5.23.2014

THE GUGGENHEIM



It's the Guggenheim.  It's the Upper East Side.  It's New York City.  It's totally where I belong.  Or so I would like to believe, even though that really isn't true.  At least, I can visit and breathe deeply and look up and down and left and right, and have it forever in memory.

I've been fascinated by the Guggenheim since it was built in the 1950s.  I was a teenager then, and followed its progress religiously.  In the few times I've been to New York, I've never had the opportunity to visit it...or even stand across the street and stare at it.  Frank Lloyd Wright (the Guggenheim's architect) wintered in Phoenix for many years, and during that time took a practice run at  this building by designing a house for his son based on the idea of a spiral ramp.  I know the street and the block where it's supposed to be, but I've never found it.  Frank did a good job with the privacy issue.

That aside, we're here.  No matter which artist or art is featured today, it will be wonderful. And...welcome to the world of Christopher Wool.

So...not completely what I was expecting, but it's Christopher Wool, for heaven's sake.  This is the kind of thing he does.  If you look at this piece of art really closely, you can see other faded letters barely showing through the background.  That is done on purpose...very carefully.  It's what Christopher Wool is doing these days.  Covering over much of his earlier work with today's work.  You might think that would be easy, but not so much.  I read a lot about this style of art as I wandered down the Guggenheim gallery ramp and it's actually pretty complicated, and fairly easy to screw up.  In addition he is doing similar things with more elaborate paintings, as well as using digital processing to "warp the scale, color, and resolution...often merging...unify the traces of multiple past moments of creation...to be considered afresh..."  Wow.  We were just talking about "deep" earlier this week.  This is deep.  But, before it was over, I was really pretty impressed with it--particularly the digital processing.  Detail everywhere!

Before the day was over, we had covered every square inch of the museum.  I didn't understand everything I saw ("modern" art isn't totally my thing) but I had a much greater appreciation for the work, and the amount of time and talent and thought that went into each item there.  Sometimes I've wished I were a creative, but everything I read convinces me that it's harder than it looks.


If you're wondering, yes those are Christopher Wool paintings in the background.  It's a fascinating museum, and a fascinating area (the little kids just down the street leaving school apparently have male nannies--I figured they were fabulously wealthy six year-olds and the nannies were packing), and New York is a great city.  All is good!

Margie


5.21.2014

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

This morning, we're on the road again...for real.  Yes, it's High School Reunion season (hooray) and we're driving to BC's 60th Annual All School Jamestown High School Reunion.  60 years ago, hmm...that would be 1954, when BC, aka, cutest boy in Jamestown High, graduated.  The cutest boy still loves these reunions.  Really, it was one of the things that was so sweet when I met him.  He was always excited about his annual high school reunion.   He never hinted, not once, that I would be expected to attend with him...

I'm not particularly nervous about attending this event.  I've probably been to ten or more in the last nineteen years.  But, and a few of you may understand this, I'm attending as the Second Wife.  A Second Wife can bring a chill to a small rural community, particularly if the First Wife is an alumna.  I'm generally greeted politely, if I'm not ignored, but there is tension in the air.  Actually, it's worse at the quinquenniel reunion of BC's Veterinary Medicine class.  You could cut that tension with a scalpel.  Fortunately, there is another Second Wife at that event, so she and I sit by ourselves, slam tequila shots, and gossip about the others.  Actually, that's not true but it was fun to write.

One huge plus about the Annual High School Reunion is that it takes place in Kansas.  We do not eat red meat per BC's nutritionist's orders, but in Kansas there is no way to avoid it.  We will meet at a small Country Club again this year.  Meal choices will be Strip Steak (well done, medium or rare), or a Hamburger Steak that covers the plate.  I order the Strip Steak which is usually a little tough and leans toward the well-done no matter what you requested, but it's real meat.  It is chewy, and I love it.  It's the highlight.

The Annual High School Reunion has a number of small contests.  Who is the Oldest Alumna?  Hard to believe, but it's not BC.  They're a long-lived group in that corner of the state.

