Summer Reading List

When I was a kid, I would bike the blocks over to the library (making sure the creepy old man of the neighborhood wasn't following) and take my pick. I was a cautious reader, relying heavily on old favorites. I read a lot of outdated books- those books written before WWII, that the library was stocked with. Everyone always seemed happy in those, ready for adventure and ready for escapades. I still have a few of these old books in my own collection, picked up from library sales.

I find their allure is rather gone and their happy worlds a trifle tiring. I finally read "The Witch of Blackbird Pond" last year and loved it. I couldn't read it as a kid- I was too shaken by the deep depression that hung over the family in the book. Not surprising I couldn't read it then, after all, I was an undiagnosed child with deep depression myself. Sometimes things hit too close to home. And though I was an avid book reader and pedaled to the library more times than I could count, I never considered a Summer Reading List. No, summer was the time when you could read whatever you wanted and not be hampered by things like Ten Boom's "The Hiding Place" or Richardson's nauseating "The Peace Child." No more dull christian biographies or equally dull fiction. I read books by George MacDonald, allured by the idea of fish leading someone to a fairy woman and hardly understanding what Unitarian (as MacDonald was) could be. They were happy days when I poured over Beatrix Potter (even at twelve, I would sneak into the kid section and read them one by one), MacDonald, Agatha Christie and biographies on Mary, Queen of Scots, Katharine Hepburn (who knows) and Rose Wilder of Laura Ingalls Wilder fame. All this to say: this is the first summer I have created a list for myself of summer reads. There are only two entries but I think that's enough.

1. Jane Eyre: for month's now, St. John Rivers has been an illuminating figure in my life. He deeply believed that God would have him go be a missionary and yet, this belief only made him rigid and unhappy and in essence, a dangerous person. Stepping away from the branch of christianity I was born into, I can't help but seeing this in every person I encountered in that religion, including myself. Rivers allowed himself to be a person only in a very particular way (using God as the justification) and because of that decision, he refused to realize his self. So anyway, it's time to reread Jane Eyre and read over Rivers again and since I have a Norton Critical Edition of Jane Eyre, I'm ready to go!

2. Tess of the d'Ubervilles: I've held out on Hardy for a long time. Reading archaic dialect is not my idea of a pleasure reading but hells. I recently read a short story about a girl reading Tess and Wuthering Heights for Her summer reading and lets just say I've been inspired. Besides, if I read Tess, I know I'll understand the aforementioned short story in a much deeper way. And that's like swinging candy in front of a candy addict. So does anyone out there have a Summer Reading List too? Show and tell!

On Shopping

It occured to me as I sat staring to space here, at my writing desk, how imaginative shopping can be. All I envisioned was myself at Trader Joe's selecting a chunk of Gruyere cheese out of their basket of cheeses. I read somewhere that Gruyere cheese is delightful in a grilled sandwich so of course, I have to try it out. Better yet, I'll go to the local Pennsylvania-Dutch restaurant that has a tiny local organic market on the side and buy some Gruyere from the cheese seller tomorrow. Perfect! The pleasure of imagining myself picking out cheese and purchasing it, is even greater then what I imagine the finished sandwich will taste like. Though I'm not knocking that! I wonder if the cheese'll be from Wisconsin or Vermont because that's where the seller's main suppliers are. There might be a cheese wheel or two out, imprinted with vines, flowers and the maker's name. Cheese wheels are the medieval monks' invention and whenever I see a golden wheel, I get an itch ot try and make cheese myself in some dark and cool springhouse.

No cows. Oh well. So I'll buy the cheese made by someone else's hands and why not pick up some fresh butter as well? Add local eggs too and some heavy cream- for an orgy of soup making. Two soups from this fine farmgirl.

The cheeseand now, the bread. Will I make the bread to toast or will I just use store bought? Store bought today. Still haven't picked up a baking stone. I wonder what it'll be like tomorrow when Jeff and I shop for a few of these local items? Will I just be stressed, hot from the humid heat and intent on moving onto the next errand? Or will I carefully pick up my small square of Gruyere and think how someday I may make a monkish cheese in a big hoop?

There's a 70% chance of rushing so I'm on the tinier 30% side, rooting for it. Shop imagninatively! Be interactive! Not a jerking puppet- a rushing maniac! It's very hard to imagine a life where I am creatively involved in everything I do. I come form a suriving people, where much to everything is done without pleasure but simply done because one must. Well, I must shop but the pleasure of it sprang to mind. To me! Who hates to shop! I was only trying to imagine myself into a story I'm working on, not finding a way to spontaneously enjoy obligations. And yet! I got a peek!

