixed-race child. The themes in the book are many, including grief, loss, secrecy, anxiety and racism. Moore balances this with razor-sharp wit. I especially enjoyed her skewering of  restaurants with dishes that have way too many ingredients, and menus that describe them in all their ridiculous detail. This was fun to listen to, rather than read. Descriptions of the weekly meetings of the self-righteous inter-racial parent's group were hilarious. But still.

For the most part I'd rather read than listen to a book. It's easier to re-read passages for one thing instead of fiddling with the CD while driving to back it up. It depends upon the person who reads the book aloud, how different voices are used, and how well. I checked out a CD of stories by John Updike wich is going well perhaps because it's not a novel.

It turns out that as I was writing this post I went to see what Lorrie Moore book I have a signed copy of via my niece. Surprise! A Gate at the Stairs.

Artificial Light

Natural light is scarce these days in the Catskill Mountains. The Solstice occurred two days ago so it's not unexpected. Add to the short daylight hours, it's been dark and dreary, with every kind of precipitation there is including fog. Fitting that I should read James Greer's Artificial Light during this season.

At least two of my kids have read this book (which is why I stumbled upon it) I think because it's about the rock band life, and makes references to Kurt Cobain of the group "Nirvana." It's a dark and dreary story that's awash in drugs and alcohol. James Greer used to be in a rock band, so he intimately knows the territory.

Artificial Light is an intense read, containing many words I've never heard, which is always a big plus for me. It was also tiresome at times. I love Rock 'n Roll, and I enjoy Punk and even own a "Nirvana" CD. I think I'm just too old to care about the drama in this novel.  

Not Waxing Poetic About Snow

Ever read a snow poem? Ever write one? There's something enchanting about that frozen concoction of particles whirling about, adding more fluff to the quilted earth. See what I mean?

When the weather outside is frightful, it's better to view it from inside, perhaps in front of a fire accompanied by a good book and a warm liquid refreshment. Unfortunately, our footman couldn't make it in yesterday (due to the snow), so Mariel and I had to dig out both cars. She's strong and I'm not so she did the lion's share of the work. Today's snow adventure was equally tiring. I'll leave at that.

Except for the mud lining the snow banks, it looks nice out there. I think we got 10-11 inches, higher than any snow boot I own.

I can't resist a haiku.

It drops on your tongue,
tasteless frozen drink that melts
and makes you crave more.  

Filling in My Reading Gaps

When I was in 3rd grade, I spent a lot of time in the library. When finished with school work, I was allowed to go across the hall and read until I was sent for. One day, the librarian asked me why I looked sad. "I'll never be able to read all these books," I murmured.

As an adult, I understand the obviousness of this impossible quest. Do I despair? Of course not. I do what I can to keep up with contemporary lit; read books the kids leave around; and buy books at book sales, some I myself donated. My kids read a lot so I get exposed to younger authors now and then, but also to ones I've inexplicably missed, like Nick Hornby. I found A Long Way Down sitting there on a bookshelf yearning to be read again. Mariel said it was good, and that so of his novels were, too.

A Long Way Down is about four people who intend to throw themselves off a 15-story building near London on New Year's Eve. There's Martin, a disgraced 40-something television broadcaster whose family left him when he slept with a 15-year old and did jail time for it. Maureen, a sixtyish matron who lives alone caring for her fortyish son who was born in a vegetative state, has spent her entire adulthood caring for him. Jess, in her early 20's, despises her life and tries to medicate her despair with sex, alcohol and drugs. Finally, there's JJ, an American (the other 3 are English) who dropped out of his band, lost his girlfriend and thought maybe he'd get a gig in London. Instead, he delivers pizza, something he's deeply ashamed of.

They don't jump that night, form a club of sorts, and set out trying to discover reasons why they should or shouldn't commit suicide in the future. The novel is sad, insightful and tinged with sardonic humor. My library has more of Hornby's books and I intend to read them while I'm waiting for James McBride's new novel.

I want my grave marker to read: SHE  READ A LOT OF BOOKS.

Ah, Solitude

I've always appreciated peace and quiet. There was so little of it in my childhood, what with four younger brothers and a bi-polar step-father given to screaming, throwing things and worse.

The Thanksgiving guests left Sunday, leaving Marty, Mariel and me. Then it was just Mariel and me. Then it was me. I said "no thanks" to the family get-together in PA this weekend. Marty went, making it a 12-person sleep-over. I would've been lucky 13.

Last night I boiled some cheese raviolis and threw together a vodka sauce. I also had a huge salad. I slept really well until Buck started getting restless, which I ignored and went back to sleep. I  had yoga at 10, but first I had to clear the inch of snow off my walk. After a somewhat frustrating class, I ran errands, made phone calls and ate a casserole of some sort that had fallen out (flung itself out?) of the freezer last night, sending cracked plastic everywhere. It was turkey tetrazzini from 4 or 5 months ago and quite tasty. I'm spending the afternoon reading, writing, and then going for a massage.

Dinner? I think I'll open the freezer and see what pops out.

The Fab Five

Harry, Mom, Mark, Mariel, Dad

This was our Thanksgiving family photo, the first since 2011. Harry lives 1.5 hours away; Mark lives in Austin, TX, and one never knows where Mariel will be on any given holiday or family event. For the past two Thanksgivings, she's been in Peru.

I love having my children with me, and watching their grown-up interactions. I made the traditional Thanksgiving feast, with a couple of changes (baked sweet potatoes and a butternut squash/red onion recipe Mark found in the NYTimes, minus mashed white potatoes, which seem to have fallen on hard times). The turkey was huge (19 lbs.) which meant I couldn't lift it. I bought it on an organic poultry farm in the area. I took the minimalist approach to cooking the turkey, brining it for 24 hours, brushing it with olive oil and sprinkling it with salt, pepper, sage and thyme. It was delicious. I won't bore you with the other yummy dishes and superlative desserts.

Eleven of us shared this meal, including my mother-, sister-, and brother in-laws. My friend Doug came from his place in the Poconos with friends Alex and Andrew who also joined us last year.

Tonight we'll have Thanksgiving redux, and since it's Hanukah, we'll have latkes. If I get the urge, I'll make sufgoniyot, donuts filled with jam.

Tom's Tech Travels

There are three reasons to read Thomas Pynchon's newest novel Bleeding Edge:  You think Pynchon's a genius and have read his entire oeuvre; You're a techie geek hanging out on the cutting edge and want to poke holes in his theories; You wish to torture yourself with headache-causing travels through a world you'd rather believe doesn't exist, plus you want to wipe out any self-esteem you have left because the book is so difficult to read.

Pynchon does parody extremely well. He takes you to a Loehman's women's changing room in the Bronx. He walks you through an IKEA store with its maze-like set-up that makes leaving seem like a pipe-dream. Speaking of opiates, the book wallows in illegal drugs and money-laundering. Conspiracy theories abound. His main character brings out a lot of Jewish commentary, provoking my husband to ask, "Is Pnychon Jewish?"

