Kraft Dinner

Okay, one more ...

Yesterday, I posted about my long (and continuing) history with Campbell's tomato soup (and, yes, I did have some for supper last night + a grilled-cheese-and-turkey sandwich). Today ... Kraft Dinner, another staple of boyhood--and even later on.

Trusty Wikipedia says that it was born in 1937, but I don't remember it in our house until the 1950s--and 1954 was the year that Kraft introduced what was then the familiar blue box (a little more basic than the one you see in the pic above).

We had it all the time when I was a kid, and all three of us Dyer boys had no problem making it: boil the macaroni in water (salted, if you like); pour off the water; stir in the cheese powder, butter, milk; eat with a fury so that your siblings don't get more than you do.

Still hungry? Make another box.

Early in our marriage, Joyce and I often had it (cheap, filling), and I learned a very fundamental thing about her: She is a Pasta Freak. She loved spaghetti, macaroni ... Kraft Dinner. I found that on Kraft-Dinner Days there was a kind of sibling rivalry between us.

And that reminds me ... early in our marriage we made spaghetti one evening, then discovered that we had no sauce. I suggested we use some Heinz 57 (which we did have). She suggested that was a bad idea. I insisted (first mistake). Mixed some in (second mistake). Smiled (third mistake).

She, unsmiling, took the pot to the bathroom and commenced flushing it all down the toilet.

I forget what we had for supper that night, but I think I had crow--with humble pie for dessert.

Our little boy loved Kraft Dinner, as well (still does, I think). And I believe his sons are addicts, too?

Our niece and nephew chowed on it for years--and I think they still do (they turned 30 yesterday).

Although our Kraft Dinner Days are behind us, Joyce remains an avid pasta lover. We often go to Parasson's or Dontino's (nearby Italian places), and Joyce does a splendid job of cleaning her plate. Every time.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking about Kraft Dinner right now--wondering if it would be fun to buy a box (or two ... or three ... or ...?) and see how it goes. Boil, drain, mix, munch. Could be fun--especially if Joyce has the larger portion.

Tomato Soup

Yesterday, at the grocery store, I bought a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. It’s a purchase I make regularly. And, to be clear, I cannot remember a time in my life when Campbell’s tomato soup was not on my menu.

When I was growing up, it was a staple—usually with a grilled-cheese (well, Velveeta) sandwich. At least once a week. (Mom made it with milk; I use water.)

Later, on my own, I bought it and ate it because I had very little money—first year’s teaching salary: $5100, which worked out to 24 semi-monthly payments of $168.42. That didn’t buy a lot, but it did buy many cans of Campbell’s tomato soup.

The funny thing is—I don’t like tomatoes. Not raw ones. Can’t eat them. Just can’t. A few years ago, nearing 70, I thought, Hey, you’re nearing 70. You can eat a damned tomato. I tried it. But ... I quickly realized I could not eat a damned tomato.

So why do I like tomato sauce on spaghetti? On pizza? Why do I love Campbell’s tomato soup?

Beats me.

In my boyhood home we had other varieties of Campbell’s. Chicken noodle was another favorite, and we often had it. Mom also kept cans of cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and some other inedible combinations that she used in her cooking. (Those meals were not among my favorites.)

These days, I still ingest lots of grilled cheese (often with sliced turkey) and sip it down with Campbell’s. In fact, I’m having that combo for supper tonight. I’ll probably have it a couple of other evenings this week, too. Oh, what an epicure I am!

I don’t remember how I felt in the early 1960s when I first saw Andy Warhol’s collection of Campbell soup-can paintings. Surprised? No ... no ... not surprised. Vindicated! I was consuming art!

(Link to the MoMA site where you can see Warhol’s work.)

Sunday Sundries, 224

1. HBOW (Human Beings of the Week)--my friends Chris and Michelle, who saved a seat for me at the crowded coffee shop on Saturday--and for numerous other kindnesses I'm generally too clumsy and clueless to thank them for. Dear friends ...

