Not For Everyone

Before it was named as one of The New York Times 5 best non-fiction books of 2008, I was intrigued by this book because of its subject matter. I doubt I could have read it a year ago. Surely I would have put it down after a few pages, had I even been willing to pick it up in the first place.

The book is Nothing To Be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes, a writer I have inexplicably read nothing by. One of his novels sits on my bookshelf, but how it got there is anybody's guess. I'll be reading this novel soon because this guy's hilarious.

Barnes muses about death and dying in Nothing to Be Frightened Of. Despite the book's title, death frightens the bejeezus out of him. Barnes examines how other writers/philosophers/thinkers have viewed the act of dying, and what, if anything, awaits in the hereafter. He considers the deaths of his grandparents and parents. He tries to think about his own extinction, over and over again in 200-plus pages, but the nothingness of it all unnerves him.

Barnes grapples with growing older and what inevitably follows by remembering his close relatives in their dotage and decline, a look-see into his own awaiting fate. His use of the phrase "rickety-gnashered" to describe an elderly person's teeth had me hooked on page one. The book is full of pithy comments and leans toward an absurdist view of the world, a view I feel fairly comfortable with. Although I don't think Barnes has quite enough material to justify a full-length book (he repeats himself a lot, basically turning over and over the same stone and observing it in minute detail), he writes about memory and story-telling in, for me, compelling ways. His basic tenet that memory is as rickety a structure as a set of aged and decaying teeth, and therefore unreliable, is countered by the notion that one can reconstruct the past through re-imagining it. Barnes is after all a novelist, and hopes that his stories, though made up, reveal some basic truths about life.

My personal travels through the world of serious illness have actually made death-gazing somewhat easier for me. I've looked into the yawning pit that awaits us all and become somewhat more comfortable living with the idea of my/our inevitable fate. Not that I support it or look forward to it in any way. It's still an unglamorous and unfortunate end to a marvelous piece of work. My thinking about death has followed an evolutionary spiral resulting in abstract acceptance or at least resignation. A year ago, two years ago, even three, I wasn't so sanguine. Nor was I even looking in that direction.

In short, if you have the stomach to meditate a bit on death and dying, I recommend Nothing To Be Frightened Of. Maybe the author's repetitiveness is a deliberate literary device. Maybe we need to be repeatedly knocked over the head with sentences at once blunt and finely edged to make any dent at all in our inability or unwillingness to consider our own demise.

Word on the Lake

I'm a house guest at a roomy cottage on the shore of Lake Naomi, which I can see from where I sit. Frozen swirls of gray tone, slightly menacing, make me content to remain indoors sipping tea and indulging in a string of lazy activities. Not activities exactly, because there's little action of any sort. Slogs and sloths come to mind, but they at least purposefully albeit very slowly, go about their business, which is survival. We should be so challenged. Shall I knit another row or two? Perhaps read a few more pages in Nothing To Be Frightened Of, a book best digested in small chunks because its theme is the certainty of extinction and how one might process the troubling notion? Have yet another cup of tea, or merely exist zen-like as the day fades? Think about dinner; think about it some more. Will there be dinner? Observe the dogs chasing dream rabbits while the wind chimes taunt, bet you can't name this tune. It's like a morgue in here, or a library. Fellow do-nothingers lounge around turning pages, processing a thought here and there, tapping into the oblivion groove. All of a sudden it's 4 pm and no one can account for where the day has gone, let alone explain the sentence they've just read. The sun slips from the sky, and a laptop glows white, a modern fire pit emitting no heat. A word sits frozen on the lake, then flaps off into the night, unread.

Better With Butter

This is a fluff piece.

I grew up with butter, not margarine. My mother loved butter so much, she would sometimes slice a chunk off the stick and pop it in her mouth. My husband grew up with margarine. It took a few years to work out the details of this culinary divide, but butter naturally won.

A recent article about the chosen fat in The New York Times says nothing beats butter when it comes to baking cookies and other yummies. I know this to be true. What I didn't know was the science behind my favorite fat.

Careful attention to butter's properties will result in better baked products. I've been doing all the right things over the years but frankly, I didn't know the secret to my success. Better brush up on your butter management skills if you want your time and money investment to pay off.

The good news is, most sweet eaters could care less about flake factor, and sugar trumps flavor every time. I don't know if I could tell the difference between a cookie baked with margarine and one made with a pedigreed butter. Even if I could, I wouldn't turn up my nose at a home-baked or bakery cookie, although I admit to being a food snob. I refuse to eat packaged cookies.

In my kitchen you'll only find butter, cholesterol be damned. As for the product "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" all I can only say is, oh, really?

My Readers Recommend ...

Since my post about book disappointments, reader recommendations have been appearing in my email box. For those of you looking for a good read, I thought I'd list some of the books here.

My niece Rebecca suggests a short story collection by Elizabeth McCracken, Here's Your Hat What's Your Hurry. Niagara Falls All Over Again, by the same author, is a novel she hasn't read but heard is "terrific." Allegedly, the book pokes fun at Iowa, which is where Rebecca has lived for the past year or so.

My friend Emma, also a fan of Zadie Smith's White Teeth, says Small Island by Andrea Levy explores a similar theme. Here are some of Emma's other recommendations:
Harbour by Lorraine Adams
Blindness by Jose Saramago (which I read in a book group way back when)
The Book Thief by Markus Zusack (on my bookshelf)
The Sisters by Mary Lovell
Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky (which I read and enjoyed)

My college roommate Judy liked The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, which I've meant to read but just haven't gotten my hands on it yet.

I wrote down the name of a book recommended by my friend Patty last week, but can't seem to locate it. However, another book she suggested a while back is When the Ground Turns in Its Sleep by Sylvia Sellers-Garcia.

Happy reading!

Lobster Bisque and the Angry Angry Sea

My friend Jim is visiting from Florida, and yesterday he asked me if I've ever written about him. Jim, this one's for you.

It was back in the bad old Brooklyn days that I got to know Jim and his wife Karen. They'd moved into the brownstone next door the same day we'd moved into ours. It was Jim who "invented" Block Island, taking full credit not just for turning us on to a beautiful vacation spot, but for the explosion of the island's popularity back in the 80's. Jim has invented a number of wonderful things, including our dogs. I'll save that tale for another day.

The only way to get to Block Island is by boat or by airplane. We used to drive up from New York to either New London, CT or Point Judith, RI to catch the ferry. Point Judith is a small seedy town that hasn't changed in the 20 years we've been sailing to Block Island. It's only a 30 minute drive from where we now live, so my husband and I have had a chance to go there numerous times to enjoy a bowl of chowda and pick up some fresh seafood. When Jim suggested we go out for lunch today, Point Judith was the obvious auld-lang-syne choice.

Not much is open in Point Judith in December. The fudge and taffy shacks are shuttered. The old-style motel is particularly forlorn. Fishing boats come and go, and a couple of wind-blown eateries churn out typical seaside fare.

We went to Champlin's, a two-story glorified clam shack. Jim chose the white clam chowder, and I had the lobster bisque. The chowder, which we learned was made with non-dairy creamer, was mediocre, but my bisque was nonpareil.

The sea put on a provocative floor show while we dined. The previous day's storm was just winding down, and the water in the channel and the sea beyond was as moody and restless as a teenaged boy. We watched the Block Island ferry navigate out to open waters, shoved and slapped by frosty waves. I've been on that boat in heavy seas and it's not for the queasy. Most passengers drape themselves over lower-deck benches, their groans echoed in the sturm and drang of the straining ship. It's an interminable hour of bilious bobbing, with Block Island hovering on the horizon, a destination at once longed for and loathed.