Over 500 pages of dark, dense and droll, which is usually right up my alley. I always learn some interesting arcana when I read Pynchon.Not this time.  

See Harry Run!

We drove to Letchworth State Park on Saturday, about 4 hours away. Marty, Mariel, mascot Buck and I cheered the Vassar Brewers, who did fairly well. It was sunny and warm, not so good for running but great for watching. As a surprise for Marty, our friends from Buffalo, Ken and Kathy, joined us and we had lunch afterwards in Geneseo.

 Harry is airborne

Harry placed third for his team and was happy with his run. He may have been happier that his parents and sister came to watch. The chocolate mini muffins didn't hurt either.

Happy family

I must give credit for the family photo taken by Kathy. She made us laugh. And finally, we have to include this shot of the unofficial (but very cute) Vassar mascot, Buck. We did see another bouvier named Atticus, but of course Buck is more beautiful.

Me and my shadow

 As you see, Buck is a member of the "brew crew." The founder of Vassar owned a brewery. What can I say?

Too Much Happiness

I'm not a short-story reader but when Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize for Literature, I was curious. My library had one book by her so I grabbed it, just in time apparently because a patron came in and asked the librarian if she had anything by the newsworthy Canadian writer.

Each of Munro's stories is set in a different time and place, most in Canada. But the important thing for Munro is her characters, who are quirky and damaged in some way. There's not much happiness in Too Much Happiness but that's not what I look for in a book. It would be a relief though to read a cheerful book, but I might have to look to romance novels or self-help books.

In the meantime, I'm slowing digesting Thomas Pynchon's new book, which is at times hilariously funny.

Fun with Tomatoes

Our single tomato plant bore a total of perhaps 20-25 tomatoes. The plant grew like a beanstalk, snaking over a trellis and held captive by the morning glories. 10 tomatoes were edible, tasting more or less like the supermarket variety; 5 were green and will be pickled; the rest had a nasty fungus. All was not lost, as you can see by the photos below.

Tribal Necklace

Why?

Spinal Energy

I didn't save any seeds. These were not heirloom tomatoes.

Haitian Horrors

Haiti must be the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, and one of the most unluckiest. I read two more Danticat books back-to-back which left me numb and angry.

The damage from earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis and other natural events is one thing. The pain inflicted by government abuse is outrageous. This isn't news, of course, but it's amazing how easy it is to turn a blind eye. Maybe it's impossible to keep your eyes wide open.

The Farming of the Bones is a novel that takes place straddling the border between the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Both countries are well-known for their dictatorships, many propped up by the U.S. government. Drownings, murders and starvation are the fate of the dirt-poor migrant workers who go to the DR for work. When they attempt to return to Haiti, the same horrors are perpetrated by Haitian forces.

Brother, I'm Dying is a memoir that follows Danticat from her early childhood in Haiti, where her family was relatively well-off, to her new life in the U.S. when she was 12. Her father went to the U.S. to find a better life,  her mother joined him a few years later, and the author and her brother made the journey years after that. While her parents were in the U.S., she and her brother lived with her uncle, to whom she became very close. It's the last part of the book that's heart-wrenching and anger-provoking. Read it and weep.
 

Birthday, Brook, Birds, Butterfly

Festive Drinks for Harry's 21st

The Man Makes Guacamole

Mom Makes Birthday Streudel

It was my youngest son's 21st birthday last week. We celebrated the event all weekend up in the woods. On Friday, we went to our favorite local bar/restaurant, The Cabin. Maybe because they know us so well, Harry wasn't asked for ID. He has such a baby face that I thought he'd be carded forever.


Saturday was a perfect day, as Lou Reed sings in his sentimental ballad that happens to be my ringtone. I went to yoga, came home to my husband grilling pizza for lunch and said good morning to Harry who likes to sleep in when he can. Where we live, except for a car now and then, only the birds and the brook are the sounds you hear.

We made our own pizzas and dined al fresco. It was a warmer than normal Fall day. As we ate, a monarch butterfly hovered above us. He must have been looking for his amigos to join the migration to Mexico. Adios, mariposa.

Although I was feeling better than usual, I was tired and decided to take a brief nap. My husband woke me up to say I'd slept for 3 hours and that I was needed in the kitchen to help with dinner. Harry requested margaritas, and was making guacamole. I'd already made my son's favorite dish the day before, curried lamb meatballs, and had to make some rice. It was a wonderful meal, that ended around 10 and left a sink full of  pots and and a counter full of glassware.

We had a very late breakfast on Sunday because we were taking Harry out for an early dinner before my husband had to catch the bus to New York City. We hate this weekly ritual, but a pied a terre isn't in the cards right now. Dinner was delicious, and once again, Harry wasn't asked to show ID. Go figure.

Harry left Monday afternoon, after sleeping until 1 pm. He ate some breakfast, packed some warmer clothes in case Fall ever arrives, and drove back to school. He drives Vanna, my 11-year old Mazda minivan that served us well in suburban RI and refuses to seize and fall apart.

As my my mother-in law says, "good things, good things."

Turks Drink Lots of Tea

I've never read a book by Orhan Pamuk, a Turkish Nobel Prize winner for Literature. Silent House, which was published about 15 years ago, but only translated into English recently, gives a true experience of armchair traveling complete with odorama.

The book takes place during the volatile 1980's when Communists and Nationalists were battling for control of the country's political future. But this book is more about characters, what they are thinking and doing amidst the turmoil. Some, history has passed by; others seem to live for the moment; others get caught up in the brutality of the times. One character tries to write an encyclopedia of the East. He's a true atheist in an overwhelmingly Islamic country. Another character, his grandson, wants to write a history of Turkey but can't decide whether it's a laundry list of public records or something grander. In the meantime, he dwells on the meaning of time and how we move through it.

I look forward to reading his other books, one of which my library has but I couldn't justify checking it out when I have two Danticut I'm reading.

Lights Out

When I was a kid, we lost power a lot. It was the nature of where we lived (Long Island) and the antiquity of the electric grid. My mother filled the bathtub, and cooked with sterno. We had candles and flashlights. It was like camping inside, which explains why I've always liked outdoor camping, as well as living in Costa Rica.

The power rarely goes out in New York City, except for the so-called outer boroughs, which everyone knows isn't really New York. Even where we lived in suburban Rhode Island, basically in the woods, the power rarely went out.

Here in my cozy Catskill cottage, we've lost power once when we weren't here and once in the aftermath of hurricane Sandy. Late Saturday afternoon, while Marty was out with my niece and her husband, a tree fell up the street and snapped the power line. I knew I could cook dinner with propane and that we had a lantern, but as it got darker and I couldn't see to read, I lit a candle, which was how they found me when they got home. It all felt very old-fashioned.