Who came the farthest for the Annual Reunion?  You would think it would be us, but a friend of BC's from Tucson loves the reunions nearly as much as BC and he always wins.  Unless, of course, one of the youngsters from the 1980s flies in from California, then all the Arizona alumni are toast.  I have some questions this year as we are driving back and delivering a 2007 BMW Z4 to family in Wichita.  I will be looking for a contest as to who drove, not the most miles, but who drove the longest miles, because that will be us walking away.  Have you ever driven a 2007 BMW Z-4 1,100 miles in two days?  Actually, we have and I'm shocked we're doing it again.

BC's High School Reunion Committee doesn't plan a dance or elaborate program.  Everyone just table-hops, laughs, and reminisces about old friends, six-man football, Halloween when there really were tipped outhouses (Good Lord), and the cutest girl in the Class of 1956.  A recurring topic of conversation, every year, is the caper when BC and three of his friends were suspended from school for three days after dropping fire-crackers off the roof of the school on to people coming out of the gymnasium doors.  Do I even need to say those were far simpler times?  This reunion evening will be "Mayberry" and "Leave It to Beaver" all wrapped up in blue and white (school colors) ribbons.  Wish me well.

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com

5.19.2014

"A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING"

For starters, just let me lay it out here: Writing about books I've read is not an easy task.  It looked so simple when I skimmed through book reviews in the newspapers or various magazines.  A job from heaven!  Spend an afternoon reading a book, great or otherwise, plop down in front of the computer, and tell everyone about it.  What could be hard?  What could be hard!?!  Well, so far, just about everything!  But, I'm determined to stick with this project--sink or swim.  Being nearly 70 and in the midst of a self-improvement program performed in public--well, as public as this little blog gets--should certainly encourage everyone who passes by to get their stuff together before they're too old!  It's not going to get any easier.  Think of this as a public service.  Amen.

Now to the Book:  This month's Book Club selection, A Tale For the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, might have left me cold if I hadn't actually been on this little self-improvement journey.  But, since I am, portions of it really grabbed hold.  For me, this is a complex book, busy, and fairly long.  But, I think it's one you could read every year and find new personal insights, new meanings to the story, and a deeper appreciation for its nuances as you continue to move through the "now" moments in your own life.

The premise of A Tale... (sort of) is this:  Ruth, a blocked novelist living with her husband on a small island off the coast of British Columbia, is strolling along the beach one day and finds a sealed plastic bag which contains a Hello Kitty lunch box, a diary, other papers and a wrist watch.  The bag is nearly buried under a pile of trash, and she assumes her find has originated in Japan and drifted into Desolation Sound with other debris from the March 2011 Tsunami.   She's a bit mystified,  as hers is a secluded beach, and doesn't often receive ocean trash. 

She carries the bag home, begins to look through it, and discovers that the undated diary she finds in the sealed bag belongs to a Japanese teenager named Nao  (pronounced now.)  Think on that.  Nao lives in Tokyo (or did at the time the diary was written) and comes across with the typical teenage voice--sassy, breezy, self-centered.  She's world-weary (aren't most teenage girls?) but Nao's weariness comes with grit.  She's dealing with a life that's much too serious for any 16 year old.  Raised in California, she was moved back to Japan when the Dot Com bubble burst and her father lost his tech job.  She's being bullied at school; her father is attempting, but never quite achieving, suicide; her mother is vaguely distant; and the family is destitute.

That's only a bare raw outline.  Page by page we're drawn into Nao and Ruth's increasingly intertwined lives (they alternate chapters).  The number of characters grows, and each plays an integral part in the narrative but I felt like each was simply hovering in the background.  Always watching, always aware, always necessary, but a little gray.  For example, the Japanese crow, 6,000 miles from his native habitat, who simply appears one day on Ruth and Oliver's forested property.  Soon, however, the crow may be signalling Ruth, but so subtly she doesn't quite know if it's real.

Nao's Great-Grandmother, Jiko, the 104 year-old Zen Buddhist nun, novelist, anarchist, and feminist is in and out of A Tale... from beginning to end.  We don't meet her until a later chapter, but we know that if anyone can, or will protect Nao and Ruth, it will be Jiko working through time, space, and other beings.  And, don't miss Haruki #1, Jiko's son and Nao's late uncle.  He was a philosophy student conscripted in 1943 (most unwillingly) into the Japanese air-force as a Kamikaze pilot.  His fate then is is of prime importance now. There are other characters, of course, but, whew, that's enough for today.

