Fashion Plate?

I never was much of a fashion plate--from boyhood on. My school pictures during those years are evidence enough. The photo at the head of this is from 8th grade. From the classy style of my haircut to my coordination of solids and plaids, it's clear I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

Once I became a "professional" (a teacher), I had to present something more ... presentable. But I didn't really. In the early years of my career, kind of impoverished, I pretty much wore the same thing every day--an old blue suit, necktie. I just didn't have much else.

Later on, as styles and protocols for teachers softened, I morphed into a different look: chinos, polo shirts, a look to which I adhered the final decade or so of my public-school career. (I retired in Jan., 1997.) The shirts were invariably black or dark blue: I carry an insidious Dyer gene that causes me to perspire whenever I breathe, so dark colors helped; lighter ones were a disaster.

When I returned to teaching at Western Reserve Academy (fall 2001-spring 2011), I had to go out and buy a bunch of blazers and what-not: The school had/has a conservative dress code, and I had to look ... professional when I was on the campus. (Since I retired five years ago, I have put on a blazer-and-tie only a few times--almost all of them occasioned by a talk I was giving at WRA.)

My post-retirement garb is (seasonally) unvarying: cold weather = boots, bluejeans, sweater; warm weather = sandals, shorts, polo shirt, light-weight pullover (except in the very hottest weather.

The colors are almost always dour. Black, brown, Navy blue. Shorts are solid color, usually dark (though I have gone crazy and worn some khaki ones). Our son teases me about my "look" from time to time. So do my brothers. (But that's what brothers are for, right?) (For Father's Day, Joyce, who knows me so, so well, gave me a stack of new polo shirts; one was a bit light-colored, but I like it--just can't wear it in really hot weather.)

And so this is strange: Earlier this week Joyce and I headed out to the Office Depot in Stow-Kent: I needed some hanging files. (Boring, I know.)

Kohl's is right next door, so I thought I'd walk around inside a bit--hadn't been there in a while. In my dotage I've been mostly interested in cooking and baking stuff, not in much of anything else. (I know, I know.)

On my way back to the entrance/exit (empty-handed), I saw some madras shorts. My size. Only my size, actually. Impulse. Bought them.

Joyce was, shall we say "shocked"?

In fact, the first day I wore them (the very next day after the purchase) she took a picture of me slumped in the easy chair in her study. She promptly texted it our son, who replied almost immediately ...

Who ARE you?

Good question.

**

BTW #1: The term fashion plate dates back to the 1850s and refers to a plate (photograph or drawing) one might see in a magazine (remember them?).

BTW #2: Much of my boyhood insouciance about style was due to the financial situation in our family--i.e., little $$. Also, my parents and Osborn grandparents (who lived near us until I was nearly 12) were very religious, conservative in dress and manner. Flashy clothes were unthinkable.

BTW #3: If I seem to have a snotty smirk on my face in the photo below, it's all due to Joyce's insistence that I smile. I tried not to, but she was laughing so hard, I couldn't help it.

BTW #4: I have no idea where I got that bruise on my left leg. (Such is post-70 life!)

BTW #5: It's very odd that the spell-checker on this site does not recognize texted.

Frankenstein Sundae, 238

More about Livorno (aka Leghorn), Italy ... Mary's attitudes ... my brief visit in April 1999 ...

Years later, in 1844, Mary would publish a travel book—Rambles in Germany and Italy—an account of her journey with her son Percy Florence (now in his mid-twenties) back through some of the territory she had first seen with her late husband a quarter-century earlier. She saw Leghorn only from the deck of her ship, but she wrote, The view from the sea near Leghorn is not sufficiently praised.[1] She said nothing at all about the port itself.

My own brief trip to Livorno/Leghorn was on April 24, 1999. And here are some excerpts from my journal that day.

