In Praise of Regional Writing
In which I dote over southern writers and long to be able to write strong regional fiction about the Willamette Valley.
For book group this month, we’re reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.
To Kill a Mockingbird is one of those rare perfect books, yet I knew little of it until a decade ago. Sure, it was popular among the kids in my grade school and high school classes; I can remember all sorts of book reports on the novel, but I avoided reading the book, or watching the movie, until sometime in the mid-nineties. Now, the book and the film have become two of my favorites. Hell, the opening credits of the movie are often enough to make me misty. (The opening to the film adaptaion of The Joy Luck Club also has this power over me.)
I love To Kill a Mockingbird for many reasons: clarity of language, authorial tone, strength of characterization, etc. Most of all, I love how it captures the life of children in Depression-era Alabama. I relate strongly to Lee’s sense of nostalgia; I am reminded of similar experiences from my own childhood.
Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Some, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.
People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told it had nothing to fear but fear itself.
…
When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (within calling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors to the north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never tempted to break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell.
That was the summer Dill came to us.
Early one morning as were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to the wire fence to see if there was a puppy — Miss Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting — instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higher than the collards. We stared at him until he spoke:
“Hey.”
Hey yourself,” said Jem pleasantly.
“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” I said.
“I just though you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin’ I can do it…”
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?”
“Goin’ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin’ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said.
The wonder of the film is how faithful it is to the book. Yes, it leaves out some subplots (such as Scout’s conflict with her teacher), and it softens the edges around the characters of Atticus and Jem, but on the whole it is a remarkable translation of the text. In some ways, it’s even better than the book. The film’s quality is derived largely from the convincing performances of the child actors. Child actors are notoriously poor, but these kids go about their business with conviction.
Twenty years before To Kill a Mockingbird saw print, Carson McCullers produced The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, a work of similar tone and color, set in a similar town at a similar time. There are people who dislike McCullers’ book, but I am not one of them. I love it. It captures a similar snapshot of the south as does To Kill a Mockingbird; it’s as if it might have been written about another town in Maycomb County.
In the following passage, Mick is precocious girl of about fourteen. Her brothers Ralph and Bubber are about two and six, respectively. They are poor kids in a poor town.
This summer was different from any other time Mick could remember. Nothing much happened that she could describe to herself in thoughts or words — but there was a feeling of change. All the time she was excited. In the morning she couldn’t wait to get out of bed and start going for the day. And at night she hated like hell to have to sleep again.
Right after breakfast she took the kids out, and except for meals they were gone most of the day. A good deal of the time they just roamed the streets — with her pulling Ralph’s wagon and Bubber following along behind. Always she was busy with thoughts and plans. Sometimes she would look up suddenly and they would be way off in some part of town she didn’t even recognize. And once or twice they ran into Bill on the streets and she was so busy thinking he had to grab her by the arm to make her see him.
Early in the mornings it was a little cool and their shadows stretched out tall on the sidewalks in front of them. But in the middle of the day the sky was always blazing hot. The glare was so bright it hurt to keep your eyes open. A lot of times the plans about the things that were going to happen to her were mixed up with ice and snow. Sometimes it was like she was out in Switzerland and all the mountains were covered with snow and she was skating on cold, greenish-colored ice. Mister Singer would be skating with her. And maybe Carole Lombard or Arturo Toscanini who played on the radio. They would be skating together and then Mister Singer would fall through the ice and she would dive in without regard for peril and swim under the ice to save his life. That was one of the plans always going on in her mind.
Usually after they had walked awhile she would park Bubber and Ralph in some shady place. Bubber was a swell kid and she trained him pretty good. If she told him not to go out of hollering distance from Ralph she wouldn’t ever find him shooting marbles with kids two or three blocks away. He played by himself near the wagon, and when she left them she didn’t have to worry much. She either went to the library and looked at the National Geographic or else just roamed around and though some more. If she had nay money she bought a dope or a Milky Way at Mister Brannon’s. He gave kids a reduction. He sold them nickel things for three cents.
But all the time — no matter what she was doing — there was music. Sometimes she hummed to herself as she walked, and other times she listened quietly to the songs inside her. There were all kinds of music in her thoughts. Some she heard over radios, and some was in her mind already without her ever having heard it anywhere.
An interesting — and vital — counterpoint to these two tales is Richard Wright’s Black Boy, his memoirs of growing up black in Mississippi. Although his book is set twenty years earlier than To Kill a Mockingbird and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and although he’s exploring the world of the Negro, many elements remain the same. Wright captures the wonder and awe of childhood in the south, the hardship, the dreariness, the bewildering world of adults.
Granny’s home in Jackson was an enchanting place to explore. It was a two-story frame structure of seven rooms. My brother and I used to play hide and seek in the long, narrow hallways, and on and under the stairs. Granny’s son, Uncle Clark, had bought her this home, and its white plastered walls, its front and back porches, its round columns and banisters, made me feel that surely there was no finer house in all the round world.
There were wide green fields in which my brother and I roamed and played and shouted. And there were the timid children of the neighbors, boys and girls to whom my brother and I felt superior in worldly knowledge. We took pride in telling them what it was like to ride on a train, what the yellow, sleepy Mississippi River looked like, how it felt to sail on the Kate Adams, what Memphis looked like, and how I had run off from the orphan home. And we would hint that we were pausing but for a few days and then would be off to even more fabulous places and marvelous experiences.