2. I finished several books this week ...

     - The first, via Kindle, was the first P. I. novel by Robert Galbraith (aka J. K. Rowling), the first in what now has become a series of novels (and a TV series on BBC One--which I won't watch until I've finished the novels). The Cuckoo's Calling (2013) introduces us to Strike, a P. I. in London, a wounded Afghan War vet (he's lost part of a leg), down on his luck for the nonce, living in his office, broken marriage, etc.

He has a temp working for him, Robin Ellacott (25), a young woman who turns out to be a bright and fascinating character in her own right. Strike is working on a case of a supposed suicide of a super model (who apparently leaped from a tall building and met the unforgiving street). Hired by one of her relatives, Strike bumbles around for a bit, then ...

I liked the novel a lot--except for (near) the very end when he has a long conversation with the person he has identified as the killer. Pages go on as he explains why he believes this person is guilty (notice I'm not even giving gender clues!). I thought it was a bit ... much. (I'm betting she won't do it again in the subsequent novels, which, of course, I have to read now!)

     - Next was the new novel by Jay Parini, The Damascus Road: A Novel of Saint Paul (2019). I love Parini's work--have read all of his novels, his biographies of literary figures (Frost, Vidal, Faulkner), and a lot of his poetry and criticism. I coaxed him to spend a day with us at Western Reserve Academy  (April 20, 2012). I had retired by that time, so colleague Jeannie Kidera handled well all the many particulars of his visit.

Anyway, Parini employs two narrators--Luke and Paul himself--as he proceeds through the famous Biblical account of Paul's pre-conversion behavior (participating in the stoning of Stephen), through the road-to-Damascus epiphany, his preaching, his travels, his successes, failures, writing, escapes, death.

Parini, the son of a Baptist minister, has written other books on Christian subjects, so he is not coming to this project as a skeptic. Nor does he accept everything in the accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth (he notes, for example, the many legends already circulating during the life of Paul and Luke and the others).

An interesting character is James, the brother of Jesus, who does not come off all that well.

But ... a powerful story of a man consumed by his passion, a profound believer who will not surrender a whit, will not fear death, will not avoid a dangerous encounter.

     - As some of you know, I've been reading my way through the novels of Wilkie Collins (1824-99), a prolific writer, friend and colleague of Charles Dickens. The most recent one I finished was The Two Destinies (1876), not one of his major novels, I fear. It tells the story of two children, George and Mary, who love each other as children, and, as they enter later childhood and early adolescence, they become more serious. But there is a class difference between them, so ... no way their union is going to happen.

George's family (the higher class) quickly move away, and the boy and girl lose touch, lose track of each other. But will they find each other again?

Prophetic dreams, spectral appearances, near misses, and George 's slow recognition of what's going on (George, who appears to be a dimmer bulb than he need be--virtually every reader will see what George does not)--all tumbles us toward a conclusion that will not surprise anyone.

Still, Wilkie Collins can write, and wending my way through his sentences and paragraphs is always a pleasure.

     - And, finally, I finished (for now) my journey through all the works of Kate Atkinson, whom I discovered quite by accident while reading a little notice in the New York Times (July 2018--link to the notice). I've read her "literary novels," her mysteries featuring Jackson Brodie (books that are every bit as clever as her novel-novels--a new one will be out in June!), her collection of short stories, and now ... her play, Abandonment (2000).

It's something of a family story--some sisters (one adopted), a mother, a friend, a workman (who's helping one of the sisters replace some of the wood in a house she's just bought), and ... some characters from the past who used to live in the house.

All sorts of issues emerge as the play progresses--sibling rivalry, sex (of all sorts), murder (!), family history (the good, the bad, the ugly), and, of course, a resolution of the surprising sort that Atkinson often employs. Lots of lines to like--like this one: "I can't imagine being dead. ... How can the self be obliterated?" (37). And this one: "I suppose real love is where you have no choice" (97).