Later in the afternoon, my stomach churned like the waters off Point Judith. Jim, though he'd been disappointed with his bowl of soup, was fine. Maybe I should have played it safe and gone with the chowder, even if it was made with a scoop of scary chemicals.

The Book Worm Turns

Because I love to read, many people ask me to recommend books for them. Usually I have one or two up my sleeve that I’m excited about and would like to share with others. Lately though I seem to be in a literary doldrums. I pick up books, put them down, pick them up again and muddle through. I’m currently reading The City of Fallen Angels by John Berendt. At two or three pages a night, it’s been a slow go.

Maybe I need to join a book group. I haven’t been in one for years. My favorite book group goes back to my Costa Rica days. We always seemed to read something compelling, or at least worth discussing for 30 minutes until we veered off into children, school issues, husbands. The wife of the U.S. ambassador was in our group, and it was always a treat when she was hosting due to the posh surroundings, serious furnishings and wine delivered on silver trays.

One of the first things I did when I returned to the States was join a book group. It did not go well. There’s an article about book groups gone sour in The Sunday New York Times called “Fought Over Any Good Books Lately?" Since I’ve been in four groups in my six years in Rhode Island, I fancy myself a bit of an expert on this subject. I’m kind of surprised they didn’t call and ask for a pithy quote.

My local New Neighbors Club sponsored two book groups. I decided to try the morning group because I’m a morning person, my eyes glazing over after 8 pm. I happily read Zadie Smith’s White Teeth for my first meeting. When I arrived at the gathering I was shocked to see so many cars. I was used to book groups with ten or twelve people in them. Some 30 women had showed up to discuss White Teeth. I was a bit intimidated.

What I soon realized though was that most of the women had come for breakfast and to socialize. This became even more apparent when we sat down to talk about the book. We arranged ourselves in a giant circle, and one by one, people shared their thoughts about White Teeth. I thought this would take forever, but I was wrong. Most people hadn’t finished the book or even read it at all, and so had very little to say. The few comments offered were for the most part negative.

I’d loved the book and felt at once disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm and unsure about what I should talk about when at long last it was my turn. I didn’t want to cast myself as some sort of literary snob (which I am), not at my first meeting anyway. I ended up admitting I’d really liked the book and gave a few reasons why. I tried not to be too insightful, so as not to alienate members of my new social group.

Things went from bad to worse. The following month we gathered to discuss The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk. I had thought the book was cloying, preachy and not worth my time. As we went around the circle, however, it quickly became clear that I was in the minority once again. I’ve made sure not to see the recent movie made from the book, although it’s probably a better movie than book.

I quit this group and drifted in an out of others. I began to think it was me, but I reminded myself that I’d left the Costa Rica book group only because I’d left the country. Interestingly, some of the members of that group still ask me what I’m reading and give me their recommendations. I guess the most important thing about a book group is that the members have similar reading tastes and actually want to discuss the book at hand instead of the new Trader Joe’s that's opened.

I'm looking for a few good readers.

You May Ask Yourself, How Did I Get Here?

I often ask myself this David Byrnesian question.

"Here" in my case is Rhode Island, which bears an uncanny resemblance to the area on Long Island where I grew up. I've spent most of my adult life trying to distance myself from my plain vanilla childhood. It seems all I've done is trade Long for Rhode, vanilla for coffee. Oddly, coffee is the flavor of choice in these here parts.

Let me explain. There was very little diversity in my little town back in the 1960's, early 1970's. I found living there to be incredibly dull and stifling, and couldn't wait to escape. I attended college in Buffalo, New York which broadened my horizons somewhat. Canada was just 20 minutes away, and we often crossed the border for Chinese food. I moved to New York City after I graduated, and hit the diversity jackpot.

My husband and I eventually bought a house in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, which at the time was a predominately black neighborhood. Our block was a melting pot of young, old, gay, straight, black, white, rich, poor. It was a great place for young families trying to avoid the same old same old.

Eleven years and three kids later, we up and moved to Costa Rica. My Sesame Street Spanish didn't get me very far, and I soon realized that our American lifestyle wasn't going to fly in a quasi third world country. I got used to the chaos of electrical, water and telephone outages, severe weather events and wildlife where you least expected it. I coped with the cow paths they called roads, taking pains to avoid the cows. I resigned myself to really bad cheese, terrible bread, and beef so tough you had to cook it for days. In short, I loved it. We lived like kings, albeit kings who lived in a prior century.

Now I'm back to living in a colonial-style house in a wooded setting. The whole lawn thing. Nowhere you can realistically walk to. Predictable, orderly, smooth. My kids plot their escape to college.

And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?

Your Holiday Obama Calendar

As a campaign donor, I still receive the mass emails that flow freely from the Obama for America website. I just got one hawking four-year holiday calendars, the proceeds of which go to the Democratic National Committee.

Excuse me while I cringe.

I'm assuming Obama keeps his clothes on in the photos gracing this latest cash cow. There's a price to pay for historical firsts: $49.95 for a front page reprint of the post-election The New York Times; $124.95 if framed. It seems everyone wants to sell a piece of history.

Obamabilia takes many forms: crockery, coins, photos, t-shirts, action toys, and my favorite, a bobblehead for your car's rear dash collection. The DNC may be behind the merchandising curve, but their mailing list is more targeted than a heat-seeking missile. I'm sure they'll sell a lot of calendars.

I'll get over it.

Spamalittle

Every once in a while I check the spam folder on my google mail account. It's never really necessary to look in this folder unless you're worried that legitimate mail has been mistakenly snared. The folder has an auto delete mechanism that dumps the trashy missives after say a week. You can also manually delete junk mail, a strangely satisfying act whereby you click the delete forever button. But everyone knows that spam is immortal and just slips into somebody else's mailbox.

This morning I noticed there are eleven quarantined messages in my spam folder whereas there are usually only two or three. Curious, I decided to take a look at the latest offerings.

Seven messages push Viagra, which like spam, seems to be everywhere. Three hawk faux luxury watches, particularly "Ro1exes." The one that caught my eye though was from Bambi Nubia. Ms. Nubia assures me that no degree and no job are no problem because I can buy prestigious certificates based on my life experience. Finally, my life's work will be recognized. Since "the more degrees you have the better your chances and prospects in life," I really should take advantage of the buy-one-get-one-free special. Anyone, it seems can be an M.D., maven of dreck.

With my purchased credentials, maybe I can get a copywriting gig like Bambi, hawking hope at discount prices. Despair not, all you poor losers out there, have I got a deal for you!

What, you don't like spam?!

As Easy As Pie

What's Thanksgiving without pie?

In my house, apple pie is an essential part of the feast. Store-bought pie is not allowed. Ever. Once (but NOT on Thanksgiving), I allowed myself to buy a pre-made pie crust as a time-saving measure. I think I made a quiche for a group of women who came over for lunch, suspecting they wouldn't notice the difference. I, on the other hand, was appalled. The crust tasted how a shopping warehouse smells and feels: like oily plastic with an undercurrent of despair.

I protest too much. But I do have a deep-seated psychological reason for turning up my nose at anything other than buttery handmade pie crust. It all started when I was a child ...

My stepfather had been a baker in the U.S. Navy, serving on a destroyer in the Pacific during World War II. He used to joke that he did battle with stale biscuits, lobbing them at the enemy when the ship came under fire. His best story though, and actually believable, was the one about the fruit cocktail pies he was ordered to make one day when they'd run out of conventional pie filling.

