Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Best American Essays

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Oates, Joyce Carol, ed. The Best American Essays of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000.

As bloggers we cannot help but be reminded that November is National Novel Writing Month. It’s as if there a reminding hope that writing these one-three paragraph diatribes could somehow be transformed into something as concrete, or as interesting, as a full blown novel. I squirm with discomfort every time someone says I should write a book. While my stories are interesting…to a point, I don’t see a need to make them more than what they are: tiny bubbles of thought designed to pop (and ultimately, hopefully) go away when released.

Anyway. This isn’t about me and my nonability to write. This is about the complilation of essays from those who can.
Best American Essays of the Century wraps up the creme de la creme of essay writing from 1901 – 1997. Beginning with Mark Twain (“Corn-pone Opinions”) and ending with Saul Bellow (“Graven Images.”) As part of the Book Lust Challenge I read the following essays:

  • “Stickeen” by John Muir ~ “…for many of Nature’s finest lessons are to be found in her storms” (p 32).
  • “Corn-pone Opinions” by Mark Twain ~ “We are creatures of outside influence; as a rule we do not think, we only imitate” (p 1).
  • “A Law of Acceleration” by Henry Adams
  • “The Devil Baby at Hull-House” by Jane Adams
  • “The Crack-up” by F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ Life was something you dominated if you were any good” (p 139).
  • “The Ethics of Living Jim Crow: an Autobiographical Sketch” by Richard Wright
  • “Sex Ex Machina” by James Thurber ~ “Every person carries in his consciousness the old scar, or the fresh wound of some harrowing misadventure with a contraption of some sort” (p 157).
  • “Letters from a Birmingham Jail” by Martin Luther King, Jr.
  • “The Brown Wasps” by Loren Eisley
  • “A drugstore in Winter” by Cynthia Ozick

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Essaying Essays” (p 80).

Saute Scared Silent

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Obsession
Obsession

Forgive me for having a singular thought these last few days. When something becomes bigger than me it’s more like an obsession it’s really hard for me to walk away, especially emotionally. I’ll move onto to something else shortly, I guarantee it. There’s no way around it. I’ll drive my husband crazy if I don’t.

But right now, right here, this is what scares me. We are hours away from the inspection (yes, it was supposed to happen Saturday – everything is delayed and that just adds to the one-tract-mindness of me). Here’s the thing: I already know this kitchen won’t work for me. Not 100% at least. I can feel it. I promised Kisa I would compromise. I said I would try. But, but! But, I have no room for my beloved bar stools or book shelves. Where do my cookbooksdiaries go? Will my Emeril-ware really have to go in a hall closet? Say it aint so! It seems insulting to shove skillets and saute pans in a space built for scarves and overcoats. I’m spoiled by a beverage pantry, three different spice racks, space for a tortilla maker and beverage frother (don’t ask). Where, exactly, will that stuff go? Over 1,900 square feet of space and suddenly I’m stressing about storage. Shouldn’t I be concerned about the roof? The boiler? The foundation? Something bigger than a breadbox and cutting board? I’m thinking of selling unused cookbooks and never touched utensils.

But, despite the questions about the chimney and everything else, it’s the kitchen I keep coming back to. What if I can’t cook in this space? What if me, myself and all my stuff won’t fit in this space? I’ll admit it. I’m scared of this space.

Because I’m Insane

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I’ll make this quick: I have been absolutely positively missing my voice Mr. Sean Rowe, so so so I am planning on a road trip with kisa.
Saturday after Thanksgiving 11/29 – Show starts at 8pm.
Bread and Jam Cafe in Cohoes, NY

I’m leaving the info about Miss Rebecca Correia’s show here, too:
When: 12-21-09 (7pm)
Where: Iron Horse, opening for Brian O’Connor
Tix: $18 (in advance)

The Darling

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Banks, Russell. The Darling. New York: Harper Collins, 2004.

I hate using words like “gripping” and “suspense-filled” to describe a book, but this time I can’t help it. The Darling was both of those things and much, much more. Once I started reading it I dropped every other book and concentrated on devouring the words of Russell Banks. While his plots are always over the top I like that hairy edge of reality and suspension of belief.

It’s a political thriller, a sweeping epic spanning the decades of one woman’s life, and a social commentary on Africa, racism and greed. It’s all of these things. Dawn Carrington is Hannah Musgrave who is also “Scout.” Dawn/Hannah/Scout is a woman with a past as complicated as her many names. Brought up by affluent, almost snobby parents as Hannah she is drawn to the underworld of political terrorism as Dawn. On the run after being indicted for a bombing gone bad, Dawn flees to Liberia and, by marrying a government official, becomes Missus Sundiata, her fourth recreation. Told from future to past and back again Dawn/Hannah takes you on her unapologetic journey through deceit, corruption, power and humanity.