In the process, we learn a little about Buddhism, Zen meditation, but, primarily, the overarching need for communication and honesty and feeling and holding others close.

I'm afraid I may not be deep enough either to read this book, or to write about it, but I enjoyed it tremendously and always looked forward to picking it up again after I'd reluctantly laid it down. And, really, "deep" may not be the issue.  I think that reading A Tale...requires an open mind.  An acceptance of everyday mysteries, slightly different points of view and a belief that we're all in this world together, and while cultures may clash, the people within them don't have to.

All in all--Two Thumbs Up!  And for any of you high-minded folk, A Tale For the Time Being was short-listed for the Booker Prize.  Enjoy!

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com

5.16.2014

VERDE CANYON RAILROAD

Today, we're riding the rails.  The Verde Canyon Rails to be specific.  We've lived here long enough that we should be ashamed of ourselves for waiting so long to do this because it turned out to be a great time.  Embarrassingly, what finally got us off of our ever-expanding cabooses was an invitation from BC's brother.  Fortunately, we were smart enough to say "yes."


One joins the rails at Clarkdale, AZ, about two hours or so northwest of Phoenix.  Clarkdale isn't the easiest town to find, but your phone Maps App knows the way, so you won't get lost in the desert.  Once there, just watch for the depot signs and when you get to a wide spot in the road with a parking area on the right, pull in.

We were about ninety minutes early for our departure, which meant we were thirty minutes late when it came to finding a place to sit in the depot courtyard that wasn't in the full blazing sun.  The depot houses a small  museum, a couple of gift shops, a lunch counter of sorts and, on the morning we were there, offered a wine tasting which is always a good thing, even at 11:30 a.m.

BC's brother had booked us into a First Class car which proved to be very nice indeed.  We had large, comfortable fairly cushy chairs grouped around a low table.  First Class provides a welcoming and generous pour of bubbly, a nice spread of hors' d'oeuvres and an extremely busy bar staffed by an attentive group.  The caboose of the train is used for private parties of about eight or so people, and the Tourist Class cars are set-up as a regular train might be.  These are old train cars, but nicely maintained and "charmingly" mismatched.  They have come from many railway companies at different times in their history.  As far as I could tell, there is an Open View Car between every two passenger cars, so you can walk outside any time you wish for a panoramic view...and there were some wonderful ones.



As you can tell we're a pretty long train.  I was surprised.  The Railroad maintains a running commentary during the forty mile trip so you always know where you are, the history outside your window, and just exactly where to spot the eagles.  You'll see Sinagua cliff dwellings, remnants of the copper mining that was huge in this area of Arizona, remains of early-day ranches near the Verde River, and the gorgeous red sandstone cliffs close enough to reach out and touch.  But don't.  I'm afraid you'd rip your arm off.


No train ride is complete unless there is a tunnel along the way.  Our particular tunnel (per Verde Canyon's information) is 680 feet long and curved, so trust me:  Going in, there is absolutely no light at the end of it.  None.  They tell us that at some points the train comes within six inches of the walls.  They also note that the tunnel was blasted through solid limestone and is only supported by timbers at one end for about 30 feet.  Perhaps it's just as well that it is dark as pitch inside.


The train comes to a stop at Perkinsville, although the rails continue north for another twenty miles or so where they meet the Burlington Northern.  There isn't much left of Perkinsville except a home or two and cattle grazing in this green peaceful valley.


Yes, this is the Perkinsville Depot, or the remains of the same.  I don't know why they would ever come clear out here in the middle of Arizona, but this building played a part in the movie, "How the West Was Won."  Debbie Reynolds, Eli Wallach and George Peppard (remember how good looking he was) actually filmed a few scenes inside back in the '60s.  We're parked outside where our engine, is in the process of disconnecting from the train and will pull around on a neighboring track to hook up again and pull us back to Clarkdale. 


She's comin' around and isn't she a beauty!  I know it sounds boring to simply follow the same track back for twenty miles, but I'm always amazed how different things look when you approach them from the opposite direction.  It's like a totally new ride. 

By the way, if you're hungry when you disembark from the train, Clarkdale and Cottonwood (only a few miles apart) have a surprising number of really nice restaurants.  Kick back and enjoy!