 … Livorno (the English called it Leghorn) is not a happy town, and I was a little on edge the entire time I was there—just as the city itself appears to be on the edge between a place that cares and a place that doesn’t. The station is beautiful (I took a shot of it right at the end of a roll), and I set off on what turned out to be a long walk—over a mile—down to the waterfront.  I didn’t quite make it all the way because of time—but I saw enough of the old part of the city to get the main idea. I must keep reminding myself that the Shelleys were here more than 175 yrs. ago—not much they would recognize, that’s for certain. There were a couple of interesting parks where I fired a few shots, and I also got some of fishing boats, pleasure boats, etc. and then I scurried back, arriving about 30 minutes early—I could’ve gone farther, I guess, but I was running out of gas. Bought some soda water & crackers in a station shop. Some Italian sailors (I think) are on board. All of them wear little daggers suspended from belts—they dangle nearly to the knee and cannot be much more than decorative & symbolic—if they had to run, I think they’d trip. But they seem nice, eager, young, and proud, so who am I to utter a discouraging word, eh?  I’m really astonished at the dimensions of vandalism here—the trains are totally defaced w/ spray paint, as are walls, machinery—even statues in public parks. Coming in the Pisa way, I can really see how [Livorno] sits at the foot of the mountains.

---

[1] Travel Writing. In The Novels and Selected Works, vol. 8 (London: William Pickering, 1996), 341.

The older I get ...

Hard to avoid a cliche when you begin with The older I get ...  Of course, old age has become a cliche in our culture. In the movies there was a time when old age could be a sign of wisdom, of knowledge. (Think: The Karate Kid.) Lately, of course, old age is a source of humor. I talked about this in a recent speech, but if you think about older characters in popular movies (Wedding Crashers, The Proposal, Dirty Grandpa, etc.), you'll see that they (we!) are a source of foolish amusement: We're naughty, horny, etc. Kind of dumb, too. Clueless. We're the Dumb Guys with the Smart Phones.

Anyway, I've been thinking about that clause The older I get ... And here are some finishers for it:

• ... the less I know. When I was younger, I thought I knew a lot. I didn't ... well, relative to my even-younger self I did. But now--every time I read a book, I realize I am woefully ignorant. There are worlds I know nothing about--solar systems, galaxies, universes .... And I realize I never will know so much about this earth and its inhabitants. This realization can be daunting, depressing.
• And related ... I realize with sorrow that there are some awfully famous books I'm not ever going to read. Time, not desire, prevents it. Just this week I started reading Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray for the first time. I've known for a long time what it's about--but I've never read it. And there are so many others--innumerable others--whose pages I will never open.
• ... the less energy I have. Duh. That's "normal," right? Well, sure, but normality doesn't make it any more tolerable. I sometimes look back on my early teaching career and wonder how on earth I ever managed it all--teaching, grading papers, preparing, meetings, play practices, being a husband, a father. I couldn't do a tithe of it now.
• ... the more my memory fails me. Yes, I know: This is "normal," but it drives me crazy. I used to have the quickest damn recall. And now ... what was I going to say? Never mind ...
• ... the more deeply I regret my failures. I cannot get them out of my mind, those times my Worse Self won out over my Better one. Memories arrive at night--and settle in for extended visits.
• ... the more I realize how lucky I've been. I found a remarkable woman, who--why?--loved and loves me. Who's never made me feel bad. Never. Do you know how astonishing that is?
• But I've been lucky in so many other ways, too ...
• Wonderful parents and siblings.
• Opportunities for excellent schooling.
• Some life-changing teachers and professors.
• Superb schools to teach in for my entire career.
• Gifted mentors and colleagues, throughout my career.
• A great son--and daughter-in-law.
• Two remarkable grandsons.
• Excellent health care, especially in my extended battle with metastatic prostate cancer.
• ... the less I'm able to do so many things I used to do--and love. I can't run, play tennis, play baseball, play much of anything, really. My newest friend, vertigo, forces me to think about--and be careful with--every step I take. I, for exercise, have to be content to walk laps around an indoor track, to ride a stationary bike. (But I'm grateful for that--if a bit bored.) I still venture out on my bicycle; for some reason, vertigo doesn't bother me when I'm on it.
• ... the more I resent the caricatures of the elderly that dominate our popular culture. The elderly are among the last few folks we can safely make fun of, apparently. It's Open Season on us, year-round, on TV and in the movies. Of course, I take a lot of it in the playful spirit it was intended, but a good percentage of it is just ignorant--and insensitive. Nobody wants to be a cliche, you know? Nobody wants to be defined by someone else.
• ... the more grateful I am for Facebook. Yes, it annoys me at times (sometimes horribly so--to the extent that I avoid it for a while), but it's put me back in touch with so many people, from all parts of my life--from those who've known me for all of my 71 years to those whom I met just recently.
• ... the more I regard Death not as something to fear but to hate. I do not want to leave this life. I love my family, my time to read and write and think and travel. So I will take Dylan Thomas' advice: I will rage, rage against the dying of the light. I will not go gentle into that not-so-good night. And we'll see what that gets me!

