Tag: family

Shoeless Joe

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Kinsella, W.P. Shoeless Joe. New York: Ballantine, 1982.

This week of reading seemed to be all about dreams. First, Lincoln’s Dreams by Connie Willis and now Shoeless Joeby W.P. Kinsella. The movie “Field of Dreams” was based on Kinsella’s book. I don’t know if my memory of the the movie chased my reading, but it seemed easier to get through the 224 pages faster than usual.

Ray is a man possessed by love. Love for his family, love for the sprawling farmland of Iowa, and most importantly, love for the game of baseball. It’s this love that makes Ray take chances with all three. Spurred on by a mystical voice Ray builds a left field out in part of his cornfield. But, the voice doesn’t stop there. Soon it has Ray driving to Vermont to kidnap J.D. Salinger and from there the adventure really begins. Battling debt, childhood devils, and indecision Ray leans on his ever-understanding wife (and later, Salinger) to build a cornfield stadium that only a few can understand. It’s a magical story, perfect for Christmastime when the season is all about dreams and believing in the impossible.

Favorite lines: “Mark’s party is bulging with tweed and intellect” (p 47), and ” This is a carnival. People pay to be disappointed” (p 175).

BookLust Twist: In Book Lust and More Book Lust. From Book Lust in the chapter, “Growing Writers” (p 107), and from More Book Lust in the chapter, “Big Ten Country: The Literary Midwest (Iowa)” (p 26).

Just Have to Say

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So. Merry belated Christmas and all that happy hoohaw. I had one of those “nice” times. Eating lots of great food, watching one child open gift after gift after gift after gift…and did I mention the gifts? Well, you get the point. It seemed silly after a while. We left four hours later for a little while. I thought I would nap or run or something. Instead kisa made me open gifts. Knives and money – Lamson Goodnow knives and JJill gift cards. I’m not sophisticated enough for Jill, but I love their stuff just the same. I amsophisticated enough for the chef knives, though! Those, I do know how to use! Cannot. Simply, cannot wait to dice my way through some unsuspecting innocent vegetable. Funny, how I was just talking about knife skills at the staff lunch….weird. Anyway, back to the day. After trying to find graves in the snow we went back for more great food and…you guessed it…one child opening more and more gifts. Somehow she kept track of every bitty baby and barking furbie puppy. Four going on fourteen they all said.

Later still. Tried to call mom. Didn’t go all that well. Why am I the one holding the bag of guilt when I wasn’t the only one who went away? Every sentence was torturous and drawn out. Pulling answers from her mouth was worse than the proverbial teeth. Everything felt battle ready and weary. Long periods of silence on either end. Nothing to say. Nothing to make it better. Sorry I asked. Sorry I couldn’t say anything except Sorry I couldn’t be there.

Later still. Tried to find a friend. Found I was too late. Sighed and went to bed.

Too distracted to send cards this year. Each one went out as a reply instead of a greeting. Lame. I still don’t know what is causing this delayed reaction in me. I need to get over this Don’t Care attitude before 2009. Someone else claimed the new year for themselves. Yet, I say you have to share it with me. I just have to say you better.

Iron Determination

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Rebecca Iron Horse

Truth be told, the dying days of December have been drying up my peace and goodwill. This has been a month full of disappointment, fear, sadness and anger. This weekend I was bound and determined to practice a little generosity, a little grace. It started with keeping the library open for 5 1/2 extra hours. We were supposed to close due to the pending storm but I refused to be pansy about the precipitation. If the students had be stuck I was determined to be stuck with them. It was worth every suspicious look, every odd comment.

Rebecca’s show couldn’t have come at a worse time. We had barely cleaned up from one storm when we were slapped with another. All day I watched the snow come down, relentless in his drive to cover every sidewalk, every street and every vehicle. I shoveled my in-laws walkway, our sidewalk, and most of our driveways twice before giving up, giving in to the cold, wet exhaustion. I couldn’t keep up. In a way it was a good thing. I caught my mother’s phone call. She wanted to talk out her nervousness. Her father’s surgery is mere weeks away. She’s a little more blunt, “did you tell them he’s getting his leg cut off?” I winced at her harshness. I know it’s her way of coping but it still bites. To change the subject we talked of cancer and motherless children. I still can’t make sense of dying 10 days before Christmas. That iron determination just couldn’t hold on. I tell mom about the obituary taped to my computer. It smiles at me every morning. A reminder that life is sweet and oh so short.