Please let me know what your favorite Arizona adventure is.  Or maybe a favorite New Mexico adventure.  We'll be passing through there in a few weeks.  Thanks!

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com          

5.14.2014

LUMOSITY

A few mornings ago, I realized I'd been working with Lumosity for a little over a year.  Lumosity, as you may remember, is a web-site dedicated to keeping your neurons plastic and your cognitive skills relatively intact.  Actually, I am deadly serious about my time with Lumosity, although I'm beginning to think I may need to fork over a few dollars and begin the version that offers more games as well as a more precise and personal analysis of my progress...which, unfortunately,  seems to have slowed down recently.

If you're wondering, yes, cognitive skills are a huge topic of conversation at this particular Age & Stage.  During the past week nearly everyone has talked about the "60 Minutes" segment on Sunday, May 4th, which detailed a study begun over 30 years ago in which 14,000 residents of Leisure World, located south of Los Angeles, filled out a detailed questionnaire which included information on their health, their activities, lifestyle and etc.  It was the "Leisure World Cohort Study."  

Within the past few years, and funded by the NIH, a research team began tracking down those 14,000 people in order to begin studying them again now that many are in their 90s.  What factors are involved for those who are still going strong?  How about those not doing so well?  And what happened to those who died?

Our conversations showed that most of us were interested to learn that:  Vitamin E, A, C, and Calcium seemed to have no effect on living a longer life.  Alcohol (moderate--one to two drinks per day) reduced the risk of death by 10-15%.  In other words, enjoy your wine, or drink of choice, and live a bit longer.  One to three cups of coffee (with caffeine) also contributed to a longer life.

Another surprising and welcome bit of research shows that, as we age, we should maintain or even gain a bit of weight.  Being a skinny little thing does not make for a long life...Thank you, Lord!

Oh, did I mention that old bugaboo--exercise?  Yes, it definitely contributes to longevity, but the good news is the level can be moderate.  Time-wise, 15 to 45 minutes a day is best.  Anything over 45 minutes and you're just getting sweaty for nothing.  Also, you can break up your exercise during the day.  Have a 15 minute stroll in the morning, work in the garden in the afternoon, and exercise with Jane Fonda before bed.  Perfect!

So, you may be thinking, where does Lumosity fit into this whole thing?  Well, activities such as word games, cards, book clubs, brain games all seem to help people stay a bit sharper as they live a bit longer.  If Lumosity can do that for me, even at $5.00 per month, it just might be worth it.

PS:  I did it.  I just subscribed to 12 months of Lumosity, and got a better deal than I expected.  New Games, new stats...it's my kind of good.  Do try it and see what you think...

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com    

5.12.2014

"THE INTELLECTUAL DEVOTIONAL"

Did you know Verdi's "Aida" was premiered in Egypt in 1869, one year late because Verdi missed his deadline? The ruler of Egypt at the time, Khedive Ismail, had a harem so large, it filled three entire loges of the opera house built specially for said premiere. Verdi himself was so unhappy with reports of the premiere--much too showy for his taste--he quickly retired to the country and gardened for a number of years before finally returning to his composing.  Those little sidenotes are one of the few things that stay with me for years.  I love them.

Actually, my brain is nearly bursting with wonderful bits of information ever since I purchased The Intellectual Devotional a number of years ago.  I began reading it immediately, then put it down for some reason--losing complete track of it--until late last year when I picked it up again.

This morning, on Page or Day 253, which just happened to be History day, I read once again the sad tale of Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce tribe and his battle with William Tecumseh Sherman of Civil War infamy.  Outnumbered and out-gunned, Chief Joseph announced:  "I am tired.  My heart is sick and sad.  From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever."  In little more than a decade, "forever" came to all of the Native Americans.  They were moved to their assigned reservations where even today, many remain among the most impoverished citizens of our nation.  I'm always terribly bothered by that part of our history.

Yesterday, I read about Muhammad's Wives and tomorrow I will learn more about William Shakespeare.  I look forward to my few minutes with this great compendium, although each week I struggle equally with Science Day and Philosophy Day.  Such phrases as "Categorical Imperative" or "Epistemology" make my heart sink and my head spin, but I read every word.  I will not be reporting on those things, however. 