My stepfather refused to open the industrial-size cans of fruit cocktail and pour them into his tender flaky crusts. In his book, this was blasphemy. He was ordered to make the offending pies or be disciplined. He stuck to his guns (biscuits?) and accepted his punishment, which he claimed included a loss of rank.

Every year at Thanksgiving, my stepfather would whip up several pies and tell the tale about nearly being court martialed for his refusal to bake fruit cocktail pie. This is where my sky-high pie standards come from. My stepfather also taught me the few tricks you need to know about making pie crust. It really is quite simple.

A quick internet search reveals that fruit cocktail pie isn't the sacrilege my stepfather thought it to be, at least not if you believe in Cool Whip and other petrochemical food products. Times change. But not when it comes to pie. Not in my house.

Have a happy, pie-filled Thanksgiving!

Knitting Under the Influence

It was a bitterly cold weekend, and we made much use of our fireplace. Now that I've started a knitting project, fireside stitching is a key element in the warm cozy tableau.

My husband spins the tunes (yes, we have a turntable, which makes us dinosaurs or accidently hip, depending upon your perspective), pours the wine and tends the fire. His musical tastes are fairly eclectic, a little heavy on jazz. He also loves music from the early '60's and Broadway musicals, but usually refrains from playing these genres in my presence. I would rather see a periodontist than sit through The Impossible Dream.

On Friday night, I sat knitting in front of the fire, barely noticing the music that was playing in the background. I'm knitting a basketweave-pattern vest, and it requires a fair amount of concentration not to go off-kilter.

Suddenly, I realized I had no idea where I was in my knitting. Was it the music making me jumpy and a little feverish? I listened as a saxophone knit together a hodgepodge of elements some might call melodies. To my untrained ear it sounded like a cat fight. A glance at my knitting needles revealed that what had begun as a sweater vest was morphing into a sock.

What is this music? I asked. The Lighter Side of John Coltrane, he answered, chuckling because even Coltrane's "light" veers off into jangly improvisations that can set your teeth on edge, provoking rather than soothing the savage breast. Coltrane is not conducive to knitting.

As Sunrise, Sunset wafted out of the speakers and filled the room with a warm glow, I got got my knitting back on key. I thought about Yeats poem "When You are Old."

That's when I put the knitting away and asked for a martini. Bring back the Coltrane.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

My daughter got into the college of her choice the conventional way. She worked hard in high school, visited colleges of interest, applied and was accepted. All I had to do was buy envelopes and stamps and make a run to the post office. Easy.

It appears I'll have to do more than buy postal supplies for my son's application process. Apparently, I'll have to make dinner for visiting coaches.

Yesterday, the coach at Mark's top-choice school sent an email saying he'd like to come and chat with us. It's a three-hour drive, and he'll be arriving around 4 or 5 pm. Naturally I'll ask him to stay for dinner.

Do coaches make home visits to uncover signs of family dysfunction?

You can tell I'm new to this recruiting thing. Many parents would have hired a consultant to handle the process, but since we are of the low-key minor parental involvement school of thought, we've been letting Mark handle it himself. I'm guessing the coach is coming because he's really interested in Mark and is going to support his application. Naturally we're all excited, but the question of what to make for dinner looms large.

Should it be something casual and fun like tacos? How about something on the grill? My son Harry suggested meat loaf due to it's all-American comfort-food status. Mark, who's indifferent to food, could care less what I serve. He's more concerned about potential parental faux pas's than anything else.

I have plenty of time to think about the menu. More pressing is the menu for Thanksgiving.

Do you think the coach will like Turkey Surprise?

Comfort Food

The frost would be on the pumpkin if there were any growing in my yard or decorating my doorstep. It's cold outside, and when it's cold, my thoughts turn to rib-sticking comfort food like meaty stews and hearty soups. My son Mark is a vegetarian, so I also look for non-meat dishes that will make everyone happy.

Last night, I made vegetarian chili for dinner. Food purists would say it doesn't deserve to be called chili (chili powder is the only "pepper" in it and there's no meat) but I say fie on them. I use a recipe I adapted from a cookbook called Laurel's Kitchen called "Chili con Elote."

Elote means corn in Spanish. Actually, it means corn on the cob, but let's not get technical. There's a famous restaurant in La Garita, Costa Rica devoted to all things corn, Fiesta de Maize. We went there once on the way home from a beach trip. The food wasn't very good, but it was an interesting restaurant concept.

Note: I do not like onions and so banish them from most recipes unless I think I can get away with shallots OR the onions end up being pureed and therefore unrecognizable. My family, however, loves onions, so I usually chop up a bunch and include them with the other condiments on the table.

Ingredients
1 tbsp. oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1-2 cups of tomato sauce
15 oz. can of corn
19 oz. can black beans (about 2 cups)
19 oz. can red kidney beans (about 2 cups)
1 tsp. cumin
chili powder to taste
fresh cilantro, chopped

Saute garlic (and chopped onion if desired) until soft, then add cumin and chili powder. Add approx. 1/3 of the black and red beans to the pan and mash them up into the spices with a potato masher. It will look like refried beans. Add remaining beans, the corn and the tomato sauce. The amount of sauce you use will depend on how thick you want the chili to be.

Simmer for 30 minutes, adding chopped cilantro 5 minutes before cooking ends. Add salt to taste. The chili may be served with the following: grated cheddar cheese, chopped onions, tabasco sauce. Fresh-baked Corn bread is an excellent accompaniment.

Serves 3-4.

The virtuous among you may wish to use dried beans (soaked and cooked). Fresh chilis or other hot peppers may be sauteed along with garlic/onions.

Buen provecho!

Toaster Oven Blues

I'm not much of a shopper. I'm more of a grab-it-off-the-shelf-and-flee consumer. Comparing prices gives me a headache.

My husband recently purchased a rug cleaner to keep up with the urological issues of our aging dogs. He spent a week researching products, and kept posing questions about built-in rug beaters versus fast-dry features. He was getting pleasure out of buying the cleaner; I was tortured by his "research." Just buy the damn thing. And start cleaning.

This weekend, I decided it was time to buy a new toaster oven. I went to Target with an attitude. I am angry at toaster ovens. They've driven me to the brink of despair. For some reason, toaster ovens don't last long at my house. We've gone through four of them in six and a half years. Just as the baked-on grease is threatening to become a fire hazard, the heating element goes. Could this be a failsafe mechanism? My kids bought my husband a plain old toaster for Fathers Day two years ago because he just couldn't get his bagels to toast right in the oven du jour. This was a lovely idea but a serious drain on counter space. I still needed the oven for on-the-fly heating.

When I saw the "Toastation" it was love at first sight. It was really compact and not too ugly, but the best part about the appliance was that it cleverly combined a small oven and a traditional pop-up toaster in one unit. Plus, it was half the size of my current behemoth, which has been on the fritz for months. Truthfully, I would have paid anything for this marvel. I was therefore devastated to learn that the product was sold out. See, that's what I hate about shopping. You find the perfect item, and then wham! It doesn't fit; it has a hole in it; it's on back order. What's the use? I left Target with a turkey baster as a consolation prize.

My husband convinced me that we should just go to Walmart and buy the cheapest toaster oven they carried. We'd be tossing it in a year or so anyway, so we might as well go for low-cost dreck.

Walmart had plenty of Toastations, and at a higher price than Target! We bought one, and I'm happy to say it's still working. I retired the regular toaster and joyfully dumped the old oven into the trash.

Counter space is mine!

When Autumn Leaves

When Autumn leaves, I'll be happy. Right now we're knee-deep in oak leaves and raking seems hopeless. Maybe they'll all blow away, get sucked up into a passing cyclonic spout and spew forth somewhere else.