Of course, it's far more fun to see than to read a play. On the page, it takes a while to figure out who people are--to keep them separate; this is not an issue at a performance. So ... I'm glad I read it--but wish I could see it!

3. We finished watching the Netflix film The Highwaymen about the pursuit of Bonnie & Clyde. Interesting, the differences between it and Arthur Penn's 1967 film about the duo. At the end of the Penn film, you felt kind of "Aw, that's too bad"; at the end of this one, you think, "They got what they deserved."

You rarely see B&C in the Netflix film; the focus, instead, is on Kevin Costner and Woody Harrelson, who play two former Texas Rangers re-employed to hunt down B&C. They are both great--some wonderful scenes between them--and with others.

One wee problem: Why are all the vintage cars in such good shape?!? Link to some video.

4. We're also nearing the end, via Hulu, of season 2 of Fargo, which, at times, has all the weirdness you associate with the Coen Bros. (who did the original Fargo film in 1996). Grim stuff, this season--gang warfare in Minn. and N. Dakota. Lots of blood and viscera. But also fun to watch for its visual style--for its sanguinary humor--and for some of the performers.

Link to some video.

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

     - from dictionary.com

pseudepigraphy  [soo-duh-pig-ruh-fee] noun

1: the false ascription of a piece of writing to an author.

QUOTES: If de León was the author, his exercise in pseudepigraphy was among the most successful in history.

-- Ezra Glinter, "A mysterious medieval text, decrypted," Boston Globe, June 26, 2016

ORIGIN: The noun pseudepigraphy comes from Late Latin pseudepigrapha, a neuter plural adjective (from pseudepigraphus) used as a noun meaning “books or writings falsely titled or attributed to Hebrew writings supposedly composed by biblical patriarchs and prophets.” Pseudepigrapha was borrowed unchanged from the Greek compound adjective pseudepígrapha (from pseudepígraphos), composed of pseudḗs “false” and the Greek combining form -grapha, neuter plural of -graphos “drawn or written.” Pseudepigraphy entered English in the 19th century.

Return to Seidman Cancer Center

Seidman Cancer Center
Beachwood, Ohio

April 25, 2019; 9 a.m.

It’s that time again. In about a half-hour Joyce and I will head up to Seidman Cancer Center for my quarterly visit with the oncology team that’s been following my struggle with prostate cancer, a journey that commenced more than fourteen years ago. (My initial diagnosis was late in 2004.)

I had surgery in June 2005–didn’t work. Radiation in 2009–didn’t work. Since then I’ve undergone other procedures—hormone deprivation (Lupron, then Trelstar), immunotherapy, and, late last summer, yet another course of radiation treatments—this time to my spine. The cancer, you see, has metastasized into my bones.

Before my last radiation treatment, my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) had risen to over 20. This was alarming because it meant that the cancer was active again. I have no prostate gland now—but prostate cancer cells also reveal themselves in PSA.

Post-radiation (#2)—this time—is yielding better results. The graphic below shows my scores in recent months.

6 August 2018	20.13
12 September 2018	11.98
16 October 2018	3.36
9 November 2018	1.93
15 January 2019	1.07
18 April 2019	0.33

I am, of course, pleased about those scores—but I also know they are temporary. I am, at this point, incurable, and we’re in a battle of delay, not victory. One of these days my cancer will reawaken—my PSA will start to rise again—and we’ll be moving on to other remedies of delay.

I’ll add to this post later today (or tomorrow) when I get back from Seidman.


April 26, 1:00 p.m.

We were at Seidman for about two hours, but we were actually with medical professionals for only about fifteen minutes. So it goes.

Check in. Wait. Back for vitals check. Wait. Nurse Practitioner arrives and interviews. Wait. Nurse arrives with shot of Trelstar (inhibits testosterone—the food of prostate cancer). Shot in the rear. Ouch. Wait. Head out to the waiting area (!). Step to window to deliver my co-pay. Wait. Pay.

Then fly for home!

I didn’t see my oncologist this time. But the NP went over my recent tests, did some checking of heart and lungs. Is happy that I’m working out regularly (at least someone is!). Tells me I’m doing well.