There is a pleasure in choosing. Sometimes it seems to me as I labor over a budget and pay off debts and try to create interesting and yummy food within the budget, that I have no choices and when I do, only hard and stressful ones. Real choices come only when you can have the freedom to fling money around at things. But this is not so.

Some of the greatest pleasure is in imagining out bits of my life and then in turn, those imaginings become a defense. A defense that is so calm that it isn't at all defensive. The habits of my lifetime and my ancestors float down the stream and then out of sight. In the meanwhile, I'll eat my bread…toasted with cheese.

drama queen finis

Well. We put down Abby yesterday. And I cannot stop sorrowing. She was with me for nearly eleven years- my brother found her in a tree on the farm when the rest of us were off in Toronto. I was eighteen then and I'm twenty-eight now. She always chose to be around me, preferred my lap, my bedroom, Me. So when I married, of course she came along! And she was always my darling pet, very pretty, very floofy and quite funny. And now…she doesn't sit in my lap when I pull out my knitting. Nor will she watch from her perch on a kitchen chair when I'm cooking. Nor will she watch me write or try to lie on my paper while I write. She was constantly around me, she followed me through the house nearly all the time. She tended to be wherever I was and she picked up funny little habits and then dropped them every few months or so.

And she's gone! My brain is having a devil of a time parsing this. We chose to put her down partially for the expense and partially because of her terrible reaction to the vet's the first time a month ago. I mean…she stopped eating for awhile afterwards and I just wonder…well, anyway. It's over. Her suffering is over (because she was suffering. She was drinking constantly and had bad diarrhea) but…is it? What is on the other side of this life? I can only hope, so quietly, very quietly, that she doesn't disappear into nowhere and nothing. She doesn't become blackness, blankness, nothingness. That's she's off somewhere else without her ailing, dying body and that someday…I'll get to see her. Because we were friends. Excellent friends and connections like that just don't die. Not even with pets, I so quietly hope.

So here's to my tender little friend whom I loved and love so much. I wish you didn't have to go, Pud, and well…goodnight, sweet princess, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

drama queen part deux

For all of you Abby-cat fans, I think there's good news.

Abby's eating and drinking so much less and the vet thinks we'll be able to control her diabetes just through diet. Yeehaw! I'm all for that. I'm glad she's going to be easy to care for. Coming from a farm, where cats disappeared and died from just things pretty constantly, it's hard to imagine giving a cat insulin and all the tests and costs involved. We'll still have take her in every half a year for a blood test but I think we both think that's okay. She would have just passed away if she was still on the farm but since I might have caught this really early, she'll have a bit more time ahead of her. Which is nice. Really nice. The prospect of putting one's pet down is difficult and it may be that it'll have to be chosen but for now, we get some more time with the Fluffer

and so does everyone else. 

drama queen

It's just one of those days. I came across wet dust rags on the pantry floor. Wha…..? The culprit?

Our little drama queen is either insisting that the nice cave-like covering of her litter box is impossible! she needs an OPEN litterbox OR the drama queen has a urinary tract infection. She's not one to pee outside the cozy confines of her litterbox.

The medical community both for humans and critters mocks us all. I'm supposed to retrieve a urine sample from the Fluffer. !?!??!?! I lock her in the bathroom, though before doing that, I have to pull everything out. Towels, rugs. Put in an empty litterbox, sans litter even. And leave her in there for seven hours. Starting at 8 AM till 3 PM when I take her to the vet. In the meanwhile, it is hoped that she will pee in the empty box or the floor. If she does pee on the floor, I have to syringe it up. !!! I begged a syringe off a Target pharmacist tech. I was so grateful for her generosity in giving me one because where the hell do you find syringes anyways?! But it doesn't end there, folks. I still need a fresh poo sample. The fresher, the better.

They mocks us. I tell you.

grape hyacinth on blue

after the last few busy days full of shopping (ugh) and seeing friends (yay!), I was able to set my props and enjoy most of the day at my new kitchen table. It's a bitty thing, only three feet by two foot but the kitchen is long and narrow and not big neither so it works. The table is old, from the 30's or 40's lets say and the top is metal with enamel over it. There's a bit to repair, where it looks like someone mistakenly placed a frying pan on it or something way too hot, but it's small and I'm pretty confident I can repair it. I heart this table and I have my good friend, Brit, to thank for helping me haul it home. It was a true flea market find (something I've heard talked about but rarely encounter) and I hope to visit the same sellers next month and perhaps pick up another piece of furniture. I'm a hopeless buyer of antiques and their painted antiques work for me! All the furniture they sold seemed good and solid and for excellent prices as well. Better prices than even the resale shops around here! This area is just far too expensive, I think.

