Sunday Sundries, 247

1. HBOTW [Human Beings of the Week]: Late Saturday morning I drove over to the Aurora Starbucks, where I met a group of young people (well, "young" compared with me!) whom I'd taught back in the mid-1980s at Harmon Middle School in Aurora, Ohio; they were in town for their 30th high school reunion. The picture below shows us, and I have to say that I was extraordinarily moved to see them all again. They'd been involved in my middle school shows (and, some, in two high school shows I did later--Grease and The Merry Wives of Windsor). It was wonderful--"catching up," laughing, telling stories, remembering those no longer with us I confess to a few (okay, a lot) of tears on my drive home.

L-R: Will, Kim, Jason, Rob, DD, Jennifer, Carmen

2. I finished just one book this week--Beautiful Girl,  a 1979 collection of stories by Alice Adams (1926-99). a writer Joyce has read, a writer I've known about for a long, long time, a writer I've just never gotten around to ... till now. And am I glad I did!

She writes in a deceptively simple style, for the stories are complex and, eventually, revelatory. They deal with relationships, with discovery, disappointment, shock, and surprise--in other words, they deal with our lives. She won numerous awards for her fiction (she wrote novels, as well).

I have bought a thick collection of her stories--and then I will start on her novels. I've got a new obsession!

Link to her obituary in the New York Times.

3. No movie-going this week, though we continue to stream bits of "our" shows on various sites: Elementary, Waking the Dead, Doc Martin.

4. Thanks to Joyce, I've found yet another addiction: the "mini" crossword puzzle on the New York Times website. Joyce has been doing them for quite a while; I've been doing so for a few weeks. I will not reveal that there is some, uh, competition between us concerning the speed with which we complete them (the site provides minutes and seconds when you finish). That would be self-destructive, you know, competing with your beloved spouse like that ... then blogging about how you ... never mind.

5. Last Word: A word I liked this week from one of my various online word-of-the-day providers ...

     - from wordsmith.org

delphinestrian (del-fi-NES-tree-uhn)

noun: A dolphin rider.

ETYMOLOGY: From Latin delphinus (dolphin), on the pattern of equestrian. Earliest documented use: 1820.

NOTES: If you ever get the urge to ride a dolphin, please leave them alone. Find yourself an inflatable one instead. In general, if you find yourself wanting to do things to any sentient being without their permission, find yourself an inflatable one. Also see, wooden horse.

USAGE: “A boy venturing to swim farther out than his companions, was met by a dolphin, who after playing about him a little, slipped under him, and taking him on his back, carried him out still farther, to the great terror of the young delphinestrian.” Leigh Hunt; The Indicator; Joseph Appleyard (London, UK); 1822.

FYI: Leigh Hunt (look in the lines just above) was a friend of the Shelleys, and it was after a visit to the Hunts that Bysshe Shelley drowned off the coast of Viareggio, Italy, in July 1822 in a boating accident.

Social Life? I Think I Remember ...

As the years flow along--sometimes placidly, sometimes not--my social life (such as it was) has diminished. Student years, career(s)--all featured opportunities for me to, in one sense or another, "party on."

My mom and dad used to have good friends--and always seemed to be doing things. Until they no longer did. By the time they were near the end of their lives (1999, Dad; 2018, Mom), their "social lives" comprised conversations with aides in nursing homes and visits from their sons and their families.

I'm not quite there yet--getting closer with every breath, of course (as are all of the rest of you--so don't go all arrogant on me!).

But here's a strange thing I've found: I like being with Joyce, like being by myself. For weeks on end. Months, even. (Not counting coffee-shop encounters, of course!)

Yet every now and then ... stuff happens. My calendar pages, normally fairly empty (except for visits to doctors), somewhat fill up.

Let's take this week:

• Thursday evening I drove over to the Aurora Inn for the induction of a former teaching colleague, Ted Linden, into the Honored Educator Hall of Fame, an award recently created by the Aurora Alumni Association. A dinner. A program. Speeches. Some tears. (You know.) I got to see and sit with some dear former colleagues--got to see and talk with some wonderful former students--got to have a free meal (eschewed dessert: I have standards!).
• Friday evening, Joyce and I had dinner with some good friends here in Hudson--over at the Thai Gourmet in Stow (a place we really enjoy). Lots of laughter and stories and affection.
• In about an hour I will head over to Aurora to a coffee shop to meet with some former students who are in town for Aurora High's homecoming weekend. Some of them I have not seen in many, many years. I'm looking forward to it.

