Dear You,
I cannot remember a time when I was happy to meet someone new. In social situations, even after all these decades, I feel awkward and out of my depth. I don't remember names, and I cannot tell you how often I've introduced myself to someone who looked instantly puzzled by it -- instantly I realize I should already know who this is.
The opposite is true for meeting new characters in books, and I am on an instant recognition basis with perhaps thousands of people, many of whom I've not encountered again in years and all of whom exist only in print. I open the cover of a new novel and am instantly on the lookout for the people who will be sharing their lives with me. I am sensitive to what they say, how they look, where they are, the ways they interact with others. I fill in blanks and anticipate their next moves. I love them.
The people I'm meeting today for the first time were created by Nina George in "The Little Paris Bookshop." Monsieur Jean Perdu and the people surrounding him in Paris began their lives, I believe, speaking German. Mercifully, I'm reading her book in an English translation and despite beginning it only a few hours ago, I'm about to pick up at Chapter 10.
Way too much has been written about the power of literature, and I certainly won't add anything to that here. If you, Dear Reader, also love books, you already know. Everyone else, I snobbishly believe, are to be pitied for all the worlds they have been missing. But I have lingered too long . . . I need to know what M. Perdu is about to do, now that he's on the verge of reading The Letter he'd tucked away, unopened, twenty years earlier. Please excuse me (I'm sorry I can't remember your name).
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Friday, April 8, 2016
Dear You,
I know, I know -- it's been awhile since I wrote something here. Busy, yes; hardly out of ideas! But I'm already off track.
The email from my high school class chronicler recently let me know that Joanne died -- the 38th member of BHS '60. I wasn't surprised; after a half century since we sat in those classrooms, it's to be expected. But it got me thinking . . .
Perhaps the first digits assigned to me (after my fingers and toes were counted) was my Social Securityerfff number. And since then, so many others I won't bother enumerating. Just add the credit cards, the driving license, addresses and phone numbers . . . you get the idea. Some change, and others don't last long enough to remember: "You're caller 7; your call will be answered in 27 more minutes. Please hold." "52? 52? May I help you? (this at the deli counter, where I've taken a number for faster service.)"
So it's come to this. When Bob sends out an eventual email about my demise (should he outlive me, of course!), I'll be assigned one last number. I hope it's a big one.
I know, I know -- it's been awhile since I wrote something here. Busy, yes; hardly out of ideas! But I'm already off track.
The email from my high school class chronicler recently let me know that Joanne died -- the 38th member of BHS '60. I wasn't surprised; after a half century since we sat in those classrooms, it's to be expected. But it got me thinking . . .
Perhaps the first digits assigned to me (after my fingers and toes were counted) was my Social Securityerfff number. And since then, so many others I won't bother enumerating. Just add the credit cards, the driving license, addresses and phone numbers . . . you get the idea. Some change, and others don't last long enough to remember: "You're caller 7; your call will be answered in 27 more minutes. Please hold." "52? 52? May I help you? (this at the deli counter, where I've taken a number for faster service.)"
So it's come to this. When Bob sends out an eventual email about my demise (should he outlive me, of course!), I'll be assigned one last number. I hope it's a big one.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Watch where you walk
Dear You,
Sitting in waiting rooms requires a certain level of patience, and I guess I can always use more practice. Generally I bring something to occupy my mind -- a newspaper, this morning, and often a book; but my iTouch is also useful if there's connectivity. I am not averse, however, to looking around and thinking my thoughts when other avenues are not possible.
This is why my attention was fixed on a dreadful pair of lime-green Crocs (I think I have the name right) covering the feet of the fellow across from me. I'd looked at his face, of course, and quickly determined that he had enjoyed rather too many french fries for one lifetime, and then -- avoiding the rudeness that accompanies discovered staring -- dropped my eyes to the floor. That's when I discovered the footwear.
I shall never be invited to participate in a fashion show, and I am well aware that my appearance in public never rises above Acceptable. Still. Those shoes really should never appear outside one's house unless one stays in the back yard to weed the roses or rotate the compost soil. Whatever impression this fellow, stuffed into his blue jeans, might have retained was surely lost at his first step outside this morning.