To help support the household my grandmother boarded a colored schoolteacher, Ella, a young woman with so remote and dreamy and silent a manner that I was as much afraid of her as I was attached to her. I had long wanted to ask her to tell me about the books that she was always reading, but I could never quite summon enough courage to do so. One afternoon I found her sitting alone up on the front porch, reading
…
She whispered to me the story of Bluebeard and His Seven Wives and I ceased to see the porch, the sunshine, her face, everything. As her words fell upon my new ears, I endowed them with a reality that welled up from somewhere within me. She told how Bluebeard had duped and married his seven wives, how he had loved and slain them, how he had hanged them up by their hair in a dark closet. The tale made the world around me be, throb, live. As she spoke, reality changed, the look of things altered, and the world became peopled with magical presences. My sense of life deepened and the feel of things was different, somehow. Enchanted and enthralled, I stopped her constantly to ask for details. My imagination blazed. The sensations the story aroused in me were never to leave me. When she was about to finish, when my interest was keenest, when I was lost to the world around me, Granny stepped briskly onto the porch.
“You stop that, you evil gal!” she shouted. “I want none of that Devil stuff in my house!”
…
My grandmother was nearly white as a Negro can get without being white, which means that she was white. The sagging flesh of her face quivered; her eyes, large, dark, deep-set, wide apart, glared at me. Her lips narrowed to a line. Her high forehead wrinkled. When she was angry her eyelids drooped halfway down over her pupils, giving her a baleful aspect.
“But I liked the story,” I told her.
“You’re going to burn in hell,” she said with such furious conviction that for a moment I believed her.
Reading these works of regional color makes me burn with a desire to write similar stories about the Willamette Valley. I have characters and settings and plots in my mind, and I’ve even set some of them to paper. Yet often I wrestle with the question: what is it that sets this place apart? There are certain qualities that make this place unique, but I cannot define them.
Off the top of my head, some 0ther strong regional novels include: My Antonia by Willa Cather, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, Sometimes a Great Notion by Ken Kesey, Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett, and the entire oeuvre of Garrison Keillor.
Behind the Silence
In which I explain the recent lack of activity on this weblog.
If I haven’t written much here lately, it’s because of a combination of three factors:
- I’ve been sick and mostly feel like sleeping, or just sitting in one place doing nothing.
- At work I’ve been busy, a condition which has manifested itself by requiring me to drive all over Portland and Salem.
- As happens a couple times each year, I have a mild case of writer’s block.
My illness seems to be ebbing, at last. “You must be feeling better,” Kris said this morning after I marched around the house singing “The Simon cat is grey, the Simon cat is grey, hi-ho the derry-o, the Simon cat is grey” and “Kris Gates has no hot water, Kris Gates has no hot water, hi-ho the derry-o, Kris Gates has no hot water”. At this very moment, I’m able to breathe freely through both nostrils, which is a major achievement in Roth health. (I can hear Jeff in his office, coughing, however. His cough has declined, but still lingers.)
For some reason, December always means driving at work. Customers seem to order more samples, big projects come to fruition, and, of course, there are holiday baskets to deliver. It’s beginning to look as if I’ll be on the road every day this week and every day next week.
As I drive, I continue to listen to lectures from The Teaching Company. I’ve finished the How to Listen to and Understand Great Music course, and have moved on to The History of the English Language. This course has its moments, but on the whole is less engaging than the music course. The instructor is less dynamic, and he spends too much time reading lists of words. We’re supposed to marvel at how, for example, the pronunciation of “line” has changed over the centuries, but it’s not that fun to listen to him recite the differences. “So what?” I find myself thinking. “Tell me something interesting.”
Sometimes the course is interesting, as when the instructor discusses how English was once a much-more inflected language, a language in which nouns had gender and case endings, much as modern European languages do today. He suggests, indirectly, that this might be the reason the words “he” and “his” linger in the language as placeholders (and objects of feminist wrath).
I was also interested in his discussion of the formalization of the language. English comprised many regional variations until the middle of the fourteenth century. At this time, official scribes began to adopt Chancery English, a sort of London legal dialect, as the language of record. Over the next hundred years, this Chancery English gradually became the language of Parliament (a position French had occupied since the Norman invasion in 1066). When William Caxton set up the first English printing press in 1476, he hastened the adoption of a standard English by employing Chancery English as the dialect in which he published books.
These sorts of bits are interesting; the history of word pronunciation is not.
Sometimes, however, I don’t listen to anything as I drive. Sometimes I drive in silence, looking out at the fields and the rivers and the hills. I especially like to drive in the fog. Yesterday I took the long way back from Salem, driving home through the Silverton hills, sailing my car through seas of fog, surrounded by oceans of green pasture. At one point, I slowed and stopped to watch a pencil-legged blue heron: it stood in a field, watching, watching, watching. And I watched it.
As for the writer’s block, there’s little I can do about that. It’s a state that comes and goes. I don’t often suffer from the condition, but sometimes I do feel tapped out, as if I couldn’t possibly write another word. Fortunately, this state generally passes after a week or two. There are signs it may already be passing.
On Monday, as I was driving to Hillsboro, I passed a dead cat and was struck with an idea for a story. I pulled to the side of the road and spent five or ten minutes scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, sketching a character, outlining a plot. If I ever post the tale of a young man who can raise animals from the dead, you’ll know when the idea hit me.
Sleepless in Oak Grove
In which I overdose on Dayquil and then am unable to sleep.
On Thursday night, we dined at Gustav’s with Tiffany. Kris loves German food, and it’s difficult for me to say no to a lamb shank. Over dinner, I noticed I had a sore throat. By Saturday morning, the sore throat had worsened, and I had developed a chronic sneeze and a runny nose.
It’s a little early in the year for my second cold, but otherwise there’s nothing odd about this. The only reason it was notable was because we were preparing for our twelfth annual Friend Thanksgiving. We were slicing halibut fillets, chopping onions, steeping chowder. I stopped every five minutes to wash my hands so that I would not infect our guests.
I took some medicine, but it didn’t help. In the middle of the afternoon, I switched to Dayquil, which suppressed the sneezing, cured the sore throat, and lessened the runny nose. In fact, it worked so well that I took another dose just before our guests arrived.
