Posted on September 20, 2004
I own five or six hundred books at most, since I’m not as interested in owning as reading them. I’m prone to recycling with friends, giving to the Salvation Army, and generally keeping books I might have to move to a manageable level.
But yesterday afternoon I wondered what book I have held onto the longest. Which one had followed me more places than any other? It isn’t something one can positively determine from the publishing date; rather, I looked for inscriptions on the flyleaf from the books’ givers. In the meantime, I was rewarded with a variety of memories about the givers themselves.
The book that took the title of having hung around the longest belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson, he of Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde fame. This book, called A Child’s Garden of Verse, was published originally in 1885.
From the handwriting on the inscription, I see that my maternal grandmother, Anna Catherine Bannon McDonald, gave me this book in 1950, when I was a mere six years old. I also see the scribbles I put around her words, as if I were decorating them while learning cursive in second grade.
Given its age, A Child’s Garden of Verses is in remarkable condition. The hardback cover is a bit ragged, but the spine holds strong. The illustration on the front is faded, but still recognizable. And inside are the poems that R. L. Stevenson wrote almost 120 years ago. I enjoy them still, and I enjoy as much the fact that my grandmother, who has joined Stevenson on the other side, thought enough to add her own dedication over half a century ago.
See more 10 Minutes in category Nostalgia, Writing
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Posted on September 19, 2004
Breakfast has become complicated if you want to eat it in a restaurant. If you are like me, which means you are not a morning person, there are too many decisions to make before one is even half awake.
I don’t mean the decisions that revolve around ordering eggs and bacon over French toast or pancakes. Or juice over milk. I mean the more detailed ones that come after that.
Take a simple order of eggs, toast, and potatoes, for instance, and you’re apt to be bombarded with the following questions: How many eggs? Real ones or egg whites only? Poached, scrambled, over easy? Runny or well-done? In butter or margarine? White, rye or whole wheat bread? Toasted or plain? Buttered or dry? English muffin or bagel is extra. Jelly or marmalade? Hashbrowns or American fries? Crisp or regular?
Of course, most people have the answers handy, but it feels like a lot of instructions, especially since the breakfast order usually follows the beverage order. Coffee, tea, or juice? Ah, coffee. Regular or decaf? Cream or sugar? Real, pink, or blue? (Does anyone remember the days when coffee was coffee, cream was cream, and sugar only came in white?)
About the only personal choice that isn’t in the interrogation is whether I want my toast cut from corner to corner or from side to side. Even in my semi-conscious condition, I prefer the former.
See more 10 Minutes in category Annoyances, Dining/Food
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Posted on September 18, 2004
Spring City, Tennessee, made the national news yesterday, when it was cited by the media as an example of the damage Hurricane Ivan has done to the southeast. A city official was quoted as saying the main roads through the one stoplight town were underwater and that a Coca Cola machine had been seen hurtling around town on its own accord.
Earl and I have seen the devastating images from the last few weeks as wind and rain ravaged Florida and beyond. We’ve listened to orders of evacuation and marveled at stories of departing citizens who took eight or nine hours in their autos to go a few miles. We’ve been appalled at the damage that returning residents found when the storm passed.
But Spring City has struck closest to home. In fact, Spring City is home to Earl’s mother.
At age 91, she now resides in a nursing home in the next town over, but the house she shared with Earl’s father waits in hope she might return someday. Earl called friends there to learn firsthand how bad things were. He was told that most of the people evacuated before the torrent hit and the roads went out. But several mobile homes, which are popular in Tennessee, sank into the lake. One, in particular, hasn’t been seen since.
Where we live, the winter cold and grayness creates a long January through March. But watching all the suffering from the recent tropical storms made us realize that we, at least, don’t have to worry about mudslides, trees falling on roofs, and hurling Coke machines every summer.
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Posted on September 17, 2004
I went to my local Walgreen’s yesterday to obtain the two photos required by our government to have one’s passport renewed. Sure enough, in the photo department a woman waited with a Polaroid camera and a pull-down screen that provided the obligatory white backdrop. She propped me up in front of the screen, made furrows in her forehead, and said, “Don’t smile.”