Sitting in waiting rooms requires a certain level of patience, and I guess I can always use more practice. Generally I bring something to occupy my mind -- a newspaper, this morning, and often a book; but my iTouch is also useful if there's connectivity. I am not averse, however, to looking around and thinking my thoughts when other avenues are not possible.
This is why my attention was fixed on a dreadful pair of lime-green Crocs (I think I have the name right) covering the feet of the fellow across from me. I'd looked at his face, of course, and quickly determined that he had enjoyed rather too many french fries for one lifetime, and then -- avoiding the rudeness that accompanies discovered staring -- dropped my eyes to the floor. That's when I discovered the footwear.
I shall never be invited to participate in a fashion show, and I am well aware that my appearance in public never rises above Acceptable. Still. Those shoes really should never appear outside one's house unless one stays in the back yard to weed the roses or rotate the compost soil. Whatever impression this fellow, stuffed into his blue jeans, might have retained was surely lost at his first step outside this morning.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Off With Its Limb
Dear You,
After nearly twenty years of mowing the grass around it, the tree had changed from an impediment to a stalwart and dependable friend. So it was a shock last Fall to turn the corner from the back of the house and find a major part of Shigawa (he was, after all, a flowering Japanese cherry tree) broken out and lying on the ground.
The piece that had given way was not just a small part -- near the trunk it was a foot or more in diameter, and the whole thing was easily thirty feet long.
As with any creature with a broken limb, I called a doctor. Bob came right away, appropriately for such an emergency, and as he surveyed the damage in his dry, tsk-tsk way, said there was nothing to be done but surgery. "Will he survive?" I asked.
More silent study, and finally, "Well, yes . . . but every tree has a lifespan, and this is a pretty old one." The next day the Assistants came, and in a few minutes cut and tended to the wound. At Christmas, I burned in the fireplace the portions they saved for me -- sort of a ritual, I guess, and wondered how the amputee would look come Spring.
Well, it's here, it's just as pretty as ever, and cutting the lawn was even a little easier today.
After nearly twenty years of mowing the grass around it, the tree had changed from an impediment to a stalwart and dependable friend. So it was a shock last Fall to turn the corner from the back of the house and find a major part of Shigawa (he was, after all, a flowering Japanese cherry tree) broken out and lying on the ground.
The piece that had given way was not just a small part -- near the trunk it was a foot or more in diameter, and the whole thing was easily thirty feet long.
As with any creature with a broken limb, I called a doctor. Bob came right away, appropriately for such an emergency, and as he surveyed the damage in his dry, tsk-tsk way, said there was nothing to be done but surgery. "Will he survive?" I asked.
More silent study, and finally, "Well, yes . . . but every tree has a lifespan, and this is a pretty old one." The next day the Assistants came, and in a few minutes cut and tended to the wound. At Christmas, I burned in the fireplace the portions they saved for me -- sort of a ritual, I guess, and wondered how the amputee would look come Spring.
Well, it's here, it's just as pretty as ever, and cutting the lawn was even a little easier today.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Culinary Adventure, the next chapter
Dear You,
A belated Father's Day gift arrived: six cedar plank steaks from my daughter. I'd never had one, but was still surprised these required no refrigeration. I saw there was a page of directions, but I never read directions, trusting on my intuitive gifts. Anyway, I put one on the grill, smothered in a nice sauce, and tried it.
Good thing I have excellent steak knives! As the package noted, it did taste strongly of cedar -- probably a kind of marinade, I judged -- but I simply wasn't able to finish the thing. And I took my time, including nearly finishing that nice bottle of zinfandel I opened while it was cooking. It's possible I'll try another one next week, probably lengthening the time of soaking in my own marinade and lowering the heat . . .
Anyway, my dentist says what damage I did can be fixed. And I'm hoping that my daughter gives more thought that I'm getting too old to chew tough food, and praying she will send something easier, like tenderloins, for my birthday. (Funny, I always thought they were called "flank steaks," but now that I've actually had one, I can understand why I was wrong.)