As people came in, I washed my hands again and began to mix drinks. I made a rosemary verde for myself. Just before we served the first course, I took a third dose of Dayquil. For a while, I forgot about my cold: I relaxed, ate good food, drank wine, and enjoyed conversation with friends. Toward the end of the meal, my runny nose returned, so I took another dose of Dayquil. I also fetched a box of kleenex. A mountain of tissue began to accumulate near my plate.
When our last guests departed at around one, Kris and I spent an hour cleaning dishes. Before bed, I took my usual dose of melatonin.
I think you may be able to see where this is headed. Over the course of about eight hours, I’d consumed four doses of Dayquil, had several servings of alcohol, and then took a sleep aid.
My body was a mess.
I climbed into bed, but there was no possibility of sleep. I got up and spent an hour mindlessly surfing the web. I tried to fall asleep again at 3am. My C-PAP machine was a liability; I couldn’t breathe through my nose, so it wasn’t doing anything but blowing air on my face. For four hours, I tossed and turned. My mind raced. My heart raced. I took my pulse several times but stopped because I was getting crazy results like 156bpm and 148bpm. In times past, this would have panicked me. I would have been convinced I was going to die. I’m older and wiser now, though, and knew that I’d simply taken too much Dayquil.
Finally, at about seven, I dozed off. I slept a groggy kind of sleep until eleven, then stumbled downstairs to help Kris finish clean up from dinner party.
I was exhausted. I dozed from time-to-time. At seven o’clock, I took some Nyquil and some melatonin and went to bed. I slept long and hard. When Kris woke me this morning, I was still exhausted.
The Two Kinds of Christmas Shoppers
In which I am not the sort who has his Christmas shopping done already.
There are two kinds of Christmas shoppers: the Gateses and the Roths.
By now, the Gateses have finished all their Christmas shopping. They’ve wrapped all their gifts, addressed all their cards, and have only to make a trip to the post office to be done with the season. Gateses begin the Christmas shopping on December 26th; all year round, they pick things up here and there for the people on their list. During the week after Thanksgiving, Gateses sit in front of the television, wrapping presents for hours.
Roths, on the other hand, are only just now beginning to think of Christmas. They’ve just received a Christmas bonus in their paychecks, and it has occurred to them that perhaps it’s time to buy some gifts. Roths have begun to deliberate over whom they ought to buy for this year: which friends, which family members. Roths don’t think of Christmas until after Thanksgiving. It’s true that if Roths see something Just Right during the year, they’ll pick it up as a future gift, but they’re also likely to forget they ever bought that little something. Roths have a long couple weeks ahead of them.
Kris is a Gates. I’m a Roth.
Book Group Reading List 2005
In which I share our book group’s reading list and a catalog of favorite quotations.
It’s that time of year again: time for an annual update on the Elm Street Book Group’s reading list. Those of you who aren’t interested in what we’ve read may still be entertained by the catalog of quotes at the end of this entry.
Over the past year, the group has welcomed Bernie and Kristi, Jason and Naomi, and Tiffany as new members. Rumor has it that Rhonda (and maybe Mike) will soon join us. This makes us the largest we’ve ever been, a far cry from our scary third year during which it often seemed the group might fold. (We often struggled to find five people to attend at that time.)
THE ELM STREET BOOK GROUP READING LIST
(The very best books — in terms of quality of text and discussion — are in bold; the worst are in italics. The person who chose the book is in parentheses.)02 Nov 96: ISHMAEL by Daniel Quinn (Paul D.) at Paul and Connie’s [adopted ISHMAEL as “ground” for entire book group]
07 Dec 96: THE DISPOSSESSED by Ursula LeGuin (J.D.) at Kris and J.D.’s
11 Jan 97: A THOUSAND ACRES by Jane Smiley (Connie) at Paul and Connie’s [J.D. states Ty is “pure and noble”]
08 Feb 97: THE RIVER WHY by David James Duncan (Eila) at Kris and J.D.’s
08 Mar 97: BELOVED by Toni Morrison (Joan) at John and Joan’s
12 Apr 97: THE HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE by John Irving (Kris) at Paul and Connie’s
10 May 97: A LESSON BEFORE DYING by Ernest J. Gaines (Coleen) at Eila’s
21 Jun 97: THE RAPTURE OF CANAAN by Sheri Reynolds (Jennifer) at Kris and J.D.’s
26 Jul 97: HOUSE MADE OF DAWN by N. Scott Momaday (John) at Jennifer’s