I obliged, although I wondered why smiling, or lack thereof, was part of the process. It wasn’t necessary to ask aloud, since the woman’s explanation was forthcoming. “We’ve received new government guidelines,” she said. “Applicants are not to smile since it changes their appearances.”
Her sincerity could not be doubted, but her answer made me wonder where this idea originated. I also wondered how much money the government spent sending the guidelines to every Walgreen’s as well as to every other place that offers passport photos.
I can see a variety of consequences to the “No Smiling” order. Airport security personnel will add another item to their burgeoning checklist. Anyone who currently possesses a passport with a smiling photo will be asked to replicate the smile before hearing an official say, “Yes, it’s you. Go on through.”
Then when American tourists are asked to show their passports in other countries, we’ll all appear as a somber bunch. This might be interpreted as proof that we don’t like living in our country. We’ll all look older too, since smiles tend to de-age the face and our photos will be smile-less.
I wonder if those who issue drivers’ licenses will follow suit.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Things to Ponder, Travel
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Posted on September 16, 2004
Yesterday Earl and I went to the Allegan County Fair to see prizewinning pigs and cows, as well as prizewinning pies and jams. We sampled a local sausage and quenched our thirst with authentic lemonade. We saw harness races, an old schoolhouse, and a prize steer.
Since it’s an election year, we also saw the Republican booth and the Democratic booth; and, in a way, those were the most interesting exhibits of all. The Democratic booth occupied the eastern corner, while the Republican booth claimed the western one in the same building. This meant both parties held court just inside entrances and opposite each other. What could be more fair?
I imagine the county fair committee lost more than one sleepless night in deciding how those two booths would be positioned. In the Allegan neck of the woods, there are more Republicans than there are Democrats, but to favor one party obviously over the other in such a public setting surely courted backlash.
I bought two buttons at the Democratic booth while Earl hung out across the way. Given that I love grammar and believe it is essential to honing one’s analytical skills, the button I bought for me has President Bush reading a book and saying: “Is our children learning?” The button I bought for my good friend, Carol, reads: “Women for Kerry.”
See more 10 Minutes in category Politics, Small Town Life
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Posted on September 15, 2004
Nothing is simple, even when you hire a professional. Take the case of the new awnings we recently ordered for the front of our house. I’d chosen a color, which I thought would go well with the brick, the landscaping, and the blacktopped driveway. Then I shopped around for an awning maker because even though I’m pretty good on a sewing machine, this job was beyond me.
Awning Man and I held our first meeting on the driveway where I showed him my ideas. He showed me what he would do instead. No problem here; I’m open to suggestion, especially from someone who makes a living providing a special service. Ultimately, we went with his choice.
A few days later Awning Man’s crew removed the four old awnings so that the frames could be recovered. When the frames returned dressed in their new finery, the fabric of one awning was torn. Off it went, back to the factory. For a week our house looked somewhat lopsided, but the final awning arrived yesterday. That, as they say, is the good news.
The bad news? When the two workers were installing it, one of them accidentally missed the mark with his drill. Instead of bolting the awning to the brick wall, the drill itself bolted through the window. Glass does not hold up well under these conditions.
So the workers removed my window and took it away for repair. Naturally, the glass shop didn’t have the type of glass that was needed, so Glass Man put in a substitute until he could order the right type. The workers returned and reinstalled the window, saying they’d come back when the correct glass was available, remove the window again, have it redone, and return it.
Now lest you think I’m unhappy, I’m not. I’m simply struck with how much detail is involved in almost any project.
See more 10 Minutes in category Me/Family, Things to Ponder
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Posted on September 13, 2004
Monday is everybody’s whipping boy. Most people have nothing positive to say about the second day of the week, since it is — for many — the first day of the workweek; and we’ve all been doing for two days what we’d rather be doing full time.
The attempt at adjustment manifests itself in various ways. Traffic jams are thicker; absenteeism due to “illness” is more prevalent; employee morale is lower. The water cooler is more important. In general, people pull themselves through Monday as if they were caught in quicksand and a horse was dragging them out.
Personally, I like Monday.
