Dear You,
The rain this early afternoon came while I was sitting on my porch reading a novel my guest left behind. The lanai, as it is known here, has a metal covering, and the sound drew me away from the scene of the crime in my story and, within a moment, transported me up the Atlantic coast 1,403 miles to another porch and another time.
I spent only a short time each Summer on the porch in Manomet, MA. Those days, like the house itself, no longer exist -- the house, unlike my memories of it, have been bulldozed and carted to a landfill.
Memories, I think, are a sort of landfill, too. More easily mined, sometimes, for the treasures we bury there. In the case today, I closed my eyes and back I went, lying on one of the spare beds, a book nearby, listening to the rain strike the rubber roof and watching the reflection of myself in the windows that had been swung open and hooked to the rafters.
I was transported, and with a great sense of longing had to pull myself back here to March 22 in Florida. Back to the scene of the crime.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Mene, Tekel
Dear You,
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
The day Gatsby reunites with his beloved, Daisy, the narrator, Nick Carroway observes that she is a flibbertigibbet and wonders why Jay doesn't see how far she has fallen short of his enormous dreams. Well, isn't that dramatic irony for you?
And isn't it the case with us all? In the end, doesn't Life itself fall short of our youthful dreams?
In the St. Petersburg Times, even the obituary section is a good read. Now and then, a writer turns one death notice into a little biography, and I read with no little jealousy how remarkable someone else's life has been. "That could have been me," I think, "if only . . .."
It is tempting now and then to make of oneself the hero of a story: "Sipping his coffee on the lanai, the morning forming itself in growing splender in all three directions he could see around him, Paul went over his List of Possibilities for the day." And several pages (chapters? Could this possibly be sustained?) later: "He leaned against the cushions and poured an unwise third glass of zinfandel, trying to decide whether to draw the drapes against the fading light. 'The middle of March already?' he sighed."
Okay, I agree. Way too Prufrock. Better to just get on with it. Still, I have to wonder if that Times writer, some day in the (distant?) future, will choose me.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Hisssss
Dear You,
I'm sheltering again this season in Florida and have not written a single blog in a couple of months. I clung to old habits in this interim, writing blog ideas on little scraps of paper -- as a consequence I have a stack of odds and ends in my top drawer. Perhaps they will become blogs; probably not.
Today I am enjoying a little bit of quiet -- the Visitors are off to the beach, not to return until supper-time. So I took my laptop to the lanai (that's a screened porch for everyone in Elsewhere) and worked a little more on my taxes. I was distracted soon thereafter by the Backyard Resident. The neighbors say he's a Black Racer (I think; my degree in herpetology has not come through), about 2-3 feet long (I think; he's always sort of curvy, so any thought of getting out a yardstick is probably useless), and -- I mean this -- very beautiful. No wonder Eve was tempted.
He lives somewhere in our house. Well. His shelter is under a sort of folded metal thing at the base of the lanai, so actual entry into the house is quite unlikely. (This is what I've promised to other residents and visitors; I cross my fingers about it.) During the day he is out and about, and he's pretty quick about retreating before any approaches. Just like the ones in the zoo, he's there to be seen, not petted.
I like him very much. Twice so far he has left his transparent, shedded skin for me to find -- I keep them on a hook in the garage to show to the grandchildren. Oooooo, hissssss!
I'm sheltering again this season in Florida and have not written a single blog in a couple of months. I clung to old habits in this interim, writing blog ideas on little scraps of paper -- as a consequence I have a stack of odds and ends in my top drawer. Perhaps they will become blogs; probably not.
Today I am enjoying a little bit of quiet -- the Visitors are off to the beach, not to return until supper-time. So I took my laptop to the lanai (that's a screened porch for everyone in Elsewhere) and worked a little more on my taxes. I was distracted soon thereafter by the Backyard Resident. The neighbors say he's a Black Racer (I think; my degree in herpetology has not come through), about 2-3 feet long (I think; he's always sort of curvy, so any thought of getting out a yardstick is probably useless), and -- I mean this -- very beautiful. No wonder Eve was tempted.
He lives somewhere in our house. Well. His shelter is under a sort of folded metal thing at the base of the lanai, so actual entry into the house is quite unlikely. (This is what I've promised to other residents and visitors; I cross my fingers about it.) During the day he is out and about, and he's pretty quick about retreating before any approaches. Just like the ones in the zoo, he's there to be seen, not petted.
I like him very much. Twice so far he has left his transparent, shedded skin for me to find -- I keep them on a hook in the garage to show to the grandchildren. Oooooo, hissssss!
Friday, December 14, 2007
It's all Greek
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?
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?
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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