And that, of course, is comforting to hear. But, of course, I also hear in the room the echoes of the darker news that other patients have heard—today, other days—and I know that I will one day hear the same sort of thing. Such knowledge subdues any celebration, replaces it with humility. And gratitude.

So—of course I’m pleased for today, for the recent test results, for the efficacy of my meds, my lifestyle (eating sensibly—except for an occasional crunchy-peanut-butter binge), exercising—oh, do I despise it now: It’s just so much harder without that “push” from the testosterone I no longer have).

Joyce keeps me sane, keeps me hopeful. More time with her, you see, is priceless. And that thought is ever-present in my head, ever dominant in my heart.

I can’t imagine going through this alone, and Thursday, in the waiting room, I saw several people doing precisely that. Heading back, alone, for chemo. Heading back, alone, for consultations and other treatments. Some limped, used canes or walkers. Alone. I simultaneously feel so sorry for them—and admire the strength that animates them, that keeps their hope alive.

Robocalls

I think I've blocked more calls on my cellphone than the great Bill Russell blocked shots for the Boston Celtics.*

But unlike Russell's blocks, mine have done no good. They keep coming, several a day (sometimes more); I keep swatting them away like nettlesome flies--and here they come again, swarming.

Same thing on our land line at home. I'm on the do-not-call list. Does no freaking good. About, oh, 4:45 p.m. each day they commence, ending about 5:30 (are people somehow more susceptible at suppertime?).

There was an editorial in the Times today that suggested things will soon get better--for a while. The robo-dudes will figure out a workaround. Of course. And I'll be blocking (ineffectually) again. (Link to Times piece.)

Here's the thing that puzzles me: The robo-calling must somehow work. I mean, would companies (and swindlers) be using them if they didn't?

My mom--a very bright, circumspect, skeptical woman (she had a Ph.D.)--later in her life fell for one of those Nigerian-prince scams and lost about $10K before my younger brother realized what was going on and put a stop to it. Mom was absolutely convinced she was going to get a million bucks--and soon. This is the same Mom who never once fell for any pathetic schemes that Adolescent I ever proposed.

When I found out about this, I revised my position on capital punishment. Oh, we should definitely execute people who swindle the elderly, the vulnerable.** A mass execution as part of the Super Bowl halftime festivities?

I was actually in my mom's apartment when the "Nigerian-prince" dude called her (after my brother had stopped her ... contributions). I yelled at him. Warned him never to call her number again. Asked him if his mother was proud of him. (I used a few, uh, more colorful expressions, too) Slammed the phone down.

A half hour later he called back.

Which shows how ominous I am.

There are many annoyances in our wireless/wired world, aren't there? Maddening Facebook posts; tiresome Tweets; bogus "news." Texts from people who clearly aren't the person they are claiming to be. Etc.

But robo-calls are driving me to the precipice--and over it. I guess "invasion of privacy" just isn't a thing anymore, eh?


*For those of you who are chronologically challenged, here's a piece about BR and his shot-blocking prowess. Link.
**Not really.

Happy Birthday, W. S.

So, today is the Bard's birthday ... sort of. We know when he was christened (April 26, 1564), but christenings then were not on the day of birth. So we've (somewhat arbitrarily) picked the 23rd for The Day.

Four hundred and fifty-five years ago. Not too many folks live that long--none, for course, physically; few in other ways. Those who have endured in the public memory for hundreds--even thousands--of years (some for positive reasons--Shakespeare; others, for negative ones--Attila the Hun) have done so because of their notable--or regrettable (or downright heinous)--behavior.

William Shakespeare was something of a celebrity in his day. A popular London playwright and poet. Thirty-six plays are in the First Folio (1623)--and some of them (The Tempest among them) we would have no copy of if his friends had not published the Folio after his death in 1616. (He co-wrote some others; some may be lost.)