One of Those Days

You ever had one? One of those days? Sure, you have. Maybe you even had one today. I did.

Let's back up.

When I was a kid, I loved the Fourth of July. For one thing, I, an Oklahoma lad, was obsessed with all the cowboy shows on TV--and in the 1950s there were myriads of them. Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, the Range Rider, the Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickok, the Cisco Kid ... I could go on. Anyway, for a few years in my mid-boyhood, Dad would give each of his three sons a new cap gun for the Fourth--complete with some rolls of caps. There's a picture of the three of us somewhere, standing in my grandparents' back yard, all of us brandishing our new "weapons"--and holsters!

I, of course, was thrilled, for now I had some props for the continuous play I was performing (in the leading role of course). I was the cowboy protector of Enid, Oklahoma, and no black-hatted dude had a chance in our neighborhood--though, I'd now admit (some 65 years later) that none really ever tried. Still ... maybe just my reputation sufficed to keep the outlaws away from Glenwood Park.

We also got some firecrackers and sparklers--though Dad handled all the more serious stuff, like the rockets we would fire off in the back yard.

Later, as I was about to turn twelve, we moved to Hiram, Ohio, which then (1956) still had a lot of woods and semi-wildness about it. Lots of places to be a cowboy--or Robin Hood (another favorite). But what I liked even better? The Hiram Fourth of July Celebration. Parade, ride on the fire trucks, ice-cream social, free movie in the evening up at the college, fireworks after the movie down on the college football field. We also had a Hot Stove League baseball game in the late morning, a game which I got to play in a couple of years. One year, I hit a homer--only, I admit, because the centerfielder was out of position. Still ...

When our son came along in July 1972--just a couple of weeks after the Fourth--it seemed that his birthday became a part of it all. He loved the fireworks later on, though one of his earliest experiences with them--up at a Tribe game at the old Cleveland Stadium--terrified him. Still, we always tried to make sure he got to see a parade, a fireworks show. We often had a cookout.

Once he grew up and moved away and married and had his own family, our Fourths were correspondingly diminished. We'd sometimes go see the local fireworks--but we haven't done so in a few years. The last time, in fact, was when our son and his family came up to see them. We tagged along.

This year, we'd planned on a quiet Fourth. Some reading and writing. Then maybe go for a drive somewhere.

But last night I started feeling poorly, and this morning I wasn't much better. So all I've done is lie around (a couple of major naps) and feel a little sorry for myself. Joyce has worked all day on a variety of things, hovering nearby to make sure I'm okay.

And I am doing a little better--well, enough, anyhow, to sit here and type this on a laptop.

But this year, I fear, the Fourth, for me, has been "just one of those days."

**FOUND THE PHOTO MENTIONED ABOVE ...

Sunday Sundries, 109

1. AOTW--tailgaters. I had two this week (one of each gender), both of whom seemed to believe that if they just got close enough to my rear bumper, I would accelerate and go as fast as they wanted to, rather than the (approx..) 5 mph over the limit that I always go. I tend to slow a little when this happens. I can not understand why someone would put him/herself in such danger: Tailgaters could not stop if the car in front had an emergency stop.

