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I went hiking at Weir farm National Historic Site recently with some friends from a hiking meetup.
The site includes old farm buildings and a huge acreage of gardens and forest.
We hiked around Weir Pond and into the woods.
it was early evening in the summer and the light was very pretty coming through the trees.
The buildings on the farm have a very spooky feel in the evening. We were the only people about on a Thursday evening… that we could see!
(Colin and I are away… Here’s some good things to keep you busy in the meanwhile)…
Look what spun a lovely spider’s web on our deck recently!
Look what arrived in the mail recently! Purchased from Mr. Typewriter in Florissant, MO., I got six brand new ribbons for my Royal Futura 800.
… pressing the Red Royal button (Thanks Portable Typewriter Forum!)
Of course, I spent about 20 minutes trying and failing to figure out how to get the ribbon threaded correctly (and smearing ink all over the keys!). I had to call in the Colin Calvary.
He got it going right away!
Hence, Colin got the honors of typing the first official sentence!
In my dream last night I was following Dr. Who (David Tennant) and some friends to an alternate universe.
Since it was a dream, it was alot like a Dr. Who episode, with strange creatures and great gaping caverns. We transported through reams of paper and The Doctor was his effervescent self.
My favorite part of the dream was our visit to an amusement park, where my sister Ann and I climbed straight away onto the roller coaster. I am not much of a roller coaster lover in real life, or at least in this universe. But in my parallel dream universe, on the other side of the ream of paper, I hopped right into the car, fearless, tossed aside my can of Coke, and went for a ride.
I remember my dreams all the time. During the last three years, when I was unsettled and my hormones were amok, I didn’t sleep well. As a result, my dreams were always just on the other side of the surface, ready to greet me the instant I stumbled off into sleep.
This was my first dream of The Doctor, but I am wondering if he was always there, calling to me, sending me messages, and I just needed to get on the roller coaster to reach him.
Elin Hilderbrand’s A Summer Affair, is supposed to be a beach read. You know this because there is an image of two cute pairs of feet kissing in the sand on the book’s cover.
The fact that this layered, well-structured and sometimes thoughtless novel is supposed to be a beach read indicates a complication not only with our publishing system right now, but I think, with the way that American women are expected to read books.
As a novel, A Summer Affair is an excellent story that will pull you through straight to its climatic ending. However, it is populated with unsympathetic and white bread-boring suburban characters who have two problems: one, they have everything, and two, they still manage to muck up their life even so.
Perfect Misery in America
In the age of epically beautiful novels populated by complex and generous souls, such as Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance, and Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone, Hilderbrand’s Claire Danner (Note: publisher’s website calls her Sheila Cook?… this may be a late edition change) and Lockhart Dixon are painfully and stereotypically AMERICAN: they have everything they could possibly want, living in the most fortunate of circumstances and yet they are still miserable. The character of Claire, in particular, is specifically written to have “no boundaries”– her fatal flaw that draws her storyline through.
But, naturally, like her entire life, Claire gets everything she wants in the end (it’s a beach read for heavens sake… this isn’t exactly a spoiler!) including the love of not one, not two, but of THREE men, and her successful art career and perfect children, and her perfectly clean house on Nantucket with the Thai nanny, and one-upsmanship over a mostly evil divorcee co-chair. Not exactly just spoils for a woman who spent a year cheating on her husband and lying to her best friend.
An UnFine Balance
My girlfriend and I talked at length about why this book doesn’t work.
Genre, in particular, makes this story unsettling. Are we expected to expect that marital infidelity, because it is set in wealthy, white suburban America, is now a lite and fluffy subject that can be diminished to “beach read” status?
Or is it just that books that women read — all subjects relegated to “chick lit” — must be defined by our publishers as less serious genres like “beach read” in order to get our attention? Are our otherwise busy lives too burdened to take on serious subject, so much so that publishing companies now have to protect us from it, and perfectly good authors are writing around it?
Talent, Wasted
Hilderbrand is a graduate of the University of Iowa writing workshop which, by definition, makes her no slouch in the fiction department. The quality of story shows here in the pacing and the complexity of character interaction.
But instead of writing a serious novel about marital infidelity and its impact on family life, she chose to write a butter cream icing novel about summer gala intrigue, which happens to include an affair between a co-chair and the charity’s director. It is Novel-as-Gossip instead of Novel-as-Exploration. At the end, even though the story is well-crafted and pulls you through, the real infidelity is Hildebrand to her subject matter: it is Novel as Cop-Out.
