You Can’t Go Home Again October 30, 2009

“All things on earth point home in old October”

Thomas Wolfe, Of Time and the River

It’s hard going home.  You’re not the same person you were when you left, and you’re not sure if the whole enterprise will work better if home hasn’t changed a bit or if it’s changed right along with you.

To make an all-too-common-these-days story short:  after a year of setbacks so relentless that every time another one rolled us over, we’d look at each other and say “It’s gotta get better now.  Right?  I mean we couldn’t get any lower, could we?”  (Ahh…hope really does spring eternal, doesn’t it?), we’ve decided a change is essential.  So the kids and I are headed for the sanctuary of home.  Galax, to be exact.  Home.

Eric & I both have a severe case of stiff upper lip, steady as she goes, keep calm and carry on syndrome.  I would bet that a lot of pragmatic British blood flows through our veins.  While this mindset means we usually just get on with the business at hand, it also feeds our shared (and admittedly overgrown) sense of stubborn pride.  It took us about four months longer than it should have to admit that this move to Chesterfield just wasn’t working.  But once we did, things clicked.  A plan that seemed absurd when I impetuously blurted it out actually made sense once we considered it.  Since Eric just got his warning orders for another year of active duty (Wisconsin?), the timing was impeccable.  And while it pains me to take my kids out of schools where they are thriving, I am shockingly okay with this idea.

A year or two ago, I would never have considered living in a small town again.  But if I’m honest, there is a huge part of me that, in spite of all my progressive notions, aches for home.   A Norman Rockwellian existence of mid-century solidity.  I know I am (momentarily) idealizing small town life.  But those old Rockwell paintings have rough edges: the house needs a fresh coat of paint, the kitchen table is a hand-me-down, the carpet is a little shabby, and the factory outside the diner window is shut down.  Things aren’t so perfect, but it doesn’t make me love that vision of life any less.  Rough edges I can manage.  Perfection I can’t.  After all this time, we’re taking a chance that maybe home isn’t such a bad place to be right now.

So away we go.

Come Sit Next To Me October 16, 2009

In keeping with Alice Roosevelt’s seminal (eewwww on the alternate definition of this word) quote of “if you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me”, here is a gorgeous bit of prose discovered in Cornelia Read’s The Crazy School.

We couldn’t stand each other, but I hated her more.  She was so shallow she couldn’t even dislike people properly.

In a decidedly listless week, these simple lines has brought me untold joy. I could absolutely buy Nora Charles tossing them off while consuming martinis in The Thin Man (If you haven’t seen The Thin Man, well shame on you, and I hope we can still be friends.  It is the bee’s knees.)  How Hemingwayesque is the structure here?  Two sentences-straight, colloquial, to the point.  Not bad for an ex-debutante with only two strange little thrillers under her belt.

And apropos of nothing, here are some of the best gin-soaked moments from Nick & Nora.  Enjoy & happy Friday!

Glee-ful! October 6, 2009

more about “Hulu – Glee: The Rhodes Not Taken – W…“, posted with vodpod

I am in love with Glee.  We look forward to Wednesday nights with the – well – glee once reserved for Thursday and The Office.  The presence of Jane Lynch drew me in, but I stuck around for the demented fun.  It was only a matter of time before Kristin Chenoweth crashed the party.  I will never understand how such a big voice comes from such a teeny woman.

My mom used to buy me Broadway soundtracks (on cassette tape.  I’m that old.) and subscriptions to The New Yorker in an effort to inject some culture into my life, or possibly turn me into a gay man.  Who knows?  But those big Broadway numbers with perfect crazy harmony still make me all kinds of goofy happy.  So Kristin Chenoweth and Lea Michele absolutely tearing up Maybe This Time from Cabaret (incidentally, has there ever been a weirder, darker musical)?  OMG, the best thing on network TV ever.  My very very hetero husband, who has suspiciously made it a point to linger in the living room for the past two or three weeks during Glee, and my eleven year old son both sat there glued to the screen.  Frickin’ Cabaret of all things!  I don’t know, maybe all of us recognize that talk.  That talk we give ourselves over and over again.  Trying so hard to convince ourselves that this time is the time that it will all be different.  Not believing a word of it, but still hoping against hope that this time, it’s all gonna change.  That it’s our turn now.  That’s kind’ve universal, isn’t it?  That need to believe that things will get better.