16 Aug 97: Media Month: THE MEDIUM IS THE MASSAGE by Marshall McLuhan and FOUR ARGUMENTS FOR THE ELIMINATION OF TELEVISION by Jerry Mander (group) at John and Joan’s
13 Sep 97: DAKOTA: A SPIRITUAL GEOGRAPHY by Kathleen Norris (Amy Jo)
11 Oct 97: LILA: AN INQUIRY INTO MORALS by Robert Pirsig (Connie) at Kris and J.D.’s15 Nov 97: COLD MOUNTAIN by Charles Frazier (Paul D.) at Paul and Amy Jo’s
13 Dec 97: WALDEN by Henry David Thoreau (J.D.) at John and Joan’s
10 Jan 98: TENDER IS THE NIGHT by F. Scott Fitzgerald (Joan) at Jennifer’s
02 Feb 98: THE SONGLINES by Bruce Chatwin (Paul J.) at Paul and Connie’s
07 Mar 98: A MIDWIFE’S TALE by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich (Kris) at Kris and J.D.’s
04 Apr 98: SNOW FALLING ON CEDARS by David Guterson (Jennifer) at Kris and J.D.’s
09 May 98: ANGELA’S ASHES by Frank McCourt (John) at Paul and Amy Jo’s
27 Jun 98: SHE’S COME UNDONE by Wally Lamb (Clara) at Eila’s [Wally Lamb at Powell’s]
18 Jul 98: GEEK LOVE by Katherine Dunn (Eila) at Kris and J.D.’s
22 Aug 98: Ecoterrorism Month: ANTARCTICA by Kim Stanley Robinson and THE MONKEY-WRENCH GANG by Edward Abbey (group) at Cari’s
19 Sep 98: THE POWER OF ONE by Bryce Courtenay (Cari) at Clara’s
17 Oct 98: A NATURAL HISTORY OF THE SENSES by Diane Ackerman (Amy Jo) at Paul and Amy Jo’s [Paul D.’s sensory test]14 Nov 98: HUNGER by Knut Hamsun (Paul D.) at Kris and J.D.’s [group enters a year-long nadir with only four or five people at each meeting]
12 Dec 98: ANNA KARENINA by Leo Tolstoy (Connie) at Paul and Connie’s
09 Jan 99: DUNE by Frank Herbert (J.D.) at Kris and J.D.’s
06 Feb 99: BRAIN SEX by David Jessell and Dr. Anne Moir (Kris) at Paul and Connie’s
14 Mar 99: UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN by Frances Mayes (Paul D.) at Tapeo in NW Portland [restaurant meeting]
10 Apr 99: MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA by Arthur Golden (Clara) at Clara’s
21 May 99: SILENCE by Shusaku Endo (Cari) at Cari’s
19 Jun 99: THE BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES OF 1998 (Connie) at Kris and J.D.’s
25 Jul 99: MIDNIGHT’S CHILDREN by Salman Rushdie (J.D.) at Paul and Connie’s
11 Aug 99: THE DEBT TO PLEASURE by John Lanchester (Kris) at Clara’s
18 Sep 99: THE SELF-AWARE UNIVERSE by Amit Goswami (Paul D.) at Kris and J.D.’s
16 Oct 99: THE DIAMOND AGE by Neal Stephenson (Clara) at Paul and Connie’s [with Andrew and Jenn’s arrival, group begins to recover]13 Nov 99: STONES FROM THE RIVER by Ursula Hegi (Connie) at Kris and J.D.’s
18 Dec 99: STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND by Robert Heinlein (Andrew) at Andrew and Clara’s
22 Jan 00: THE MILL ON THE FLOSS by George Eliot (J.D.) at Jeremy and Jenn’s
13 Feb 00: THE READER by Bernhard Schlink (Jenn) at Paul and Connie’s
26 Mar 00: REBECCA by Daphne DuMaurier (group) at Andrew and Clara’s [murder mystery costume party]
16 Apr 00: COMING OF AGE IN THE MILKY WAY by Timothy Ferris (Kris) at Kris and J.D.’s
13 May 00: THE CIDER HOUSE RULES by John Irving (Jeremy) at Jeremy and Jenn’s
11 Jun 00: THE GOD OF SMALL THINGS by Arundhati Roy (Lisa) at Lisa’s
16 Jul 00: ISHMAEL by Daniel Quinn (repeat, group) at Mac and Pam’s [Andrew, indignant, proclaims “you don’t have to explain the math to me!”]
26 Aug 00: HARRY POTTER series by J.K. Rowling (Clara) at Kris and J.D.’s
24 Sep 00: MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY trilogy by Nordhoff and Hall (Mac) at Paul and Connie’s
22 Oct 00: THE POISONWOOD BIBLE by Barbara Kingsolver (Connie) at Andrew and Clara’s18 Nov 00: AS I LAY DYING by William Faulkner (Andrew) at Kris and J.D.’s [Thanksgiving dinner]
16 Dec 00: THE SUGAR ISLAND by Ivonne Lamazares (Paul D.) at Mac and Pam’s
20 Jan 01: THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING by Milan Kundera (J.D.) at Jeremy and Jenn’s
17 Feb 01: HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG by Andre Dubus III (Jenn) and Paul and Connie’s
10 Mar 01: LOLITA by Vladmir Nabokov (Pam) and Kris and J.D.’s
08 Apr 01: THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS by Ursula LeGuin (Kris) at Mac and Pam’s
19 May 01: PRELUDE TO FOUNDATION by Isaac Asimov (Jeremy) at Jeremy and Jenn’s
09 Jun 01: INTO THIN AIR by Jon Krakauer (Pam) at Kris and J.D.’s
07 Jul 01: ANIL’S GHOST by Michael Ondaatje (Coleen) at Mac and Pam’s
25 Aug 01: LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI by Mark Twain (J.D.) at Joe and Carol’s
16 Sep 01: THE LAST REPORT ON THE MIRACLE AT LITTLE NO-HORSE by Louse Erdrich (Jenn) at Jeremy and Jenn’s [emotional discussion of 9/11]
27 Oct 01: THE SPIRIT CATCHES YOU AND YOU FALL DOWN by Anne Fadiman (Carol) at Mary’s17 Nov 01: CONTACT by Carl Sagan (Mac) at Kris and J.D.’s