It’s possible that because Hilderbrand lives on Nantucket she does not want to offend her neighbors, and thus glosses over the true grit of a dirty affair. But that is secondary to the main offense in A Summer Affair: the happy ending. Suburban women seem to be worshipping an Eat Pray Love idealism, but unlike Elizabeth Gilbert, Claire Danner does not sacrifice anything.
The primary question this novel leaves me with is this: Why does Hilderbrand, an author with as much talent as she exhibits here, limiting herself to such creampuff storylines?
Is it nature or nuture?
With the window open, from my bed, the view is only grass.
It doesn’t matter if it is raining or sunny– from here I have my square of green framed in white. My life in grass.
In London, from the window of my office at Delaware Road — the first flat — my view was a damp brick wall, as viewed through barred window panes. Then we moved to number 87, an above-ground flat, and my view improved– morning bowling matches on the green, a handsome tennis instructor busy in his court, and, best of all, the shifting clouds that turned the skies from sulky grey to hyacinth blue in minutes.
Ma Vie en Vert
And even though London was green for its parks, and green by its nature… green from damp long winters that never quite got cold and summer that refused to dry out… even so, there were no sounds of lawn mowers and no wide squares of common man’s yard for no purpose other than to put greenness between that man and his neighbor. Greenness to slow down the acceleration towards each other.
Out my bedroom window, as I lie here, the square isn’t filled with rushing clouds or the rushing tennis balls and shoes. It is 
filled with thousands of single blades of grass assembled in one space– for the sake of the sun, the roots and a slower life.
My Lover, My Backhoe
There is something AWFUL about an abandoned blog on my Google Reader. I click and click and click on “hopeful curmudgeon” and it is always February 26, 2008. Hopeless is more like it! My own version of Groundhog Day!
I wonder what happens when people stop blogging? Did they:
Google Reader ruined it!
One thing I can say: I love my blog reader, BUT I don’t have a tendancy to comment much on other people’s blogs when I am reading from the Reader. Instead I think “ahhh” or “how very insightful!” and move on. Google promotes relationship laziness - even at the blogger level!
Hence, I believe I have been communicating with my friends and colleagues, but in fact, I’ve been making love to imaginary backhoes in my mind.
Comments, anyone?
Last night, I went to see A Catered Affair at the Thomas Kerr Theatre on Broadway. This was a fluke: one of the board members where I work called and said she had spare tickets for that evening, so I was off on the train to the city a few hours later.
Tom Wopat was a featured performer in this particular show, a fact that made me suddenly nervous. I mean, I was going to be sitting in the 6th row after all– it was going to practically be just him and me! After all these years!
My sister, Ann, has always had claim on Tom. I was was a Schneider girl. But John and I haven’t seen each other since he stopped in Kansas City to perform “Will Rogers Follies” at the Starlight. That’s eight years gone now– I think it might be over between us now. Am I allowed to move onto a theoretical brother?
Wopat.com
There’s something about these men, my first loves. They are as varied as their 1970s and 1980s TV roles: Hardy Boy Parker Stevenson, Riptide’s brunette Joe Penny, Tales of The Gold Monkey pilot Stephen Collins, KITT’s sidekick Michael Knight, played by the legendary David Hasselhoff. And, of course, the grinning, sinning, always-winning Duke Boys.
And while Wopat is no Hasselhoff in his cult stature, he’s still got a following for sure. At Wopat.com, you can catch up on the actor’s stage life– Chicago, Glengarry Glen Ross, 42nd Street, Annie Get Your Gun– Wopat has been singing and dancing his way up and down Broadway since the celluloid version of himself hit syndication.
Making the Leap
Actors gotta be fluid creatures– be able to take on a persona, squeeze it dry, then leave it behind. Not every actor is made of that ilk (see: David Caruso). But what Wopat has got is that everyman persona, a blank canvas of manhood, rough and soft in turns.
In A Catered Affair, he slid into the sullen, exhausted husband-provider as if it were his favorite pair of well-fitted Levi’s. It hurt to watch him, but it hurt the way it should; Tom Hurley was living on that stage, while Wopat the TV icon receded.
It’s a natural thing, a lovely thing–watching a man make something look so easy. Reminded me of a certain pair of brothers, so charming, who always managed to escape from the law, who always managed to get across the state line just in time… who could always coax General Lee to leap across some insurmountable obstacle– and land laughing.
Since Colin and I returned from London, we are able to indulge in having animals again. Our first feline acquisition is BETTY (seen here), who is completely bonkers.