My diminutive ornamentals, mothers day gifts from my sons, are more manageable. Small trees leave small messes. That's a weeping birch on the left. I used to be frightened by birch trees when I was very young. I thought their dark eyes were staring at me. Birches don't naturally weep. This one was trained to, and I'm guessing it was painful. Birches look especially good surrounded by snow. That's when they look at you and try to make you feel guilty that they're cold and alone.


The Japanese maple at right has just burst into flames. The variety is "bloodgood" and who doesn't want good blood? The fingery leaves drip drip drip onto the ground, a crimsom pool staining the dull brown carpet.

We're in the thick of autumn now. Save for the maple tree, color has peaked and blah is the dominant palette. It's still fairly warm, so it's pleasant to go outside and rake for an hour or so. It's good exercise and you're steeped in nature's beauty. That makes up for the futility of the task.

Block That Apostrophe!

I've never been a strict grammarian. When I was in college, my boyfriend used to type all my papers (reader, I married him!), adding lots of commas, mostly needed. We would wrangle over a few grammatical points, such as the serial versus the Oxford comma, but mostly I was happy to have someone else do the heavy lifting.

It was my husband who first noticed the apostrophe apostasy on the plaque Mark received for winning the New England Championship on Saturday. It states:

CROSS COUNTRY BOY'S CHAMPION 2008

Our niece Rebecca, who was visiting for the weekend, and who teaches in the English department at Cornell College, immediately questioned the errant punctuation mark. Mark left the room during the discussion, thrilled to be a member of a family that critiques plaque copy. Several months ago, he had to listen to his parents go on about an egregious error on Harvard's athletic recruitment questionnaire, which asked for your coaches phone number. Horrors!

Personally, I'd leave out the plaque's apostrophe altogether because it doesn't add anything meaning-wise. As a former copywriter, I find excessive typography distracting and inelegant.

Is anyone still reading?

The Family Legs Redux

When I was pregnant with my son Mark I was summoned to have an ultrasound at 23 weeks because it was felt that his head was perhaps larger than normal. Turns out that all of him was larger than average, so there was nothing to worry about. His femur, they assured me, was quite long. "He'll be a basketball player for sure," one technician said.

Eighteen years later Mark measures around 6'3", and like a young horse, is all leg. He doesn't play basketball, though, he runs. Running runs in my family, but distantly. Last month Mark competed at Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx, following in the footsteps of his great great grandfather, his great grandfather and his uncle (my brother). Last weekend, Mark placed second in the Rhode Island State Meet with a PR of 15:42.

The New England Cross Country Championships was run today in Manchester, NH. Mark was hoping to finish in the top three. He was in 7th place some 100 meters before race end.

One by one, he picked off the competitors in front of him. Just before the finish line, he cruised by the guy who beat him last week at the State meet, winning the race by .9 seconds. Those long legs carried him to victory.

The experience for me was surreal, those final seconds passing in what seemed to be slow motion. Was I dreaming?

Mark's enjoying the glory, his head somewhat larger than normal tonight.

Tomorrow it's back to college applications.

Overcome

The joy unleashed last night when Barack Obama was declared the 44th President of the United States was something to see. It was a squeaker, but even my staunchly Republican town voted for a chance to overcome the damage of the Bush years, wallets be damned.

I watched Jesse Jackson weeping, overcome by the historical moment he was witnessing.

As I was drifting off to a short but peaceful sleep, I thought about my mother's tiny part in the history made last night. The year was 1961, the place Montgomery, Alabama. Shocked and outraged by the the Whites/Coloreds Only signs she saw on her first visit to the Deep South, my mother deliberately drank from a "Coloreds Only" water fountain one day, refusing to stop even when a police officer tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the sign above. My father had to drag her away, fearing the officer would act on his threat to arrest her. She was proud of this moment, her act of rebellion, and even though she changed nothing in Alabama, she had a story to tell her five children, a story that perfectly illustrated how racial discrimination was hateful and cowardly, something to oppose, reject, and one day, eliminate.

Mom, you would have loved this moment. Your children lived to see it , and your children's children don't even understand what the big deal is. To them, the Civil Rights Era is just another chapter in their U.S. History book.

Change has come, and not a moment too soon.

May we continue to overcome.

Raking It In

The leaves in this neck of the woods are at peak color these days. Our little 1.4 acres is painted in all the usual autumnal hues except red due to the absence of maple trees. Acorns crunch underfoot. Squirrels bury their treasure. It's time to start bickering about the Fall clean-up.

Before we moved here six years ago, we'd spent many years living in a country that defined its seasons in terms of moisture content. It was wet, or it was dry; the vegetation was lush, or parched. Leaves fell off trees in a continuous cycle rather than in a barrage like they do here in the north.

I'd spent all my adult years not raking leaves. After college, I moved to New York City. There were trees placed here and there, but no raking obligations. The big fat sycamore outside our Brooklyn brownstone required minimal upkeep come Fall. All we had to do was sweep the leaves into the gutter where they were sucked up by street cleaning machines.

We were excited about moving to rural New England, where we knew we'd experience a traditional Autumn. But we had no idea how many leaves pile up when you're living in the woods. When the man we hired to plow our very long driveway offered to come and do a fall clean-up, I immediately agreed. When I called to schedule a date, he said the earliest he could do it was the day before Thanksgiving. That seemed fine.

The day before Thanksgiving it snowed 10 inches. Within a couple of hours, our sea of crunchy leaves was hidden beneath a fluffy white quilt. Mr. Fall Clean-up called to say he'd try to come after the snow melted and before the ground froze. I didn't realized how unlikely it was that this would happen any time soon.

Our property remained snowed over for most of the winter. I worried about how the underlying leaf layer was smothering our lawn. I can always find something to worry about.

Sometime in late March-early April, conditions were such that the long overdue clean-up finally got underway. Eight men spent hours raking and blowing and mulching and fertilizing. The smell of gas was intoxicating. We were having the fall clean-up and spring clean-up all at once. When a member of the crew handed me the bill, I was incredulous.

That was the last time we paid to have the leaves raked. For $800, we would do it ourselves.

When Fall arrived, I discovered that no one wanted to rake leaves, and that although I enjoy doing it for a couple of hours under the right conditions, I can't possibly do it all myself. So each year I nag, cajole and guilt the troops into getting out there and attacking the leafage. We argue over when (too soon). We argue over who's put in the most time (me). My boys complain that it's unfair that their sister, who's away at college, doesn't have to do it. It's a recurrent family nightmare, and it goes down the same way, year after year.

Someday (let it be soon) we'll be living in a condo, oohing and ahhing about the Fall color, not lifting a finger to clean up the ensuant mess.

Hope Over Fear

Out here in the woods, politics is strictly local. You rarely see campaign signs for anything other than town-related candidates and issues. Perhaps it's the yankee penchant for privacy that dampens the urge to publicize one's personal beliefs, be they philosophical, religious or political. I have no idea whom my neighbors want to see elected the next president of the United States. Honestly, I don't want to know.

My vote's going to Barack Obama for a number of reasons. I want to live in a hopeful America not a fearful one, an America that's stronger than it's been in recent times. We've squandered so much under Bush's reign, and we'll have to continue paying for these mistakes. His narrow black-and-white views have crippled us. We're a lot less free than we were, in so many ways. It's time to turn the page on this sad era. I believe we can do better.

I have personal reasons to vote for Obama. My family's standard of living has steadily eroded during the Bush years. It was nice paying lower capital gains taxes (once), and I appreciated the rebate checks (last one went straight into my furnace), but what with salary stagnation and soaring health insurance premiums, we certainly haven't been living the vida loca. More like the vida poca. I can only dream about affordable health care coverage, coverage that doesn't cost some $8,000 in yearly premiums alone. If my husband were to lose his job, we not only couldn't afford an individual policy, my pre-existing conditions would surely exclude us from coverage. That's freedom for yah! More like Medicaid.