The electric company, along with a huge rescue truck and several volunteers filled the street and fixed everything in about an hour. Not bad in my book.

Life in the Slow Lane

Country life is definitely the life for me. It's so friendly and personal, because it's small. Life in big cities can be socially exciting but stressful, too, especially when you have a huge dog in a 1-bedroom apartment. The suburbs can be isolating, especially when you hit middle age and the kids are teenagers and then gone.

Today, I went to the post office (hi, postman Jack), the bank, (where they all ask me about my dog), the supermarket, where I often meet other locals I know, and the pharmacy where, unfortunately they know me so well, they go straight for my medications. That used to happen sometimes in Rhode Island, never in Manhattan, where the pharmacy staff was so stressed, they could be curt or even rude.

And I can walk to all these places. Later in the day I went to the local beauty salon where I got a great haircut and some highlights for $60. The same services in RI would be double, and in Manhattan, triple. I left my reading glasses there and my stylist, who knew I was going to the market (again), walked over and handed me my glasses. Plus, she left a message on my phone saying if she didn't find me in town, she'd drive by and drop them off.

I hope this friendliness is rubbing off on me.

Books of Note

I really have to put the books down and do some cleaning.

If you've ever read Lionel Shriver, you know you're in for psychological trauma. I read We Need to Talk About Kevin in a book group back in Rhode Island. I highly recommend this beyond-noir account of a very troubled youth. Shriver's latest novel is Big Brother. Nominally it's about obesity in the Heartland. Psychologically/emotionally it questions how much can family do to heal a member's extreme problems, in this case over-eating. This sister-brother tale is a bit of a let-down in that it uses a time-worn device to wiggle out of the ordeal cum triumph, but it's worth reading anyway, especially for the doll Baby Monotonous which you can order to look like someone you know and have it say phrases that person uses ad nauseum.

I'm ashamed to say I've never read anything by the Haitian writer Edwidge Danticat. Her new novel Claire of the Sea Light is a beautifully woven tale, sprinkled with Creole patois, about a small village outside of Port-de-Prince. Most of the the inhabitants are dirt-poor and have little control over their lives. Mothers die giving birth, children die capriciously, young women are raped by their employers, fisherman die at sea leaving their families even more poor, and the government can be bribed to sanction murders of innocent people. Shining through this so-called life is Claire, a seven-year old girl who is innocent and yet wise. The luminosity of her spirit washes over the townspeople like a powerful wave, and they are better for it.

Hot Soup on a Hot Day

Mushrooms are on sale this week so I decided to make a batch of mushroom bisque. Fancy restaurants have switched to their Fall menus so why not me?


I bought the mushrooms on Monday, when the temperature dipped down to 36 degrees at night. On Tuesday, Summer made its return. I started making the bisque, because why would I waste mushrooms? I had already soaked the wild mushrooms so the soup was on.

Most of the South Americans I know drink hot liquids when it's caliente outside. They say it cools them down. It's counter-intuitive but apparently works. Americans treasure their ice, especially when it's hot, but try to get an ice-cold drink outside North America and you will be disappointed. I include myself in this ice versus fire dialectic,  although when I lived in Costa Rica I became used to room-temperature water. 

I'm ready for lunch but it's 88 with a heat index of 94. Maybe I'll make an icy fruit smoothie.

Not to worry, it's supposed to be 58 as the high on Friday.

Contraversial

Continuing my Christopher Hitchens exposure, I checked out god is not great, which Salman Rushdie said was a good title but should've stopped with "not."

It's no secret that Hitchens is an atheist. His venom toward what we call organized crime, I mean religion makes him discuss the 3 major brands (Judaism, Christianity and Islam) with a causticity that nearly bursts into flames. You'll be thankful for the dashes of exquisite wit he uses throughout his merciless tirade.

I will be truthful with you dear readers. I did not finish the book. After Chapter 5, I skimmed the rest. The research he presents tightens his case. Read the whole book if you wish. I suspect the only believers who are even exposed to this book are either reviewers, media opinionators, or religious persons who want to get all angles of an argument so they can devise new strategies of protecting their kingdom. I, after all, have occasionally stomached my way through Rush Limbaugh radio shows.

 

Woodstock after 44 Years

I was too young for Woodstock.

The music festival took place in Bethel Woods, maybe 7 miles away from us, not in the actual Woodstock due to a business disagreement. A last minute change brought the music to a small town, Bethel, in the local hills. History was made and eventually the farm was developed into a music center, complete with a very interesting museum.

On Sunday, the anniversary of the last day of the event, musicians paid homage to Richie Havens who famously opened Woodstock with his song "Freedom." Havens died last Spring. His ashes were scattered by a small airplane over the site. We didn't go because we were still recovering from Bagel Fest.

Bagel Fest

I'm glad we had time to fit this in, we are so busy here in Jville. First was yoga. Marty and Buck went to the library. I did the drug store, post office and supermarket rounds. After lunch we headed to Monticello for the first-ever Bagel Fest. Everything around here is a "fest." River Fest, Garage-Sale Fest, Music Fest, Organic-Egg Fest, Corn Fest and Tomato Fest. The last few are made up but could be coming to a small town near you.

Bagel Fest was basically a way for the only bagel shop in town to promote themselves. They tried to make the Guinness World Book of Records by forming the longest bagel chain in the world but did not succeed. They had bagel-stacking contests and bagel-rolling contests. There were many booths selling everything including that ol' time religion. Commercial, but thanks to a beautiful day, enjoyable. We bought a few bagels (we're regulars) but they were the same air-filled somewhat tasteless objects they always are. Ah, you arrogant New Yorkers.

Slim, Serious Reads

I like to read two or three books at a time, mixing up the genre and especially the amount of mental engagement needed to keep me sane. Sometimes I slip and choose simultaneous reads that have one particular focus, say death and dying.

I checked out The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers and Mortality by Christopher Hitchens.

The Yellow Birds is a novel about two American soldiers in Iraq in 2004. It's beautifully written, and that's a good thing because the death and destruction is hard to swallow.

What Do You Do With a 5-lb. Zucchini?

I know, I know. Everyone has a huge zucchini story at this time of year. The other day, I bought the smallest zucchini I could, for a buck.

Today, I started baking at 8:30 am. The yield? Two zucchini breads, one with walnuts, one without; three  dozen zucchini cookies; zucchini Parmesan. That last one was because I still had a huge chunk left and didn't want to deal with zucchini anymore. The kitchen closed at noon.

I should have taken a photo of the gargantuan but I was covered in flour and perspiring like a pig. Do pigs sweat that much? 

"42" and "No"

What do you do during torrential rainstorms before you lose power? Run to the library and take out movies. Thanks to Mother Nature we watched two wonderful films last week: ''42" and "NO"--terse titles but meaty, each in their own way. Both are non-fiction. Fiction movies have left me feeling like I've consumed empty calories, rotting my mind and making my body crave something real. Enough diatribe.