So for three short minutes, we sat in the living room, completely silent (no small feat in our house), listening to a broken doll of a girl singing her heart out for her last chance at happiness.  It was perfect.  “Wow,” Ethan whispered when the song ended.  I don’t know whether he was in awe of Michele’s and Chenoweth’s vocal abilities or oddly moved by the hopeless optimism of the song, but yeah kid, wow.

Tell Me A Story September 28, 2009

When I was growing up, my daddy spent a lot of time parked under the trees at the local library-windows rolled down, steaming Hardee’s coffee at the ready, perusing the daily paper.  Thanks to his forbearance, I was free to roam the stuffy rooms of our library, at that time housed in an old no-nonsense brick foursquare located downtown.  After graduating from Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and their ilk to adult fare, I clung to a lengthy list of influential books recommended by college professors.  Those photocopied pages were gifted to my English class by our teacher, a formidable woman who did not hesitate to bus a group of brainy eleven year olds to the nearest university library in order to instruct us on conducting research.  Under her tutelage we scoured the basement stacks for scholarly tomes and conquered microfilm machines which would spit out stinking black copies of our prized articles.  Thanks to Ms. Crowder-Davis, I could turn out a proper research paper on the effects of Agent Orange, complete with a thesis statement and works cited, by the end of Sixth Grade.  She was, in a word, amazing.

I carried that list until the type had faded, the pages were tattered, and it took a good amount of squinting to even make out the words.  I mourn for it twenty-odd years later and still hold a vague hope that I’ll run across it tucked away in a box of nostalgia stored in my dad’s basement.  That worn collection of paper was my golden ticket into the adult world.  A world where Tess is soundly seduced but still remains a pure woman.  A world where Gatsby spends a lifetime gaining entrance into a rarefied society in which he will never truly belong.  A world where happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are each unhappy in their own way.  A world where a stoic Atticus Finch defends a black man in court to the detriment of his own family’s security.  A world where an adolescent Holden Caulfield roams the streets of Manhattan; alienated, alone, foul mouthed but pure of heart.  A world where Blanche Dubois depends on the kindness of strangers.  A world where ship-wrecked boys revert to savagery when left to their own devices.  A world where Lizzie Bennet cannot see beyond her pride to the very evident truth in front of her.  Hemingway, O’Connor, Dickens, Hardy, Welty, Fitzgerald, O’Neil, Miller, Flaubert, Austen….life would be so very dull without them.

It’s banned book week.  If you know me at all, you probably know that the surest way to get me to do something is to tell me that I shouldn’t.  I’m a friend of the devil that way.  Give me a list of books someone somewhere out there thinks shouldn’t be loosed onto the public consciousness, and I will consume it greedily.  My daddy never saw fit to question me on a single thing I brought home from the library-though he may have raised an eyebrow.  My gratitude to him for that small kindness which opened up a vast universe.

So go ahead, read a “dirty” book this week and tell the establishment to stick it.

One of the Few Honest People September 1, 2009

“I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside. “

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Last Tycoon

It’s Fitzgerald, no commentary necessary.  Happy September.

But I know that you know that I know July 24, 2009

In lieu of a real post this gorgeous Friday morning, I bring you some of my favorite Dylan.  Tell Me Momma is not terribly profound, but damn if it’s not a tight little song.  And I’ll even forgive him the use of  the squishy phrase “making baby love”.  Nobody else writes or performs a kiss-off song with the appropriate snarl and bravado.  Doesn’t matter what kind of sour mood has befallen me on any given day, this song will have me bouncing with glee.  And the amazing little riff that starts at the 3:15 mark is probably my absolute favorite 15 seconds of rock music.  I will bust into an delirious ear-to-ear grin every time just from the sheer f*** you joy of it all.  Oh yeah, lest I forget, the band in this particular recording which is from the BRILLIANT Royal Albert Hall Concert (Seriously follow the link.  This concert is epic, and everybody needs to know it.)  is no other than The Band.  A thousand thanks to my brother for bringing Dylan into my life when my schoolmates were listening to Paula Abdul.

Sunday Morning Coming Down July 17, 2009

Well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.

