Buttermilk

I am an inveterate recipe reader. I skim cookbooks the way other people read novels, and am constantly on the lookout for something new, something tasty, something easy and original and praiseworthy to set on the table. I think it’s a function of a weird kind of personal ADD that relates solely to food. Other people may eat the same baloney sandwich for lunch every day for years—not me. I’m lucky if I can handle the same lunch two days in a row. Obviously, my palate is not designed for leftovers. Which explains the stacks of recipes on my coffee table and the shelves of cookbooks overflowing from my kitchen.

So, it’s no surprise that, every now and then, recipe, ingredients, and stars align correctly—almost-- and I  try something new. Today it is a cranberry tea cake. With the best of cookie-baking intentions, I had loaded my pre-Christmas refrigerator with butter and eggs and an inordinate number of cranberries. (Cranberries are a problem for me; I have scones and Jezebel Sauce and cranberry bread recipes—over and above normal cranberry sauce—and cranberries are only available for a month or so. Plus they are easily freezable, so I always figure I can freeze what I don’t use.) In any event, after the scones and Jezebel Sauce and adding them to everything from fruit salad to spiced peaches this holiday season, I still have about four bags in the refrigerator.  Just the time for a cranberry tea cake recipe to come along. And it did.

The fly in the ointment (or batter, if you will) is that the damned recipe calls for buttermilk. I do not buy buttermilk. It has a unique ability to creep to the back of my refrigerator shelf and expire, unbeknownst to the casual observer (i.e. me.) Also, the only size cartons it comes in are: not enough, too much, and way-too-much. I have thrown away as much buttermilk (it being nasty in consistency AND in taste) as I care to, and am therefore faced with the powdered version (out of it; it expires faster than I can use it), substitution (yogurt or sour cream, I’m told will work) or the old ‘stir a spoonful of vinegar in a cup of milk’ routine which I have never quite trusted.

Sometimes the world doesn’t give you what you want or what you need to do what you want to do.  Sometimes the alternatives aren’t that great, either. Sometimes the only choice is which disappointment you are able to live with most easily. Whether it’s a cranberry tea cake, a cashmere sweater, a popular toy or gadget, a new job, or sometimes, just a good meal on the table, there’s always a ‘buttermilk’ ingredient that stands in the way, a compromise that we might be unwilling or unable to make, a step too far for us to take right now.

Particularly at this time of the year, fresh from Christmas wish-fulfillment fantasies, and on the verge of post-holiday let-down, it’s good to recognize again that not all wishes come true—and that that is sometimes a good thing. It can be a challenge to make things work when you’re missing part of the puzzle. Buttermilk (or the lack thereof) opens the door for experimentation and often gives you a shot at something else entirely, something better than you’d hoped for.

(And, by the way…the tea cake turned out fine. I used the milk and vinegar and, while it didn’t rise as nicely as I’d hoped, it tastes pretty darned good. And I AM now down to only three bags of cranberries..)

Birthdays

One thing I have in common with God is a December birthday. (Now, I know that this whole December thing is a Christian myth to counteract the Roman Saturnalia, but, given the whole celebration compulsion, the myth might as well be true.) I never much liked the idea of a birthday that was co-opted by Christmas, that precluded birthday parties, that gave friends and family the option of covering both birthday and Christmas with one gift. In short, I always felt my ‘special’ day got lost in the shuffle.

Perhaps Jesus and I have more in common than I thought.

It is so easy each year to lose track of the honoree in our celebration of his birthday.  There are so many other things going on that Christmas itself becomes just a sigh of relief at the end of a long month of dashing hither and yon in pursuit of all the rituals and traditions, the visits, the parties, the cards and gifts. Maybe what Jesus would really prefer is a nice quiet observance—just family and friends—with cake and ice cream, balloons, and some well-thought-out gifts.

Family and friends? I believe that would be everyone. We are all part of God’s family, even though—like many families—we have our disagreements. But families do come together for special occasions like birthdays, and (at least temporarily) bury our respective hatchets. We could do that. The cake and ice cream are a little harder, but I think Jesus would settle for a simple meal with all of us sharing one table. The gifts? What would Jesus want? That is the premier question of Christmas, and our task, during Advent is to figure that out, to take the time to think about what we can give that would be a good birthday present, that would light up his face and warm his heart. We all know the gifts that would do just that; we are just haggling over the price.  Can we afford the time and effort? How much will this cost? But Christmas is a time to be generous, and so, weighing cost against return on investment…maybe we can find time for that tutoring. Maybe we can give that extra bit for the missions. Maybe we might squeeze out an hour to serve a meal, make a sandwich, volunteer for a good cause.  So what if it doesn’t wrap up nicely in a box? I think he would understand and wholeheartedly approve.

