A BEAR FOR THE AGES

Books were treasured items when I was very young.  I can remember whenever I had a case of serious sniffles, or symptoms of flu, or an especially nasty case of Chicken Pox as I did in first grade, I would be confined to bed with a few books scattered nearby.  Bed, at that time, was in a shared room with my sister.  It was a small room, but bright, with both a north and an east window.

We didn't have a lot of books.  As with everything in the late '40s, we had a few of this and one of that.  Not like today's children who have a lot of both this and that.  I remember two books of poetry--a large format book filled with Mother Goose rhymes and colored illustrations, and a slightly smaller, and more serious, dark blue book--Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses."  I have to guess that both books were gifts to my sister...perhaps when she was born. (The '40s were also a time of sharing and hand-me-downs.) 

I remember preferring Mother Goose to Robert Lewis Stevenson, but I loved the illustrations in both. My worldview was formed from those drawings--which means my ideal landscape and cityscape and architectural design all date from 18th and 19th century England.  It's why I sometimes think the Good Lord planned for me to be born in England, but in the rush and flurry and fury of World War II, dropped me in Dodge City, Kansas.  It was an honest mistake--the Army Air Force Base in my home town had originally been intended for Royal Air Force pilots.  No doubt, it was just another wartime paperwork snafu.

As far as owning a book to claim as mine, that would be "The Littlest Angel" which, much to my surprise, is still in print.  I loved "The Littlest Angel" and, although it's technically a Christmas book, I read it again and again and again. It was not an easy book to read--it's difficult to learn of a small boy in heaven--all by himself--trying so hard to be good, and failing at it again and again.  The ending, however, is more than wonderful so, if you buy it for a grandchild, DO NOT let him or her become depressed and put it aside.  He must read it all, for the rewards are rich. 

This reminiscing has led us, in a roundabout way, to what I had intended to be my starting point:  The 100 Aker Wood and Winnie the Pooh.  Our set of four Winnie the Pooh books: "Winnie the Pooh," "House at Pooh Corner," "When We Were Very Young," and "Now We are Six" were also baby gifts for Mary.  The books were copyrighted and published in the late '20s, so our editions would have been very early.   I could listen to tales about Pooh and Rabbit and Owl and Eeyore and Kanga and Baby Roo by the hour and...I did, if I could plead with just enough intensity to win over a kind adult. Fortunately, by the time I could actually read the books by myself, my sister had moved on to movie magazines and Farley Granger, letting me store A.A. Milne's four masterpieces on my own set of shelves.

To the left of our front door was a set of stairs that led to an upstairs bedroom.  They were enclosed, but had a west facing window.  For me, those stairs were a cozy private place where I could read, play with my stuffed animals or spread out my paper dolls.  Each step became a different room, or a different house, or a different part of Pooh's world.  I spent hours on those stairs, and that is exactly where I read and re-read every tale about Pooh's adventures with Christopher Robin. 

Many years later, after Mary and I had both graduated into the Adult World, I learned she had packed up the Pooh books and taken them to California to use in her classroom.  I felt terribly let down, although I hadn't looked at them in years and, after all, they were her books.  My own kids owned Disney-fied Pooh books and paraphernalia, but it was not the same.  Not even close.  I always missed Ernest Shephard's line drawings. No amount of technicolor could make Pooh as lovable as those spare illustrations.

A few months ago, I was working on a writing project, searching for quotes, and realized only Pooh could cover the situation.  I dropped into Amazon, and YES! Pooh was still in print.  I ordered the classic boxed edition which was a copy of those I had loved as a child, and waited impatiently for the mailman to drop them at the front door.  He did, and I've been reading ever since.  No one is as sweet and lovable as Pooh.  He describes himself as a "Bear of Very Little Brain," but, in actuality, he is a Bear of Very Large Heart, and that is enough for me.  

"WISE WOMEN"

A few weeks ago, a friend lent me a book she'd recently purchased, Wise Women.  Sub-titled "A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage and Beauty," this book of photographs is all that and more. The heavy, smooth, matte-finished paper is a tactile pleasure, while the varying shades of sepia used throughout create warmth and comfort as we discover these womens' worlds.  Did I mention the "wise women" are all between the ages of 65 and 100?  And, in this book 100 looks surprisingly good.