15 Dec 01: ALL THE PRETTY HORSES by Cormac McCarthy (Mary) at Mac and Pam’s [Jenn vs. J.D. re: John Grady]
12 Jan 02: SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION by Ken Kesey (Joe) at Joe and Carol’s
09 Feb 02: PERFUME by Patrick Suskind (Kris) at Kris and J.D.’s
23 Mar 02: TITUS GROAN by Mervyn Peake (Joel) at Joel and Aimee’s
12 Apr 02: 1984 by George Orwell (Pam) at Mary’s
17 May 02: NINE PARTS OF DESIRE by Geraldine Brooks (Aimee) at Kris and J.D.’s?
22 Jun 02: ANGLE OF REPOSE by Wallace Stegner (J.D.) at Jeremy and Jennifer’s
20 Jul 02: COLD MOUNTAIN by Charles Frazier (repeat, group) at Joe and Carol’s
18 Aug 02: THINGS FALL APART by Chinua Achebe (Coleen) at Mac and Pam’s
20 Sep 02: A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY by John Irving (Jenn) at Mary’s
19 Oct 02: GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING by Tracy Chevalier (Carol) Kris and J.D.’s23 Nov 02: MOBY DICK by Herman Melville (Mac) at Erin’s
15 Dec 02: THE SHELTERING SKY by Paul Bowles (Mary) at Joel and Aimee’s
10 Jan 03: THE BUTCHER BOY by Patrick McCabe (Erin) at Kris and J.D.’s [Erin’s ticket]
08 Feb 03: LIVES OF THE MONSTER DOGS by Kirsten Bakis (Kris) at Craig and Lisa’s
08 Mar 03: POST CAPTAIN by Patrick O’Brian (Joel) at Jeremy and Jenn’s
12 Apr 03: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES by Ray Bradbury (Aimee) at Mac and Pam’s
10 May 03: PASSAGE TO JUNEAU by Jonathan Raban (Craig) at Kris and J.D.’s
01 Jun 03: FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS by H.G. Bissinger (Pam) at Mary’s
18 Jul 03: SWANN’S WAY by Marcel Proust (J.D.) at Joel and Aimee’s
18 Aug 03: HIS DARK MATERIALS trilogy by Phillip Pullman (Lisa L-B) at Craig and Lisa’s
20 Sep 03: TENDER AT THE BONE by Ruth Reichl (Jenn) at Jenn’s
18 Oct 03: WATERSHIP DOWN by Richard Adams (group) at Kris and J.D.’s16 Nov 03: ROBINSON CRUSOE by Daniel Defoe (Mac) at Mac’s
13 Dec 03: ASK THE DUST by John Fante (Mary) at Mary’s
24 Jan 04: DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA by Alexander de Tocqueville (Kris) at Craig and Lisa’s
22 Feb 04: MAUS and MAUS II by Art Spiegelman (Joel) at Joel and Aimee’s [very emotional meeting]
21 Mar 04: EXPLAINING HITLER by Ron Rosenbaum (Aimee) at Kris and J.D.’s
18 Apr 04: AT SWIM-TWO-BIRDS by Flann O’Brien (Craig) at Mac’s
15 May 04: READING LOLITA IN TEHRAN by Azar Nafisi (Don) at Jenn’s
13 Jun 04: RED MARS by Kim Stanely Robinson (J.D.) at Mary’s
10 Jul 04: ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez (Lisa L-B) at Lisa and Craig’s
07 Aug 04: PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by Jane Austen (Jenn) at Denise’s
19 Sep 04: CROSSING TO SAFETY by Wallace Stegner (Mac) at Kris and J.D.’s
16 Oct 04: A CLOCKWORK ORANGE by Anthony Burgess (Denise) at Kim’s13 Nov 04: BRIDESHEAD REVISITED by Evelyn Waugh (Mary) at Lynn’s
11 Dec 04: MY ANTONIA by Willa Cather (Kim) at Jenn’s
15 Jan 05: A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT by Sebastian Japrisot (Kris) at Mary’s [movie field trip]
12 Feb 05: A PLACE OF MY OWN by Michael Pollan (Craig) at Craig and Lisa’s [our 100th meeting]
12 Mar 05: THE FARMING OF BONES by Edwidge Danticat (Lynn) at Kris and J.D.’s
16 Apr 05: THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS by Henry Adams (J.D.) at Courtney’s
15 May 05: SHIP FEVER by Andrea Barrett (Lisa) at Bernie and Kristi’s
11 Jun 05: THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP (Jenn) at Kris and J.D.’s
17 Jul 05: BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE MUSEUM by Kate Atkinson (Courtney) at Kim’s
12 Aug 05: NATIVE SON by Richard Wright (Bernie) at Jenn’s
10 Sep 05: THE CHOSEN by Chaim Potok (Naomi) at Jason and Naomi’s
08 Oct 05: WISE BLOOD by Flannery O’Connor (Jason) at Bernie and Kristi’s12 Nov 05: AN EQUAL MUSIC by Vikram Seth (Kristi) at Craig and Lisa’s [Bach’s “Art of the Fugue”]
10 Dec 05: TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by Harper Lee (Tiffany) at Kris and J.D.’s
07 Jan 06: THE AWAKENING by Kate Chopin (Lisa) at Courtney’s
Feb 2006: Craig’s selection
Mar 2006: Kris’s selection
Apr 2006: Mary’s selection
May 2006: J.D.’s selection
Jun 2006: Jenn’s selection
Throughout most of the group’s history, I’ve taken rough notes on the meetings. At one time I planned to erect an elaborate web site featuring information on the books we discusses. I recognize now how anti-J.D. such a scheme is; it’s just too much work. The notes survive, however, and with them some funny quotes.
I’ve sifted through to cull those quotes that stand the test of time, those that have become part of the group’s shared culture (‘pure and noble’, ‘you don’t have to explain the math to me’), those that still make me laugh, and those that seem somewhat insightful. I’ve not transcribed the quotes that are too contextual or that now seem just seem blah.
Note that some people may find certain quotes offensive.
“Ty is pure and noble.” – J.D., evaluating A THOUSAND ACRES
“You don’t know a man when you marry him.” – Coleen
“You never know a man.” – Connie“I think when we look outside of ourselves for leadership, that’s when we get led astray.” – Paul D., explaining religion
“People should be more like cats.” – Paul D.
“It’s too bad most people are like dogs.” – Kris“THE PIANO is not believable, it’s just not believable.” – J.D.
“Oh, like BLADE RUNNER is…” – Kris“It’s paint. It’s not art.” – Kris, on modern art
“Once again, you’re all wrong.” – Paul D.
“It’s in the best interest of the people who control our culture for people to be stupid.” – J.D., explaining why there aren’t more kids with critical thinking skills
“What if all of us were like Paul? We’d be stabbing each other all the time!” – Connie
“Sometimes I have a problem living with myself.” – Paul D.“Is that important in the grand scheme of the universe? Is Kris Gates’ self-esteem important?” – Paul D.