And--I have to say--this week has wiped me out. My Social Battery is about out of juice, and I know (from Sad Experience) that if I do much more, I will regret it. I'm on some energy-sapping meds, and they don't mess around. And I've learned (the Hard Way) that I should not mess around--too much.

The Good News: I've had a very good time. More Good News: Nothing "on" next week except for a doctor's visit.

Back to normal.

But with some fond memories to hold me over till next time when the Calendar Gods decide it's time to get me out of the house.

I Can't Find a Couple of Damn Books!

Let's be up front about it--and perfectly frank: My study is a mess. My grandfather Osborn (a scholar so neat that he made certain that in his desk drawer his paperclips were all pointing the same way) and my mother (also an Osborn--also ... fastidious) would take one look at my study and immediately require me to take a DNA test.

So, yes, clutter everywhere--projects in various stages scattered around--a general impression that whoever uses this room is but a variation of a Cat Lady.

But some books--key reference books?--I know where they are. And the two that are missing are the first two volumes of the Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang, volumes A-G and H-O, published in the mid-1990s (subsequent volumes never appeared--not sure why, but I'm sure the answer is on the web--just too lazy to look right now).

Anyway, the other day I went to the shelf where I keep those two books--empty space. My first thought: Okay, where did I leave them? I recalled having taken them out recently to check something ... Did I not put them back?

I gave my study a cursory once-over. Couldn't see them.

And then my mind--against my better nature--began to grow suspicious, paranoid. Did someone take them? Who? Why? When?

I casually asked Joyce if she'd "borrowed" them, but we looked in her study (much more organized than mine): nope.

So, I did what every reasonable person does: I looked in the exact places I'd looked before. And--surprise! surprise!--they still weren't there.

Last night I woke up in the early hours and for the life of me could not get back to sleep. I was considering possible thieves (whom, out of respect, I will not name here).

But here's the thing: Those volumes are large and heavy. And most people don't give a damn about historical American slang. So--as I see on Facebook all the time--WTF!?!?!?

I see on ABE (Advanced Book Exchange) that I can buy replacements for ... not all that much.

But I'll be damned if I will. I am going to find those volumes. Or ... I am going to find the one who purloined them--and he/she will wish she/he had never been born!

Nah. I'll just look around some more, give up, buy replacements. Why? I'm a wuss.

Mont Blanc--the pen, not the mountain

my pen!

I have seen the actual Mont Blanc. In the spring of 1999 I was traveling around Europe (on a very sad budget), visiting sites that had been important to Mary Shelley (1797-1851), sites that, in some cases, she'd used for Frankenstein (1818).

I took a train up into the French Alps, heading to Chamonix, France, to see the Mer de Glace (sea of ice), the (once-) magnificent glacier which she had used for a key scene in Frankenstein, but the clouds were heavy that day (grrrr), and the little tourist train up to the glacier itself was not even running. So back to Geneva I went, but as we were rolling along, the clouds cleared, the sun flared, and I saw the glistening glory of Mount Blanc.

But I'm not talking about the mountain then--but about a fountain pen (get the rhyme!).

BTW: This morning, thinking about this post, I wondered why it's called a "fountain" pen. I looked it up. DUH: Because it contains within it a kind of mini-fountain (of ink).

Some thirty years ago I attended a family reunion out in Oregon (where my dad was born--where scores of Dyers still live). On the way home, waiting for my flight in the Portland airport, I was using a mechanical pencil to take notes on a book I was reading. I ran out of lead.

But I remembered I'd seen a stationery shop in the airport, so off I went to get my $1.29 supply of lead.

And while I was in line, near the register, I saw a display of Mont Blanc fountain pens. The credit card nearly flew out of my back pocket like a ravenous bird and presented itself to the cashier, who rang up the sale: $1.29 for lead, $275 for the pen. (Impulse shopping at its acme.)