Wise Women opens with Zelda Kaplan, aged 85, bright, erect, head held high, who begins her story by sharing: "I used to dance a lot, but unfortunately, all my partners are dead."  Age and Stage at its worst threatens to defeat us, but it doesn't win every time.  Not by a long shot.  We're strong creatures, and if we can't dance, we can always choose to wear hats that make people smile.  Just like Zelda explains.  

Gloria Steinem caught my attention when she wrote:  "Many of us are living out the unlived lives of our mothers, because they were not able to become the unique people they were born to be..." Steinem, a pioneer of the women's movement to the nth degree, no doubt believed what she said that day.  I wonder now if my mother felt unable to be the person she was born to be.  I don't think for a minute I'm living out her ambitions.  If she dreamed at all, she didn't share it with us, and I'm convinced anything she might have considered would be way beyond my meager accomplishments.  However, I'm definitely planning to spend more time with Steinem's comment.  

Christine Lee, at 67, realizing how swiftly the days fly by, offered advice:  "If you wake up in the morning and you have a choice between doing the laundry and taking a walk in the park, go for the walk. You'd hate to die and realize you had spent your last day doing the laundry."  Amen to that, but in my heart of hearts, I know that if someone told me I would die tomorrow, I'd be hard pressed not to clean house all night.

Sadly, this book carries a copyright of 2002 and many of these wonderful ladies aren't with us any more.  But their thoughts remain.  I've only given you a bare taste because I don't want to spoil the feast that awaits when you have a chance to pick up Wise Women.  And, when you do, I would recommend a wonderfully rich latte or a full-bodied Cabernet as an accompaniment..  It's that kind of thoughtful experience.

 Margie     

RETIREMENT COMMUNITY READING

In our neighborhood, we have a variety of little newspapers and magazines filled with advertisements designed just for us.  Us being "Active Adults," poorly disguised code for "Old".

"DON'T DIE IN YOUR BATHROOM!"  God knows, I really hope I don't die in my bathroom, especially before I get rid of the ten-year-old bargain basement towels we're trying to wear out prior to popping for the Pottery Barn set.  This ad promises its readers that "NOW YOU CAN MAINTAIN YOUR LIFESTYLE AND STILL BE SAFE IN YOUR BATHROOM!" simply by installing a walk-in tub.  I don't know...I still see some possible problems, but maybe that's just me.

Next is the neighborhood Funeral Chapel and Cremation Center that will "FORWARD OUT-OF-STATE." Unfortunately, I can only assume it will be me they are forwarding out-of-state, and can I be sure my kids gave the FC&CC the correct address?  They're wonderful children, but there's still a little nagging concern.

Farther down the page, I spot a Private Investigator who specializes in "INSURANCE FRAUD, MORTGAGE FRAUD", and "ADULTRY" (sic).  You may laugh at that, but let me tell you, in the mid-1990s Sun City West suffered a huge adultery outbreak that made national news and still raises eyebrows today. And...Sun City West is where I picked up the little paper this morning.

On a more solemn note, the local flower shop is proud to be "SPECIALIZING IN SYMPATHY DESIGNS FOR FAMILY, FRIENDS AND CORPORATIONS".  Do people send flowers when a Corporation goes face down?  Considering the "Citizens United" Supreme Court decision, it could be and we're overlooking a profitable niche market.

And, finally, (I've got to quit because God may consider this whole exercise pretty tacky) the "GENTAL (sic) WOMAN DENTIST" who offers "PAINLESS DENTISTRY FOR SENIORS."  Under 65?  Brace Yourself!

Margie
All quotes from "Coffee News", September 29, 2014.

"FALL OF GIANTS"

Since 2010, I've wanted to read Fall of Giants, Book I of Ken Follett's trilogy about the twentieth century.  I was always put off because it was a long book that would be followed by two more long books and I would probably never get it read since I do well to read the one book a month required by my Book Club, so I never made the effort.  Gasp!  But a couple of weeks ago, I said "to hell with it" and ordered Fall of Giants and Winter of the World (Book II) because Amazon was running a special.  And I've really had a glorious time ever since.

I've always enjoyed history--really, really liked it.  I didn't major in history because it seemed to require a great deal more critical thinking skills than I'd ever possessed, but I'm still a fan.  My favorite history is a well done story set against an historical backdrop with just a little upper class sex thrown in every now and then.  Luckily, Fall of Giants fits that bill.