“Men can be wrong three, four, five times in the time it takes a woman to be wrong once.” – Paul D.
“She must have a dwarf brain, too.” – Kris, on STONES FROM THE RIVER (which the group hated)
“Boredom cannot exist in a world of pure goodness.” – Paul D.
“If Jeremy gets discoprorated, it affects me and my child. [To Jeremy:] I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about the house payment.” – Jenn
“You can’t decide for people what’s best for them and what’s going to make them happy.” – Jenn
“Not making a choice is still a choice.” – Kris
“Well, you don’t call me imbalanced.” – Jeremy
“Yes we do.” – everyone else“I guess I’m kind of a mutant. I love looking at atoms.” – Kris
“You know, let’s wipe out religions…we’ll all be fornicating in the trees again.” – Jeremy
“You don’t have to explain the math to me!” – Andrew, offended at Kris for explaining exponential growth
“What would the world be without suffering?” – Jenn
“It would be a world of men.” – J.D.“I can put myself in the dumbass’s situation and sit back and say, ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.'” – J.D.
“Hermione needs to be an interracial child…” – Clara
“But her parents are dentists! They will not intermarry.” – Kris, with an inexplicable explanation as to why this cannot be“She’s got god in her life right now because she doesn’t have a man.” – Tiffany
“A man doesn’t know how hard his bed is if he doesn’t know what his neighbor’s sleeping on.” – Andrew, about poverty
“If you just kill off everybody but just one man…” – Jenn
“…then you’d have Utopia!” – Kris“You know what, Connie? You and I read different books.” – J.D, in the argument over THE POISONWOOD BIBLE (which Connie loved but most others hated)
“I think there is no justification for marriage…” – Jeremy
“If I were sober, I could find the part about the cows.” – J.D.
“He had to die. When two cultures clash, what happens? Somebody dies.” – Paul D., on HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG
“You know what Jeremy’s grandfather says? ‘Women are like peaches — if you handle them too much, they spoil.'” – Jenn
“I thought you were going to say, ‘Deep inside them is a pit.'” – Paul D.“I can’t speak for every culture…” – Jeremy
“Good thing, too!” – Mac“It’s pretty amazing what those guys do with bicycles.” – Mac, about the Extreme Games
“That’s even more ignorant than Jeremy!” – Jenn to Mac, after Mac dissed blind mountain climbers
“You’re not as bitter as Kris.” – J.D., to Mary
“You’ve got the hijackers that think they’re going to heaven, and you’ve got the innocent people that think they’re going to heaven. So who’s really going to heaven?” – Carol, on 9/11
“You’ve got to have a heaven with HIGH walls in between.” – Kris“My heart is hardened toward Kris.” – Jeremy
“I’m palming as fast as I can!” – Andrew, using his PDA
“He’s not in love — he’s got a hard-on.” – Jenn, about John Grady
“What’s the difference?” – J.D. (this exchange took place during a heated debate over John Grady’s Christ-like nature)“I can’t read at night. I just fall asleep.” – Joe
“That’s because you’re old.” – Mac“It’s an existentialist kind of song.” – Aimee, about “Goodnight Irene”
“It wasn’t stream of consciousness; it was like whitecap rapids of consciousness.” – Joel, on the beginning of SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION
“It’s not even a city!” – Mac, about Portland
“You can make more kids.” – Duane’s explanation as to why a person should not feel guilt over the loss of a child
“What this world really needs is more hobbits.” – Jenn
“A large part of accepting is ignoring.” – Joel
“This was written at a time when most children were dead.” – Joel, on MOBY DICK
“You’re way smarter than a dolphin.” – Joel, to Kris
“I would not give our animals the ability to speak because that would just complicate our relationship. I don’t want them to pass judgment on me.” – Kris
“Anyone who is a fan of foul language and nude hot-tubbing is a friend of mine.” – Craig, about Jeremy
“Just because you believe something is right doesn’t make it so.” – Jeremy
“We don’t live in a democracy, we live in a capitalist theocracy.” – Kris
“If you destroy evil, then what is good?” – Mary
“I will go head-to-head with that motherfucker in an IQ contest and blow his ass off.” – Jeremy, regarding our President
“I’m scared of salmon.” – Lisa
“When I was a young girl, I read too much Jane Austen too soon.” – Aimee
“I’m more of a glutton than a connoisseur.” – Joel
“I didn’t even know food could be like that.” – Jenn, about her first creme brulée
“Fuck!” – Jeremy’s enthusiastic review of a raspberry tart
“You’re no pacifist.” – Joel, to Kris
“No? What am I?” – Kris
“A fucking warmonger.” – Joel“I prefer the word ‘believes’ to the terms ‘buys into’.” – Jenn, to J.D. during a discussion about religion
“Even in our society, we judge people on what they wear.” – Aimee
“I think women have no idea how little men pay attention to what people wear.” – Joel, to murmurings of agreement from the other men
“Do you mean you wouldn’t notice if somebody here was wearing a bikini?” – Jenn
“I’d notice flesh.” – Joel, to murmurings of agreement from the other men“The real value of literature is for people to discover themselves.” – Don
“When I think of married couples I know well, none of them have ever grown up to be happy.” – Don
“Isn’t any action a selfish action?” – Mary
“Aha! Mary here is being Joel.” – Kris“Some people are very complicated to be friends with. I don’t want to work that hard at my friendships.” – Clara, about people who have rigid expectations
“One of the reviewers said it’s hard to believe this is a first novel. I don’t know. I found it very easy to believe.” – an unidentified member (possibly J.D. or Lisa), on BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE MUSEUM
“Is Jeremy angry a lot?” – Tiffany
“So it’s supposed to be a comic novel?” – Tiffany, on WISE BLOOD
“Yes.” – Craig
“I missed the funny part.” – Tiffany
The character of this group has changed several times over the past decade. After the recent additions, we’re still searching for an identity. Regardless, our meetings remain the highlight of my month. Book group is my church. I have never missed a meeting, and I hope I never will.
