Dear You,
It can't have been many years into my teaching career when I realized the job was essentially Sisyphean -- in one of the courses, for example, I'd start with The Scarlet Letter and progress through the year to The Great Gatsby. Year after year, never believing I'd ever reach the top with these boulders of knowledge. Year after year, starting over at the bottom.
So it was with every aspect of my duties. Is "alot" a word or two? Why is it funny to write after the death of a beloved pet that "I balled all night"? Which is used in this context: IT'S or ITS?
Soon it will be a decade since I sought to engage my students in these questions, and life now seems less Sisyphus than Tantalus. I'm up to my neck in possessions and people and prospects for ways to spend my time every day I awaken. My calendar is full, my bank account never quite emptied at the end of each month. Yet I sense something always out of reach. Even were I to stoop to seek a sip of it, I understand I will not slake my thirst.
Okay, life is a quest. But where am I headed here?
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Clutter
Dear You,
I'm in my basement "office" -- a space that includes my sewing machine and all the stuff that goes with it (including boxes of cloth), two bookshelves, and, at this season, a long table with yet-to-be-wrapped gifts. Around the corner are machines for washing and drying clothes, with shelves of cooking implements along the opposite wall and across from them many of the tools I've accumulated over the years. Essentially, it's wall-to-wall clutter down here, with paths for walking.
The problem is that other areas of this house are similarly cluttered. I have not yet ventured into the garage in this narrative, but you may imagine it. Nor will I even bother to describe the house in Florida, where I'm headed early next month. Long ago I knew it was easier to acquire than to dispose of . . . I just never dreamed how vast was that gulf.
In Russo's recent "Bridge of Sighs" the father sits in a car with the narrator, his son, parked across the street from a mansion just put on the market, one he will never be able to afford. He speculates whether anyone could live in such a house and NOT be happy. I paused there and thought of the line "Nature abhors a vacuum." A big house begs to be filled. If you have two houses, THEY beg to be filled. And I thought for the umpteenth time that the more stuff one has, the more it all detracts from a true pursuit of happiness.
It's not the stuff. It's never been the stuff. And it's a good time of the year to think about that.
I'm in my basement "office" -- a space that includes my sewing machine and all the stuff that goes with it (including boxes of cloth), two bookshelves, and, at this season, a long table with yet-to-be-wrapped gifts. Around the corner are machines for washing and drying clothes, with shelves of cooking implements along the opposite wall and across from them many of the tools I've accumulated over the years. Essentially, it's wall-to-wall clutter down here, with paths for walking.
The problem is that other areas of this house are similarly cluttered. I have not yet ventured into the garage in this narrative, but you may imagine it. Nor will I even bother to describe the house in Florida, where I'm headed early next month. Long ago I knew it was easier to acquire than to dispose of . . . I just never dreamed how vast was that gulf.
In Russo's recent "Bridge of Sighs" the father sits in a car with the narrator, his son, parked across the street from a mansion just put on the market, one he will never be able to afford. He speculates whether anyone could live in such a house and NOT be happy. I paused there and thought of the line "Nature abhors a vacuum." A big house begs to be filled. If you have two houses, THEY beg to be filled. And I thought for the umpteenth time that the more stuff one has, the more it all detracts from a true pursuit of happiness.
It's not the stuff. It's never been the stuff. And it's a good time of the year to think about that.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Well, well, well
Dear You,
The title of this piece probably should be "Medium Rare." It's the end of the year, and for me it means beef Wellingtons -- plural. I really enjoy cooking, and in December I have more chances than usual. Different combinations of guests arrive on different occasions, but the meal is always a beef Wellington.
This is an all-day deal for me. In the morning I season the tenderloin and put it into a 450 degree oven until it's well browned but very rare. Then it sits on the rack on top of the stove the rest of the day, tempting me to shave a bit here and there as I pass by.