Finally it was time to head to Rebecca’s show. My mother-in-law drove. No one else came yet strangers packed the Iron Horse. I watched my phone and worried about the roads. An unused ticket sat waiting at the counter. I only relaxed when I got word no one else would be coming. Safe and sound was all I cared about until Rebecca started to sing. Here’s the short but sweet setlist:

  • On Your Way Down
  • Miss You
  • Bring on the Rain (with comments about not needing any more precipitation)
  • Tell Kyle (“a true story about mixing business with pleasure. I don’t recommend it.”)
  • Home (a song about being on the rebound. I still call this Cowboy Christmas.)
  • Hold Me (I love the way Rebecca introduces this song. It’s beautiful.)

What made this show so special was this was the first time Rebecca didn’t have to sell a certain number of tickets in advance. For the first time ever the Iron Horse was able to comp her tickets, too. She tried to give me one but, but! But, I had already bought two in advance. Woops. I assured her I would never, ever accept a free ticket unless she was the headlining act. We made a deal. On the day that she becomes the big show, she could comp me a ticket – until then, I pay my own way.

When it Snows

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The past week has been a little on the hellish side, without the heat – if you know what I mean. Two major storms; one with weather and one in my personal life. I’ve managed to dig out from both.

Thank you to the students who were so appreciative of the extra library hours. Staying open an extra 5.5 hours for you was my pleasure. I had nowhere to go and, apparently, neither did you.

Thank you to my mother-in-law for braving the weather to see Miss Rebecca sing last night. I couldn’t have asked for a better pilot. Now that we know how parking works we should do it again.

Thank you to Rebecca for making the four hour trek to Northampton. You and your funnier than all get out father are amazing. Thank you for singing your heart out. I must insist that you stop saving ‘Hold Me’ as your last song. I couldn’t hold my camera steady thanks to the tears. I’m sure the video is going to reflect that grief. Don’t worry, I will blog about the entire thing…maybe even post a snippet of the video (depending on how shaky it is).

Thank you to my friend. I understand your absence. I missed you just the same.

Destination Procrastination

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What is it about this time of year that makes me move slower than molasses, feel heavier than heartache? Something is weighing me down and I haven’t found the fortitude to figure it out. What comes across as apathy is closer to personal panic. I had missed dinner with a friend by minutes and exhaustion still hasn’t allowed me to catch up with anything since.
We went to this company dinner last night, kisa and I – one of those coat and tie, heels and finery things. A nod to the powers that be, a thanks for the employment kind of thing. Before going we fussed over what to wear. Boot won out over heels. Black won out over red. We ate, chatted, and left. Just like that. It took longer to pick out clothes than it did to attend. I felt fat. I had nothing to say, nothing charming to hold anyones attention with. I’m not reading Twilight. I’m not a Harry Potter groupie and I don’t have kids to tuck in at night. Nothing to bitch about unless you count houses. It’s too bad they don’t seat people by interest. I felt like I could have started with the soup, slipped out during the salad, missed the main course, and upon rejoining everyone during dessert, not missed a thing; nor been missed myself. Like the movie kisa was watching. I left during the gangster bloody beating, talked to my mother for nearly two hours, and when I returned the movie was still in progress only this time the gangster was getting arrested. Like I couldn’t have predicted that. I didn’t miss a thing.
Somehow, somewhere along the way I pressed pause. I feel as though I am suspended from my life. Hanging inches above what I want to be doing; where I want to be. I’m sure it’s a mild melancholy of some sort. Kinda sorta maybe?