But, were it not for Science Day, I would never have known how important "nociception" is to our very survival...nociception being the perception of pain.  If you're unfortunate enough to be born without it, you will probably not survive beyond the age of 25.  As much as we hate it, pain is a lifesaver of sorts.  Or, on another page, how much more likely we are to die of a heart attack if we believe we will die of a heart attack--four times more likely.  Put together with another book I'm currently reading and will report on later, I have decided I will not even kid about the possibility of dementia in later life.  Way too risky.

I'm now lusting for some additional "Intellection Devotionals", particularly the Biography and American History versions.  I have learned that I function much better in this world if my projects are broken down into small, easily digestible, daily bits.  I am much more likely to begin and complete whatever I approach in this way.  It's how I'm wired per my Kolbe Index...the subject for another time.

Take care!  Meet you back here soon...

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com

5.09.2014

HIKING THE WHITE TANKS

Living forever in Kansas meant, as retirement moved closer, that I was hungry for mountains.  Preferably New England mountains, but Colorado mountains would do.  But who in the world would guess that mountains were part of the package when you bought Arizona?  It was pure serendipity.  So, we built our house "here" because the White Tank Mountains were "there" and we could look at them, morning 'til night, day after day.  That was eleven years ago.  Today, we're still "here" and the mountains are still "there" but, unfortunately, they're hidden behind all of the lovely trees our homeowner dues purchased many years ago.  Yes, I love the trees, but I miss the mountains.  Some people are really ticked about it, but we're OK.  Not thrilled.  Just OK.

It makes sense that if you have mountains in your neighborhood, you should learn what they're about.  Located west of Phoenix, the White Tanks are not tall mountains, but they can be rugged.  They shelter javelinas (really huge rodents that resemble pigs), mule deer, mountain lions, birds of all sorts, small reptilian-type creatures, and a generous assortment of poisonous snakes.  Despite that, the White Tanks are beautiful, and the best way to discover their virtues is simply drive in, park, and walk.  There are a number of trails, some just for walkers, others for horses and mountain bikes, but my favorite and the one we take all of our visitors to see is The Waterfall Trail.

The Waterfall Trail is two miles in length--one mile to get to the waterfall, one to come back.  It is wheelchair accessible for the first half mile, until the asphalt gives way to hard-packed dirt and rocks.  Dogs love it, toddlers manage quite well, and everyone says "hi" to everyone else.  I like it because it's a comfortable walk, and it makes me feel some of the wonder the early explorers must have experienced when they visited this uncharted territory.  And, once in a blue moon, there will actually be a waterfall at the end of the trail.

In the meantime, perhaps halfway into the gentle, but definite "up" part of your walk, you'll find all kinds of petroglyphs left by the Hohokam, a mysterious but amazing people who lived in our area from about 100 BCE until their disappearance around 1400 CE.




This spider web type of pattern is fairly common around the world--or so I've read.  Again, no one knows what it means, but I've read it might denote a village or a community of people.  Actually, if you look carefully, you'll find petroglyphs up and down the entire length of the trail.  They're fascinating, but absolutely off limits.  Let me say that again, look but don't touch.  In the decade we've been visiting the park, there has been a surprising amount of damage created by people trying to take just a little bit home.  They've managed to peel the entire face from many of the boulders. These are thousands of years old, people.

The trail is well marked, and describes various plants, shrubs and flowers.  We're all fascinated by the variety of the cactus, and they're everywhere up here.  The park, however, will tell you that you can't drink water directly from any cactus despite all of the movies you've seen, so be sure to bring a water bottle or two when you come.  We don't want you to dehydrate and keel over.


And, here is what you came for.  We've made it to the top of our hike, and we're loving the shade and how cool and damp it feels here. We're at the edge of a tiny pool of water, surrounded on three sides by sheer rock walls.  Sheer is the operative word.  Overhead and out of sight lie two great tanks (natural depressions in the rock), one of which empties into the second after a heavy rain. The second tank, when it fills, empties over its edge right down where we are and fills this area with water.  Today, with no recent rain, we're seeing mere seepage, but a few years ago we did experience the actual waterfall tumbling down these rocks.  Pretty impressive.

What I know about hiking comes primarily from the L.L. Bean catalog, but I have learned to stop, turn around and look behind me periodically as I walk.  Sometimes, there are wonderful views behind (and great photos) that you might otherwise miss.  If the day is clear, you can see across Phoenix from here. Unfortunately, it's generally hazy, so I don't want you to count on it.

