Geography

It is rather ironic that my husband collects maps,  as I am not a geography maven. I blame Sister Fulgentia, my third grade teacher. That was the year that geography entered the curriculum at my elementary school, and Sister Fulgentia scared the living latitude AND longitude out of me. I remembered her as an immense, red-faced woman who screamed a lot at little people who cowered before her.  Particularly little people who didn't know the right answers or violated any of her many rules.  I devoted my third-grade life to being as small and unobtrusive as possible, and I memorized faithfully the answers to questions in my little geography notebook--understanding nothing, but terrified into feats of memory I'd never performed before or since. (The good sister also bears responsibility for my less-than-stellar long-division skills as well, but that is a story for another day.)

In any event, geography has escaped me, for the most part. I can't follow a map unless it is oriented in the direction I'm traveling. I can barely find "North" on a compass, and the GPS lady in my car system makes me nervous, particularly when she says in that annoyed voice: "Re-calculating route. As soon as possible, make a U-turn."

But, even I, geography cripple that I am, was horrified at a recent occurrence. I walked into my bank to ask for assistance. (The only time I enter the bank anymore is if I have a problem: this time, I was out of checks.) The two tellers seated behind the desk were talking, so I excused myself for interrupting. The young man said it was no problem, that his colleague was just asking a question. Recognizing me, she asked ME the question: "Is there a state named 'Rhode Island'?" I assured them that indeed, there was, and that I had personally visited it several times. I gave them the approximate location--though I was somewhat concerned that they might not understand exactly where New England was, or even 'just south of Massachusetts'.

Now, allowing for the fact that these young people might not have received their education here in the U.S., maybe this knowledge gap is not so surprising. Yet, one would think that, in a business that spans the entire country--and even, the globe--they might have somewhere run across a list of states, if only in scrolling through addresses.

It is appalling to me that in our stampede toward science literacy and math competence, we might just be leaving in the dust our concept of the world that we live in. A world where it might be useful to know the names of these (united) states. In my childhood, I remember having to identify states by their shapes on a large blank map that supplied only outlines. The midwest gave me a little difficulty, as I recall, but I could usually figure it out, if only by process of elimination. (If the big mitten is Michigan, then THAT shape must be Illinois..) My grandmother used to quiz us on state capitals--and, at one time, I knew them all. How in the world can you understand history books, or appreciate the pioneers, or imagine the issues being debated in Congress, or (horrors!) contemplate presidential primaries without even a basic mental picture of the states and their locations and sizes?

Even scarier is the thought that these gaps are just the tip of the iceberg. How much cultural/geographical/historical (I can go on...) information is missing from the public consciousness? Are we becoming a nation of ignoramuses? Ignoramusi? As a teacher, I occasionally ran up against missing links in what I thought every student should know, or should have been taught by a parent or elementary school teacher. Surely, everybody had at one time asked where rain came from..and been treated to the demonstration of a tin piepan full of ice cubes being held over a pot of boiling water. No? Well, maybe I was just a weird Mr. Wizard mom who liked explaining stuff. But still...Maybe I was too quick to dismiss those little omissions in kids' everyday education. Maybe I wasn't as weird as I thought.

Maybe we all need to know the little stuff in order to understand the big stuff. Maybe that's our problem right now.

Backup

This has been a crazy week.

Last Sunday, JC and I flew to Providence to help our daughter Kay with our two grandchildren, while her husband recuperated from a Monday morning surgery. For those of you with no grandchildren, or those of you (do you exist?) whose grandchildren are content to sit and be read to for hours on end, understand that this can be a grueling task. For those of us (newly-retired) who are getting used to sleeping in till 7:30, and perhaps sneaking in a nap at 3, it's not easy to be on your feet all day, chauffeuring, preparing and packing snacks for every outing, playgrounding, entertaining, and feeding kids (what seems to be) every 15 minutes. I know we did it before--I know I even did it on my own!--but this is a young person's game. It takes backup. And with two of us on the job, we could do it--even if we were tired at the end of the day.

Also last Sunday night in Baltimore, my mom, who has been failing, took a steep turn for the worse, dropping into an unconsciousness that she would only partially arouse from when stimulated. I got the call from my sister on Monday. Tuesday morning, with no change in her condition, I flew home--or at least to Baltimore to watch and wait. It doesn't sound hard--to sit and watch and wait, but it's easier if there's someone to talk to at the end of the day. It takes backup.