BTW: Interesting source of the term tailgater:
1868, back panel on a wagon, hinged to swing down and open, from tail(n.) + gate (n.). Extended by 1950 to hatchback door on an automobile.The verb meaning "to drive too close behind another vehicle" is from
1951; tailgate party "party or picnic at the open tail-gate of a parked car"is attested from 1961.

2. Joyce and I have been (slowly) working our way through the films of the Coen Bros. (via Netflix DVD), and Friday night we finished their Miller's Crossing (1990) a crime tale set during the Prohibition years--with Gabriel Byrne, John Turturo, and Albert Finney (among others--including a cameo by Coen favorite Frances McDormand). We noticed this time the film's fascination with men's hats, which, oddly have a metaphorical prominence here. A tale with some brutality (surprise! surprise!) but with some strong performances. Betrayals-violence-problems between men and women-desire for status and leadership-mistrust ... i.e, just like middle school. Next ... Barton Fink (1991) ... (Link to trailer for Miller's.)

3. I finished two books this week.

• How to Be a Tudor: A Dawn to Dark Guide to Tudor Life (2016) by Ruth Goodman is a wonderfully useful and practical book. As I said on Facebook this week, I wish I'd had this when I was teaching Shakespeare! All sorts of fascinating things about clothing, food, jobs, recreation, love and sex, etc. Goodman doesn't just write about these things, by the way. She cooked the food, made the clothing, played the games, etc. Full-immersion nonfiction! As a FB friend told me this week, Goodman has appeared in some BBC documentaries and has been adviser on films and TV series--like Wolf Hall.
• I also finished the penultimate novel by African American writer John A. Williams (1925-2015), of whom (as I've posted here before) I'd not ever heard until I read his obituary in the New York Times last summer, just about this time. (It was in the Times on July 6.) I've had a wonderful time going through his novels (pretty much in the order that he published them)--and I've read a couple of his nonfiction works, as well.

• Jacob's Ladder (1987) is set in contemporary Africa in the fictional country of Pandemi. The country has decided to build a nuclear reactor--with the full intention of having nuclear weapons, as well--and, needless to say, the rest of the world is ... interested. The Americans send a military officer, Jacob (Jake) Henry, who grew up in the country. He doesn't know that he's intended to be the "fall guy" in an American attempt to take out the reactor. The president of Pandemi, Chuma Fasseke (who knew Jacob in childhood), is neither a despot nor a madman. He merely wants his country to have the respect of the rest of the world; he doesn't want the more powerful European and North American countries to take advantage of Pandemi economically--to take their resources, etc. Well ... things tumble into chaos (things fall apart!), and we are left to consider questions of imperialism, racism, and other dark -isms.
• I liked the book better than the one right before this (The Berhama Account), and I continue to admire Williams' skill--his devotion to his issues--his clear-headed and -sighted analyses of our human dilemmas and contradictions.

4. Incident at Barnes & Noble. Okay, I'm not sure if this is "creepy" or not ... but here goes. On Friday night, Joyce and I were out at the B&N in West Akron. (It's the last big book store that's really near us--and it ain't all that near.) Anyway, I was standing by a display table, and across from me were a woman and her teenage daughter (or so I supposed). The younger said, pointing to a small pile, "Oh, this is one of my favorite books!" Well, I just had to see what it was--I can't help doing such things. I'm always peeking to see what other folks are reading, etc. Anyway, I looked and saw--with total shock--that it was Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities.

I immediately began reciting the long opening sentence ("It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..."), a sentence I used to require my 8th graders to memorize. I did only about half of it, and the two turned to me with surprise in their eyes. Then I began to wonder: Are they seeing me as an old-guy-creep-perv haunting bookstores? So I started to move on before they ran for help. But they stopped me: Do you like Dickens? the mother asked. Oh yes, I said. I've read all of his novels. I kept moving--But, I added, I hated him in high school. They laughed; I sighed (with relief) and hurried to find Joyce--my protection against the cops who specialize in creeps and pervs.