And perhaps Jesus might be interested in my family’s solution to my badly-timed birthday.  We started celebrating my HALF-birthday in June.  What a concept that would be: celebrating Christmas in mid-year. Or …why stop there? Maybe we should celebrate him all year long, and start each day with a cheerful “Happy birthday!”

I’ll bring the balloons.

Miscellaneous

The Folger Shakespeare Library  has a book that dates to 1608--the Trevelyon Miscellany. Thomas Trevelyon would have been an amazing Facebook person. He collected information and recorded it and made a scrapbook, if you will, of the news and customs and occurrences of his times. He posted his information in a book for his friends and family to peruse--and no doubt discuss and admire and argue about. There were drawings and writings and decorative items, poetry and prose and an entire compendium of facts and useful information. It survived. And it is studied carefully, and applauded as a window into history and culture. It is the one-man Pinterest of its time, but also the Wikipedia and Facebook and scrapbook...all done over 400 years ago, without a computer.

My own Miscellany came into focus today. It is my birthday, and Facebook was counting all those who sent greetings. Ninety-six at last count. (Who knows? Maybe I can hit 100 before the clock strikes midnight?) These are the friends and relations who read my collection of poetry and prose and events and information, who have some connection to me and my interests. We don't always agree, but we are all invested in the world and in books and plays and movies, in science and humor and politics. We read and we think and we communicate about all sorts of things: our families, our activities, our likes and dislikes, our pet peeves and the things that unaccountably make us happy. This is what we are doing. This is who we are doing it with. Here is a picture of something I saw today. This is who we are, today.

There are folks who don't participate in this round-robin of information. They may be the smart ones. Perhaps we lose something by using the easy avenue of Facebook. Perhaps privacy is a casualty. Perhaps we are innocently offering hackers our lives on a silver platter. I don't really think so. I think that giving people access to the miscellanies of our lives is worth the risk. Perhaps my ninety-six is not only the number of my online friends, but a catalog number for the book that is my life and times, such as they are.

Facebook counts things--how many updates, how many photos, how many messages, how many friends. It counts what it sees--all those electrons speeding around all those circuits that coalesce into words, into pictures, into videos, into messages, relayed from server to server, to laptop, to iPad, to iPhone. From person to person. All the trivia, all the minutiae, the miscellaneous pieces of our lives, posted and read and collated on pages for our friends and relations to see and respond to and share.

Some people see Big Brother; I see my own version of Thomas Trevelyon.

Christmas on its way..

I'm decorating for Christmas, and it doesn't matter that probably the only people who will notice are JC and me. It used to be that I would scramble from Thanksgiving to the first Saturday in December, emptying all the surfaces in the house and refilling them with Christmas greenery and red birds and candles and ornaments and stuffed animals. I'd bake frantically--one year I actually counted 110 dozen cookies!--and pored over the old punch recipes and gathered ingredients (and a new mixing bucket) for the eggnog we made religiously each year for the Christmas party.

Alas, the party is no more. It disappeared around 2005, I think--though it might have been '04. The last one was at the short-lived Del Ray house, after which we decided we just couldn't do it any more.  The house was too small and the invitation list (and the workload) was too big.

So, it's different now. Decorating the tree is a two-person job, and the variety of cookies has decreased precipitously. We haven't made eggnog in far too long, and there are fewer stockings hanging on the mantel. The pressure to have it all done by the Scottish Walk weekend is gone. But I still have the compulsion to make it look like Christmas inside. Which means that the Nativity set is assembled in the living room, and the wreath is in the foyer, this year surrounded by books and typewriters, in addition to the requisite Santa. Coyote wears a Santa hat in his chair by the fireplace and Grumpy Santa has a new plaid reindeer who should be able to make anyone smile. The Grinch has his hat on, too, along with a multitude of sheep, Babar, and Curious George. The dining room has my collection of cut glass, each piece of which holds a red Christmas ball or two, just to signify the season. And the living room mantel is decked with newly-polished silver sugar bowls and creamers and teapots containing greens and candy canes.