Perfect Weekend
In which I spend Thanksgiving Weekend with friends and family, being both productive and social.
My Thanksgiving weekend was as close to perfect as is reasonable to expect, a balance of productivity, sociability, and fun.
What makes a perfect weekend? For starters, it’s a four-day weekend. Add to this plenty of mashed potatoes with ketchup; a chance to relax with hot cocoa and toast; and, most importantly, time with a variety of friends.
Our family Thanksgiving gathering was larger than normal. My cousin, Nick, joined us, as did Kris’ sister, Tiffany. Tony and Kamie (and their kids) were actually present and on time. The food was good and, as usual, I ate too much. After dinner, we played games (including a marathon session of Apples to Apples).
I spent a few hours at work on Friday, but it was basically wasted time. There wasn’t a single call or fax. I spent most of my time drooling over comic book compilations. Yes, I am a geek.
On Friday evening, we ventured to the Portland City Grill to attend a wedding reception for my boyhood chum, Andrew Parker, who married the lovely and vivacious Joann Mangold last month in San Francisco. The food and wine were terrific. I was pleased to see Andrew’s sister, Laura, for the first time in twenty years. We sat with Dave and Karen and Andrew and Joann. We had a good time reminiscing and getting to know Joann better. At one point, Dave provided a warm and witty toast to the couple, utilizing his keen Toastmaster skills.
Kris and I worked outside in the cold and the damp on Saturday. We raked leaves and pruned roses. Simon climbed onto the roof of the garage and pranced around, proud of himself. In the afternoon, I dropped by Mitch’s place to help celebrate his daughter’s tenth birthday. Between cake and presents, Zoe taught me how to play Pokemon. I must not have learned very well: she kicked my ass.
I did better playing poker on Saturday night. Sabino hosted a small tournament featuring two tables of five players each. Each player bought in for $22. The winner received $120, the second-place player received $60, and the third-place player received $20. Perhaps the remaining $20 must have gone toward the five enormous pizzas we shared. (Each person also kept $3 to use as an additional wager any time he went “all in”.)
I’ve never really played poker before, so I was a little wary. I spent some time Saturday googling for tips. The most common advice for novice poker players seems to be: play conservatively, fold often, do not try to bluff. I tried to follow this advice, and it served me well. After a couple of hours, only four of us remained. This group played to a virtual stand-still for ninety minutes, and then weariness began to take its toll. I began to fold hands (such as K-7) with which other might have at least paid to see the flop. Several times, I threw away what would have been a winning hand. Goaded by these poor choices, I started erring in the opposite direction, semi-bluffing on hands that ought to have been played more conservatively. In the end, I went all in with a suited ace-queen (after a flop that turned up another card of my suit and a ten or a jack), but didn’t even get a pair. I didn’t care; I was tired, and I’d had a lot of fun. I’m not the kind of guy who often gets invited to play poker, but maybe I’ll get another chance sometime.
Sunday was a slow day. After enjoying hot cocoa and toast, I finished the leaf-raking project. We took some scones to John, our neighbor across the street, as a thank-you for some home-made grape juice he’d given us a couple weeks ago. He was happy to take a break from pruning his cherry tree so that he could tell us about his trips to Alaska and New Zealand. He also gave us mulching tips. Tom and Roberta, the older neighbor couple next door, came out to join the conversation. They offered advice on pruning fruit trees and propagating grapes. Tom fetched us a large winter squash picked directly from his garden.
For dinner, Kris and I made our favorite steaks. Later, I sat in a hot tub and read comic books. Actually, I read a lot of comics over the weekend: Jonah Hex, Persepolis, Elfquest, Thor, and Doom Patrol. I am a comic book geek.
Darth Vader vs. a Herd of Goats
In which the Dark Lord of the Sith uses his force powers to put down an uprising of ungulates.
There are suddenly lots of people who want to see Darth Vader play with goats. When you’re finished, you may want to read my review of Attack of the Clones (I hated it); read my rant on why Star Wars sucks; check out my memories of growing up with Star Wars as part of the Star Wars generation; read why I like the new Battlestar Galactica; or, perhaps, learn the things I didn’t like about the Lord of the Rings films.
I had a real entry planned for today, but this image (from an out-of-control thread on Metafilter) has me busting my gut so that I cannot write:
I know that’s a lot of bandwidth, but it’s worth it.
Let me catch my breath…
Lest you think it’s only Darth Vader who has such power over goats, here’s the undoctored image in which you can see that even umbrellas strike fear into the heart of these tiny ungulates:
Oh, lordy, my side aches.
I also liked this image from the same thread:
I’ll have to post my “what I did over Thanksgiving weekend” stories tomorrow (assuming I stop laughing by then).
Hot Cocoa and Toast
In which nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast (unless, of course, that hot cocoa is spilled all over the counter.)
Ah, what a lovely Sunday morning. What a fine thing it is to have slept late, lingering in bed with my wife by my side and the cats at our feet.
We slide out of bed and tumble downstairs. Kris feeds the birds, and we watch through the windows as the finches and jays and chickadees compete for the various seeds. Kris brews a mug of tea, then a second. We sit at the dining room table, looking at Walnut, the fat squirrel in the tree, as he forages for nuts and seeds in the feeder. The jays wait impatiently for him to leave.
“Isn’t it funny how he hides his peanuts,” I say. “Look at him climb down the tree and hide them in the lawn. He’s lucky there aren’t any cats around.” While he’s on the ground, the jays fight a peanut battle, squabbling over the tastiest treats.
“Look at that!” exclaims Kris. “It’s a bird of prey. It looks like a falcon.” She runs to grab the bird book, from which we learn that the bird is, indeed, a peregrine falcon.