It's time for change. We need an infusion of fresh ideas, maybe even some new mantras. The old ones are so tired.

This Independent is voting for Barack Obama.

Coffee Kvetch

When I moved to the United States from Costa Rica in 2002, I packed a suitcase full of coffee and shipped it to Rhode Island along with the rest of our stuff. At $3 for a 12 oz. bag, Cafe Britt was the most expensive coffee you could buy in Costa Rica, and it was so good. As the movers were schlepping in our furniture and household goods, all I could think about was that coffee. I'd tried a couple of "gourmet" brands while waiting for the shipment and been disappointed by their flavor. Beginning each day in a state of disappointment is not a good thing.

I savored every cup of Cafe Britt I brewed. I tried to make it last as long as possible, grinding it finer and finer, stretching the silky brown dust as far as I could. As my stock ran low, I desperately considered ways to get my hands on more of this essential elixir.

Eureka! Cafe Britt had launched a website and was selling the coffee out of their Miami warehouse. I ordered a box of 20 bags. When that ran out, I doubled my order to 40 and got an even better deal. What I didn't use myself, I gave away as gifts or sold at cost to the curious. The FedEx guy commented that he loved the smell of his truck when he was delivering my coffee. My habit apparently raised suspicions with Homeland Security because in its zeal to protect America, it seized one of my shipments.

A $700 oil delivery in September got me thinking about how I might reduce household spending in order to stay warm during the heating season. Oil has quadrupled in price since we'd moved to the Northeast, and the way things looked we'd be forking over $4500 or so in the next 6 months. Maybe my coffee habit was getting too expensive? A bag of Cafe Britt now costs $8.95, cheaper if you order in bulk.

I tried the Costa Rican coffee at the local warehouse store. It was less expensive than Cafe Britt but missing a crucial spark. I tried the Ugandan coffee next, which was even more disappointing. It became harder to get out of bed in the morning. Was I being penny wise but pound foolish? After much soul-searching, and after reviewing my IRA statements, I've decided life is too uncertain to spend it drinking mediocre coffee.

I'm placing an order with Cafe Britt as soon as I finish this post.

The Family Legs

There’s a pitted, dented, tarnished silver cup sitting on my bookshelf collecting dust. All I know about this family heirloom is that my great grandfather won it at a cross country race somewhere in New York City over 100 years ago.

My great grandfather, who lived in the Washington Heights area of upper Manhattan, had been a star runner on his high school and college cross-country and track teams. I recently discovered that many of his race results are archived in ancient New York Times articles from the late 1890’s-early 1900’s.

This past weekend, I watched my sons run in the Manhattan Invitational at Van Cortlandt Park, better known in running circles as “Vanny.” You won’t read about Mark in The New York Times, but here’s a link to an interview he gave after winning his race. Mark received a medal and a snazzy watch for his performance. Harry also ran very well, placing 4^th overall on the team.

My great grandfather never competed on this particular course, since it wasn’t designed and laid out until 1913. However, my grandfather raced on it in the 1920’s, thrilled to be running where his father had put in the miles throughout his running career.

My sons, great great grandchildren of the silver cup winner, continue the family legacy of kicking up dust in the Bronx, looping into the woods and back, running for time and also through it.

Teenage Wasteland

We have a battered copy of The Waste Land And Other Poems on our kitchen table. I should put it back on the bookshelf before too much slop gets on it, but I’m enjoying it too much. The slim volume reminds me of our dinner conversation earlier in the week, the one in which we were discussing T. S. Eliot’s poetry.

The conversators (hee hee) were not members of a literary salon, but my husband, teenage sons and me. It wasn’t the first time T.S. Eliot has come up in conversation at our house. It all started a couple of years ago when Mark asked me if I knew the poem containing the following lines:

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

"The Hollow Men"? I guessed, as a weird stew of shock, wonder and redemption bubbled up in my brain. That’s T.S. Eliot, I said. Yeah, I know. Are you reading him in English class? No, it’s in a video game.

A video game? Bits of the poem are apparently scattered throughout the wildly-popular best-selling “Halo” series. What’s T.S. Eliot doing in teenage wasteland?

Here’s the really good part, especially for English-major parents: Mark ended up writing a term paper that year on how Eliot’s poems still resonate in today’s cultural landscape. I have not railed against video games since.

I don't remember exactly how Mr. Eliot crept into our conversation the other night. Mark mentioned something which caused Harry to remark that his English teacher says "The Waste Land" is one of the greatest and most difficult poems ever written. The next thing we knew, we were arguing about whether "The Hollow Men" is a section of "The Waste Land" (it’s not, which prompted the appearance of the book), which eventually led Mark to quote "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost. Bang, whimper, fire, ice—the world’s ending baby, one way or another. A short discussion of "Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening" brought our postprandial talk to an end.

It had been nice to linger at the dinner table chatting about poetry, but my teenagers had miles of homework to do, and I needed sleep.

Be Careful What You Wish For

This past weekend, I finally got my wish. While I was out back grooming the dogs, my husband and my son took up what was left off last Fall: repairing the rotting portions of the railing and spindles on the front entrances to our house. On my to-do list for the entire summer, this is the #1 job nobody wants to tackle. Much of it involves filling in ever-deepening craters with wood putty and replacing the wood that’s too far gone.

It was a brilliant afternoon, punctuated by the sounds of electric clippers (me) and table saw (my son Mark), over-powered by the deafening roar of landscaping equipment (the neighbors). Ah, suburbia! I was just finishing up the dogcuts when I heard my son scream out: Mom! Dad! I instantly knew by the tone and urgency of his voice that he hadn’t just received an acceptance letter to his college of choice.

Mark wasn’t even supposed to be home this weekend. He would have been running at an invitational cross-country meet in Vermont, except that he and my husband had been planning to visit a college in Pennsylvania, a visit that didn’t pan out. Mark had also needed a break from his overloaded schedule of running, competing, applying to college, and dreaming up a plan for his senior project.

The wood repair bugaboo had me seriously doubting my leadership skills. I desperately wanted to cross it off my list so I could proceed to my part of the job--priming and painting, which I couldn’t do until the cutting, nailing, patching and sanding was done. My wish was coming true. Mission was on the verge of being accomplished.

“I cut my finger to the bone!!!”

My husband and I dashed into the room to see Mark holding a bloody hand, wincing and looking pale. The only question was: which emergency room?

In the words of a Monty Python character, ‘twas only a flesh wound. No nerve or tendon damage, bone untouched. Seven stitches closed the hole in his left thumb.

I went out front and put the lid on the wood putty. This is a job for another day, maybe sometime in mid-November when it’s not a race weekend, isn’t raining, and there aren’t any colleges to visit. Maybe I’ll be out there painting the wood in the snow.

Be careful what you wish for.

Dog Day Afternoon

Asta on the Beach

Yesterday was perfect dog-grooming weather: sunny, cool and not too windy. We have two bouviers des flandres who were looking a bit scruffy so I took out the grooming tools and gave Turbo and Asta haircuts on the back deck.

Bouviers are rare in Rhode Island. Bouviers bred and born in Costa Rica can only be found at our house. And yes, they are bilingual.

Bouvier is French for cowherd. Now you know why Jackie O's father didn't anglicize his surname. Bouvier, the dog breed, originated in Belgium. In addition to herding cows (and in modern times, groups of small children), bouviers can pull carts, climb ladders and balance on a bar suspended in mid-air. I mention this last talent because you might have seen it years ago on David Letterman's stupid pet tricks.