I'm getting out the Christmas dishes, too. (What!! You don't have Christmas dishes??!!??) and putting the plain white everyday ones into temporary storage. There are candy-cane-striped placemats and gold-and-silver runners for the table, red pillows on the sofas, and Christmas music on the iPod I attach to the speaker. I'm baking cookies for no one in particular, just so I have an opportunity to sing along, off-key or not, with Bing and David Bowie and Josh Groban and Diana Krall and even Nat King Cole. Only the songs I like. No "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" here. (Bless you, Apple, for letting me pick and choose my own playlist...)

I wish I had our two precious granddaughters (currently in Scotland) to bake cookies with, and wrap presents for, and to surprise on Christmas morning. I want to share with them a Christmas at Nana and Papa's house, where the tree is huge and the lights are bright and the whole house says, "Merry Christmas!" from the front door wreath to the cookie-laden kitchen counter to the living room tree. Where the stockings are full and breakfast arrives on snowman plates and cookies are there for the asking. I wish I had both our daughters here, and Paul, and Darnell, and friends and relations in the darkened church at midnight, lighting each other's candles and singing.

But even though those wishes aren't coming true this year, I can enjoy what I have--and that is plenty!--and look toward Christmases to come. That's the thing about Christmas--it comes. Every year, with all its traditions and surprises and memories, both old and new. Every year, with family and friends and all the frills and furbelows we've attached to it. It comes. Sing hallelujah.

Dragging out the boxes......

Tomorrow is December 1, and, prompted by the upcoming Scottish Walk (Saturday!!!) and imminent visitors (Thursday!!) and a host of things in between, like the Hoitsma Lecture at the Folger, the first Noonday Noel at the church on Wednesday, the first ever Cookie Walk (requiring several dozen cookies from me) at the church on Saturday, and the annual Christmas Reading on Sunday (requiring poems and cookies and punch, oh, my!), my dance card is pretty full.

And so, we decided to put up the tree and decorate for Christmas. Of course we did.

I love dragging out the Christmas boxes and bags--well, not the 'dragging out' part, as that usually merits me an aching back and several cracks on the head from the low-ceilinged storage space under our stairs. But sifting through all the holiday stuff and figuring out how to put it together this year is fun. And what stuff we have! Boxes of ornaments and artificial greenery, Santas--carved or stuffed, painted or plain, flat or rotund, big or small, grumpy or smiling....Angels of all stripes (even an elephant angel!) and perhaps a reindeer or two. So today, while Thanksgiving's turkey carcass becomes turkey orzo soup (with tarragon), I am sorting and remembering and wishing for little girls to wonder at the Christmas to come and to hang the old ornaments on the low branches and to scurry down to the kitchen for hot chocolate and marshmallows and talk about what cookies to bake this year.

Last year, I began a series of ornament stories, and I plan to continue them--because, Lord knows, I came nowhere near accounting for them all. Something to do in this quiet Christmas season when little girls are in short supply.

Playing Catch-Up

In the interests of truth in advertising, I have to report that this blog is lagging behind.

We returned from England in late October, and I didn't finish writing about that trip till this week. In the interim, we spent nearly a week in Texas at the Society for the History of Discovery meeting in Austin, with a side-trip to San Antonio. Along the way, we visited the Ransom Center's Gone with the Wind exhibit (Wow!) and at the Bullock History Museum, learned about the discovery and excavation of LaSalle's ship, La Belle, sunk in waters off the coast of Texas back in the 1600s. We, of course, visited The Alamo, not to mention a few Texas missions, spent some time on the River Walk, ate far more than our share of Mexican food (and discovered Frito Pie--yum!) and even found time to poke around in a bookstore or two.

But now, we are home yet again. And are jumping feet-first into the maelstrom of a new play at the Folger (Julius Caesar) and a new exhibit, for which we need to learn the facts (Decoding the Renaissance.) Life has a way of ganging up on us. There's a poetry reading next week, and I've got a student workshop coming up--and there is always Thanksgiving and Christmas to prepare for. Yikes.

I had this naive expectation that I would have the month of November to declutter and dispose of accumulated junk. That I would spend some quality time grooming the patio plants for winter, disposing of the dead and near-dead, trimming back the trailing stuff, and maybe even making the deadline for sweeping leaves to the curb for pickup. That I would sort through Christmas decorations in a leisurely fashion and not end up flinging stuff on mantel and tree indiscriminately. Fantasy. Pure fantasy.