This afternoon I reached Chapter 7 and Page 186, so I'm definitely on a roll.  Chapter 1 took place in southern Wales in the fictional coal mining village of Aberowen.  While the miners lead their lives of quiet desperation, English nobility hangs out in the great manor house (Ty Gwyn--200 rooms) built directly (literally and figuratively) on top of the mines.  Life is either very good or unbelievably awful.  There is no middle ground. 

Chapter 3 moves the action to Russia where daily living holds even less hope than in Wales.  In St. Petersburg, we're sharing the lives of factory workers and learning that Czar Nicholas II, the one we sometimes feel sorry for because he and his family were gunned down by revolutionaries, was really a rat.

In Chapter 5 and 6, we get to tag along with the diplomatic corps in London as the tensions which eventually lead to World War I continue to build.  We're privy to conversations between and among German, Russian and English diplomats.  They were as sneaky then as we imagine they are now, and nothing happens but what they haven't planned exactly how it should affect their own goals and objectives.  One sentence I read just a few minutes ago especially struck me:  The time is July 1914.  Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been assassinated at Sarajevo, and the diplomats are guessing which alliances may result from that act.  The gist of the conversation is that Russia will never let Austria control the Balkan region because they (Russia) must protect their Black Sea access.  Most of Russia's exports (wheat and oil) were shipped through those ports.  Does anyone remember that in July 2014, Vladamir Putin said exactly the same thing as he tried to justify taking over Crimea and threatening the Ukraine?  And they say "history repeats itself."  I guess so!

Well, that catches you up and, I do hope you give Fall of Giants a try.  I'd write more, but I've got to get back to the book, so take care and enjoy whatever you might be reading. Remember, it's all good unless it's really lousy and life is too short for that.

Margie        

"HUMANS OF NEW YORK"

I know I'm pretty darned late to this party, but as an older resident of an age-restricted-adult community, that can happen quicker than you might think.  Here's the deal.  A few months ago, a much younger friend of mine "liked" a posting on Facebook called "Humans of New York," which meant, as far as I can tell, that since she liked it and she was my friend, it showed up on my News Feed with (more or less) her recommendation.  Apparently I had a few minutes that morning, so I checked out the photo and read the post...going so far as to click on "continue reading."  I personally liked it, decided to Facebook "like it", and I've read nearly every post since.

If you're already hooked on HONY, there's probably no need to keep on reading as you may know more than I do; but, if you're not, please hang in here and see if the concept appeals to you.

In 2010 (this is what I mean about "late to the party"), a young man named Brandon Stanton lost his job as a bond-trader, so he picked up a camera and began to wander the streets of New York taking photos of passers-by while interviewing them.  Bond traders are notoriously gutsy people, so his background provided perfect training for approaching strangers while focusing a camera and clutching a notepad.  His photo-blog, "Humans of New York" became one of the most frequently read, recommended, and highly-praised blogs around.

As far as I know, most of his work is done in New York, but he does travel from time to time.  For the remainder of September he will be completing a United Nations-sponsored road-trip begun last month to ten countries in fifty days.  Today (09/04/14), he's posting from South Sudan--specifically, from the "Confident Children out of Conflict Center" in the town of Juba.  The stories run the gamut, so don't think you're going to be depressed every day.  One today made me laugh (boys will be boys sort of thing), and the other two made me happy in a soul-filling-spiritual-singing sort of way (a mother and her four-year-old-son reunited, and a little girl emotionally breaking through a past trauma.)

For me, "Humans of New York" is a perfect vehicle to prove that we ALL (ALL is not a typo) share love and hope and despair and joy and sorrow and loss and grief, not to mention humor and honesty exactly the same.  Gender doesn't matter, color doesn't count, age doesn't separate, wealth doesn't protect.  We are all part of the same whole.  We are inter-dependent.  We can't exist if we ALL don't exist.  Hearing and listening, reading and understanding can't help but make this a better world.  And, we need a better world.  Badly.

In all honesty, even though I've learned and enjoyed and opened my heart to Brandon's stories from the Middle East and Africa, I'll be learning just as much when he returns to New York.  I love the result when he runs into an older (read OLDER) couple and asks how they met, or what did they did on their first date.  Those old guys and gals will blow you away.  I hope I get old with that much panache!

Enjoy!
humansofnewyork.com 


Margie

"THE GOLDFINCH"

Oops!  I'm afraid I have been found out.  Busted.  Exposed to the world.  It appears that BC, my sweet caregiver, after nearly three weeks of cooking, cleaning and miscellaneous laundry duty, suspects that I have been malingering.  Moi? Malingering?