"42" is the compelling story of Jackie Robinson who was the first "negro" to enter Major League Baseball. He played with the Dodgers in Brooklyn and wore number 42. It was tough for fans, players and even managers to accept that the color line was broken; that it was by such a talented player, galled them further. Robinson helped the Dodgers get to the World Series in 1947.

Because I'm a NY Yankee fanatic, I revel in the continued honor Jackie Robinson receives from my team: Mariano Rivera, the best closer ever, wears number 42; Robinson Cano, who was named after Jackie, wears the reverse, number 24. When Rivera retires after this season, the number 42 will be retired by Major League Baseball.

"NO" tells the story of Chile's democratic elections in 1988. Pinochet had been dictator since his coup over President Allende's government in the early 70's. Everyone thinks Pinochet has the election in the can, but a talented ad agency who wants to bring true democracy to Chile in a fair election creates an ad campaign that is both funny, effective, and based on US-style ad campaigns. Ultimately, the NO's win the day and Pinochet concedes. "No" is the only foreign-language movie to be nominated for an Academy Award.

Love That Muddy Water

Everyone talks about the weather but nobody does anything about it.

The lovely brook behind our house turns into a swirling river of mud whenever it rains a lot. We've had massive thunderstorms and steady rain on and off for days. I took a moment yesterday when it wasn't raining to try to capture nature the power and beauty of the rising column of muddy water as it cascades over rocks and buries most of the brook's structure.

River of Mud

 The Whorl

The brook has returned to near normal but is still running high. The sun is out. The sky is blue. It's beautiful.

A Well-Woven Novel

TransAtlantic by Colum McCann is not just well-written, its stories are as beautifully woven as a hand-made Persian rug. It portrays the first transatlantic flight in 1919, leaving from Newfoundland, Canada to Dublin, Ireland. Then it jumps back to Frederick Douglass's historic visit to Dublin in 1845 where he is treated with respect and awe. He lectures on the Abolitionist movement in the US, and although a freed slave, is astonished by the Irish Famine. Leaping to 1998, McCann describes Senator George Mitchell's part in the Irish peace negotiations.

The structure is Cloud-Atlasesque. David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas is one of my favorite books. I read the novel, saw the movie and read the book again, but I'm obsessed with literature and impossibly long and complex movies. Connecting the Atlantic crossings in TransAtlantic is a series of related Irish women beginning with a young maid named Lily who sees Frederick Douglass in Dublin, travels to the United States and marries. The daughters and mothers they produce are hardworking and grateful for their chance to live in a country where there's food, freedom and possibility.

McCann's description of mother-daughter relationships is tender and tear-provoking. Then there's the blue letter, which has traveled back and forth to Dublin but never delivered. This 100-year old letter, with its fading address and no postage, ends up in Dublin, in the possession of Hannah. I was reminded of Virginia Woolfs' To the Lighthouse. And whenever Hannah pulled on her boots and waded into estuary outside her house, I thought of Woolf's suicide, filling her pockets with stones and walking into a lake.

TransAtlantic should win the National Book Award this year.

Jeffersonville FD Celebrates 125 Years

I love a parade. On Saturday, our volunteer fire department celebrated 125 years of fire, smoke and pancake breakfasts. We watched as dozens of fire trucks from J-ville and the surrounding area, wended their way through crowd-lined Main Street. Antique cars came next which seemed to be a bigger hit than the trucks. My favorite was the Infantry Regiment carrying muskets and wearing clothes of the period.

Why does this '50's antique look better than me?

Retired and in good shape

When Johnny comes marching home

The Shriners drove through in an old jalopy followed by a number of brothers on small motorized vehicles. One Shriner went rogue and crashed into the garden at the beginning of Main Street nearly slamming into 2 boys who jumped out of the way. Do Shriners drink?

Shriners and their cool hats

Shriner does it his way

From Hicksterville to Hipsterville

I know I promised fire trucks, but that will come soon enough.

In 1985, we moved to Fort Greene, Brooklyn. It was a decidedly mixed neighborhood, mostly black, some hispanic, and some white people who couldn't afford Park Slope or just didn't want to live there.

It was a dicey neighborhood at the time. Like many hoods of its ilk, there were few stores beyond check cashing, tire repair or salons catering to blacks. We made an acceptable offer and moved in.

We quickly became friends with our neighbors. It was a truly mixed place, not like now.

Now it's hipsterville, mostly young, fresh out of college, very expensive and predominately white. I had tofu pad thai tonight, an indication of the radical change.

I'm not saying it's bad. Just saying.

Summer Reading

I admit to having an addiction to "Law & Order." It started back when I was forced to spend endless days trapped in my hospital room unable to read, write, cook dinner. Marty has watched this show forever,  and old episodes play several times a day. From "Law & Order," it was an easy jump to "Criminal Minds." The psychological profiling of serial killers interests me. The characters make the show, from the wacky Garcia to the genius Reid, to the smoldering Malcom.

My friend gave me a paperback months ago, Vicious by Kevin O'Brien. My friend is the publisher. It's small and easily fits into a handbag, a big plus when you're lugging lot's of other junk.

First I'll say that the writing was fine. Nothing great, but no purple prose. It's the kind of book you take on vacation to read in the plane, the airport, poolside. There's action and mystery aplenty, and a wealth of dead bodies, most young and attractive. Most of the characters do a lot of crying, but their travails seem unreal. There's zilch character development hence no motive to give a damn what happens to them.

Four-year-and-a-half year old Mattie is the kind of kid you love to hate. He misbehaves constantly, cries and otherwise makes constant demands on his mother. I won't say what I'm thinking because you'll think I'm a terrible person.

My next post will feature fire trucks.

How Could I Miss This Book?

Cutting for Stone was recommended to me by two different friends. I'd never heard of it, even though I've read many Indian authors.

The author of this book is Abraham Verghese. He's also a physician, which makes the reading so compelling. There's a lot of blood and guts in this book, which takes place in Ethiopia and near the end, the Bronx. Beginning in 1954, the Ethiopian part spans 40 years, most of it during the reign of Haile Selassi. He's portrayed as a benevolent dictator whose people worship him despite their abject poverty. The characters are all doctors or nurses at a mission hospital run by nuns with funding by a U.S. Christian group. It's amazing what they offer their patients in terms of health care.

The long family saga takes the reader through the uprising against Selassi to an understaffed, under-supplied hospital in the Bronx. Serving the poor and those on Medicare or Medicaid, the staff does the best it can. The doctors are excellent, but never dream of getting beyond where they are due to the hospital's low ranking and the races of the doctors, staff and patients.

Miracle liver-transplant surgery performed at the hospital changes everything. Suddenly the hospital receives a lot more funding, and its ranking shoots up. Most of the top-notch doctors, however, decide to stay.