Part of the reason why I liked The Darling so well is because it was written by a man. Russell Banks is able to capture the voice of a woman as a wife, mother, and an individual fiercely protective of her independence and individuality. Even if she doesn’t know who she really is. The first person voice is reminiscent of Barbara Kingsolver’s Taylor Greer or Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid.

Favorite lines:
“I was not a natural mother. Was not programmed like most women with a mother’s instincts and abilities…It’s as if I was, and still am, missing the gene” (p 171).
“But how I wished I were invisible. My white skin was a noise, loud and self-proclaiming” (p 177).
“I woke just before dawn with a boulder of rage lodged in the middle of my chest and a desire to break someone’s skull with it” (p 236) – that sounds like something I would say!
“That’s the real American Dream, don’t you think? That you can start over, shape-change, disappear and later reappear as someone else” (p 255).

Another section I had a love-hate relationship with was Hannah/Dawn’s father passing away from a stroke. The detail of his death was almost too painful to read, having watched my father slip away much in the same way.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Men Channeling Women” (p 166).

Cross Your Roads

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Staring Down the House
Staring Down the House

Cross your roads and hope to fly. That was the message on my phone this morning. How did he know? I only told two girlfriends and a sister the news. I’m at crossroads yet again and it’s all I can do to hope for flight. Really.

My life is changing again. I think if I go back a few months, maybe a year ago, I said I didn’t want the same ole, same ole if I could help it. Well, fate has handed me another PassGo card and I’m changing again.

That’s all I can say for now.

Passionate Nomad

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img_4236Geniesse, Jane Fletcher. Passionate Nomad: The Life of Freya Stark. New York: Modern Library, 2001.

This has been hanging around the house for over a year now. I had no idea it was even on “the list” until now. Someone gave me a copy with the recommendation, “read it. It’s good. You’ll like it.” Okay. So, in honor of National Travel Month I put Freya on the list (as soon as I found out it was even on the list).

Freya Stark was an amazing woman. Not because she explored uncharted territories. Not because she dared to go where even the bravest of men hadn’t. Not because she had no regard for her own well being. Not even because she was an expert Arabist. She was an amazing woman because she dared, period. We hear about the glass ceiling and what women even today are tolerating. Freya faced all that and more.
Geniesse weaves a convincing autobiography of Freya Stark using letters to and from Freya, journals, interviews, but mostly from Freya’s own library of books written about her experiences. Freya was a prolific writer and so Geniesse had plenty of material to draw from. The final product is a fascinating account of one woman’s rise to recognition through exploration and encourage, especially during one of the most volatile times of our history – World War II.

A few favorite passages:
“One suspects that all her life Freya carried some degree of rage…” (p 23).
“A telegram from Freya requesting that a tin bath be shipped into the interior of Yemen was not unusual” (p 156). You go girl!
“Wherever she went to find solitude on this great, empty earth, from nowhere emerged some form of life, human or otherwise, to share the loneliness” (p 217).
“in the middle of the night she was awakened by the tinkling of a music box being played close to her ear” (p 250).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Lady Travelers” (p 143). I am excited to think I will be reading some of Freya’s own works (eventually), – from this same chapter. Maybe next year.

Taking the Trouble

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Reconstruct

I learned a valuable lesson today. You have to take the trouble to be the trouble. Originally, I wanted to think I had all the answers. I came armed with what I considered reasonable solutions, reasonable requests. Instead I was met with words like “not strict enough” and “doormat” and “fantasy land.” It was hard to believe I was being described in this way, especially after the month I’ve had (or thought I’d been having).

I’m not fierce enough. This isn’t a popularity contest. No one should like their boss. Not one that should be respected anyway. I let people make the same mistakes a billion and one times, and if I include today, a billion and two. How do I say You Can’t Communicate in any other way? “There has to be a penalty for the mistakes” I was told. Okay.
I’m not diligent enough. I don’t watch the clock and add up the minutes. I don’t pay close enough attention to the comings and goings, the called out, come in lates. You can be late a dozen times on my lax watch. “There has to be a penalty for tardiness” I was told. Okay. Okay.
I don’t hold my cards “close enough to the vest” as they- no, as she said. I need to learn phrases like “when it concerns you I’ll let you know.” I need to recognize situations; situations that cost money like when people waste time wondering about something that has nothing to do with the responsibility. I need to re-prioritize people. Reorganize people. Re-everything. Okay, okay, okay!

So, I took a crash course in management. I took criticism on the chin. It made me stronger. It made me think clearer. It made going back to the office to work on the dreaded schedule a whole lot easier. I didn’t try to juggle the birthdays as closely; didn’t try to dodge the anniversaries; didn’t cave in whimsical requests. Like it or lump it I changed things up for the better. Finally. Finally, I’m taking the trouble to be the trouble. I like a challenge. I like confrontation and I like change. So, I changed me. When I handed the whole schedule – all 12 months of it- off to a trusted coworker I felt justified in my reasonings. It was a relief to let it go.

then I went home.