I've been using it ever since. But not for everything. Principally, I use it for two things: (1) handwritten notes and cards which I mail to folks, (2) notes on the book I'm reviewing that week for Kirkus. And that's all. The rest of the time it remains clipped to my datebook (yes, I still use one of those instead of the calendar on my iPhone). But when we're traveling somewhere, I leave it behind. Don't want to tempt Fate. So, for example, for those many summers Joyce and I spent a week in Stratford, Ontario (for the theater festival), I always left it behind, took my notes with a regular old ballpoint.

I lost the pen twice (I thought): (1) I'd stopped in the local telephone office (pre-cell days), left it there by accident--returned a couple of hours later--found it where I'd left it; (2) I left it once at Caribou Coffee here in Hudson about a dozen years ago--returned a couple of hours later--found it where I'd left it. Since then, I've been more ... careful.

I've had to ship it off a couple of times for modest repairs, but, for the most part, it has served me well--more than well. I just like the feel of it--the look. And it reminds me of, oh, nearly 70 years ago when, at Adams Elementary School in Enid, Okla., we had a penmanship period every day (with workbooks published by the Zaner-Bloser Co.--still in business, I see on the web), and we learned how to write with a pen we had to dip in little bottles of Shaeffer's Skrip ink that we were required to buy. (Would you say that times have changed?)

Anyway, I love that pen, and I may have to leave instructions in my will to have it buried with me. You never know, lying underground, when you just might get the best idea you've ever had.

"Poem" in October

"Poem" in October
(not to be confused with the poem-of-the-same-name by Dylan Thomas--link to his) 

One sandal felt a little rough
As I was walking home.
I stopped; I checked; you know that pain--
My-Sandal-Hurts syndrome?

And there inside I found a leaf--
From some sad maple tree,
Whose children now float to the earth,
Find ways to bother me.

The leaf was perfect--hint of gold--
No imperfections--none.
I toed away the leaf with ease,
Walked on in morning sun.

Today it will be ninety, but
My sandal makes it clear:
It may seem summery, but now
October's really here.

Sunday Sundries, 246

1. HBOTW [Human Being of the Week]: A woman approached me at the coffee shop last week, apologized for interrupting (I was reading), and wanted to tell me how much she and her daughters had enjoyed speculating about the Peter Rabbit figure sitting on my table when they drove by every day to school. She wanted to know the story of the rabbit; I told her; she said her daughters would love to hear it--and off she went, after offering to buy me a coffee--or treat. My waistline declined the latter, and I already had the former. But ... what a kind thing to do ..

2. We didn't see a movie this week (almost went to the marathon movie--but didn't), but we were thrilled to see that one of our favorite series, Doc Martin, has another season to stream! We've finished the 1st episode (via Acorn TV) and are now going to slow down so that they don't go away so fast. LOVE that show ... (Link to some video.)

We got a special little thrill in the opening of Season 9, "To the Lighthouse": It had scenes filmed at the actual lighthouse that inspired that 1927 novel by Virginia Woolf--and Joyce wrote her master's thesis on Woolf.

3. I finished one book this week, the latest novel by Ian McEwan, Machines Like Me. It's narrated by a sort of anchor-less man named Charlie who uses his entire inheritance to purchase a life-like robot, one of the few in this early stage of life-like robots. Its/His name is Adam. (The Eves, apparently, sold very quickly for, uh, a variety of reasons.)

Charlie is also obsessed with Miranda, a young woman who lives upstairs in his building, and they ... ain't gonna tell you. (I liked the choice of the name Miranda: It's from The Tempest, and it is she who utters, when she sees the first young man she's ever seen, that now-famous line:

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

That has such people in't! (5.1)

(In the Bard's day, brave meant splendid, worthy, excellent, etc.)

Anyway, things quickly get complicated in their lives as Adam learns, learns, learns, ... and loves. (Guess the object of his affection?)

How it all works out is both satisfying (to some) and damning (to others).

One of the things I really liked about the novel: McEwan plays with time. We seem, almost, in an alternate kind of England, a kind of what-if? place. For example, that great innovator in computers, Alan Turing (1912-54) is somehow still alive and now a revered old man in the country; Charlie meets with Turing a couple of times about Adam's situation.

In the background we also see the sorts of fights and political divisions that characterize both the UK and the US--and any number of other places.

And, over all, the eternal questions: What is love? Are are we really capable of it?