My defense--and, frankly, I would submit that you might be doing the exact same thing if you, like me, had both the excuse (training a new hip, for example) and a really great, and very long book at your side all hours of the day and night.  Those two circumstances call for a little "lay down" every once in awhile in a comfortable bed with some intellectual entertainment, which, God knows, daytime TV is not going to provide.  The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt fit the bill to perfection.

I think The Goldfinch is categorized as Literary Fiction and I'm learning I like Literary Fiction.  I'm not going to pretend I understand everything I've read in this book, but I do enjoy a meaty story.  And, for me, The Goldfinch has been meaty, plus neat and tidy, and most expertly written.  I've been thinking about the flow of life over the past week or two (it's the Life Coach, you know) and Tartt's book, populated by her unique characters, flows.  Sometimes, that flow is tortuous and twisting, turning and winding around on itself.  But occasionally, we can lean back and enjoy blessed stretches of smooth water even if, ever so subtly, we perceive the muted roar of deadly rapids just ahead. 

As for those characters?  They are legion.  And, as far as describing them I'm at a loss because, silly as it sounds, they are so realistic they become indescribable. They are by turn generous and selfish; lovable but disappointing; kind and conniving; mysterious and nefarious with occasional glimpses of a soul.  Actually though, I loved that they were complex.  For me, that makes a good book...although I so wanted to interrupt Theo from time to time and ask him to please rethink that latest really bad decision.  I don't believe there was a single "flat" character in this book, with the possible exception of Theo's father who, in my opinion, had no redeeming values.  None.         

Because I'm in love with New York City, and much of the book takes place there, I fell into it immediately.  I could easily imagine the street scenes that Theo described, the buildings he walked past, the park with its memories of his mother, and the characters hanging out on nearly every corner.  It was as if I were there beside him smelling the flowers, speaking above the din, and watching the trees slowly fade into winter.

The book turns darker when Theo's father makes an unexpected (and unwelcome) appearance in order to re-connect with Theo and take him back to Las Vegas where he is currently hanging out.  I'm not a Las Vegas fan.  I live about four hours from Sin City and, in all honesty, I'll probably never visit there.  But, Tartt's descriptions of Las Vegas were spot on.  She nailed the abandoned housing development (3,000 square foot stucco behemoths in all stages of construction; dirt lots scraped bare; trash flying in the unrelenting wind.)  We saw that here in the west valley of Phoenix and it's as depressing as Theo's life during the long months before he was able to grab the dog and escape back to New York.  Tartt can set the scene and create atmosphere.  No doubt about it.

No, I haven't forgotten the Goldfinch...although as I read I would sometimes turn page after page and not think of him at all.  But, he is an insidious little creature and always manages to come to the forefront again and again creating yet another round of lust or anger or hate or lies or...murder. Obviously, that makes for a good read.  A really good read.  I'm eager to see what the rest of the Book Club thinks.  We're a close-knit but diverse group.  It will be interesting.

Love to All--
Margie

"THE OBITUARY WRITER"

I just finished July's Book Club selection, The Obituary Writer, by Ann Hood.  It was a fairly quick read--even for me--but in the end, I couldn't shake the vague feeling that I would like to have all those hours back for some other purpose.

When Kathy announced the title, I dropped by Amazon to check it out.  Regarding Book Club, I always read reviews in order to know whether to purchase a hardback copy, a paperback, a Kindle download, or simply visit the library and save the money.  In this case, Amazon sprinkled enough Fairy Dust over the page to make it seem worth the $8.41 download.

As with our May selection, this is one more novel in which two characters alternate chapters.  Vivien, the obituary writer of the title, inhabits 1919 San Francisco.  Claire, a young wife and mother, lives in a 1961 D.C. suburb while her husband climbs the civil-service ladder at the Department of the Navy.

Vivien is definitely my favorite of the two.  She moves through a San Francisco and Napa Valley that have depth and description to them.  I can envision her "love nest" that David purchased before he disappeared in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake; as well as the office cum cozy apartment she pulled together later when her writing career began to flourish.  Vivien was real to me.  She was a sympathetic character who, quite realistically, didn't always make the best choices, but I was with her all the way.