Sigh, Kris and Johnny.   Always knowing just how a soul is feeling.  A ugly headache that came on like a freight train round 11:00 last night,refused to be ignored, sent me to Sheetz at midnight scrambling for the miraculous release of Excedrin, and then reluctantly parted company at about 4:00 this morning, derailed my best-laid plans for church this morning.  It also left me with the odd semblance of a hangover and removed the filter that I usually cling to like a life-preserver. (Sunday)

(Friday) I’ve been working up to this post for almost a week now, looking at it, jotting down a few sentences, discarding them, and then abandoning the whole enterprise all together.  So here goes:

My faith is a shaky creature, tremulous and timid.  I never seem to have a firm grasp on it when I need it most.  I spend probably as much time running from God as I do running to Him.  I imagine I’m not alone in this, but it feels lonely. As a rule, most Christians are not very good at admitting weakness and to admit that sometimes you’re just not sure how the whole thing works seems like a mighty big weakness.  I envy people who proclaim to have never had a doubt, who never seem to experience that darkness where all we think we know seems on the verge of unraveling if we pull the thread that bedevils us.  I guess I’m a thread-puller. Even if it leaves me perplexed, holding one end of what used to be a gorgeous cashmere sweater, you can bet I’m gonna pull that damn thread.  I have a compulsive need to know things, to figure it all out, to get a definitive answer.  And therein lies the rub.  Faith is not an exercise in the absolute.  You would think that after 33 years, I would be better at accepting this.  I’m not there just yet.  For a girl who prides herself on independence, on being able to go it alone, reliance on a supernatural father is a hard hard thing to grasp.

So what’s a girl to do?  Read, pray, seek, go to church, open up to those you trust.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Being a Christian is a process.  I will never be a finished product in the here and now.  Thank God for the process.

Right now, I’m on my 4th or 5th read-through of Brian McLaren’s Finding Our Way Again.  Have you ever read something, and had the eerie feeling that somehow the author read your mind, scooped out your innermost thoughts, and then oh-so-eloquently put them to page?  That’s this book for me.  Thus the compulsive re-reading.   It’s passages like the following that send me reaching for this book over and over again.

“If you’ve lost your way to the desired destination, you’re in shallow trouble.  But if in the process you’ve also lost the address you were supposed to visit,  your trouble just got deep.  If you don’t realize you’ve forgotten what your desired destination is, you’re in the bottomless pit…namely, to be in a hopeless situation but not realize it or feel bad about it.”

I hope I’m never so complacent that I fail to realize when I’m lost.  I hope I never get so consumed with my shortcomings that I fail to realize that Jesus loves me nonetheless.  That he accepts that I’m human so I might accept it too.

And since it’s been over a week since we’ve mentioned Kings of Leon here, let me  remedy that right now:

“I talk to Jesus.  Jesus says I’m okay.”

The Runner

I should probably listen to Jesus more than I do.

My Agatha Christie List July 15, 2009

I believe the proper scientific name for people such as Kristina and myself is “Book Slut”.  roughly translated, we’ll do any amount of cheap and dirty deeds to get our hands on a good book.  Not really, but it does mean that we can never get enough – books, that is.   Get your mind out of the gutter.  Geez, perv much?  Both of us carry bulging totes crammed with at least 3 to 5 books whenever we travel more than an hour from home.  My current deepest desire is a Kindle so that I will no longer have to lug around 20 odd pounds of books anytime I go somewhere-but only if I can also have the new book smell in a can.

I adore  mysteries, likely due to the fact that I absolutely revered Nancy Drew when growing up.  I always have one on hand for when I need a break from heavier reading.   And I have my personal favorites which, lucky you, I’m willing to share.  So here is my go-to list for cheap thrills, perfect for summer:

The Jack Reacher Series by Lee Childs

Oh my God, do I love these books.  They are my crack cocaine.  My dad & I await each new installment with the giddy anticipation usually reserved for Christmas.  I have happily approached strangers in public when I spot a Lee Childs tucked under their arm or peeking out of their bag.  Jack Reacher is an ex-Army MP who drifts from one town to another and has a talent for landing in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He efficiently doles out justice to the numerous bad guys who are unfortunate enough to piss him off.  Jack Reacher is bad-ass, someone you definitely want in your corner.  The series is thirteen strong: fast-paced, tightly scripted, and entertaining as hell.  The first entry is Killing Floor.