This is a great book to read at the beach if you can get it in softcover. I checked it out from my local library, hard-covered and weighty but I still schlepped it with me on a trip to Block Island and one to Landenberg, PA for a family reunion.

I'd tell you what I'm reading now, but you wouldn't believe me.   

The Best Place on Earth

I've never been to Tahiti but I have been to Playa Gringo in Costa Rica. I won't reveal its location because I don't want anyone else to go there.

But Block Island, Rhode Island is accessible to all (unfortunately) and is the best place I've ever been. Off the RI coast, reached only by ferry, private boat or airplane. It's a small island locked in time. New houses have been built, but downtown hasn't changed in 100 years.

Old Harbor From the Ferry 

Block Island Hug (Mariel and Me)

We visited Block Island last week to see Mariel. She's working there as a waitperson at the Spring House. We had a chance to enjoy some of the food and drink. During our stay, we ate a lot of fish, fried and otherwise. It was hot and humid but we stayed in a hotel with A/C, so it was comfortable. 

Mariel and I went to a yoga class. She and Marty took bike rides around the Island, trying to find the many houses we've stayed at over the years. If I could find a way to live on Block Island full-time, I'd be in heaven.

Traveling to the Best Place on Earth

Old Spice

A Good Read for Literary Types

I admit, I checked out this book from the library because of the name: Joseph Anton. I have a doctor in Boston named Joseph Antin, no relation. How do I know? Because Joseph Anton is a pseudonym Salman Rushie, author of The Satanic Verses, used when he lived under the threat of death from radical Islamists for 9 years. Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekov combine to mask his identity.

Joseph Anton is Rushdie's memoir of the period. He's a superlative writer. I read The Satanic Verses and Midnight's Children years ago when I'd barely read any Indian writers. I preferred the latter to the former, although Verses was fascinating due to its satiric look at Islam and the life of the Prophet Muhammad. Anyone who thinks the book is impossible to read hasn't read much James Joyce.

The first 350 pages of this 600+ tome is a gripping look at what Rushdie and his family had to endure under the 9-year "fatwa."  By page 400 or so, the book becomes a tedious listing of the writers who supported him (and those who didn't). Talk about name-dropping! To me, it was interesting from a literary point of view, but I admit skimming through the rest of the memoir until the last 50 pages or so when he describes his post-fatwa life, including his reaction to the events of September 11, 2001.

Rushdie is an arrogant man who seems not to care whom he insults, including ex-wives. He writes in the 3rd person, which depersonalizes and distance his words. He switches to the first person when he writes letters, which are either in his defense or an attack on someone he hates. This man hates a lot of people--you don't want to get on his shit-list, although unless you're famous you don't have to worry. I wasn't interested in whose house he stayed at in the Hamptons and what famous people were at the parties he managed to attend despite the threat on his life. At least he's not a foodie. In my opinion, the book could have been reduced by by 250 pages but I believe the man has a right to have his say, even if he is long-winded, petty and extremely ego-centric.

If you haven't read Rushdie, read Midnight's Children instead.

Coming Out of the Closet

Since it seems to be monsoon season in the Northeast, indoor activities replace fun in the sun. Yesterday, I had two accomplishments: I filed every receipt, document and bill--a thick pile that had risen for months; and I pulled everything out of the smallest closet in the smallest room, culled the ridiculous mix of old tax returns, shoes, bags of cloth and yarn, piled up the giveaways, the to-be consigned, and put back the items that live to die another day. I was lucky to emerge from that closet, profusely perspiring and bruised from the seriously close quarters.

It's time I come out of the closet about something else--my tattoos.

My daughter and son got tattoos in the summer of 2010. We lived near Providence, RI at the time. Mariel got a small black-ink tattoo on her wrist. It was my signature, which she said she'd faked many times. Mark got one on his chest over his heart: my birth date in Roman numerals in New Roman font, as he likes to point out. Send a kid to Columbia and they go esoteric whenever they can. Mariel wore a watch over her tattoo when she wanted to conceal it from someone who might not approve, like my husband or her grandmother. Mark figured his was normally hidden by a shirt, except when he runs in warm weather or when he swims.

I was honored by the tattoos, but I knew my husband would not approve. He associated tattoos with concentration camp internees who were tattooed on their wrists. Marty's dad, who survived Auschwitz, had a tattoo. The jig was up, however, because Marty was using one of Mark's old phones and he was deleting photos when he saw one of Mark with a tattoo. "Mark has a tattoo?" I could only say yes, and that Mariel had one, too.

Long ago, I associated tattoos with with certain kinds of men: sailors, prisoners, military fodder, motorcylists and drug addicts. My attitude changed during a long illness which involved lots of blood and needles. At the time, I was involved with a discussion group, and one survivor, a woman, posted a question about wanting to celebrate her success with a tattoo. She wanted suggestions. I didn't weigh in on the topic, but it made me think about my bias.

Several years ago, I secretly got a tattoo on my upper back, a coffee cup. Mark suggested it, because I love coffee so much. Marty was appalled, but he faithfully changed my bandages and tried not to think about it. Why did I do it? Because it felt rebellious, something that would be unexpected if not shocking. I was in my mid-50's; the kids were gone; and I had spent too long be too good. I wanted to be bad.

Unfortunately, the coffee cup's placement was such that I never saw it. And unless I wore strapless or strappy tops, no one else did either. During at an appointment with my dermatologist, he said "oh, I see you like coffee." Did I have grinds on my back? I needed a tattoo I could actually see. This would be a big step because it meant that those who would disapprove could see it, too.

My beloved dog Turbo died at age 14.5 a week after Thanksgiving, 2010. I would have a portrait of him tattooed on my inner calf. I have an engraved image of a Bouvier de Flandres on my key chain, with which the artist made his tracing. It certainly hurt more than the coffee cup but was worth the pain. Much larger than the cup, it has Turbo's head surrounded by a braided rope with crossed dog bones at the bottom. The colors are gray, aqua, pink and black. In truth, it doesn't do Turbo justice, but it's a constant reminder of him, and I can see it.

I was visiting my mother-in-law in Florida for a few days. It was quite warm so I decided to wear cropped pants. As we were leaving the apartment, Frances said to me, "what's that on your leg." I answered, "What. Oh, that's Turbo." She shook her head, did a little clucking of her tongue and said "Women don't have tattoos." And that was the end of it. I was out of the closet.

Yesterday, The New York Times published an article about how women get tattooed more often than men these days. Here's the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/04/books/bodies-of-subversion-explores-womens-tattoos.html. I admit that it makes me feel "cool" when someone says they like my tat. After my first tattoo, Mariel called me "hipster mom." I want to get another one soon, perhaps "Pura Vida" in rain forest green. Suggestions are welcome.





 

The Past Floats in the Old Laundry Brook

My kids and their friends have been trying to dam the brook out back. Nature helped last week with a crack of lightning that sent part of an old tree crashing across what the pouring rain would soon create a river of mud. Those logs came in handy.