Bouviers were used by the Allies in World War II to pull supply-laden carts to the front lines. The Germans put bouviers on their shoot-to-kill list, and in fact the breed was seriously diminished in the post-war era.

Our bouviers keep their talents well under wraps. Mainly they are good at barking, sleeping, eating and being cute. Very cute. Eighty hairy pounds of cuteness. Did I mention they're cute?

Grooming a bouvier is challenging even when the dog cooperates. Turbo and Asta usually just resign themselves to the ordeal, which takes nearly two hours per beast. I'll not elaborate on technique, but it's basically one part sheep shearing, one part raking with a steel brush and one part scissoring until you have a blister on your thumb. Dog treats are essential. In the end, you have a huge pile of fluff, hair here there and everywhere, a broken back, and a much smaller dog.

By the time I finished dog #2, my sciatica was making me wince wildly. My husband suggested that grooming two dogs in one day is a bit much, but I don't like to prolong the agony. If you have two rotten teeth, I say pull 'em both.

Turbo and Asta look terrific. Their groomer is lame.

Betcha by golly, wow

I watched the VP debate last night against my better judgment, knowing there'd be hell to pay today as I drag my tired body around, still scratching my head over John McCain's choice for VP. But my teenage sons were tuning in, so what choice did I have?

Two observations. First, why didn't Joe Biden get the nomination for president? He certainly seemed in command and presidential last night, although the level of competition was decidedly mediocre. I mean, they practically had to dig a trench to get the bar low enough. Second, and here's where I question Palin's appeal with some voters: when did we start wanting the leaders of our country to speak as though they're having a casual conversation in a parking lot? Governor Palin was fine when she was delivering (and re-delivering) well-rehearsed talking points, some of which she appeared to be reading from prepared text. But that folksy patter has got to go. I don't want my VP to talk like that unless she/he's over for dinner

Sentences to nowhere are perfectly acceptable in everyday chatter. Listening to a person who could be president of the United States meander through a paragraph like a person taking a walk in the woods, lost and bumbling their way through a grammatical maze, was painful. Hasn't eight years of listening to Bush flailing around in the English language been enough?

Makes me want to go nukular.

There Is No There There

I was once with a group of women who couldn't believe I'd never been to Las Vegas. (I didn't admit my children have never been to Disney World, which is far more shocking.) They assured me that the very best restaurants could be found in Vegas, many of them replicas of posh eateries from all over the world. As a former New Yorker, I couldn't imagine going to Vegas to eat at New York restaurants, but I didn't say anything.

The other day I read an article about an investor recreating New York's Plaza Hotel in Vegas. It will look like the Plaza only "vastly bigger." Will patrons be able to sip extra dry martinis at the Oak Bar, and then stumble outside to see hansom cabs heading for Central Park, or perhaps enjoy a little shopping at FAO Schwartz across the street? No, but they will be able to see the Wynn casino resort and other mega chunks of high life rising around them.

When you get bored with Olde New York, Paris isn't far away. Or Venice. If Europe's too tame, there's always the Taj Mahal. Why travel to different countries when you can save all the bother and book a flight to Vegas? There's no need to get a passport, and you can skip those immunizations against nasty third world diseases. You won't see tired pleasure domes from yesteryear mucking up the place. When Vegas hotels get old and fusty, they blow 'em up.

Gertrude Stein was referring to the lack of "there" in Oakland, not Vegas. Oakland suffers from, among other things, its proximity to San Francisco. If someday I find myself in sin city, I'll probably avoid the Las Vegas Plaza. It would be a terrible blow to my psyche if I discovered that there is there there.

The Savage Detectives

At long last, I finished reading the incredibly dense and mesmerizing novel The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño. I thought I’d never finish the damn thing, it's so long, confusing, and emotionally draining.

The piling up of names, places, and dates, the piecing together of perspectives, the zigging and zagging through time and space was challenging to follow. The book’s protagonist (sort of) is poet and literary detective Arturo Belano , who together with fellow poet Ulises Lima, a prostitute, and a 17-year old boy, goes on a mad quest to find a “lost” female writer who disappeared without a trace (written or otherwise) in the 1930’s. Inserted into this framing story is over 400 pages of interviews with tangential characters who obliquely reveal what happens to the two poets over the 20 years that follow their quest.

Since Belano and Lima don’t narrate their own story (nor do they appear to actually produce any written work in all this time), the events in their lives feels more apocryphal than real. The Savage Detectives contains most of the elements of classic epic, though seriously postmodernized. This tale is all about the loss, not the glory. There isn’t much that’s noble in this world, and plenty that’s creepy, vicious, and meaningless. The novel captures the chaotic trajectory of life and leaves you with the sneaking suspicion that it’s pretty much pointless.

I’m not going to recommend you read this novel unless you
a) have a lot of time on your hands
b) have powers of concentration beyond the norm
c) are looking for something offbeat, and at times hilarious
d) don’t mind peering into the abyss
e) are a librarian, in which case you should take this book off the shelf NOW (meaning you should read it, not banish it)

My next read is Affliction by Russell Banks. What can I say … I’m a glutton for punishment.

Community Organizing

When I lived in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, from 1985 to 1996, the neighborhood was "in transition." It had already moved from unbelievably bad to dicey. During our time there, it progressed from boderline acceptable to the edge of fashionable. Today, Fort Greene is associated with urban chic.

The best thing about Fort Greene was that it was a true neighborhood. Our block, two rows of attached townhouses built more than a century ago, had a loosely organized community association which sponsored a party every summer and street clean-ups in the spring and fall. When an abandoned building on the block turned into a drug den, we at least had a rudimentary framework for dealing with it. But we quickly saw that planning a party or picking up trash hardly prepared us for the serious threat in our midst. In fact the problem got much worse before we attempted to do anything about it. We had no block president, no experience working with the police, no idea who to turn to for help.

Eventually, a couple of neighbors talking in the street became an emergency meeting in the house three doors down from ours. Everyone who came was sick with worry. The people coming and going (staggering, really) from the dilapidated brownstone directly across the street were clearly heavy drug users. Crack was the drug of choice and drug deals were going down on the corner. The more vocal members in the gathering tossed out ideas: phone calls to local politicians, a meeting with police, a neighborhood watch detail. Some people voiced concerns about police involvement. From their perspective, having lived on the block for 20, 30, 40 years, the police were conspicuous for their absence. Nobody volunteered to contact the local precinct. We agreed that we would draft a letter addressing our concerns, and we'd take it door to door gathering as many signatures as possible. I was charged with writing this letter. In the meantime, we all agreed to call the police station any time we witnessed suspicious activity.

The offending house grew from nagging sore to cancerous tumor. Someone finally contacted the Police Chief, who agreed to send a representative to our next meeting, which we hastily called. Some 30 people packed themselves into a neighbor's living room to listen to what the officer had to say. Cooperation was key. If we were willing to work with the police, they were willing to work with us to try to solve the problem. Nearly all policing in those days was done in patrol cars. They agreed to assign a beat cop to walk past the drug house several times daily. We believed that this would soon solve our problem. It didn't, although the guys on foot patrol were very friendly, and it was comforting to have overt police presence.

We were forced to get creative. We tried to have the house boarded up, but found this would be impossible since somebody officially still owned the wreck. The owner couldn't be located, was possibly a fugitive and owed thousands of dollars in back taxes. A few of us videotaped the comings and goings. Someone suggested we get Al Sharpton involved. Used needles scattered the sidewalk from the house's front stoop to the corner. A block that once felt safe, felt more and more like a war zone.