Continent for the Taking

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img_4235French, Howard W. A Continent for the Taking: The Tragedy and Hope of Africa. New York: Alfred A Knopf, 2004.

Howard French’s portrayal of Africa is both professional and passionate. He is scholarly and sentimental. There is a deep knowledge about, and an undeniable kinship with, this continent yet French is able to objectively portray it all. He takes the reader through the events of horrific genocide as well as the equally deadly outbreaks of AIDS and Ebola diseases. French skillfully demonstrates how political infrastructures prove to be volatile and fragile yet Africa’s deep seeded cultural roots remain unfailing.

For me, this was a hard read. I simply couldn’t wrap my brain around the threat of senseless violence everyone, regardless of race, age, caste, or sex, had to endure. When these attacks rained down no one was safe. Survival depended on the ability to outwit, outrun, outhide the attacker.

Passages that struck:
“For Mariam, Africa would forever be home, the place where she returned to recharge” (p 5). Despite its unflinching violence, political unrest, and never-ending poverty there is an allure.
“The advantage of a good travel companion goes beyond plain company; his real value is in the kind of moral encouragement he provides…” (p 83).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Africa: A Reader’s Itinerary” (p 4).

As I Live & Breathe

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img_4234Weisman, Jamie. As I Live and Breathe, notes of a patient-doctor. New York: North Point Press, 2002.

In honor of National Health Month I decided to read As I Live and Breathe. I always find memoirs interesting when the author is more than your average individual. Who doesn’t? Dr. Weisman also has a talent for words which makes her unique story all that more compelling.

Dr. Jamie Weisman is a unique woman. While living within the confines of her illness she chose to do something about it, she joined the medical profession. As she says in her memoir, “”Now that I’ve finished medical school, I know what all those names mean, what diseases they describe, but you cannot know what they are as an illness until you see them in a patient” (p 15). Not only is her condition (congenital autoimmune deficiency disorder) rare and confusing, but her duality of patient and doctor gives her an interesting perspective- from bedside manner of doctor to bedridden patient. Because she is able to really know what the patient is experiencing she can deliver the empathy necessary for individuals really suffering.
My only real disappointment was the organization of the chapters. Dr. Weisman jumps around, remembering patients and her own childhood at random. I would have prefered a more chronological accounting. The last two chapters of the book, “begotten” and “begetting” are warmer and more personal and as a result seem a departure from the more clinical previous chapters.

Favorite blurbs:
“Our diseases overwhelm us at the strangest times” (p 16).
“I knew no happy lawyers” (p 31).

BookLust Twist: From both Book Lust and More Book Lust. In Book Lust in the chapter called, “Physicians Writing More Than Prescriptions” (p 185), and in More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Other People’s Shoes (p 181).

Unassuming Assumption

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This house was unassuming. It gave us the assumption we could take care of it. This house was deceiving and wily. It sat there cunning and let us come in. It let us take in its three season porch, green house, sweet bathrooms, master suite and understated kitchen. We walked around thinking average. We walked around thinking simple. We assumed it was an easy to maintain, easygoing house. Until we got home. 2,000 square feet. Great if we want to lose the cat. Great if we want to never see our guests. Was it reallllly that big, we had to ask ourselves. The house on Watson seemed so so much bigger. Was it Watson’s walk-in closets (eight!) or the dining room so big you could go bowling in it? What made “our” house seem so small in comparison (but in actuality be almost 75 sq feet larger)? As first time home buyers, shouldn’t we be more baby in our steps? I wasn’t sure. The price seemed right and the location, fair. But, to be fair it’s really hard to see “pretty” in the pouring rain. Especially in the heart of November.

So, here we are. We told our realtor we want a second showing. Something to prove it really is that big. While we are there I’ll try to lose my husband in one of the bathrooms – because if I can do that, it’s too big.

Christmas Comes Early

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I got an email yesterday that made me smile. It wasn’t the email from my realtor preparing me for a showing of 11 houses today. It wasn’t the sweet comments from my friends. It wasn’t the approval to bring in volunteers (read: replacements) at work. It wasn’t my insurance agent’s new claim request. It was the announcement that my friend Rebecca will be bringing her amazing voice back to Northampton next month! She had even more good news – she doesn’t need to sell tickets in advance!

Here’s what I know: Iron Horse 12/21. More details to come.

Now I’m off to see (gulp) 11 houses.