4. Speaking of which ... on Real Time with Bill Maher this week his before-the-panel guest was Salman Rushdie, whose new book Quichotte (based on Don Quixote) I wrote about on this site a week ago.

During the conversation, Rushdie mentioned a poem by W. H. Auden, "September 1, 1939," about the beginning of WW II. Rushdie quoted a line from it--"We must love one another or die"--a line that, of course, continues to resonate. 

I looked up the poem in my "complete" edition of Auden; it's not there. But it is available online. It's a bit long to paste here, so here's a link to it.

Oh, and another coincidence: Today, Writer's Almanac reminds me, is the birthday of Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), author, of course, of Don Quixote, 1605. Cervantes died the same year that Shakespeare did.

Somewhere, we have a reproduction of that famous image of Quixote and Sancho done by Picasso.

5. Last night we drove to Books-a-Million in the Falls and looked around--didn't buy anything (very unlike us). Trips-to-bookstores used to be something we did every weekend--sometimes more than once. Not so often these days ...

6. Friday night, we'd gone down to Szalay's Farm Market--great-looking corn ... not much of the season is left, I fear. Lots of pumpkins!

7. I got the results on my bone scan last week (via the UH patient portal): Things look stable, according to the report. But I'll wait and see what my oncologist says when I see him in a couple of weeks. Will then do an update here ...

8. Last Word: a word I liked this week from one of my various online word-of-the-day providers ...

     - from Oxford English Dictionary

downtoner, n.  An adverb or adverbial phrase that reduces the effect of the following adjective, adverb, noun, or verb (such as rather, fairly, sort of, etc.). Opposed to amplifier, intensifier.’]

Origin: Formed within English, by derivation. Etymons: down adv., tone v., -er suffix1.

?1900  C. Stoffel Intensives & Down-toners  ii. i. 129 Shading off in various directions, these ‘down-toners’ express a moderate, slight, or just perceptible degree of a quality.

1931  G. Stern Meaning & Change of Meaning  338 Intensifiers used ironically instead of down-toners. ‘A lot you know about that!’

1987  S. Adamson et al.  Papers 5th Intern. Conf. Eng. Hist. Ling.(1990) 502 The adverbial meanings [of just] may at first seem somewhat different... You just missed the bull's eye (downtoner).

2015  J. Butterfield New Fowler's Mod. Eng. Usage (ed. 4) at Kind n. She kind of wasn't listening (in which kind of is a ‘downtoner’).

Rabbit Redux

I did some posts last week about a dead rabbit—well, part of a dead rabbit (only its head remained)—that I found in our driveway last week. A bit on Facebook. A bit on this blog. I even wrote a wee poem about the experience.

Joyce and I were quite sad about it. I often saw the creature (male? female?) in the early morning when I began my walk over to the coffee shop. Later, we would see him in the back yard—or along the driveway, where, as I said last week, Joyce would have a conversation with her (let’s go with this pronoun for a while). The rabbit never bolted—just listened respectfully (which is exactly what I’ve learned to do the past half-century).

After I found the head and (carefully, carefully, carefully) told Joyce about it, she went out to a garden store and bought a little rabbit thingy to stick in the ground; she buried the head; a bit later we had a little service for her (Joyce said some things; I read the poem aloud).

All of this I’ve reported.

Then … Wednesday evening, back home from our 4:30 appointment to get flu shots, we were prepping for supper in the kitchen.

And Joyce cried, “Look back there!”

I looked back there—in the back yard.  And there, browsing, a rabbit!

“O joy unbounded” (A song in Trial by Jury, in which I appeared at Hiram High School, fall of 1961.) (Link to song.)

Could it be … our rabbit? Was that Driveway Head from some other rabbit? Dropped there, inadvertently, by a trotting fox? A winging owl?

Or is this new one a sibling? An interloper? A multiple life (like a cat)? (Or, perhaps even more likely, a projection of our sorrow!)

We should have done a DNA test, right?

Anyway, Joyce and I moved quietly out onto the back porch (screened and glassed), and I got the pic you see at the bottom of this post. (A pic proves reality, right?)

For the nonce, we have tacitly agreed to consider her “our” rabbit, indeed. And I plan to see her in the mornings; Joyce is thinking about some conversations to have. And we will continue to feel our unbounded joy.