As I've written here and elsewhere, I was not an early (or easy) fan of the Bard. My dad, who could be waggish, liked to joke that his real name was Billy Wiggleshaft--maybe hoping that joking would send me off in search of Hamlet. It didn't.

I had to read Julius Caesar and Macbeth in high school.  Couldn't do it.

Had to read Macbeth again in English 101 at Hiram College. Couldn't do it.

And even though I was an English major, I did not take a Shakespeare class in college--or graduate school. At Hiram, the professor who taught the course (Dr. John Shaw) was on sabbatical the year I would have taken it. Back then, I was highly pleased with myself for avoiding the Bard. But the real reason? Fear.

But I wasn't too worried: I was going to teach in a middle school ... no use for the Bard there, right?

Wrong.

I somehow slowly entered the world of the Bard--and by the 1980s was teaching The Taming of the Shrew and then Much Ado About Nothing until the year I retired from public school teaching (January 1997). Oh, and I also took busloads and carloads of kids to see his plays in and around Cleveland throughout those years.

In 1989 I directed a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor at Aurora High School and, a few years later, took some cast members to Washington, D. C., to see that play at the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Later, at Western Reserve Academy (2001-11), I taught Hamlet for about ten years to the juniors (all of whom had to read that play). And I loved doing so ...

Meanwhile, Joyce and I were driving all over the place, seeing as many of the plays as we could. And we ended up seeing them all--Richard II was the last (and a wonder it was at Shakespeare and Company in Lenox, Mass.).

I've memorized a lot of the Bard's work, too--famous speeches from some of the plays (yes, "To be or not to be" is among them), about twenty-five sonnets or so.

And I have to say: I remained dazzled by the dude. Every time I see one of his plays (and, by the way, every time I've taught one), I notice--I "get"--things that I somehow missed before.

As I said, I taught Hamlet ten years in a row, and every year--yes, every year--I saw things I'd missed--and often it was because one of my students had noticed it first. (If you wanna teach, you'd better be a willing learner, too!)

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Bard. Four hundred and fifty-five years later, you're still making a difference. The list of human beings who have done so is a very short one.

Palpitations re: Publishing

the current Kindle Direct cover

Well, I just felt my heart accelerate, my BP soar, my sack of woes double in weight. I've sent in some digital files to a company who will convert my YA biography of Edgar Allan Poe (Kindle Direct, 2012) into a paperback. (By the way, the image shows the Poe Cottage in the Bronx, his last known address--photo from our visit there in 2003.)

Let's back up a little. Nearly fifteen years ago I gave up dealing with traditional publishers. Although I had published books with the University of Oklahoma Press and Scholastic Press (J. K. Rowling's U.S. publisher!), I had just received my cancer diagnosis, and I knew that Time--always an issue (but one I'd long ignored)--was in his winged chariot and hurrying near. I realized I simply did not have the leisure to deal with publishers and their delays and temporizing (oh, the stories I could tell you!).

So ... I began publishing on Kindle Direct--"self-publishing," as they call it, realizing I would thereby lose all kinds of things (like professional editing, publicity, professional reviews, respect of readers) but would at least get my stuff "out there" before ... well ... before ...

So that's what I've been doing.

But recently I decided to give print-on-demand a whirl. And I decided to start with the Poe biography--see how that one goes. If it proceeds well (i.e., if I make back the $$ I spent to have the conversion professionally done), then I'll convert another of my e-books and see how that one goes.

So back into Poe I dived. I carefully proofread the text (a process I'd already done a gazillion times), and, of course, I found some errors that had slipped by me previously. Sigh. Some modest updates--some modest revisions.

And here was a surprise: I was stunned by how much I'd forgotten about Poe, about the book. (Such is dotage?)

Anyway, just a few minutes ago I emailed all the relevant materials to the company converting the book. Now, I'll wait to hear from them about all the stuff I will have to do before the thing is "alive" and ready to upload to Amazon and become ... available.

I'll let you know how it's going--and when it's available. I know that some of you have read it via Kindle; I hope others of you will soon be able to give it a whirl in its physical format.