I've enjoyed this gloomy day with my grape hyacinths (muscari if you really want), puzzled over a recent film adaptation of a Balzac novel, "The Duchess of Langeais" I viewed last night, read at a novel and generally just wrote away. Though not fiction. Not today. That's something I've got in the back of my head, sifting through. How much can a character be yourself? That's the genius of fiction though. There's no rules in that department. I think this time though…I made the main character do something too like me and for that, her voice may have hesitated and then slumped.

Tonight is PBS and Kate Beckingsdale in "Emma" and guess what? I can watch tv right from the kitchen table.

Peabodys vs. Football

I only knew it was superbowl Sunday because the grocery stores were madhouses and I inquired of the checkout lady what was up. "Oh, it's always like this on the Superbowl." Ohhh yeahhhhhhh, the Superbowl. The guy bagging up my groceries smiled very sadly at me after her comment. Did he want to be home? getting ready for the superbowl? Or did he rue the day of the Superbowl and felt downtrodden by it all? I don't really know but I left wondering how American I really was (I've never watched a football game ever. Though Homecoming in recent years has seemed intriguing. I've never been one. never went to high school). And then I laughed at myself for wondering if I was American Enough. Since when did that ever go through my head? Lordy.

Grocery store #2 was also beleaguered though the peoples behind the meat and cheese counters seemed happy enough and asked customers who they wanted to win.

So inspite of all this (or in a carefully measured reaction), I have decided to mention the fact that I finished the lovely 400 pg. biography of the Peabody Sisters. Peabody who? Elizabeth, Mary and Sophia Peabody. Elizabeth got a hold of the transcending idea before trandescendalism and Emerson knew what was what. The reclusive Sophia married the reclusive Hawthorne and Mary married…Horace…Horace…it escapes me. Basically, these woman played transcendalist ball with the best of them. Poor Elizabeth with her awesome teaching ideas got involved with the "man of genius but of little talents," Mr. Bronson Alcott. His school she worked at ended poorly because it involved Alcott but Elizabeth went on to work with the goverment in establishing nation-wide required kindergartens. Kindergartens! I have always wondered why we use the german word, kindergarten. Now I know. Elizabeth, like most high-brow intellectuals living circa 1830's, was huge on german ideas, german everything. Kindergarten! So anyways, it was a great biography, very well written, very fascinating. When one sister's life would get not so interesting, it was off to another sister who was getting interesting. I'd like to read more on Sophia and Hawthorne, I think. They were odd ducks and I'm an odd duck observer.

But in the meanwhile, on to more Tony Hillerman novels! I'll be sad when I've read them all and I almost have. The boon of these books is all the Navajo insights that get picked up. New insights about how the world works and how we work in it allow me to walk into each day far more serene, far more ready. And they're nice plot driven books besides!

So now for all those Superbowl fans…I hope some team wins? Thank you.

Not lost too far

I might have seemed lost- seeing I haven't posted since the plowing match! But I haven't been. 2007 was a huge year for me. I managed to complete my first short story Ever and I actually enjoyed writing it. I've come to love the mornings, which I never have, not even when I was little. Jeff and I moved to a new apartment, to place full of light and space (though maybe, someday soon, we'll get to move to our own house). And well, I look forward to each day and how each day will be different in simple and homey ways and maybe in big ones and I'll get to see it all. If you've known me for awhile, then you'll know how I've always dreaded each day and how getting up in the morning and brushing my teeth was always a time of trying to push down desperate panic.

It's different now. 2007 has been my year of inward and yeah, outward change.

And this brings me to one of my new heros, EBB. EBB, I've just begun to read you, so I don't know you really well, but so far you're tremendous and if I had lived when you did, I might have set up a shrine and put fresh flowers everyday on its mantle, underneath your picture.  So here's my 21 century mantle:

Recognize her at all? Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I've just begun "Aurora Leigh" and despite the high "falutin'" language sometimes, I'm really into it. If you're not familiar with Aurora Leigh, it's a story about a woman creating a writing life for herself and writing(!) and the backlash she gets for it, even from her beloved. He does, however, in the end, recognize her for the great writer she is (thank God).  I think any woman trying to create a writing or creative life for herself, trying to follow her own inner voice, might think of reading this. True, it's Victorian but then again, people are people and this poem is pretty terrific. And it's supposed to be an encouraging story, despite its ups and downs and those who are learning to listen to themselves and their voice and their dreams, NEED THAT. 