5. Some last words ...

a. From the OED:

 bicyclian, adj.
Of or relating to a bicycle or bicycles; of or belonging to a person who (habitually) rides a bicycle.
1880  J. G. Dalton Lyra Bicyclica p. iii, Bicyclian bards who sung Wheely ideas below.1990  R. Grudin Grace of Great Things xxi. 222 The bicyclian politics, which springs from a profoundly liberal commitment to the sharing of other people's rights, is seen to apply without discrimination on road, sidewalk, and lawn.

b. From the OED:

acnestis, n.

Pronunciation: Brit. /akˈniːstɪs/,  U.S. /ækˈnistəs/

Origin:A borrowing from Latin. Etymon: Latin acnestis.

Etymology: <  post-classical Latin acnestis <  Hellenistic Greek ἄκνηστις spine, backbone <  ancient Greek κνῆστις spine, cheese-grater, in Hellenistic Greek also itching ( <  -κναίειν to scrape, grate, scratch (only attested in compounds; ultimately < the same Indo-European base as Old High German nuoen to polish, Lithuanian knoti to peel off, flake away) + inserted -σ- + -τις, suffix forming feminine nouns), either by the addition of prothetic ἀ- or by false segmentation of κατὰ κνῆστιν ‘on the spine’ (Homer Odyssey 10. 161).

The part of the back (or backbone) between the shoulder blades and the loins which an animal cannot reach to scratch; the part of the human back between the shoulder blades.

rare in genuine use.

1743  R. James Medicinal Dict. I., Acnestis, that Part of the Spine of the Back, which reaches from..the Part betwixt the Shoulder-blades, to the Loins. This Part seems to have been originally called so in Quadrupeds only, because they cannot reach it to scratch.

1848  R. Dunglison Med. Lexicon(ed. 7) 19/2 Acnestis, the part of the spine which extends, in quadrupeds, from between the shoulders to the loins. According to Pollux, the middle of the loins.

1854  C. A. Harris Dict. Med. Terminol.(ed. 2) 25/1 Acnestis.., that part of the back between the shoulder blades.

1927 Observer 3 Apr., That spot known to crossword solvers as the acnestis.

2000  O. Braun-Falco et al.  Dermatol.(ed. 2) xxv. 991/1 The middle of the back is typically spared [being scratched]... This pattern of sparing has been called the reverse butterfly sign; the Greek word for the area that cannot be reached is acnestis.

A Harry Potter Anniversary, 4 (and final)

A couple of days ago marked the anniversary of the publication of the 1st Harry Potter novel in 1997. And I began "serializing" a speech I made at Western Reserve Academy about my experiences reading HP. In that first installment I wrote about how I'm an obsessive reader of an author's complete works; in the second, about other authors’ complete works I’d read—especially Anthony Trollope; in the third, about hat was it that made me cave, that made me read all of Potter? Reminder; I delivered this speech at Western Reserve Academy on May 4, 2012.

Next day I bought the books.  And by the first of August, as I’ve already said, I’d read the entire Potter-saga.

And I was weeping.

Crying like a sissy.  Like grandson Logan seeing a costumed lunatic on stilts.

The whole damn thing just got to me.

Yes, the stories are derivative—what fantasy novels aren’t?  And, yes, Rowling often tells us more than we want or maybe even need to know.  But—and here I believe is her greatest asset as a writer for young readers—she tells the truth.  By the time children can read, and surely by the time they have advanced very far in school, they know this world is not always a good place.  They know they are sometimes hurt by people who love them; they know they can’t trust everyone, even people in their own homes; they know that people have secrets; they know that “bad” people sometimes do good things, that “good” people sometimes do bad ones.  They know the meaning of fear.  They know that if they tell the truth and say what they believe, they will probably suffer.  They know that if they are not like everyone else, they will suffer.  They know that no matter what they do, they will suffer.  They know that cheaters can win.  That liars can get away with it.  Yet they also know that it’s still better to be on the right side, no matter what.  Better to battle Voldemort and be scared and scarred than to join him and be destroyed.

This is the world whose geography J. K. Rowling charts in the Harry Potter books.  It is a fantasy world more real than what exists in many “realistic” novels—or certainly on “reality television.”  It is a world that children live in.  And they recognize it immediately.  I know I did.