About an hour before dinner, I mix a paste, starting with a liver pate as the base, adding whatever else that's handy -- chopped basil? Chopped pecans? Why not? This gets troweled onto the meat. Long ago I gave up making my own dough, opting for puff pastry from the frozen foods area. This has softened, and I roll it out to wrap the meat. Back into the oven, while I make a wine sauce reduction and heat the gravy for the potatoes.
No need to discuss what else is for dinner -- when I roll this baby out to the table for carving, everything else on the table is just part of the scenery. Wine, anyone?
The title of this piece probably should be "Medium Rare." It's the end of the year, and for me it means beef Wellingtons -- plural. I really enjoy cooking, and in December I have more chances than usual. Different combinations of guests arrive on different occasions, but the meal is always a beef Wellington.
This is an all-day deal for me. In the morning I season the tenderloin and put it into a 450 degree oven until it's well browned but very rare. Then it sits on the rack on top of the stove the rest of the day, tempting me to shave a bit here and there as I pass by.
About an hour before dinner, I mix a paste, starting with a liver pate as the base, adding whatever else that's handy -- chopped basil? Chopped pecans? Why not? This gets troweled onto the meat. Long ago I gave up making my own dough, opting for puff pastry from the frozen foods area. This has softened, and I roll it out to wrap the meat. Back into the oven, while I make a wine sauce reduction and heat the gravy for the potatoes.
No need to discuss what else is for dinner -- when I roll this baby out to the table for carving, everything else on the table is just part of the scenery. Wine, anyone?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Ghosts
Dear You,
Odd how a glass of wine poured slowly over a memory makes the past more poignant. I was thinking about the old Ben Franklin store on Main Street, and all of a sudden I saw myself as a teenager, headed past it on the way to Steadman's News Stand. It was after school, and I had my papers to fold, put into my canvas bag and distribute along my route.
How lively and interesting was that street. If I weren't running so late, I might stop for a cherry phosphate at Leonard's Drug Store, where that pretty redhead with the big blue eyes would mix it for me. Or I could pop into Seip Hardware and see if Becky was there to talk with her father. I'd pass McLain's, where I'd had my lunch of chili and rye bread earlier that day.
Wherever I went, people knew me and took an interest in my doings . . . especially when I was misbehaving. In that era, I could be sure I would be spoken sharply to -- or worse, someone would call my parents and turn me in!
All gone. Fifty years later, those businesses are as dead as their owners, and many of the storefronts are papered over, the spaces empty. Parking spaces are plentiful now.
In "Bridge of Sighs," Russo captures the long-ago presence of a small town, and reading it I cannot help thinking that those places have all given way. Driving through them now is a little like reading Wilder's "Our Town" over and over again -- sad, like the long-lost events of everyone's youth.
Odd how a glass of wine poured slowly over a memory makes the past more poignant. I was thinking about the old Ben Franklin store on Main Street, and all of a sudden I saw myself as a teenager, headed past it on the way to Steadman's News Stand. It was after school, and I had my papers to fold, put into my canvas bag and distribute along my route.
How lively and interesting was that street. If I weren't running so late, I might stop for a cherry phosphate at Leonard's Drug Store, where that pretty redhead with the big blue eyes would mix it for me. Or I could pop into Seip Hardware and see if Becky was there to talk with her father. I'd pass McLain's, where I'd had my lunch of chili and rye bread earlier that day.
Wherever I went, people knew me and took an interest in my doings . . . especially when I was misbehaving. In that era, I could be sure I would be spoken sharply to -- or worse, someone would call my parents and turn me in!
All gone. Fifty years later, those businesses are as dead as their owners, and many of the storefronts are papered over, the spaces empty. Parking spaces are plentiful now.
In "Bridge of Sighs," Russo captures the long-ago presence of a small town, and reading it I cannot help thinking that those places have all given way. Driving through them now is a little like reading Wilder's "Our Town" over and over again -- sad, like the long-lost events of everyone's youth.
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