So yes. Dear EBB, I hope these flowers work for you.

I heard the auctioneer from afar

Today, after my dear husband departed for the pleasures (computer conference geekery) of Spain, I headed out to Big Rock. My first thoughts on getting out into the country? "Oh Lordy. I need a cigarette." Yes, the country makes me a twitch a bit. The lonesome stretches between houses I once found artistic. Now, not so much. I'm a townie and I think, have always been. But since I lived in the country back then, I made it artistic in my mind. Now I don't need to. I didn't buy any cigarettes but picked up my mother and we headed over to the Big Rock Plowing Match, home of winners.

Low and behold, jars of canning. I oogled them and examined the pickles in jars. My mother felt she would win the jam competition if she ever cared to enter her raspberry jam. If she ever made it again, that is…

I wish I had pictures of some of the knitting and crochet and crewel entries but the pictures just didn't turn out. My hand was full of shakes apparently. After perusing these crafts, mom and I headed outside to look at the bizarre and wonderful stalls of the Plowing Match.

I was a little shocked at mom holding a pie, much less being the escort of a headless gentleman but all these things are taken in stride at the Plowing Match.

We strolled through the stalls, I prodded at some gorgeous salmon colored wool roving, and we stared at an old horse drawn hearse wagon in earnest. I meant to take a picture of that but forgot. Oh well. A horse show and making over a baby corgi 5 weeks old was how we ended the Big Rock Plowing Match '07. It was a lovely day and no one from the dismal past appeared. I did see a few friendly acquaintances: the post office ladies and one curious woman, Joyce, known for her interest in used clothing, used goods and prophecy. I didn't sneeze once! and I got a pork chop dinner, something this townie can never find in town. That's the country for you. Full of pork chops.

Distant sound of a pile driver…

Ah, yes. Summer means construction. Construction here in Batavia, IL means a new bridge to replace the 100 year old one. They like to do the loud work at night. It doesn't bother me at all and adds an unusual back sound. Lots of booms.

Today, after starting out a bit rough, I dithered and hemmed and hawed and shuffled back to bed a few times but in the end, I got myself together and worked on a few projects.

It's always shocking when I work on a project. If you know me, you might know I have many projects. Vast quantities of 'em all at different stages. I don't believe in finishing projects. I just like to have them around like some people like having kittens, puppies or children around. It feels good. Sometimes though (many times) those kittens, puppies or children get going crazy and then being overwhelmed, overworked and hunted down comes into play. I go between liking my projects, to hating their guts.

In an attempt to enjoy instead of hate , I forced myself to focus on one project. This project is a bright idea from the Purl Bee. Swatch Portraits. Now that we've moved to a new place, I need to decorate. I like decorations. I don't like starting to decorate. I like little corners. I hate big walls. There's a couple of big walls here so after laying out what I have in the area of wall decorations, I decided it was time to try out the Swatch Portrait project. A few days ago I got the wooden hoops and pulled out what fabrics would all look very purdy together and now I was going to try.

But wait! I wanted to make coasters out of cloth today too but I needed the right cloth to semi-go with the living room but then I needed bias tape but I also needed tiny alphabet rubber stamps and then ink that works with fabric to stamp on the bias tape that goes on the lower half of the coasters and this was all at Jo-ann's…and…and…see how it is?

I managed to Not start another new project. I started the swatches. They're terrifically easy and fun. So I did a few and I'll do a few more tomorrow.

And then…after I did a few swatches, I decided to really roll up my sleeves and I made Cannelli Bean Soup (delish!), Miniature Meatball Paninis (they go great with the soup) and a big pitcher of Sunshine Iced Tea. Jeff and I watched "Flushed Away" while eating this splendid meal. And Abby? Here she is. 

She wanted her share of the meatball panini as well. Sorry, cat!

Also…I've been reading "The Vicar of Wakefield" illustrated by Hugh Thomson. I'm in love with my 1890's copy. Beautiful books with beautiful bindings are a joy forever. It's forest green with gold embossing of leaves and a few birds. A picture of it will come soon.