I'd like to say that it was through neighbors organizing themselves to fight a common enemy that this problem was solved, that through cooperation between community and police, the blight was removed. The solution, rather, came in classic deus ex machina fashion. Stripped of its wiring, the building had no electricity. The crackheads lit candles at night, and one of these candles apparently fell over and set an old mattress on fire. The fire department put out the blaze, declared the building unsafe and boarded it up. My family had been on vacation at the time and missed all the excitement.

The block association organized a party for the police precinct as a thank you for its support. We were starting to understand that public relations was an important part of protecting our interests. I went with fellow neighbors to transport and enjoy a southern-style feast at the police station. It was the best fried chicken I ever ate. Officers drifted in and out, appreciating the food and the thanks. Our grassroots efforts hadn't closed a drug house, but it had accomplished some important things. All of us working together to solve a problem was better than any one of us working alone. We were better prepared for the next issue that came our way.

Commitment, compromise, cooperation and a liberal dose of luck. We were a diverse group of people--black, white, young, old, owners, renters, heck, even a Frenchman--but we came together for the common good, and something good came out of it.

Community organizing. Don't knock it unless you've tried it.

The Sky Is Falling

If we don't act immediately, Saddam Hussein and the perpetrators of 9/11 will use weapons of mass destruction to end the world as we know it. Congress must act today to avert this threat.

Oops. Wrong crisis. Let's try that again.

If we don't act immediately, the US economy is going to implode and drag the rest of the world with it. Congress must approve squawk the $700,000,000,000 bailout squawk to avert this challenging situation. Foxy Loxy told me so.

Congresspeople: Before robbing Peter to pay Paul on President Little's say-so, can you do us a favor and waste a few brain cells on that rescue package? Can you make sure Foxy Loxy isn't hiding in an obscure section waiting to lead us to our end? I want to be saved and all but Little makes me nervous. Remember, I'm paying your salary not to mention footing the bill for your health care, so please put away your rubber ducky stamps and take a few moments to consider the ramifications of what you approve. That includes you, too Jonnny Bonny and Barry Parry.

And speaking of health care, do you think we can do something about the "situation" before it reaches the epic meltdown stage?

Thanks a billion.

31:45

That's me at right crossing the finish line at yesterday's CVS Providence 5k. I came in 2470th place, the 51st finisher in my age group (out of 235). First place finisher in my group was Joan Benoit Samuelson. Dang.

I didn't reach my sub-30:00 goal, but I was happy with my race. It was pretty warm out there, and I couldn't even run my race pace for almost 2 minutes because it was so crowded and I was trying not to get trampled. I look at it this way: I have a year to shave (more like amputate) 1:46 off my time.

That's me below, warming up for the race with The New York Times. I was reading a series of remembrances about Yankee Stadium, which closed last night forever. Perhaps my warm-up routine needs a little tweeking?

Bad Ol' Brooklyn Days

In 1985, we moved to Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Friends and relatives thought we were nuts. What's wrong with Park Slope, Brooklyn Heights? Isn't Fort Greene dangerous?

What is was was interesting. It was filled with interesting characters, dead and living. Marianne Moore, a poet about whom I'd written my masters thesis, had once lived in a house very similar to ours just two blocks away. Richard Wright had written Native Son around the corner. Bill Lee, jazz musician and father of Spike, used to play the piano before PTA meetings at P.S. 20 where both of our daughters attended elementary school. Spike Lee lived in the neighborhood, too, filming She's Gotta Have It in various Fort Greene locations. Which reminds me: shots of our house appeared in an episode of The Cosby Show, our 2 seconds of fame. My daughter and I were filmed walking on the sidewalk out front. Sadly, we ended up on the cutting room floor.

Fort Greene back then had its dark side, which is why some people failed to see its positive characteristics. There was a fair amount of crime, most of it drug-related. In fact, there was a crack house on our block. I'm going to save this story for another day because it's long and politically charged. It's a story about community organizing, about how ordinary people make changes by coming together and working with other groups and agencies for the common good. If you think this task is easy, it might be because you never did it. That's all I'm saying, for now.

Bonfire of the Vanities

Greed on Wall Street is something new? I don't think so!

What's causing the "adjustments" and "situation" in the US financial markets? Who's to blame? I swear I didn't do it.

Let's see. Could it be Wall Street? The Republicans? The Democrats? Deregulation? Overzealous regulation? Washington? Politics as usual?

What ho! John McCain cast a stone today at the chairman of the SEC. Says if he were president, he'd fire this man. That's tough talk, and perhaps this man should be fired. But picking out one person and blaming him for the mess on Wall Street (did I say mess? I meant situation) is a tad facile, don't you think? Maybe it's what the American folks want to hear. Because they didn't do it. And someone must pay.

Answer me this: Why did it take McCain so long to take on Wall Street excess? Certainly it's been around for awhile. Where has our white knight been all these years?

Infinite Jest

I've never read David Foster Wallace's weighty tome because I'm still recovering from Gravity's Rainbow. Before you think Shirley, you jest, allow me to plead that I was out of the country when Infinite Jest was published in 1996. I missed an entire period of contemporary lit the six years I lived in Costa Rica. This is a of course a ridiculous excuse. I plan to read DFW's novel one of these days. It can't be any more challenging than the one I'm currently (yes, still) reading, which by the way was published in 1998.

DFW died last week at the age of 46, an apparent suicide. In the midst of all the political bickering and financial wreckage, this news jumped out, shocked and upset me. (That other stuff merely upset me.) To the question, why does someone take his/her own life? I imagine because that life is unspeakably and painfully sad.

A couple of years back, I read DFW's collection of essays Consider the Lobster. One of the pieces examines John McCain during his 2000 bid for the Republican nomination. Who is this man, really? Can we get at the essence of someone who's been packaged and spun, as politicians invariably are? Is John McCain the real McCoy? My recollection is that DFW doesn't answer this question. My personal impression was that McCain was a fascinating guy, someone who wanted to both break icons and be one. A bit of a hothead, perhaps. A tad mean. A better choice than what we ended up with.

McCain may still want to believe he's an iconoclast, but Straight Talk has left the building. The maverick mantra sounds old and hollow. McCain's been packaged and repackaged, duct taped beyond recognition. Integrity and politics are apparently mutually exclusive.

You can put lipstick/aftershave on politics. It's still politics.

Running for Time

In 10 days, I'm running a 5k in downtown Providence. I announced several weeks ago with much bravado that I planned to run it in under 30 minutes. Now I'm thinking this might not be possible.

I've been trying to ramp up my "training," over the past few weeks, running more miles and trying to do "speed" workouts. The problem is, I'm as slow as a turtle. Contrary to proverbial wisdom, slow and steady DOES NOT win the race. My sons always say that if you're running a race, you should feel awful. I accept that, but I can't break a 9-minute mile without feeling as though I were about to expire. How will I ever run 3.1 miles at my current "race" pace?

The last time I ran this event, in 2006, I ran with the Marine Corps at my heels. Literally. There I was, huffing, puffing, sweating and feeling deathish, pursued by 30 some-odd totally jacked men rhythmically chanting and waving Semper Fi flags. I credit the Marines with helping me run 30:32, and I thank them for not passing me. I was under the impression these brave souls would scoop me up and carry me to the finish line if I collapsed in the street. After all, I attended any number of Marine Corp Balls when I lived in Costa Rica. But I digress.