The Strong Stuff

I think the reason behind the damming was to create a pool of water you could sit in, something more than 6" high. You could also catch some interesting things like an old pitchfork missing one tine and it's handle. Or, an empty bottle of Clorox. I can picture a woman from the 1930's washing clothes in the Laundry Brook, using America's favorite bleach. Tell me, can you picture a man?

Maybe you'll find a bottle in your ancestors' musty basement. If it has a stopper, it's worth a few bucks more. If you wanted to, you could purchase your own old brown bottle on ebay for $15. The bottle might have a story, but it won't tell you what it is. My bottle was used a long time ago in Laundry Brook, who knows where upstream.

Summer Reading

Benediction, a novel by Kent Haruf, is the kind of quiet unassuming novel that lulls you into an extended meditation on dying, living and making mistakes. It's a good book to read this summer because it doesn't demand you know Latin or literary references that span the centuries.

It's the simple story of a good man, "Dad," who has a month to live and will spend his last days in his house in a small Colorado town with his wife, Mary. and daughter, Lorraine. Haruf has a wonderful way of illuminating everyday moments and mining them for meaning. Everyone except Mary, Dad's wife, who seems a saint, has done something they regret. In the case of Dad, it's that he fired an employee for stealing, and the man moved away with his family and eventually hanged himself. Worse though, is that he never fully accepted that his son Jack is gay. This wedge between father and son is lifelong, although there is a resolution at the story's end.

Books I'm Reading But Aren't Suitable for Summer

Ada by Vladimir Nabokov--you have to be a genius to read this book
Requiem for a Dream by Hubert Selby, Jr.--makes you want to kill yourself or someone
The Kindly Ones, by Jonathan Littell--Man's capacity for murder chills you to the bone
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace--I've been reading this tome on and off since 2009. I wish they'd just make a movie of it already.

Screwed

Screwed  happens to be the title of a book I just read by Eoin Colfer. You don't think I'd use bad language, do you? Colfer wrote the young adult series, Artemis Fowl. My kids enjoyed his books and we still have them. Screwed is his second novel for adults.

Colfer writes in the Walter Mosley tradition of detectives whom it seems everyone wants to kill. The language is coarse; most of the characters are beastly; the literary allusions rich. Colfer's characters are mostly former IRA types--that's Irish Republican Army, including the good guy, Dan McEvoy, whereas Mosely writes about crime in the Los Angeles Black community.

I love my public library. They always have the latest books, including the ones I want to read. 

The Kids Are Alright

Not only is this a great movie, with great actors, including neighbor Mark Ruffalo (okay, he lives one town away), it describes the current situation here in the Woods. Mariel's not here, but Mark and Harry are, as is Mark's girlfriend Mia. The house is full, something's always cooking and the washing machine is getting a workout. I like it this way, even though I don't have a free minute.

This morning I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a huge bird diving into the brook. I looked downstream, and there was a beautiful duck with a red head. From what my research tells me, it's male a common pochard.

You might be thinking what kids and ducks have in common? Baby baths?

The Book Against God

Jame's Wood's first novel (he's an essayist and writer of non-fiction), The Book Against God. had been lazing around the house asking to be read. My son, who was also lazing around the house said he'd read most of it and it was pretty good.

Thomas Bunting, the main character, is a bit of a loser, and an epic liar who manages to screw up every relationship he has. He can't hold down a job, can't finish his Ph.D. and secretly writes a treatise of sorts, The Book About God, BAG for short.

Most of Wood's book is very amusing. Bunting is clever and tells the most twisted, hurtful lies you've ever heard. His attempt to prove there is no God because the world is so crappy made me lose interest. I think atheists will wish he were more authoritative about disbelief. Others may understand how challenging it can be to believe in God, given Man's barbaric history, its present pathos. Ultimately, this gives the book it's strength.

If you want a thoughtful read, The Book Against God is a good choice.

Good Cooker

My grandmother pulled a folded piece of paper from her wallet and handed it to me. I opened it up and found these words: Nana, you are a good cooker. There was also an illustration of her holding a pot. I'd given this to her perhaps 20 years earlier. The truth is, my grandmother was a terrible cook. As a working woman, she didn't have time to search for new recipes or grow her own spices.

My mother wasn't a great cook either. She had enough to do taking care of 5 kids and keeping the house clean. My stepfather was a very good baker, and made wonderful Italian dishes. To this day, I can't knowingly eat tomato sauce from a jar.

I consider myself a fairly good cook. I love food, so I'm strongly motivated to make tasty, interesting dishes. I made eggplant rollatini the other night that was nonpareil. I have an herb garden outside where I'm growing basil, dill, coriander, rosemary and chives.

Last night it was my friend Doug's birthday. We went to his house in PA and I cooked him a birthday dinner. On the menu was: mussels steamed in white wine, garlic and butter, lemon on the side; shrimp scampi over linguine (a simple version, with garlic, olive oil, butter and brandy sprinkled with parsley); asparagus ribbons with dried cherries; and carrot cake.

I know Doug loves asparagus, but I get tired of steaming, roasting, grilling and saucing. I have a bag of dried cherries in the pantry so I googled "asparagus with dried cherries," and came up with a great recipe. Here's the link if you want to try it: asparagus ribbon salad with dried cherries | brooklyn supper
Making the asparagus ribbons is onerous, so I turned it over to my husband. My son suggested he try a cheese slicer, holding the spears flat on a cutting board. This worked much better.

I baked a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Although it was delicious, it wasn't a beauty. I used a time-consuming recipe that involves a lot of sugar. I baked it in the wrong-sized pans and in addition to spilling all over the oven, it was difficult to remove from the pans. Here's the recipe: http://www.food.com/recipe/blue-ribbon-carrot-cake-with-buttermilk-glaze-176207

Tonight I'm making Le Cirque's Pasta Primavera, which is fairly easy to make. Too much pasta? Never.  

Impressions of Eugene, Tattoo City

Nothing against tattoos. I have one or two. But here in Eugene, OR, it seems that if you don't have a sleeve, you're invisible. Many of the athletes running in the NCAA Championship have tats, including my son, though his is very small and discretely positioned on his chest.

A wonderful thing about Eugene is that it is walker and biker friendly. Except for traffic lights, pedestrians always have the right-of-way. If you do drive, there's plenty of parking everywhere. It's very green, not just due to the rainfall. This must be the dry season because every day has been sunny and warm.

People who live in the neighboring suburbs rarely venture into the city. They have every big box store and chain restaurant they need, so why bother? The city itself is a chain of small neighborhoods. There's no downtown per se with tall buildings. Well, there is a downtown but I heard it described as a place to see homeless people. This isn't true, because I went there on Friday and noodled around a bit. It has nice restaurants, bookshops, art galleries and small stores. I had wood-grilled pizza at a trattoria, dining al fresco.