Betty is a rescue kitty, who was feral for the first 10 weeks of her life. But that doesn’t explain her madness. Nothing could explain her penchant (obsession, more correctly) with twist ties.  Or the fact that she snubs her nose at fish and chicken but seems to adore the little round “Science Diet” nuggets we serve her. She cuddles with the bannister post. She comes when we call– but just part way. Then perks her ears, looks at us from the end of the bed, then pounces on our chests.
And then there is our chests. Chests, it seems, are the only location on our body that Betty really likes. She’ll come stand on our chests, even lay on Colin(!) when we are laying on the bed (ONLY the bed!) with the comforter over us.
Betty disdains of Colin’s hair-covered skin, and won’t come near me if I lay on the sofa with the blanket covering me there. And, in fact, the sofa blanket she hates most of all, stepping peevishly around it whenever it partially blocks her access to our legs.
Oh.. that’s right. I forgot … she also will come to our legs. When she sit on the couch, with our legs crossed. Propped on the table. And properly covered in pants, not shorts, of course.
Betty generally prefers Colin… that is unless Colin isn’t around. Then she prefers me. She rolls on her side on the kitchen table to get a belly rub, but if you approach her wrong (like breathing, for example), she’ll become so frightened of having her belly rubbed — by us or anyone else — she roll right off the side of the table.
She’s a klutz, a moron, a dork, a weirdo and a dweeb. But she’s adorable… especially when she’s cuddling the bannister post and carrying a twist tie lovingly in her mouth.
Or, Rather, Back to the Royal Futura 800
After a long mooning period over the romance of Zach Houston’s poetic life and a deep longing to be cut off from Gmail (though I love it so, it plagues and distracts me!), I jumped into the deep end and made a $26 ebay purchase. It arrived yesterday.
Once owned by “Nancy Hlavin” (her name is printed largely in red on both the case and the body of the typewriter), the Futura is settling in on my desk and airing out.
Next step: figure out how to set the right margin and buy some new ribbon!
Interrupting my A.M. snoozing time/Morning Edition listening hour this morning was Kate Remington of WSHU’s classical music morning telling me that she’d gotten to work early this morning for “a very special fundraiser.”
Memorial Day weekend marked our one year anniversary back in the U.S., our return to National Public Radio. I love NPR. I fell in love with it in Kansas City, listening to KCUR, home of Walt Bodine and New Letters on the Air. My love affair with KCUR in the Kansas City marked GREAT SHIFT in my life: from music to talk. Although I still LOVE music and constantly listen to it in the car and while I exercise and walk and around the house, in the morning, our clock radio awakes us with Morning Edition.
WSHU - An NPR Station with a Habit?
Ruining all of that for me is WSHU, the NPR station of Fairfield County. I am not sure why–perhaps to distinguish itself from WNYC’s excellent programming– WSHU insists on doing the TWO THINGS that absolutely ruin any NPR station: excessive classical music and excessive fundraisers.
Since we arrived one year ago, WSHU has held SIX fundraisers. This one, today, is “very special” because it is a one-day event with funds being matched by the Newman Foundation. If WSHU were successful at fundraising, they wouldn’t have to keep knocking on our doors, like a bastard child with a drug habit.
The last one, in March, was the “Semi-annual” (hah) fundraiser, where volunteers tried to convince people to give more money earlier, saying if they reached their goal of X before a certain time, they’d all shut up and just let us listen to Morning Edition.
Give me money, and I’ll go away? Another great tactic used by many black sheep family members with drug habits.
Since I am trapped in the WSHU bubble at the moment, I am not sure whether other NPR stations have upped the ante and started nagging their listeners. Perhaps this is an NPR-wide phenomenon? If so, it’s a mistake.
Classical Snooze-ville
Meanwhile starting at 9 a.m., instead of great local programing (KCUR, for example, features an award-winning one-hour daily public affairs/talk show and a local host talk show), Day to Day, Talk of the Nation and Fresh Air, WSHU hosts a deadly boring 7 hours of classical music.
Hmm, what will I listen to while I stare into the flashing red eyes of the brake lights in front of me on I-95? I know, this Johann Strauss Polka played by the Russian string Quartet SKAZ.
zzz….zzz….
Viva KCUR!
I am considering sending my NPR donation every year back to KCUR. I believe in local and I believe in NPR, but at least I won’t be supporting the fundraiser-and-classical programming that some poncy WSHU director came up with while laying on a Southport beach.
And hey, at least then I’ll still get the mug.
It’s very early and I’ve been ebaying for a typewriter.