If the weather cooperates, I might have a chance. This morning it was cool and dry, and I ran 2.7 miles in 27 minutes. That's an unofficial time because I forgot to set my watch when I took off and only noticed it some 200 meters down the road. I wasn't trying especially hard, and I felt really good throughout the run, which means I certainly wasn't pushing myself. Tomorrow I'll do another speed workout.

If only I could find a few good men to chase me down the street.

Gardening for Mummies

When I was eleven or twelve years old, I developed a serious interest in gardening. My brothers cut the lawn, while I tended to the vegetable and flower beds. After a long hiatus, after college and after apartment life, I stuck my green thumb back in the dirt. Our first house in Brooklyn, the one in the shadow of the 'D' train, had a tiny patch of land out back, sandwiched between the house and the poor excuse for a garage. Most of what I planted was swiftly and savagely attacked by pests. Since I was loathe to use poison to control the nasty borers and fungi, and I soon tired of hand picking the worms off the tomato plants, I eventually gave up. Our second house, in downtown Brooklyn, had a front garden with a lot of fusty evergreens, which I promptly ripped out and filled with more updated plantings. This time the pests were human ones: much of what I planted was stolen within days. The back yard had an above-ground pool and brick patio. Sick of the plant thievery out front, my husband built a curving wall that we filled with dirt and loaded up with flowers and herbs. It was small, but in the middle of summer, it overflowed with colorful blooms.

When we moved to Costa Rica, I thought I'd died and gone to gardening heaven. Problem was, the house we rented came with its own gardener, who took it as a personal affront if I attempted to plant anything myself. When we eventually bought a house, we inherited a gardener with it. He only lasted a week because he was terrified of our dogs. We hired a new gardener named Jesus, a machete-wielding Nicaraguan banana maven whose Spanish I could barely understand. By this point, I had given up any pretense of using garden tools myself. I bought the plants, and Jesus did all the real work. He was an amazing gardener, responsible for the beauty of our lush little acre, not to mention our forty-square meter vegetable patch.

We live on a little more than an acre here in Rhode Island. Within days of our arrival, I was seriously missing Jesus. But I quickly got to work adding to the perennial border out back, filling in the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs. For the past three summers, I haven't been able to do any gardening due to my compromised immune system. Last week, I was finally cleared to once again play in the dirt. Except that I had to wear protective clothing, gloves and a heavy-duty mask, the kind you wear for asbestos removal. Wrapped like a mummy, and barely able to breathe, I attacked the neglected gardens with a vengeance, imposing order and a measure of beauty where there had been weeds the height of corn.

It's good to be back.

The What

Every time I turn around, there's a topic crying out for development or commentary. Some of these ideas come from within. They include, among other things: interior monologues; random scraps that manage to lodge in my conscious mind long enough to hop on a train of thought; mostly mangled memories . Then there are those topics that I read or hear about in the media, or that one of my kids brings up. Or perhaps it's a question rasied by my husband, such as How many Americans think like us? It was clear from the way he asked that he feared the number was very very small.

I read a lot, but since I'm currently not a member of a book group, what I read goes largely undiscussed, and therefore quickly forgotten. I'd like to talk about books here, what I recommend and why. I'm currently reading a book called The Savage Detectives by a Chilean writer, Roberto Bolaño, which sad to say I've been reading forever. The structure is odd, and there is what seems like a cast of thousands, all bearing foreign names and all turning up in different cities. The main characters never narrate, so you have to piece together their adventures based upon what the other characters describe. More on this novel when I finally finish it, I promise.

Since it's election season, I'll veer off into that risky territory from time to time. One of these days, I promise to deliver a rant about Sarah "Fahrenheit 451" Palin, the GOP candidate for VP.

To the left, you'll see a list of blogs I follow. All of them are written by incredibly strong people who've been battling what we call The Beast. You'll also see a heading called My Word! These are links to essays I've written. I'll be adding to the list once I figure out how to unearth articles I've lost in cyberspace.

The Why

In my first post, I described the where of this blog. Now I’ll tell you its raison d’être.

Apparently, I’m descended from a long line of people who like to have their say, in other words, blatherers. We don’t even require that others listen to us; we just need to express our views on everything imaginable, often failing to recognize the universal sign of listener boredom, glazed-over eyes. We will be heard! Fortunately, there is a place we can now lob our bon mots, bitter diatribes and infinity of unasked-for opinions: the Blogosphere. It’s a lot like the atmosphere only better because people sometimes legitimize our words by commenting on them.

My family is well-represented in the blogging world. A quick google turns up 9000 entries, although almost all refer to my brothers. Armchair analysis suggests that our father’s tendency to squelch all discourse when we were growing up, especially opinions he did not share, caused words to leak out of us uncontrollably once we were free of his grip. Not that we’re completely free of him, but he can no longer make us shut up.

Stayed tuned for the what. Which reminds me: What is the What by Dave Eggers is a book I recommend if you’re looking for a serious read.

There Was Something About Mary

My friend Mary died of colon cancer Monday. I met Mary 5 years ago when we trained to be volunteer facilitators at Friends Way, a local children’s bereavement center. That first impression of Mary proved to be indicative of who she really was. Mary was soft-spoken, kind, nurturing, and supportive. No surprise that she was a school nurse. No surprise she was from upstate New York, either. I knew that accent anywhere, having attended college at SUNY@Buffalo. Turns out we were alumni.

Mary played a role in supporting me and my family when I was diagnosed with leukemia. As a school nurse at the middle school, she informed my youngest son’s teachers about my illness, and let him know that if he needed to talk, she was always available. She also called the high school guidance department to have them spread the word to my older kids’ teachers. Mary visited me during my long month in the hospital, a time that was and still is a blur to me. After my relapse, Mary was there for me again, cooking food for my family and sending a bag of goodies to the hospital where another month of my life was lost.

Mary was diagnosed with colon cancer about a year ago. Due to my own health challenges, I’d not spoken to her in a long time. A mutual friend updated me from time to time about how Mary was doing. Mary did not want to burden others with her illness, a sentiment I completely understand.

I went to Mary’s memorial service yesterday along with my youngest son, who's friends with Mary's son. The standing room only crowd heard loving tributes from family members and friends. It was sad but comforting to hear the person you knew described over and over as well, the person you knew, too. Someone quoted Abraham Lincoln: it’s not the years in your life that count, but the life in your years. From that perspective, Mary had a long rich life. I’m richer having known her.

The Where

From where I sit, all I see are trees and a small slice of sky. At this time of year, all is textured and leafy, and the tree growing toward my window is bearing small red fruit. No one can agree on what kind of tree it is, not even the so-called arborist who came to prune it, nor the alleged landscape architect who designed the foundation planting several years back. Checking the Field Guide to North American Trees, (what, you don’t have one of those?), it seems to be a crabapple of some sort, which are not native to this area. That makes two of us.

I live in semi-rural technically-suburban Rhode Island in a house tucked into 1.5 mostly wooded acres. The majority of the trees are second-growth oaks, meaning their mighty ancestors were chopped down by my ancestors (I use the term loosely) and these gangly teens are what grew back. Like human teens, these trees are a lot of work. Sure, they provide shade, but they also pelt us with acorns, coat us in pollen and throw down three times the number of leaves they seemingly have. But I digress.

The property is exceptionally peaceful and very easy on the eyes, something we were pleasantly surprised by when we turned up here six years ago. We bought the house on the internet while living in Costa Rica, having no idea what the setting was except that it wasn’t in a sub-division. We got lucky. It’s the perfect spot for observing wildlife (ever hear of a fisher cat?), leaf peeping and watching the woods fill up with snow, the perfect setting for a writer’s retreat.

This is where my words spill from, where I string my sentences. Welcome to Word in the Woods.