Have a great weekend...

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com



5.07.2014

AGE & STAGE


Sometimes, even though I have the best of intentions, I feel a little old and out of touch.  Out of touch with what, you may wonder.  Well, technology is always a good choice to feel out of touch with.  I find lots of kindred souls under that subject heading.  It's a frequent topic of our conversations, and a persistent  fear that, at some point, we will be left behind--never to catch up--if we don't learn the latest and greatest.  That (and the infamous second glass of wine) has kept many of us awake at night.

My newest challenge is Twitter.  I have tweeted 53 times since June of 2010.  Obviously, I'm not a big user, so it's not a huge surprise that until Twitter, out of the kindness of its chirpy little heart, offered its members the opportunity to personalize their Home Page, that I realized I had a Twitter Home Page.  Well, I'm on it now.  They have said:  "Make This Space Yours.  Add a Photo."  Well, thank you, Twitter.  I think I will.  I'm kind of enjoying this whole "me, me, me" social media thing.

Now to the challenge of making "This Space" mine.  I know exactly which photo I'll use. It's a picture from our Canadian cruise of the sails on the boat that was taking us around Halifax.  I love that photo.  It even has a little bird in the lower right hand corner who, unfortunately, is flying out of the picture rather than into it.  If I was really smart I could turn him around, but that won't happen for awhile.

Next, the directions read, the photo needs to be sized to no more than 1500 by 300 pixels.  And, believe it or not, I kind of know what that means.  Despite the fact I scored "lower than average confidence" when I participated in an on-line research project recently, I was exuding every bit of it on this Twitter Challenge.  I gathered up the photo (a victory in itself), and carefully resized it, only to realize...the photo looked like hell.  A long narrow Twitter Home Page Photo Spot just does not work with a full set of sails.  You can have the bottom of the sails--complete with the misplaced bird--or you can have the top of the sails with overcast sky.  You can't have both at the same time.  Consequently, you miss the absolute joie de vivre and cosmopolitan-ness that defines "me, me, me." Now, I'm bummed.

Moving on, I found a photo of books I had used in a "Travels With..." post a few months ago.  It's a little on the sepia side and wildly out of focus, but let's pretend it's soft and ethereal.  Books now define my Twitter Home Page and, by extension...me.  I hope it says I'm an intellectual who loves to read thick historic novels with attractive dust covers.  And that would be true.  The problem now, however, is I have to read them so slowly and carefully in order to remember a damned thing about them, it takes forever.  Age and Stage, my friends.  Age and Stage.  I think I'm going to change "Wildcard Wednesday" into Age & Stage.  It better defines what we're after here. 

Until next time...

Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com

5.05.2014

"STONER"

As I worked my way through Stoner...twice...I worried what my Book Club might think about it. Stoner is written in plain prose and I hoped my friends would pause, as I had been forced to do, and realize how quietly and subtly these ordinary words created such extraordinary emotions.

I had taken to Stoner immediately as it takes place in Missouri which, as you know, is just to the right of Kansas...as you look at the map, that is.  More specifically, Stoner takes place at the University of Missouri in Columbia.  My granddaughters, Molly and Emily, have both graduated from Missouri--Emily, just a few days before I picked up Stoner, so I felt a certain kinship with much of John Williams' references to the campus, and especially to Jesse Hall, Stoner's academic home, but today's much photographed Administration Building.    

Stoner, the only child  of a hard-scrabble farmer, walks to Columbia, to attend the University upon the recommendation of his County Agent.  He is to major in Agriculture, not because he has any interest in that subject, but because his father, from somewhere deep inside himself, had listened and thought and agreed to it.

Stoner struggles with his agriculture classes until one day, midway through his sophomore year, he realizes he should  major in English Literature.  He completes the paperwork, but never tells his parents until his graduation two and a half years later.  He does not return to the farm as his father had expected, but instead stays at the university working toward his Masters and, eventually, his Doctorate.  For the rest of his life he teaches a variety of literature courses well enough to be retained but never above the level of an assistant professor.