See, I’ve got a notion of escape that– apparently– involves an almost obsolete technology. I’ve got Zach Houston on my mind today, and my escapee friend, the letter D.
As alphabets go, this year has definitely been a Silent E, so far. Very busy indeed, and absolutely nothing to say about it. That hasn’t stopped me from writing, and it seems my laptop is giving out, one letter at a time. The letter D was the first to abandon ship.
One good thing about my current job fiasco is the typewriter. I had to type contracts on an old Selectric. I laughed when I saw it, but once I put my fingers to it, I adored it. There was no “Saving” or “Deleting.” Any “Searching” I wanted to do, I had to do on my personal time. Nope. With a typewriter, what you saw in front of you was what was– like Nature itself.
The Letter D and Googlepsy
Recently, I’ve notice myself suffering from what I call Googlepsy… this is like a mini-seizure, during which, for a moment I am either angry or disoriented over the fact that I cannot search a hand- or type-written object with a a Google search engine.
“WHAT?” I think, frustrated and confused. “I have to scan the pages for what I am looking for? With my own eyes?” Right away, I knew I had to get out.
I want to escape– to take my thoughts away from virtual letters and instant information for awhile. Distractions are everywhere, and they are endlessly filling my Google Reader, my blog platforms, my Inbox.
I know I will probably give in and buy a Macbook, with a side of IPhone to replace my current, miserable handheld technologies. But I just want to tell my lost old friend Letter D, for the record: I hear you. I want to escape too. I just don’t know if it is possible.
(this post was made possible, in part, by my husband’s fully functioning keyboard)
I am happy to report that I received my copy of Sally Hinchcliffe’s Out of a Clear Sky in the post yesterday. It is currently out of stock on Amazon proper, but you can buy it in the U.S. through Amazon booksellers. It took about a week to arrive.
Sally’s bio in the book is typically brief and self-effacing: so here is what you can know about my friend that she doesn’t tell you.
Sally is a doggedly determined writer, very thoughtful and with a full and dry wit. She’s from the Midwest originally but has lived in London for so long, she’s gone fairly native and I think it suits her. You’ll might find her on her bicycle or waxing poetic on the Tube (The Disgruntled Commuter) , but recently she and her other half have up sticks and moved to the country (Town Mouse), where she has been brave enough to get behind the wheel of a car, even in this economy.
Sally and I met a couple years ago, over the cause of shortlisted short stories. Hers was far better than mine. (-:
Occasionally I ask myself “What are you writing?!?? Pelting squirrels and fuzzy cat buses?!?”
That is usually when I can feel myself “filling in”– you know, writing something that isn’t exactly the truth of what is on my mind.
I guess I “fill-in” on the days when I need to talk, to spill it, but I just I can’t face the deep well. Like the days when the hurting thing eats at you, so you eat a Three Muskateers, to get by.
It isn’t a diet I’d recommend full time, but a little nougat never killed anyone, I reckon.
I like to be tormented. Anyone who knows me can tell you that.
Squirrels are my latest rant. We are infested with them in our yard! Apparently that fat squirrel wasn’t just enjoying the pickings of our compost pile… she was out swinging the cat around a couple months ago and now we have 10 squirrels where once there were three.
Word must be out on the maple limbs that our yard is the place to be. The huge maples overhead have been dropping their helicopters in earnest, and all day long (I surmise… no nanny-cam installed yet) the little buggers squat around the driveway, snacking and digging. When they get bored eating their weight in helicopter nuts (not the technical name, I don’t think), it’s about time to dig random holes in my flower bed and chews the tops off of my potted flowers.
This morning, heading out for my walk, however, we had two white squirrel visitors from down the street. I know they don’t live in our trees, because I’ve seen Mamma Honky (my affectionate name for her) bounding around a block away, around the corner.
Also, our plain and pesky passel here never bothers to run away when I shout and scamper at them, flailing my arms. These little whites took off as soon as the front door opened.
I could, I suppose, move off the brown and grays like they do in Olney, Illinois, and see if I can make Stratford the sixth-next World’s Home of the White Squirrels.
I like the white squirrels, but I don’t much care for squirrels. There’s the conundrum. I can’t seem to eat the icing without having to eat the cake too. But I can’t bring myself to idolize the “better half” of a community that seems to be placed in my yard strictly to dig holes in my sanity.
So, too bad white squirrels. By luck of genetics, you might be revered in Olney, Marionville, Kenton, Brevard or Exeter, but around these parts, I am the arm-flailing, rock-throwing sheriff … you better watch where you dig or you might just find yourself in a whole heap o’ trouble.