Sunday Sundries, 223

1. AOTW: Two awards this week--one being a "group" award. 
     - This last week I have been stunned by how many drivers, waiting either on side streets or parking lot exits to enter the road I'm on, decided they'd just "go for it" and not wait for a safe, clear entry. One evening I had to brake--hard--three different times for morally challenged drivers to get on the road in front of us. (And two of those times? No one at all in my rear mirror!)
     - This was a doozy. We were driving east on a two-lane road. I had a tailgater on me, annoyed, I guess, because I was going only 5 mph over the speed limit. As we approached a crossroads--and a stoplight--our lane widened and became two--one for left-turners (including us). I turned on my left signal. As I moved left, the AOTW zoomed by us on the right, then veered in front of us into the left-turn lane. Again, I had to brake hard to avoid a collision.

2. I've finished several books since I last did a "Sundries" (March 17). I'll say only a few words about each--realizing your patience is probably as limited as my memory of the books.

     - The first was the final (so far) of Kate Atkinson's series of novels about Jackson Brodie, a former cop, sometime P.I.: Started Early, Took My Dog (2011). (Good news: A new one is coming late this spring!) Like most of Atkinson's fiction, this one is a dazzler of organization. A couple of stories going on (are they linked? of course they are!), leaping around in time (time is Atkinson's servant, not her master), a case of an unofficial child "adoption," some dead folks. As always, Brodie arrives-- puzzled, damaged, frustrated, hopeful--at the conclusion. And, as always, I grieve that the book is over.

     - Next: the latest by Jasper Fforde--Early Riser (2018)--a sort of cop story about a time in the future in the U.K. when winters have grown ferocious, fierce, endless. Corporate control of so many things. Rumors of mysterious creatures roaming the winter darkness. We follow Charlie Worthing, a kind of official, who stumbles around figuring out the heinous things that are going on. And sort of resolving them.

I've liked Fforde's work since reading The Eyre Affair, 2001, and his subsequent novels about Thursday Next, who roams around in the worlds of books--actually involving herself with characters and landscapes from them, entering them. Wildly imaginative and so much fun to read. (Link to list of the Thursday Next novels.)

     - Kate Atkinson has a single collection of short stories, Not the End of the World (2002), and they display (no surprise) her usual gifts of organization and allusion and surprise. Because they are shorter (obviously) than her novels, the stories are not as complex. They remain ... odd. One story is about a woman, no real cat-lover, who takes in a stray that proceeds to grow to an enormous size--as big as a full-grown tiger. The neighbors are alarmed (duh).

     - Finally--a recent (well reviewed) biography: Wild Bill: The True Story of the American Frontier's First Gunfighter, 2019, by Western historian Tom Clavin.

I was a real Hickok freak when I was a boy in Oklahoma. That weekly TV show had ensnared me back in 1951 (when it premiered) and held me to its demise in 1958. Guy Madison was Hickok (who bore but faint resemblance to the actual dude murdered in Deadwood in 1876, the same year, coincidentally, as Custer, another long-haired hero of my youth--oh, did I learn later about him!). In the series, Hickok's sidekick, "Jingles," was Andy Devine (see pick of the pair). (Link to some video.)

I also read--more than once--that kids' book Wild Bill Hickok by A. M. Anderson, 1947, Webster Publishing, one of their "American Adventure Series" that featured Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, Chief Black Hawk, and other notables.

So, anyway, I was ready for this new biography, and I indeed learned a lot from it. A big surprise? His English ancestors had farmed land owned by William Shakespeare! I had not known, either, that near the end of his (short) life, his eyesight was failing him, and he was getting by on his rep. Clavin's prose is not especially remarkable, but he really did the work about this iconic Western figure.