Uncommon in open areas, especially near water. Nests on cliff ledges or (recently) on buildings or bridges in cities. Solitary. Hunts from perch or from high in the air, stooping on prey at very high speed…Feeds mainly on small or medium-size birds. Sleek and powerful, with very pointed wings and relatively short tail. Prominent dark “moustache” unique; also note uniformly patterned underwing. Voice a series of harsh notes rehk rehk rehk…
Why is a peregrine falcon sitting in our walnut tree? The squirrel doesn’t like it and, in a startling display of bravado, makes a sort of lunge at the bird, which is easily twice its size. The falcon is cowed, or willing to humor the squirrel. It sloughs from the tree and curves away on the strength of three or four wingbeats. A marvelous sight.
Not our falcon.
“We have a great house for birds,” Kris says, and I murmur agreement.
“What shall we do today?” she asks, finishing her tea.
“I have no motivation,” I say. “All I want to do today is to lay around the house.”
“That’s fine,” she says, “but promise me you’ll finish raking the leaves.”
“I’ll finish raking the leaves, but not until this afternoon. I want to move slowly. I want a hot bath. But first I want some hot cocoa and toast.”
Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast, the preparation of which is almost a religious ritual: retrieve the blender and the toaster, plug them in, heat the milk on the stove, toast the bread ’til it’s golden brown and then slather it with honey, cut the cocoa tablet into chunks and dump these into the blender, pour in the steaming milk, turn the blender on.
Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast.
While I wait for the cocoa to froth in the blender, I fetch The New York Times from the end of the sidewalk. “Hello, Nemo. Are you hunting birds?” The air is brisk, the grass is damp; I do not want to rake the leaves. The paper has a fine heft. I peel the two plastic bags that protect it and, as I walk back up to the house, I scan the headlines.
Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast and The New York Times. Nothing is —
Holy shit!
On the counter, the blender has become a fountain of hot cocoa. I drop the paper and punch wildly at the buttons. The cocoa-spout continues. Why? There’s the problem: the blender is not gushing from the top, but from around the base. The pitcher on top of the blender has started to come unscrewed, and the hot cocoa is spewing from the bottom, all over the counter, all over the toaster (plugged in and toasting!), all over the floor. Screw the top back to the base! Unplug the toaster! Quick! Where’s a towel? The bathroom!
“I’m not messy!” I call to Kris. I’m not messy is one of my common refrains (others of which include I’m not clumsy and Kris Gates is always right). “I’m not messy” actually translates into “Oops, I made a mess again” because, in reality, I am messy.
Here’s Kris. She’s taking stock of the situation. “Why are you using a nice bathroom towel to mop this up?” she asks. “There’s a whole stack of kitchen towels on top of the fridge.”
“Well,” I explain. “I lost a lot of cocoa. There are probably two cups on the counter.” I direct her attention to the black cocoa-fall trickling down the cabinets.
“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going upstairs.” And she does.
Why do we have so many things on the counter? I have to move them all, wipe them all with hot water. When I’ve moved everything, I’ve revealed a small pool of hot cocoa.
When I was nearly done with cleanup, I remembered to snap a photo.
Five minutes later, I sit down at the table and spread open The New York Times. I read about Elia Kazan while drinking tepid cocoa with toast.
Mashed Potatoes with Ketchup
In which I eat the breakfast of champions.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, in part because it seems to last forever. A four day weekend? Who wouldn’t love a holiday that granted that?
I also love Thanksgiving because it has the best food of any holiday. Most years, it’s my job to make mashed potatoes for the family gathering. I generally try to make enough so that there are plenty of leftovers?
Why?
Because then for several days after, I can enjoy one of my favorite breakfasts: mashed potatoes with ketchup.
It’s hard to say exactly when I started eating mashed potatoes with ketchup. Maybe I was in eighth grade, maybe in fourth. I also used to add jelly, but that habit died quickly. Kris, of course, doesn’t care for my breakfast of champions. “That is gross,” she tells me.
“It’s delicious!” I say. “You like french fries and ketchup, don’t you?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s better.”
And it is.
Ghost of Thanksgiving Past
In which I see my father, ten-years dead, alive and well in Costco.
I saw a ghost today.
I was in line at Costco to buy my ritual Polish dog when I saw my father standing three places in front of me. My father has been dead for more than a decade.
I knew it was him instantly: the big belly hanging over his belt, the tangled mop of hair, the shuffling feet. He was wearing one of his solid blue dress shirts (tucked sloppily, as usual), dark blue trousers, and a pair of worn dress shoes. He looked the same, he moved the same, he even smiled the same.
For a few moments, I literally stopped breathing. I watched Dad move forward in line. He scratched his nose like always, itching it; I expected him to take out a hanky and blow. When he reached the front of the line, he smiled at the worker and made some inaudible joke. The worker laughed. Always the clown.
And then it occurred to me: this was not a ghost of my father, but a ghost of my uncle Norman. His voice was quiet, his manner shy. Still shocking, but less so than it might have been.
I could breathe again.
My father (Steve), my grandfather (Noah), and my uncle (Norman) in 1983.
It has been ten years since my father died, and about fifteen since my uncle Norman passed away. In that time, I have never seen a single person that reminded me of either of them. It’s easy to pick out strangers who remind me of friends or, especially, of acquaintances, but I never encounter strangers who remind me of family members. This is probably because I know family members so much better: it’s easy to spot little differences that reveal a stranger’s dissimilarity. This man, this ghost, did not possess dissimilarities. Everything about him indicated that he was a family member, some lost cousin or uncle.
I watched the ghost shuffle across to the soda fountain, then to the condiment dispensers. I watched him carry his food to a back table. “It’s your turn,” the lady behind me said, shattering my reverie. I’d forgotten all about my ritual Polish dog.
On the drive home, Robert Greenberg expounded upon Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter Overture, one of Dad’s favorite compositions. Again I sunk into a nostalgic reverie, remembering him, remembering the things he did, remembering Thanksgivings of long ago.
(From the archives: another remembrance of my father on Independence Day)