Emotions run high in Stoner but are never expressed (except by Stoner's problematic wife) with more than a momentary expression, a slight twinge, or a change in posture.  The ever-increasing pain that accompanies much of Stoner's life is held close, invisible to all outside, hidden by his placid expression.  All of his attempts at normalcy are much too brief and all seem to end, not with thunder or lightning, but with a slight graying...a quiet fading.      

Stoner's death, in one of the most realistic and moving death scenes I've read, is so typical of Stoner's life.  Quiet, calm, somewhat peaceful, understated.  In death, Stoner simply ceases living.

"Stoner's colleagues, who held him in no particular esteem when he was alive, speak of him rarely now; to the older ones, his name is a reminder of the end that awaits them all, and to the younger ones it is merely a sound which evokes no sense of the past and no identity with which they can associate themselves or their careers."  Stoner, Chapter One.

****************************
Oh, my book club?  They thoroughly enjoyed reading the book and we had one of our best discussions in many months.  Our emotions and feelings about the characters ran high, and honesty was the word of the day.  Highly recommended for a thoughtful read.  What have you read recently that you might recommend?  We're always on the lookout!

Until Wednesday...
Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com  

5.02.2014

SLEEPY HOLLOW CEMETERY

I know it's strange--particularly at my age--but I do love old cemeteries.  I mean really old cemeteries.  In contrast to today's antiseptic versions, our old burial grounds are comfortable, and even comforting.  Often carefully landscaped, a cemetery provides shelter from the storm and quiet amid chaos.  Wandering among the memorial stones, we can read the who and the what and the when and the where.  Generally, we have to wonder about the "why," but oftentimes we can guess.  Tombstones, for centuries, have preserved the carefully carved records of the exceptional and the common.  But, is anyone really common?  If he or she is loved, truly loved, I have to think they're anything but.

Tarrytown, New York, is located north of New York City, in upscale Westchester County.  This past November, BC and I, being chauffeured by daughter Rhonda, had just left "Castle on the Hudson" where we'd enjoyed one of the most expensive lunches I'd ever met.  It was a truly delicious lunch, but for the life of me, I can't remember now what it was. I know we each had a glass of Pinot Noir and splurged on dessert, and probably spent a couple of hours on the entire proceeding.  I'd do it again, so that's my recommendation.  Rhonda was hoping to find a wonderful place to celebrate her 20th Anniversary and in my book, that would have been it, but she still had a list of other places to visit.  The next stop on our agenda was Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, located just a few miles from the Castle.

  Yes, the Sleepy Hollow of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

         As I'm still trying to figure out this photo thing, all I can say is that if you look very closely toward the lower left-hand corner of the picture (about a third of the way up and slightly to the right) you will see the bridge over which Ichabod Crane fled from the Headless Horseman...never to be seen again.   And, yes, of course, it's the exact bridge.

 Sleepy Hollow is nothing if not elegant.  Many famous and/or wealthy people are buried here.  It's a huge list but Walter Chrysler and Andrew Carnegie (as examples) are laid out somewhere among a number of Rockefellers.  I really wanted to find where Harry and Leona Helmsley were planted--remember what crooks they were once they were found out?  It's that sort of thing I love.

  I think it's because I lived a lifetime on the dry plains of Kansas before moving to the deserts of Arizona that I love green grass, running water, and autumn leaves.  There was no part of Sleepy Hollow that wasn't picture-perfect beautiful.

Actually, there isn't much information about Edwin Lister, the resident under this rather elaborate memorial.  I like that it comes complete with a perpetual mourner.  I took this picture because I thought he might have invented Listerine, but apparently not.  He did die with an estate of $1.5 million, $50,000 of which went to his wife when she vacated the house.  $50,000 is OK, but in comparison with $1.5 million?  I'm sensing tension in the relationship, and a "gotcha" in the will.

And here, I assume, lie the more ordinary of Sleepy Hollow folk...but even they have tremendous views.  I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon at the Cemetery, but it made me think that eventually, we all end up in the same place--so to speak.  I did really want to find Leona Helmsley's grave and ask her if being the "Queen of Mean" had been worth it, but I think she would have said "yes".  I understand she and Harry are entombed in a $1.4 million mausoleum on 3/4 of an acre of Sleepy Hollow prime real estate.  Yes, the rich are different.

Until Monday--Take care...
Margie
margiestaggs44@gmail.com