Cranberry Crazy

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feastMy in-laws didn’t want me to bring anything to the Thanksgiving dinner. They are gourmet all the way so I wasn’t really all that surprised. “We’re all set. Just bring yourself” they told me. But, that didn’t mean I didn’t offer – Stuffing? Done. Green bean casserole? P has her recipe. Sweet potatoes? Covered. Dessert? Five pies and counting. Mashed potatoes? Check. Finally, finally it was decided I could bring the cranberry sauce. Cranberry sauce! Instantly I thought: citrus, spicy and adult. One of each. Something raw (relish), something cooked (sauce). And…if they all sucked, I could always grab a few cans on the way out of town (hey, I used to eat that stuff straight from the can – STILL love it).

So, the citrus relish was in honor of my husband’s niece. Pineapple, tangerines, lemons, lime, maple syrup, and honey. If I had thought about it I would have added raisins and nuts since this was an uncooked, crunchy relish. Something for next year, maybe?

The spicy sauce was intended just to be a sauce for kisa and I – something a little kicked up. Cranberries, chipotles, Mexican cinnamon, sugar, ancho chili powder, and red wine vinegar. Simmered for a long time on really, really low heat. If I had thought about it I would have added shallots and garlic since this was a savory sauce. Something for next year, maybe?

The adult sauce was intended to be a port – a traditional cranberry sauce that everyone makes. I decided at the last minute to make a tribute to September 18, 2004 with some Tuaca – a vanilla orange liquor. Those of you who attended the festivities on that day will know exactly what I’m talking about! *wink*wink* So, it was a mixture of mustard, cinnamon, cardamon, cranberries and Tuaca. If I had thought about it I would have soaked dried fruit in more Tuaca for a really adult kick. Something for next year, maybe.
But, here’s the thing – they loved the sauces, all of them. Even the spicy sauce disappeared. Who knew?

So, I have officially been put in charge of cranberry sauce from here on out and my husband won’t stop calling me the Queen of the Bog. I’m already thinking of next year – sweet with strawberries? Spicy with jalapenos and tomatoes? Adult with sangria? Any ideas are greatly appreciated!

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.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum

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Atkinson, Kate. Behind the Scenes at the Museum. London: Black Swan, 1996.

November is writing month and to celebrate I decided to read something from Nancy Pearl’s chapter called “First Novels” (Book Lust p 88)…in two days!
Behind the Scenes at the Museum was honored as a Whitbread Book of the Year and received such words of praise as remarkable, impressive, entertaining, quirky, colorful, humorous, ambitious, unusual, lively, provacative, promising, witty, enchanting, sassy, astounding…I could go on (and on). With reviews using words like those how could I not expect to love it, want to love it?

From the very beginning Behind the Scenes draws the reader in. Told from the point of view of young Ruby Lennox…(before she is even born) there is humor and sarcasm. Her voice reminds me of the wise-alec baby on Family Guy (sorry, the name escapes me). Ruby is omnipresent, giving the reader insight on every thought, feeling, dream, nightmare her family has.
The alternate chapters (told in third person) give the backstory of Ruby’s mother’s life during the second Great War. The writing is not as humorous, nor as witty as when Ruby gets to speak. Over all the reading is a rollercoaster of ups and downs, twisting you through life’s crazy moments.
Favorite lines:
“She walks out, saying nothing, but inside, a silent Scarlett rages…” (p 22).
“…but how can time be reversible when it gallops forward, clippity-clop and nobody ever comes back. Do they?” (p 210).

All and all I wasn’t as wowed as I thought I would be. Maybe it’s because Ruby’s story isn’t the main focus after all. While she tells the story it’s more about her mother, Bunty, and the generations of women before her. It’s interesting to note there is always a war going on in some capacity and Ruby seems to always be walking in on her father having sex with someone other than his wife!

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called “First Novels” (p 88). But, I said that already.