3. As I wrote in a previous entry, Joyce and I saw a recent production of The Taming of the Shrew at the Hanna Theater in Cleveland--Great Lakes Theater Festival. There was so much to love and like about it (as I wrote). But one thing that did annoy me (and has annoyed me about other productions of Shakespeare plays I've seen throughout the years)? The insertion of dialogue--often about contemporary things. At the GLTF production, for example, we heard a joke about the Master's golf tournament--and some other things. The audience laughed (I didn't). All it did for me was yank me out of the story, out of the world they'd worked so hard to create. Self-defeating.

4. That's enough!

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

     - from wordsmith.org

bibliotaph or bibliotaphe  (BIB-lee-uh-taf)

noun: One who hoards books.

ETYMOLOGY: From Greek biblio- (book) + taphos (tomb), which also gave us cenotaph Earliest documented use: 1823.

USAGE: “A more pertinent example of the morbid bibliotaph is recorded by Blades; this was the late Sir Thomas Phillipps, of Middle Hill, who acquired *bibliographical treasures simply to bury them*. He bought books by the library, crammed his mansion with them, and *never even saw what he had bought*.” Holbrook Jackson; The Anatomy of Bibliomania; University of Illinois Press; 2001.

Shrew(s)

About a week ago, Joyce and I drove down to the Hanna Theater in Cleveland to see the Great Lakes Theater Festival's production of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew.

I've got a fairly long history with Shrew. I think I first got "hooked" on the play when I saw that Zeffirelli film (with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor) back in 1967, a year after I graduated from college.

Then a pause.

In the late 70s I taught for a couple of years at Western Reserve Academy, and I used the play there at least one of the years.

Then a pause.

In the 1980s, back at (beloved) Harmon Middle School in Aurora, I decided I would introduce my 8th graders to Shakespeare via Shrew, and so I did for a half-dozen years or so (culminating with the Zeffirelli film)--until Kenneth Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing came out in 1993. And for my final three or four years of middle-school teaching I taught that play--and had a ball doing so.

Shrew, of course, is a troubling play. Briefly, it's the story of a wild and crazy guy named Petruchio who marries a wild and crazy woman named Katherine, whose failure to find a husband has delayed her younger sister's hopes, for their father (Baptista) has declared that the younger (Bianca) may not marry until Katherine does.

A lot of weird stuff happens (people pretending to be other people, etc.--a favorite device of the Bard).

But Petruchio marries Katherine (in a wild ceremony we only hear about); Bianca marries Lucentio (a young student who recently arrived in Padua to study--changes his mind when he sees Bianca). And ... happily ever after ...?

Not quite. Bianca turns out to be more ... difficult ... than we'd been led to believe.

And Katherine?

Well, it's her final (long) speech near the end of the play that has given directors fits over the years. In it, she says to the other women present that a woman's husband is "thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign ...." (Here's a link to her whole speech.) At the end she tells women to prostrate themselves before their husbands ...

A lot of this doesn't exactly sit well these days, does it?

But I've had a different "take" on all of this for quite a while. I've long thought the play should be called The Taming of the Shrews--for both Petruchio and Katherine (as I suggested above) are, as Maurice Sendak would say, "Wild Things." Out of (self-)control.

But they fall in love. They learn how to behave around the other. They learn how to love. You cannot take Katherine's speech literally: She is saying what her lover wants her to; he knows that she is doing so--just for him. He also knows she is feigning. She is still the bright, strong woman she has been throughout the play--the woman whom he now loves.

I've seen stage productions of Shrew many times--and I've seen various Katherines play that final speech in various ways, from true earnestness to patent playful irony.

But what we saw in Cleveland was the best of all.

Katherine and Petruchio shared the speech (with some pronoun changes, obviously!). And at the end, Petruchio dropped to his knee and offered his hand to her.

Perfect.

Love is not a monologue; marriage is not a kingdom. It is two people, offering their hands to the other, hands each will clasp until it is no longer possible to do so.

So, I really liked the Cleveland production. It was somewhat "Elizabethan" in design--few props, no scenery (upstage were some levels, a la the Globe, where sat audience members, people whom the cast engaged and employed from time to time). No high-tech sound/lighting effects.

Just actors--fine ones--finding--showing--the truth in a difficult play.