JC and I have been together for nearly forty years. During that time, we have counted on each other for a multitude of things: financial and emotional support, listening, advice, encouragement, laughter.. There has always been, at the end of whatever day, someone to share things with, even if it might be over the phone. There has always been an "I love you" lingering in my ear as I drift off to sleep. Backup. I'm not sure I have appreciated that enough.

This week, we both faced difficult days, without that backup close at hand. We've both been tired and needed the strength of family and friends to fall back on. That all that strength is there to draw on means so much. But even more than that, I realize, we need each other. Nothing can take the place of my best friend, my co-conspirator, my sounding board, my husband. My backup. I love you, JC.

Charming Billy

Billy Collins at Point Loma Nazarene University, San Diego.

Anyone who knows me, or has heard me read any of my poetry, knows that my favorite poet is Billy Collins. I love T.S.Eliot for his complexity, am a big fan of John Ciardi, who is very clever, and have countless other poets with claims on my affections--but Billy Collins is the poet I wish I were. He is accessible. His constructions are simple, and yet...there's always something beneath the words, tangled up inside, that brings me back to read his poems just one more time, and almost always, I find something new.

Last week I had the opportunity to hear the man in person (which is far more fun than watching the YouTube versions of his readings.) I saw the listing in a newspaper or magazine in San Diego and promptly went online and grabbed two tickets. Lucky me.

The program consisted of a reading, followed by an interview. We got there early--I mean 45 minutes before it began--and scored 6th row center seats. The auditorium was packed well before 7. In fact, had we come minutes after we did, we might have been in the balcony.

But that is all unimportant. Watching and listening was what I was there for. I found myself wishing for a transcript of all that was going on: perhaps a video, or even just a podcast. Maybe the University will do that. I hope. This reading, this interview were full of insights into the writing of poetry, and particularly, Billy Collins' writing of HIS poetry. I found myself on the edge of my chair, thinking, "YES!!" over and over again.

For example--why do people feel compelled to say, "I bet you'll be writing about that!" or, worse yet, "Here's something you should write about..."? Why do folks assume that every poem is autobiographical? (re: a poem he wrote about summer camp in the Adirondacks, someone asked him which camp it was--no doubt hoping to establish some identity with the poet. He said,"I went to camp in the Catskills, but that didn't sound as good as the word 'Adirondacks'.." For sure.

Asked about a poem that obliquely referenced Robert Frost, he opined that certain poets have established domain over certain areas: Frost owns the woods, for example, and you can't write about the woods without thinking of the Frost poem. He OWNS that territory, as Wordsworth owns daffodils. It is as if (he continued) there is sort of a crime scene tape wrapped around certain places or things. And he's right. A peach reference brings up Prufrock and Eliot, Dante summons Ezra Pound. Pick your poet and define their space. (In the Q&A, I asked--I NEVER ask questions--what his own territory was, and he thought a minute--I made Billy Collins think!--and said, 'the window'. Hmm.)

When someone asked who his favorite poet was, he changed the question. Which poet was he most envious of? Poets don't have favorites, but they DO have other poets that make them jealous. Oh, yes. His was Charles Simic. Okay. Because he just can't understand how Simic does what he does. I can understand that feeling.

And then there was the question of where do you get ideas (assuming, of course, that it's not from the yokels who tell you what you should write about)? He quoted a poet who, when asked where he got his images, said, "I don't know. If I did, I'd go there and never come back." Collins' answer, referencing Willa Cather? (and I paraphrase) "There are only five stories, and people tell them again and again." Collins agrees. "As far as poetry is concerned, there are five rooms, if you will--age is one--and it's all about how you get inside. Metaphor is one way into those rooms." Yes, and yes again and again. But what are the other 4 rooms, the other ways, the other entries???!!!??? Were I the interviewer, that would have been my first question. He didn't ask it. The dolt. An addendum: Collins said, "There are also only two science fiction stories: we go there or they come here." Probably not pleasing to those sci-fi aficionados, but true, when you think about it.

And then, (I know I keep saying that) he talked about the role of poetry. He pointed out the entire spectrum of writing, beginning with cookbooks, that don't require thought, but obedience. Just do what they say. On the far end of that spectrum is poetry, where the poet invites participation. Again, yes! Isn't that what we want out of a poem? To be challenged, and yet, to have it beautifully simple and straightforward. Simplicity with a note of the complex, words that sing, or give the illusion of song, saying something profound in a simple way: this is what poets seek. The beauty of hearing Billy Collins speak is that he understands this, from the inside out--and when he tells the story, it rings true with anyone who writes or tries to write.

More to come, as I digest it all. And you can bet I will be as close as I can be to front row, center, when he reads at the Folger this spring. I already have my ticket.