A Lesson in Patience

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Last night my street was crawling with children. Face painted, wigged out. Some grubby-greedy, some sweet. All yelling Trick or Treat in crazy costumes. I was prepared with the sugared, packaged, rot-your-teeth treats but that didn’t really matter. I don’t think any of them would have had the tricks if I didn’t. Adults banged drums (what’s up with that?) and talked loudly. Parents hung back while their children groped their way up my steps, their eyes wide and wanting. In the darkness I could just make out Batman and a ghost whispering. Everytime I opened my book the doorbell would ring. One little rabbit didn’t have a bag to put her candy into. She held out a paw with wistful eyes. Her mom showed me the ripped paperbag she was barely holding together. "It’s been a long night" she explained. Before she could protest I produced a cauldron for her little bunny (I tried not to think of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction ). I love this time of year. Love this wild night. You wouldn’t think it to hear me talk, but I love the costumes, the creativity of some of the parents. I love the kids who say thank you ever so politely and stare up at you wanting more. The kids! I like laughing at the ones who pause to check out the goods and compare. Two Patriots (Brady and Moss) traded candy bars before even getting off my porch. Lot and lots of kids carried Unicef boxes – wasn’t expecting that. Note to self: have the change jar close by to avoid cleaning out the wallet!
Speaking of cleaning out – I ran out of candy before kisa could come home with backup (working late again). I wasn’t all that prepared this year so I tried to make the goodies stretch by bagging them with plastic flies and glitter. Truth be known, I kinda wanted to be somewhere else this year.
Later, when kisa finally got home we walked around the neighborhood. Adults hung out on darkened, candlelit porches while kids continued to chase each other with loud shrieks of laughter. We let Manorabug Spuke glow until close to midnight. Maybe he’ll light the November night, too.

This morning after pancakes and coffee Halloween came down from my living room. All the ghosts, gargoyles, cats, owls, pumpkins, witches, monsters, skulls, spiders and bats. Each one carefully wrapped and packed. I’m leaving one pumpkin out to fill with change throughout the year. That will take care of the Unicef Trick or Treaters. After that, I’m off to find a new cauldron.

Who Are You (& what have you done with me)?

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For the record:
For the time being I am glad we still live next door to the in-laws. Who knows what he would have done if we didn’t hear his cries for help?
I am not upset about the sirsy mobile being in an accident. Driver is okay, car is not. It’s time I moved on anyway.
I still think the attitude of my coworkers staff bites. Being angry about it “not being your job” just makes me want to say, “Find another one.”
It’s not my fault feelings change. I said I would be there, but not in that way. Not anymore. Get over it. I did.
I still haven’t forgotten which means I still haven’t forgiven. Maybe it’s the lack of forgiveness that won’t let me forget.

As I think these things and feel these things I have to wonder where I went. Hope it was good.

Meet Manorabug Spuke

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Manorabug is a spin-off of Windorabug. With his lid on, he is a man with hair. Without the lid he looks more like a bug. He belongs to the sky with his two stars and crescent moon tattoos. Mr. Spuke gets his last name from the family of spookies (came from Ireland in the 16th century). They later changed their name to Spuke to avoid detection every 10/31.

Better pics coming soon!

Off the Run and All Over the Place

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newshoes2
On Tuesday I put in a quiet 3.7 mile run on the treadmill. No gerbil jokes, no blogging about it, no fanfare. Just a quiet run for quiet me. I was feeling good enough to almost put in another one on Wednesday but the presidential (and final) debate was on and I was feeling political. How could I not be after the last debaucle – errr, debate? Have you ever seen such one-sided moderating in your life? Sheesh!

Anyway, I ignored the run thinking Thursday would be better. I argued with me and myself saying, the body needs a day of rest in between runs; the mind needs a day of rest in between worries. A day of rest would do us all some good. What I didn’t count on was putting in a 12 hour day at my work and then hanging out at Kisa’s work for another four. We left home around 6am and didn’t see our doorstep until well after 11pm. I’m sure poor Indiana thought we were putting her up for adoption. She certainly could claim abandonment these days!
I think of my mother. “Can’t you find someone else to push the buttons?” she says through the phone to my husband who is miles away, and “Geeze, they must not be doing a very good job if things keep breaking!” she mutters to me, right next to her. She sounds 97, all piss and vingar without a good thing to say. It’s no use arguing, trying to defend the technology I don’t understand. With a sigh I admit, “I don’t know, Ma. It’s television.” But, what I want to say is this, “It’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place; that tireless get-it-done work ethic. That commitment to working his azz off when everyone else has given up and gone home.”