Book Review Milestone

Last Friday, I filed with Kirkus Reviews my 1500th book review for them. If you had told the High School Me that I would even review one book--for anyone--I would have laughed in your ignorant face. I was going to be the catcher for the Cleveland Indians, the point guard for the Boston Celtics (no Cavs then), the latest member of the Kingston Trio (obviously, we would become the Kingston Quartet). Or maybe Peter, Paul, and Mary, and Dan. But a book reviewer!?!!? No way!

I began reviewing for Kirkus about twenty years ago, back in March 1999 when my friend Ron Antonucci, who, at the time, was a librarian here in Hudson (he since moved on to the Cleveland Public Library) and who was also doing reviews for Kirkus and editing a regional publication called Ohio Writer, asked me if I'd liked to do a review for OW.

I agreed. Did a few for them. Enjoyed it. A lot.

Then Ron said he'd put a word in for me at Kirkus if I wanted to review for them.

I agreed. And in March 1999, Kirkus sent me a new history book to review. I did it--and then, somehow (impossibly), I looked up and discovered I'd done 1499 others, as well. And a couple of hundred for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, too.

A word about Kirkus. It's a semi-monthly publication (physical as well as online) that reviews new books a few months before their publication. (Link to their website.) The reviews are anonymous--though all reviewers' names are listed in each issue. Each review is about 310 words long--the length of the book does not matter. A thousand pages, a hundred and twenty-five--each gets its 310. Principal subscribers are libraries and bookstores--though myriads of Book Nerds no doubt subscribe as well.

It's a cool publication: You get to see what books are coming out in the ensuing months, and, if you're at all like me, you immediately order the ones that look appealing. It was in this fashion, for example, that I met novelist Brock Clarke, whose then-upcoming book An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England (2007) sounded so ... interesting ... that I ordered it, read it, loved it, invited him to spend a day with us at Western Reserve Academy (he did). I've now read all his books--a new one is coming soon. He's a friend, too--Facebook and otherwise.

Anyway, contrary to some popular misconceptions, Kirkus does not review every new book but does manage to do scores of them each couple of weeks in fiction, nonfiction, and some other categories. I'm a Nonfiction Guy and review mostly American history, biography, and memoir.

Oh, and the books arrive at our house as ARCs--(Advanced Reading Copies)--paperback versions (sometimes called "galleys," as well). They are like the penultimate draft of the book--and changes can (and do) occur in them, evident in the final publication.

I now have a Kirkus Routine to which I adhere with a near-religious ferocity: When the ARCs arrive (I usually get 3-4 at a time), I take each one, look at the page count, divide by a hundred, and ...

Let me explain. I write each review on Friday, and I read approximately 100 pp/day, first thing in the morning, over at the coffee shop (thus the name of this blog site: DawnReader). So ... if the ARC is, oh, 300 pages, I'll start reading it on Wednesday morning. If it's 400 (like #1501 I'm reading right now), then Tuesday is the first day.

I take about a dozen pages of notes on each book, so by the time I've finished it, I know pretty much what I want to say about it.

I write the review, paste it into the Kirkus website, then get ready for the next one.

I've saved them all, of course, Pack-Ratter that I am. Notes, review, printed copy--each review in a folder in an ever-swelling pile of plastic storage boxes in the basement.

Have I ever made a mistake? Of course. I'm human, fallible, you know ... But I don't get defensive; I just apologize. Try to make sure it doesn't happen again.

The great thing is--many of the books (most?) are ones I probably never would have read otherwise. But I am almost always glad I did--with a few exceptions.

I'll end with a weird story--well, not too weird. Some years ago I got an ARC about American presidents, and I saw that one of the co-authors was my younger brother, Dave. Oops. I notified my editor of the situation, and he swiftly assigned it to someone else. And thus I missed an opportunity to ...

Anyway, I've passed the 1500 mark and am now moving on toward 2000. I love the job, love the routine, and I hope I can keep doing it until ... well ... you know ...