A belated Father's Day gift arrived: six cedar plank steaks from my daughter. I'd never had one, but was still surprised these required no refrigeration. I saw there was a page of directions, but I never read directions, trusting on my intuitive gifts. Anyway, I put one on the grill, smothered in a nice sauce, and tried it.
Good thing I have excellent steak knives! As the package noted, it did taste strongly of cedar -- probably a kind of marinade, I judged -- but I simply wasn't able to finish the thing. And I took my time, including nearly finishing that nice bottle of zinfandel I opened while it was cooking. It's possible I'll try another one next week, probably lengthening the time of soaking in my own marinade and lowering the heat . . .
Anyway, my dentist says what damage I did can be fixed. And I'm hoping that my daughter gives more thought that I'm getting too old to chew tough food, and praying she will send something easier, like tenderloins, for my birthday. (Funny, I always thought they were called "flank steaks," but now that I've actually had one, I can understand why I was wrong.)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Vroom-VROOOOOOOOM
Dear You,
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Don't Be So Forward
Dear You,
When my email has the subject heading RE: I am on guard. Usually it's just a REPLY from a correspondent about something I've sent, but too often it's one of those dreary FORWARDS.
You know what I mean, I'm sure. Opened, the message contains block after block of email addresses of others who have received the thing, and when I finally get to the actual contents, it is something (a) I've probably been sent before, (b) really stupid, (c) really sappy, (d) really obnoxious, or (e) all of those. It's getting so that I feel about the people sending me this stuff the way I once felt for people who said "between my brother and I" or couldn't pronounce "dour" or "err" the proper way. Superior. (Okay, snobbishly and arrogantly so.)
The worse are those emails clearly wrong. I just got the one about the photographs taken at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. These were from negatives found in "a Kodak box camera found recently in a sailor's locker and still in amazing condition." This gifted photographer was, it seems, everywhere in that area, including in a plane, judging from some of the shots. Also in the future, since one of the ships he recorded wasn't built until a few years after that event.
How did I know this was another hoax, begun by someone with wayyyy too much time on his (probably) hands and forwarded by dozens of unthinking (okay, perhaps well-meaning . . .) people before it reached me? Well, Postman wrote that an education is supposed to give people a "built-in crap detector." When I get stuff like this, mine goes off. Loudly. And I open Snopes.com and type a few of the words from the message into the search box. Voila!
It's crap. As I thought. And my next action is to delete it. I don't think it does much good. It won't be long before someone else forwards it to me for my enjoyment.
In Cyberspace what goes around gets around and around and around. Endlessly.
When my email has the subject heading RE: I am on guard. Usually it's just a REPLY from a correspondent about something I've sent, but too often it's one of those dreary FORWARDS.
You know what I mean, I'm sure. Opened, the message contains block after block of email addresses of others who have received the thing, and when I finally get to the actual contents, it is something (a) I've probably been sent before, (b) really stupid, (c) really sappy, (d) really obnoxious, or (e) all of those. It's getting so that I feel about the people sending me this stuff the way I once felt for people who said "between my brother and I" or couldn't pronounce "dour" or "err" the proper way. Superior. (Okay, snobbishly and arrogantly so.)
The worse are those emails clearly wrong. I just got the one about the photographs taken at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. These were from negatives found in "a Kodak box camera found recently in a sailor's locker and still in amazing condition." This gifted photographer was, it seems, everywhere in that area, including in a plane, judging from some of the shots. Also in the future, since one of the ships he recorded wasn't built until a few years after that event.
How did I know this was another hoax, begun by someone with wayyyy too much time on his (probably) hands and forwarded by dozens of unthinking (okay, perhaps well-meaning . . .) people before it reached me? Well, Postman wrote that an education is supposed to give people a "built-in crap detector." When I get stuff like this, mine goes off. Loudly. And I open Snopes.com and type a few of the words from the message into the search box. Voila!
It's crap. As I thought. And my next action is to delete it. I don't think it does much good. It won't be long before someone else forwards it to me for my enjoyment.
In Cyberspace what goes around gets around and around and around. Endlessly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)