On the night of Monday, October 22, 2007, almost exactly three months after I polished off Potter, I savor, in bed, the last sentence of Trollope’s last, unfinished novel, The Landleaguers, a bit of dialogue.  A man says: … they don’t lave a por boy any pace.

And that’s it.  And Anthony Trollope’s last published word … peace.

I get out of bed, walk over to the study of my wife, who is writing, eyes locked on her screen.  I hold The Landleaguers before me, fanning its pages.  Joyce hears, turns, sees me and the book.  Sees the tears in my eyes.  She knows that look.  She’s seen it before.  And, months (years?) hence, I hope she’ll see it again.

Perhaps she will  For now rising near my bed is a new pile—a tower of Richard Powers’ novels.  His first?  1985: Three Farmers on Their Way to a Dance.

As I finger that first volume, whose cover shows an old photograph of three young farmers in their dark ill-fitting suits walking down a country road, the title makes me think of the very end of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.  A wedding is about to commence—weddings often mark the end of Shakespeare’s comedies, a device still popular—and the happy bridegroom, Benedick, decides he wants to dance before the service.  And so he cries out: Strike up, pipers!

And then everyone just dances and dances and dances …

**Note: I read several of Powers' novels (which I loved), then got sidetracked and was reading all of John O'Hara ... I'll get back to RP, though!

A Harry Potter Anniversary, 3

A couple of days ago marked the anniversary of the publication of the 1st Harry Potter novel in 1997. And I began "serializing" a speech I made at Western Reserve Academy about my experiences reading HP. In that first installment I wrote about how I'm an obsessive reader of an author's complete works; in the second, about other authors’ complete works I’d read—especially Anthony Trollope. What was it that made me cave, that made me read all of Potter? Reminder; I delivered this speech at Western Reserve Academy on May 4, 2012.

And speaking of children …  On Friday, July 20, 2007, Harry Potter-mania covered Hudson like a crazy quilt.  On the eve of the release of the final novel, Hudson transformed itself, via some rough and ready magic, into a haven for Harry-freaks.  Harry Potter Land, they called it.  And The Last Extravaganza.  Streets and stores got new names: Main Street became “Diagon Alley”; the Learned Owl Bookshop, “Flourish & Blotts.”  Merchants decorated their display windows with images from the novels.  Everyone was selling Harry-related items; owners and clerks dressed like characters.  A local restaurant offered a “Snapes’ Potion Martini.”   And thousands of fans—perhaps as many as fourteen thousand!—arrived to walk and gawk and participate in the festivities.  There were rock bands, a coloring contest, a Quidditch match right out on the soccer field.

All that Potteria made me want to puke.         

But our grandson, Logan, two-and-a-half, was visiting.  So we made nice.  Joyce and I moved slowly around town with our son and daughter-in-law and Logan, who was alternately dazzled, delighted, and terrified by all that swirled before him.  Sound systems blaring, people yelling weird greetings to one another, thick crowds milling and mooing.  One character on stilts and full blue costume set our grandson to crying.

I tried to recall any other publishing phenomenon like it and could come up only with what I’d read about Charles Dickens—about long lines forming outside London bookshops and huge crowds gathering at his readings and on the docks of New York City to await the arrival of his newest novel—or latest installment thereof.  But there is really no comparison.  I don’t think people then dressed up like David Copperfield or Tiny Tim.  Or barked at one another: Dude—It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

That evening, our grandson gone, Joyce and I escaped the Potter madness at the movies—a late screening of Hairspray up in Solon.  But as we drove back into town along Main Street about 12:30 a.m., we saw the queue outside the Learned Owl—still hundreds of people, many in costume, waiting patiently to purchase The Deathly Hallows.  (The Hub-Times  later reported that the shop sold around 2,000 copies that night.)  And at that moment, seeing that line, I snapped.  I surrendered.

Next day I bought the books.  And by the first of August, as I’ve already said, I’d read the entire Potter-saga.