Claire, unfortunately, is an entirely different matter.  Perhaps the problem is that I remember 1961 and I don't see or feel any of it here.  Ann Hood seemed to be up against a brick wall, and no matter what she threw at it--distracted husband, whiny baby, lonely housewife--none of it rang true.  She tried, but cocktails and Cheez Whiz was a lousy way to define the era.

Not to beat a dead horse, but poor Claire has the personality of a paper doll and, as the book progresses, the common-sense of a fig.  Yes, her husband is dry and dull, but her solution--an affair, in her own home, in the middle of the day, with no protection of any sort--will obviously end badly. 

And, don't even get me started on her obsession with Jack and Jackie Kennedy.  Those lines pop up out of nowhere with absolutely nothing to give them weight.  If you want obsession with Jack and Jackie, talk to me.  Claire is an amateur.

Claire and Vivien's paths do indeed cross  toward the end of the book.  If I know it's going to happen before it happens (and I did), you'll have it figured out within minutes of opening the book.  That meeting pulls everything together in a tidy little package, but it's too pat for me.  One assumes that Ann Hood plans for everyone to become a better person because of this encounter.  I'm not sure that will happen.  I'm hoping they'll just grow up a bit.

Margie

PS:  Sadly, I still do not have enough self-confidence to write this way about a book and not feel badly but, I've only got so much time left, and The Obituary Writer took too much of it.  I'm happy for Ann Hood though.  She actually wrote a book, had it published and it ranks #17,180 in the Kindle Store and #405,470 in Amazon books.  She is way ahead of me.     

"THE GAME OF LIFE..."

Shortly into my Life Coaching experience, Jay asked me to read a  book by Florence Scovel Shinn titled:  The Game of Life and How to Play It.  "It's a quick read," he explained.  "Just tell me what you think."

Well, as I began the book, what I thought was, "Florence Scovel Shinn is nutty as a fruitcake."  She wrote her book in the early 1920s, shortly before my Mom started college.  I only bring that up because my mother had a friend there named "Pan" after Peter Pan.  Before any exam, Pan would bring the applicable books and notes to the local Catholic church, carefully stack them on the front pew, sit on them and pray.  Even if Pan had not read Florence Scovel Shinn, she was most certainly on the same wave-length.  I remember laughing and laughing at that story. 

Florence Scovel Shinn was a participant in the "New Thought" movement of the early "20s and, per the introduction to her book, attempted "to bring metaphysical ideas down to earth for everyday people."  I immediately "poo-poohed" Florence, read the first three chapters and put The Game of Life... aside, picking up Jack Canfield's The Success Principles. 

I've never been known as a quick study, but somewhere in Chapter Six of The Success Principles, I began to hear echoes of--could it be--Florence Scovel Shinn.  I am gobbling up every word of Jack Canfield, underlining and taking notes, and all of a sudden I'm reading a contemporary version of Florence's advice.  Wham!  I have had an epiphany. 

On my next visit with Jay I asked, "Do you really believe that positive affirmations will make things come true...ala Florence Scovel Shinn?"  "Well," he answered, "I do believe that positive attracts positive, and negative will attract more negativity."  My slowness in understanding ephemeral concepts is, no doubt, a burden for a life coach.  After all, our entire first session had been about the power of positive affirmations in rewiring the brain.  OK, so now, maybe I'm beginning to grasp the concept.

Let's look at a little of Florence's work as it pertains to affirmations.  First of all, an affirmation must be believable to you or, as Florence would say, "...absolutely satisfying and convincing to (your) own consciousness..."  Affirmations must also be "carefully worded", unlimited but specific, and cover all your ground.  For example:  "Infinite Intelligence, give me the right house, equally as charming as this, [appropriate when your perfect house deal falls through] the house which is mine by divine right."  If you're a little uncomfortable bringing in the divine (Florence never hesitates), I'm sure you can work around it.

Or this:  Pretend you are what you hope to be.  Florence calls it "make believe," whereas Jack Canfield describes it in minute Jack Canfield detail, and others label it "imagining," "imaging," or "visioning."  Whatever you call it, do it (don't force it) and watch the results.

I'm a little afraid to look like a "New Thought" throwback but, as I skimmed Florence again this morning, more and more caught my eye.  She is extremely spiritual (in an interesting sort of way) but don't let that stop you.  Once you get it--and I'm still processing--it's a wonderful road map.  Give it a look!

Margie   

"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

"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

"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.

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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