So, I am happy to give up the run for another night. I’ll call it another day of rest even though it was work that kept me off the run.

Have This Time

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IMG_3586

I am trying really hard to not always write about the negative. It comes out so dramatic and unfailingly stupid. Except, it’s really hard to write about anything else when the sole purpose of the write is the rant. The negative is what got me here in the first place. Back in the day I would crawl around the rooms in my mind and pick out the crap that bugged me the lost. Writing was like opening a window and chucking the worst offenders out. While most of the stuff found a way to crawl back in, some of it was banished forever. If only one out of twenty crapoids disappears for good then mission accomplished I say.
Here’s the reality of my existence: I am dramatic. I am sensitive to the world around me and hypersensitive to how it treats me. When my mother tells me I’m not ready to handle a house (and maybe should get a condo instead) it hurts my feelings. How much of a failure after 40 can I feel? A lot. When people joke that my near-two nephew “didn’t kill me” I get nasty. It’s almost like these people still see me as 16 or something. I tend to shut down and shut out. Okay, so I won’t share the house-hunting antics with those who naysay. So, I won’t mention how my nephew made my heart fall out when he balanced himself on the edge of a 15 foot drop.
So. Those are my negative notions – the things I need to toss out of the attic. Will they find an open window in the basement? How soon will they crawl back into my head? I don’t know. Guess it’s up to me to secure the house. For now, I have. This time.

Postcards

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Proulx, Annie E., Postcards. New York: Fourth Estate, 2004.

This was a hard book to read. Really dark and disconnected. I prefer books that have more flow to them. I haven’t read a lot of Proulx. I have to admit I don’t really even remember the title of the one I did read. How pathetic is that? I’m looking forward to the short stories because I think they will have less opportunity to be so disconnected and choppy.

I think what struck me about Postcards was how powerful the language was. While the plot was hard and gritty, the way it was told was strong and confident. Almost like someone yelling emphatically, if that makes sense. It’s the story of a farming family in New England. They are torn apart by the departure of the eldest son, Loyal. He has just killed his girlfriend and left her body under a pile of rocks in a nearby field. While the death was an accident, Loyal’s leaving and the slow disintegration of the farm was not. Tragedy follows the family wherever they go. The beauty of the saga is how each chapter is punctuated with a postcard. It’s these postcards that illustrate the changing times both for the nation and the family. Loyal often writes home, careful not to tell anyone where he really is. He continues to stay disconnected and this is apparent in what he shares with his family.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “It was a Dark and Stormy Novel” (p 128).

Act of the Damned

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Antunes, Antonio Lobo. Act of the Damned. New York: Grove Press, 1995.

I have to admit this was not one of my favorite books this month. Maybe something was lost in the translation (literally from Portuguese to English), but there were too many layers of storytelling going on. Dr. Nuno Souza, a dentist, tells his story in first person, but his imagination works overtime to include an Edward G. Robinson, a cigar smoking, gun toting tough guy. Nuno is married to Ana, but has a drug addicted girlfriend on the side.
Even though Nuno is telling the story in the first part, it’s Ana’s family that is the center of the story. Her family is beyond corrupt. Incest and greed come second nature to these people. Ana’s mother is the voice in part two. I think what makes the story so confusing is that no one really uses names. When Ana’s mother tells the story she uses family connections, “my brother-in-law, sister-in-law, my husband, his father, her brother…” Later, Ana herself tells the story…then someone else who uses the same technique…

These are the quotes that caught my attention:
“I opened the drawer to take out a shirt and tie, and was met by enough sicks for an army of ankles” (p 5).
“I laid down the receiver while the two voices tussled, scratched and bit each other in an electric desert of screws and wires” (p 17).
“‘I want her out by the thirtieth at the latest. She can go to tell and listen to conversations down there'” (p 42).
“I wiped the smile off my mouth with a napkin” (p 71).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust from the chapter “Families in Trouble” (p 83).