The Maisie Dobbs Series by Jacqueline Winspear

First of all, I just love the design of these books.  They’re gorgeous, and yes,  I judge books by their covers.  Maisie is a young girl in service whose employers notice her intellect and arrange her education.  Her studies at Cambridge are interrupted by World War I and after serving as a nurse on the front in France, Maisie returns to England and uses her gifts as a private investigator.  Many of her cases deal with the aftermath of the war.  Maisie herself suffered great loss which has left her shell-shocked and leary of human connection.  The six books are rich in post-WWI era detail and Maisie is an unusually strong and confident heroine.  Start with Maisie Dobbs.

Gaslight Mysteries by Victoria Thompson

The eleven mysteries in this series follow Sarah Brandt, an upper-class woman who works as a midwife among New York’s immigrant population much to her family’s chagrin.  Her work brings her into contact with Detective Frank Malloy who is initially disdainful of her assistance but comes to rely on her discernment and powerful society connections.  The novels border on sentimental at times, but Thompson’s knowledge of late 19th century New York City makes this a worthwhile historical series.  Each novel is named for a landmark or neighborhood, and well, I am a complete sucker for turn-of-the-century New York.  Begin with Murder On Astor Place.

Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane

This book.  Oh wow, now this one here.  This one will fry your brain.  It is one of the few books that upon reading the last sentence, I muttered WTF and  immediately turned back to page one.  A total mind trip.  Dennis Lehane is the current golden boy of the contemporary crime novel, what with Mystic River and Gone, Baby, Gone both adapted into award-winning movies.  Shutter Island, helmed by no less than Martin Scorsese, is in the works for this fall.  U.S. Marshal Teddy and his new partner Chuck arrive on Shutter Island to investigate the escape of a dangerous female patient from the island’s hospital for the criminally insane.  A strong storm leaves them stranded and no one or nothing is what it seems, not even Teddy himself.  It is twisty and dark and unbelievably heart-wrenching.  Great stuff, this. And I’ll leave you with the trailer for Shutter Island.  If it’s just half as good as the book, it will be worth watching.  (If nothing else, the cast is absolutely pitch-perfect).

What about you?  Any recommendations for the perfect summer mystery?

The Livin’ is Easy June 24, 2009

Your daddy’s rich and your mamma’s good lookin’ so hush little baby.  Don’t you cry.

Sorry for my appalling lack of creativity these days-as best illustrated by the fact that I’m completely lifting this post idea from NPR.  But this is the most languorous, gorgeous and yes, downright sexy arrangement of Gershwin’s Summertime you will ever set your ears to so I suggest you listen up.  There are two ways to handle a muggy summer in the south:  you can dream of Christmas and the cold weather to come or you can embrace the sultriness of it and enjoy the novelty of being able to wander around half-dressed, glistening with sweat.  Days like this always put me in mind of Harper Lee’s passage from To Kill A Mockingbird.

Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

I think Maggie from Tennessee William’s Cat On A Hot Tin Roof had the best coping strategy for summer in the south.  Slink around in a gorgeous silk slip (with matching pumps, of course), imbibe copious amounts of Mint Juleps and sweet tea, and try to persuade Paul Newman to sleep with you.  Smart girl, that one.

43 Things June 14, 2009

Luc and I are notorious for saying “we should_____” in the middle of our conversations. Usually it’s done in that tone of voice that lets you know two things: 1. we think we are the funniest people in the world and 2. that we are the only people to have the idea that we just came up with.

We are so bad about it that I would willingly bet you a cup of Starbucks that we say it at least once in any given conversation we are having; be it email, Twitter, text, actually on the phone with one another, in person or through the comments sections of our posts.

Various things that we have said we should do include the following:

… Twitter only using song titles
… bring about world peace
… frost Pat’s hair (per the conversation he had with Sharon)
… start a blog
… compete to see who can find the ugliest Christmas sweater
… use all of David’s made up words in Staff Meeting
… go to New York in a year or two

This is merely a sampling of our combined brain activity. The list is honestly endless. I don’t know if we are codependent or can’t think of  better transitions to use in conversation (something like ‘boy, sure is pretty weather we’re having today’ would suffice).

Sadly (and sometimes intelligently) we don’t always follow through with our wonderful ideas. However, we’ve decided to hold ourselves accountable and have opened a 43Things account.

In an effort to show we are deeper than our own individual levels of narcissism, our second item is actually devoted to doing something constructive for someone other than ourselves.

Feel free to subscribe to us and cheer us on! Let us know if you have a 43Things account and we will gladly do the same.

http://www.43things.com/person/LucandTina