I switched hotels for the last night because the other one was booked. I'm now in the "city" at an inn. It's perched on a mountain, and I write this looking out my window at a 200-year old tree and the Cascade Mountains beyond. A freight train rolls by a few blocks from here. I notice it because it's not a noise I hear often. One woke me in the middle of the night. I turned over and went back to sleep.

My son's foot injury kept him from running in Nationals. He was very disappointed and apologized for me traveling all this way to see him race. No apologies necessary. It was my pleasure to be here and spend time with him. He took me out for dinner last night. We had consolation beers and a good meal. He left early this morning with his team. I leave later today. In the meantime, I'm going to have breakfast downstairs and then head downtown for a little exploring. I have a map of the high points, including a bronze of Ken Kesey reading One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest to a group of children. Then it's the red-eye to New York where I'll head to Brooklyn, leave my luggage and go to Manhattan for a doctor's appointment. I will be tired.

Go West

Tuesday morning the alarm went off at 3 am. I was at the Newark Airport by 6:15 where I proceeded to miss my flight because it was at a different gate. When they announced this, I ran, with luggage about .5 miles only to be told the flight was leaving in 8 minutes. Why can't I board then? Boarding is closed.

I went to customer service and was booked for the next flight to Seattle. This turned out to be a lucky break since the flight was full and they'd check luggage for free. I mostly slept on the flight, but woke up periodically to see the Rockie Mountains and Mt. Ranier. I had to wait 4 hours in Seattle to connect with my flight to Eugene. I heard a comedy skit last week on the radio where the guy describes flying on a propeller plane. He was spot on with the sound and the retro feel of the experience. It turned out that my next flight was on a small jet-prop plane, and it was really fun. You fly fairly low so you can see the sights. They offered free wine and beer. I accepted a plastic cup of pinot grigio.

The man sitting next to me was reading a book about the historical existence of Jesus. I happen to be reading The Book Against God. He didn't want to chat so I drank my wine, which I had to down because we were landing soon. Eugene has to be the smallest airport I've ever been in. It has one airline (Alaskan) and one baggage claim. I retrieved my bag and waited for the airport shuttle to my hotel. I entered my room at 7:30 pm PDT. I'd been traveling for 12 hours.

Eugene is called Tracktown because the U of Oregon is a serious running school. There are running trails everywhere. I'm here to see my son Mark run the 5000m race on Saturday. Yesterday, with the help of girlfriend Mia, I surprised him at a restaurant. He was really surprised and happily so. We had a nice lunch, walked around and hung out before going to the stadium.

It was a long day at the races. Field events, hurdles, 1500m, 4X4 relays, and finally, the 10,000m which has 25 long and grueling laps. Mark's roommate Mike was in the race and we cheered him on. He made a good effort, finishing 19th out of 24.

I must note that I sat next to the same man at the stadium as I did on the plane the evening before. If I see him again, I'll think he's stalking me.

After the races, Mark and I met for dinner which was an abundance of Chinese food. In another twist of fate, he and his teammates are staying at a hotel right across the street from mine.

Today, I'll be cheering on Mark's girlfriend Mia who runs the 5000m, just like Mark.

Another Joyce Carol Oates Novel

If you want to be sick to your stomach, read Daddy Love, Oates' latest or perhaps penultimate novel. I think she dashed this one off while researching The Accursed.

Daddy Love is about a serial child kidnapper/murderer and his newest victim, snatched from his mother's hand in a mall parking lot. Daddy Love hits her with a brick and then runs her over with his van. The 5-year old suffers every abuse you could ever imagine and then some. Oates doesn't mention the Stockholm Syndrome, but that's what happens to these children. They end up loving their captor.

Eventually, Daddy Love tires of his victims because they enter puberty. He likes them young. When they reach a certain age, he kills and buries them.

For a change of pace, I'm reading James Wood's The Book Against God. It's very funny and quasi-intellectual, just like me.

Book Note and Road Trip

If you enjoy Latin American literature, read Isabel Allende's Maya's Notebook. I haven't read her in years. One morning, she was being interviewed on NPR about her new book. When I walked into the library that afternoon, there was the book, perched on a wall with five other new "staff-pick" books. Fate? You decide, but you should read it.

My week-long road trip was tame compared to Allende's book, but it was packed with wonderful, exciting events. We drove to NYC early Tuesday morning to attend my son's graduation from Columbia. Usually I recognize Mark from afar, but not when every tall male is wearing a mortarboard. I did see him though during the walk and again, receiving a graduation pin from various dignitaries.

Proud Parents

We drove through NYC nightmare traffic to Bethesda, MD where we stayed overnight with Renee and Sam, friends from RI. Then we headed for Asheboro, NC to see our daughter's new house, which she shares with her boyfriend, Levi. It's very cute, but too tiny to allow us to stay over, so we went to his mom's house which is so beautiful, it was like staying in a 4-star country inn.

Southern Hospitality

The next day, we watched Mark in the NCAA East regionals in Greensboro, NC. He lost the bid for the Finals in the 1500 meter run by two hundredths of a second, upsetting to say the least.

We toured the area and tried various southern dishes. I've decided I don't really like the cuisine much, though I didn't have any fried chicken. Everything has bacon in it, although I had the best bacon cheeseburger one night at a restaurant in downtown Greensboro. We drove down to Sea Grove, NC to see Levi's dad's pottery workshop, which is amazing and much bigger than Pottery Barn. North Carolinans are truly gracious and patient with Yankees. If you go into a restaurant and the entire staff doesn't make at least 3 sweet welcoming statements, turn around and go.

Mariel and Mark Watching Mike Murphy Race in the Rain

The highlight of the trip though was watching Mark run the 5000 meter race. It was priceless. Mark shifted back and forth between 4th and 7th place. He needed to get 5th to go on to Nationals in Oregon. With 100 meters to go, he made his move, edging into 5th by a nose, or the chest as they measure it in running. We were all reeling with happiness. I felt I'd personally run the race, feeling breathless and wobbly when it was over.

But there's more. We left Asheboro for Great Falls, VA where we stayed with friends we met in Costa Rica, Tina and Mike and one of their daughters, Kimberly. The next day we drove to visit our nephew, Mark and his wife, Brie in Gaithersburg, MD. They served us a delicious lunch of felafel, salad and a yummy homemade garlic-yogurt dressing.

Then, it was off to NYC to pick up our youngest child, Harry at the airport. He'd spent the last 4 months on a semester abroad in Copenhagen, traveling all over Europe as well. We were naturally trapped in traffic, it being Memorial Day. After snailing our way to JFK, and going to the wrong terminal, we finally found him. Imagine, he didn't have a cell phone to call us when he arrived; he used a pay phone. Old school

After a late dinner at a diner, we drove home, arriving at 1:30 am.

What a trip!