I’ve had two days off and feel rested. I’ve replenished my soul, my body, and my mind. I may not like what faces me, but here’s a secret about that: I take Monday as a day to ease back into the work world, rather than forge ahead. I say to myself, “What MUST be done today and what can wait?”
It’s mostly about the waiting. I do what I have to, then organize for the rest of the week. I move myself into my regular routine, having abandoned it for Saturday and Sunday. I take it in small doses; and, by Tuesday, I’m ready to roll.
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Posted on September 12, 2004
Your opinion of Fargo, North Dakota, was probably formed from the movie named “Fargo,” created by the Coen Brothers several years back. Until I visited there, my impression was formed the same way.
But now that my son, the world literature professor at a local state university, lives there, I’ve come to know and love Fargo firsthand. It’s deceptively charming, and nothing at all like the movie. Perhaps that’s because the movie wasn’t filmed there in the first place.
The real Fargo is meat and potatoes stuff, sturdy and filling without being continental. Maybe they talk funny there, but I never noticed. There are 250 restaurants, including many restaurant chains, a couple eateries that stand above the norm, and Sarello’s, the one and only restaurant in town that deserves four stars. You go there for special occasions, and Kevin and I dined there tonight.
The main street, which runs about half a dozen blocks, doesn’t have a building over three stories high. Most of the storefronts are early twentieth century, although they are trying to accommodate early twenty-first century enterprises: coffee houses, independent bookstores, antique dealers, bars, and a movie house where Marge from “Fargo” movie fame is memorialized in a wooden sculpture on the mezzanine. It’s a fairly accurate likeness too.
Fargo is the unofficial gate to North and South Dakota, to Montana and Idaho. Think of names like Mt Rushmore, Little Big Horn, Wounded Knee, the Black Hills and you get a sense of the space and distance in this region of the United States. I’m only visiting my son for two days, but someday . . . someday . . . I plan to take the wider tour, starting at Fargo and reaching back into our country’s earlier history.
Presuming, that is, that Kevin stays in Fargo long enough.
Posted on September 11, 2004
My older son, Kevin, was born on September 11 long before it became synonymous with terrorists and the destruction of the World Trade Center, long before the world knew of American military power and the Patriot Act.
So what does one do when a national disaster becomes forever linked to one’s birthday? I’m not sure Kevin would agree, but here is what I would do.
I’d celebrate any way I wanted. I might acknowledge the national tragedy that shares my birthday by sending money to some philanthropy. I might visit Ground Zero if I were in the neighborhood. I might take myself to dinner to honor both my own life and those whose lives were snuffed out on my day. I might cry. And I’d surely try to laugh.
Because September 11 falls on a weekend this year, I’m planning to spend Kevin’s birthday with him, doing whatever he feels is important to honor the day. He lives in Fargo, North Dakota; I live in St. Joseph, Michigan. We don’t see each other that often that we can pick nits about how to spend precious time we have.
So I have no preconceived notions about what we’ll do. It doesn’t really matter. Instead, the important thing is to be together, because that is what those who died on September 11 cannot do.
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Posted on September 10, 2004
Three days ago, the death toll of American soldiers in Iraq passed the one thousand mark, and it makes me sad. It also makes me fearful.
About two months ago I read an editorial written by a retired Army general regarding the death toll in our most current war. He hypothesized that when the death toll reached one thousand, there would be an added rationale for staying in Iraq.
According to this general (whose name I cannot remember) the rationale is this: One thousand military personnel have given their lives for the cause, so we must stay in Iraq to honor their sacrifice. We cannot withdraw.
I’m not sure the general writing the editorial agreed; he was merely pointing out the probability of a course of action. However, I do believe the present administration buys the premise wholeheartedly, because it wants to justify its own course of action to date.
Yet, the backstory is this: If we stay to honor those original one thousand deaths, surely another one thousand might die, depending on the length of time of our occupation. How can the deaths of more soldiers honor those who gave their lives in the first place? At what point do we say, enough? Soldiers dying to exonerate soldiers who have already died doesn’t make any sense to me.
See more 10 Minutes in category Politics
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