Slip Sliding Away

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img_1484I have always had a touch of social somethingness. Call it anxiety, call it timidness, call it what you will, but I’ve always had it. Lately, it’s gotten worse in a weird way. I’m starting to avoid other things besides odd people. Case in point: I didn’t miss my nephew’s birthday. I was aware of his two-ness all Sunday long yet never got around to sending him anything. I didn’t forget. I just didn’t do. Same with a grandmother. It’s remembering without reaction. Three anniversaries went by and while I thought of the lovebirds, every one of them, I didn’t acknowledge them. What is wrong with me? Those well meaning phrases, “I meant to…” “I wanted to…” don’t mean a thing. And I’ve never liked “It’s the thought that counts” because it’s a copout and besides, no one’s reading my mind as of late. I can assure you that.

Maybe it’s the househunt and the inexplicable want to live just shy of gangland. Maybe it’s the fact I *just* got my car back (today!) and it still needs more work. Maybe it’s the job and the disappointment that I don’t have the most enthusiastic team. Maybe it’s the family and the guilt of not making the trek to see them for the holidays. I can’t even pat myself on the back for running 5.25 miles today.

I feel as though I am slip sliding away from my heart. Some will read this and call me over reactive. Prima-donna dramatic. I think it’s just the opposite. I don’t have the energy to care. My enthusiasm has flat lined.It’s as if I am dead to me.

When I Go

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hauntedI asked my husband why graveyards weren’t decorated for Halloween. Or Christmas, for that matter. I think my question took him by surprise. “Well…it doesn’t seem right…” he answered slowly. Cemeteries have always been my place of sanctuary so I’m sure he was afraid of offending me.

“Well,” I retorted sharply, “when I die I would like you to bring me a Jack-o-Latern. On Halloween have it lit. Leave me candy, maybe a few plastic spiders.” Kisa laughed and said he thought he could handle that. It didn’t seem to be such a tall order for after death. He did warn me that the pumpkin would look funny, though.

Bridge to Terabithia

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Paterson, Katherine. Bridge to Terabithia. New York: Crowell, 1977.

I remember reading this in grade school. No, I take that back. Someone read it to me as “quiet time” in grade school. Then, the movie came out. When Kisa rented it I discovered I had been mispronouncing “terabithia” for years (tera-beeth-ia instead of tera-bith-ia). Not my fault since someone else read it that way.

One of the problems of seeing a movie and then reading the book is the danger of making comparisons to the visuals on the big screen. Because I couldn’t remember the plot from 32 years ago that’s what happened to me. I kept seeing the movie in my mind as I read the words. Either way, it’s a really cute story.

Jesse Aaron is a loner who lives inside his little world of solitude and art. His family is large and boisterous and often times, Jesse doesn’t feel understood by anyone, especially having three sisters. When Leslie Burke moves in next door Jesse is determined to ignore her, too. Soon he discovers they have more in common than he would like to admit. Leslie is creative, smart and a tomboy who can run faster than he can. Eventually they are inseparable friends. Jesse learns more than he bargains for by befriending Leslie.

What I found most compelling is that Paterson wrote this book for her son after he loses a friend to a lightning strike. On the dedication page she indicates her son insisted her name be included.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Best for Boys and Girls” (p 22). Note: Pearl indicates Bridge to Terabithia would be more suitable for girls, but I think it would be equaling interesting to boys.

Waiting On a Moment

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DSCN0006

I was tempted to call you. Is this how it went for you? Is this how it’s supposed to go? All of a sudden this search has become bigger than casual drive-bys and GoogleMaps. Having gone through it before you makes you the instant expert in my eyes and so I’m telling you now, prepare yourself for all the questions. Did you think yourself as crazy as I do me right now? Did you find a place on the very first try?

We met for coffee (even though he doesn’t drink it) just like you said we would. The atmosphere was calm and cool, just as you said it would be. Page by page, line by line, we were told our options. Ways to get out were just as many as ways to commit in. Did he use the cookie with you, too?

Prowling around our first house was a lesson in humor. Newlyweds I muttered. Or something he joked back. Opening cabinets, running faucets, flushing toilets. Freezing when the phone rang. We’re supposed to be here he reminded me. Oh yeah. Opening closets, flicking on lights, checking wires. Huh? one of us grunts when a switch doesn’t turn anything on or off. Weird, the other mutters. They have a dog. They need to do laundry. They have the biggest bed I have ever seen. It all seems so overly personal. Invasive.
We moved on to the next piece of property. Not so funny. I did all the squawking, “I’d be a slave in the kitchen!” “All alone” I wailed. “Look! The hall of doom.” “Nope, don’t like it.” “Who paints their bedroom sea-foam green?” “What’s with all the mirrors?” “How on earth do you get in the back yard?” “Do they have a horse or just like the horse gate?” When we started discussing chopping into load-bearing walls I shut down and closed my mind like a prison cell; clanking shut with just as little chance of it opening again. “Can we go back to the other house?” I almost whined.
You were right. I know what I like. I found what I like. I’m just waiting on the moment to say lets seal the deal. Have I gone mad?