The Accursed

I have long been a fan of Joyce Carol Oates, who's almost as prolific as Danielle Steele. My favorite work is We Were the Mulvaneys. Oates talent lies in illuminating the darkness of the human heart. If you want to have an uplifting read, her books are not for you.

The Accursed, her latest novel, attracted me because it takes place in Princeton, New Jersey at the turn of the century (1905). It's a gothic novel, a genre I happen to know a lot about, although the curse in this novel came across as mumbo-jumbo to me. The descriptions of the eating clubs at Princeton University (disgusting), of Woodrow Wilson and other luminaries of the time, including Grover Cleveland and Teddy Roosevelt were surprising, especially the descriptions of their faults.

What I liked best about the book was Oates's take on Upton Sinclair, who wrote The Jungle in a decrepit shack just outside Princeton. Sinclair idolizes Jack London as a writer. Both are involved in socialist issues. One night at Carnegie hall, the party they'd helped to form was having a rally, at which London was to be the keynote speaker. After showing up hours late and visibly drunk, he ranted for an hour or so and didn't stay to hear the other speakers. Sinclair was horrified by his idol's behavior. Who knew that London was such a violent pig?

Overall, the book was disappointing. I happened to be in Princeton last weekend. I tried to spot the old mansions described in the book, but we only drove through the downtown area and through the university campus. It is a beautiful town. 

Weekend in Philly

We spent the weekend in downtown Philadelphia, staying at Emma and Stuart's townhouse around the corner from the Italian Market. My brother George and his wife Lori joined us, and we made a new friend, Susan, who won a medal the night before in the Masters' 4 X 100 meter relay.

My son Mark has been running at the Penn Relays for 5 years. It's a classic and prestigious event that even packs in star power. This year, we had great seats not far from the finish line and fairly close to the track. Mark ran the Championship of America 4 X Mile for Columbia University. Columbia came in 6th out of 12 teams. Mark ran the fastest leg, 4:02.8 minutes and beat his RI running rival, who naturally, ran the same leg.

Mark's Mile

Mark didn't fare so well in the 4 X 800 meter run, colliding with another runner near the end of his leg. Fortunately, he wasn't seriously injured, just scraped up a bit, and disappointed that his team had to drop out of the race. He's always philosophical about these matters, which as a parent, makes it a lot easier for me to stay upbeat. He's now focused on the Ivy League Championships next weekend at Princeton.

You can't talk about the Penn Relays without mentioning Jamaica. The Jamaicans are track fanatics and really shine at this venue. There are so many of them that anywhere you sit, you're surrounded by screaming flag-waving people wearing gold, green and black. I even learned a new Jamaican slang word, "bickle" which means food, Jamaican food.

Go Jamaica, Mahn

 
We had dinner at the Victor Cafe where the waiters and anyone else who wants to can sing opera. The food was good, but our singer-waiter wasn't much of a waiter. In truth, he wasn't much of a singer. The next morning we shopped at the Italian Market, stocking up on fruits and vegetables, plus some fish and lamb.


Emma: Stuart is a keeper. He may not know where anything is in the kitchen but he was a great host, who also dusted and did endless laundry.

42

It was fitting that Robinson Cano hit a 3-run homer to give the Yankees a 4-2 win over Arizona last night, the anniversary of Jackie Robinson's debut in the Major Leagues. Cano is named for him. Cano wears number 24 because the number 42 has been officially retired by all Major League baseball teams. Only Mariano Rivera continues to wear the number, having been in the Majors before 42 was retired. Rivera got the close in last night's game.

Robinson became the first black man to play Major League ball, for the Brooklyn Dodgers in April 1947.

Living in a Winter Wonderland

Marty and Buck

It's been flurrying steadily where we live. The temperature has been in the mid-30's by day and 20-25 at night. I prefer a layer of snow to all the gray and brown around us. The evergreen trees give life to the scene as well.


The most-asked question of people who live in Northern rural areas is: what do you do in the winter; how do you survive? This is our first winter in the sticks, but I'll go out on a limb and say: We manage quite well.


Winter is a good time for projects. Last week, we painted our living room a gray-blue tone that's a good foil for our colorful Latin American art. I have years of painting experience, and while my husband doesn't love to do it, he pitches in. He has no choice.


The living room is fairly small, but it has 3 windows and 3 doorways. This means a lot of brush work around the woodwork. We used painter's tape because my hands aren't as steady as they used to be and I don't like edging tools. What we thought would take a day, took a day and a half, most of the time spent in prepping. A small amount of time was lost to the our dog Buck breaking through the barricade and managing to put one paw into the paint pan. This happened when Marty was was gone for 10 minutes. I screamed, and Buck stopped in his tracks. Unfortunately he'd already made some tracks before I could clean his paw. The wood floor in the kitchen area was easy to clean, but the rug we have there wasn't. I'm used to seeing this kind of mayhem on television commercials or silly movies. In retrospect, though, it was funny.

New color

This is me relaxing on the sofa in our new blue room. I have more projects in the pipeline: sewing curtains; doing my son's high school scrapbook (3 years post-graduation); organizing 10 years of photos; plus more things I don't want to do.


Spring, where are you?!

Latest Reads

My local library had a book sale recently, and I couldn't resist picking up a few reads for a few bucks. One book I've wanted to read for a long time but couldn't remember why. The nearly 800-page tome is titled Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell written by Susanna Clarke. Friends, I slogged through it, even though Fantasy isn't one of my favorite genres.

Strange and Norrell are English magicians working during the Napoleonic Era to perfect their craft and raise magic to the status it once held. I admit I found the historical element interesting. I did not appreciate the copious footnotes, a reason I haven't been able to finish Infinite Jest, which I've been reading for 6 years. Maybe because I've read so much classic English literature, this seemed a mash-up of 19th century greats, only not as good. The book was well-received when it was published, and a movie has been made of it. I'd probably enjoy the movie, except that if it's at all like the Tolkein adaptations, the only thing I'd really enjoy is the popcorn.

To break up the monotony of spells, fairies and bad English weather, I read Junot Diaz's latest work This Is How You Lose Her.  If you haven't already read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, what are you waiting for? Diaz's newest collection is a series of short stories, connected by the main character and the theme of love and loss.
What I love about this author is his use of Spanglish, most of which I can understand. He doesn't translate, but the meaning is fairly clear from the context. Because I don't know that many curses and slang words in Spanish (particularly the contemporary Dominican variety), I couldn't translate it but I could feel it.

Prior to reading This Is How You Lose Her, I read Zadie Smith's NW. I found the two books to be very similar, and if I were teaching a Contemporary Novel course, I'd include these as companion pieces. The characters in each are affected by where they grow up; there is liberal use of profanity and sexually explicit behavior; racial and social issues are an undercurrent that profoundly affects the lives of the youngish adults. I found Smith's book to be unbearably bleak and was glad it was short. I highly recommend Diaz's book, which ends with the main character finding in the wreckage of his life, a novel to write.

And now, some Wallace Stegner.