I am just as disorganized as ever. There was a quick sweep through the patio, and some half-hearted chopping of too-long vines and too-tall herbs and too-frostbitten chrysanthemums. I bagged the leaves that had found safe haven behind my planters (after the 'sweep to the curb' deadline, of course) and even managed a superficial watering that will have to last my plants the winter. I've cleared out my nightstand, and have hopes of moving on to the bathroom cabinets. I'm not holding my breath, though. Christmas will be here before I know it, and I have shopping to do.  Sigh.

Back

We are (if only temporarily) back. Back from the land of non-edible-bacon, unbelievably narrow bathtubs and temperamental showers. Back from the world of hold-your-breath-and-try-to-sleep double beds and look-to-your-right crossings, the kingdom of roundabouts and poorly-marked streets and an amazing lack of public safety warnings and devices that we accept here as normal. Goodbye, England! Hello, America!

We had a great time. There is no possibility of failure when you are seeing children and grandchildren, unless one or more of the party is sick. We weren't. JC and I started out at the Reform Club: you know, the place where Phileas Fogg made his momentous wager? Gorgeous library and public rooms, and wonderfully well-located on Pall Mall itself. But I assume Mr. and Mrs. Fogg (much less Passepartout) never spent the night. The basket of a hot air balloon might have been roomier than our double room.

Before joining Kay, Paul, and family in Bath, we took the train down to Greenwich to see the Longitude exhibition on display there (coming soon to your local Folger Library) and stopped by the Portrait Gallery in London to see their collection of portraits of the Tudors. The most interesting piece (I thought) was the plaster death mask of Henry VII. Comparing it to his portraits--and later, to a bust in the V and A--was pretty cool. We joined some friends at a pub (Only the Running Footman) in Mayfair for dinner, then trundled off to Pall Mall for an attempt at sleep. Failed. Until we figured out a method where one of us slept on the floor on a makeshift bed of extra pillows. Unsatisfactory.

The train ride to Bath is a short one, but schlepping luggage--even a single bag-- from room to lobby to taxi to train--and reversing the process at your destination-- is exhausting, even traveling light, as we always do. We managed. In Bath before the kids arrived, we realized that we were extremely well-located near Pulteney Bridge: a hop, skip, and a jump (we're talking 3 and 6-year-olds here) from the river, parks, the Abbey, the Baths, and lots of restaurants. We found a tea shop and indulged in sandwiches, scones, Bath buns, Bath truffles and some well-deserved tea. England at its finest.

Audrey and Claire at the Avebury churchyard

When the kids arrived, the week took off like a rocket ship. Monday in Bath, covering Abbey, Baths, and the rest of the town (including our friend, the tea shop, for lunch.) The Baths featured an audio tour, which our eldest grandchild took to like the proverbial duck to water. She and I left the others in the dust, pressing every button at every point of interest and listening attentively to the descriptions. Other tourists marveled at her thoroughness. As did I, as I normally skip a lot of the audio in the interest of moving along. However, if anyone wants to know what exactly servants did with olive oil and scrapers and perfume at the baths, I am now well-informed on that. Or any number of other aspects of life in Roman-occupied Britain. As is Audrey. However, we did meet and converse with a Roman legionnaire (photo op!) about the waters, Hadrian's Wall, the time it took to march from Scotland to Bath, and assorted other topics, which was a lot of fun.

On subsequent days, we took in Longleat (not to be missed if you like seeing wild animals up close and personal), Stonehenge (another complete audio tour) and Avebury (no tour, but an adventure in avoiding sheep droppings), Royal Victoria Park (complete with 'Flying Foxes', which is British for a zip-wire for kids) and an assortment of restaurants, which, by and large, treated us all quite well and with a fair amount of tolerance, the cathedral at Wells, and--a generous sprinkling of gift shops that obviously know a great number of the buttons to push for children and their accompanying adults.

Busy as we were, we managed to fit in a little non-giftshop shopping--excused by the fact that we don't see the little girls often enough to truly spoil them. The week was all too short, and it seemed like we'd just started when it was time for us to board our train for London...and go back to the inadequacies of Skype communication.

Missing you, Audrey, Claire, Kay and Paul.

'Tis the Season (OMG)

It begins.

Scowling pumpkins

scatter and flee in disarray

in the face of advancing hordes 

of turkeys and cranberries.

Autumn leaves and harvest fruit

bowl down the aisles,

assuming vacated shelves—

briefly, briefly—

before the juggernaut 

that is Christmas

flattens the terrain

with its boiling mass:

a red and green kaleidoscopic

blur of stockings, greenery, 

and garish lights, with screeching 

sopranos and booming basses  

struggling through

“O Holy Night!” Unholy

racket, un-silent night, 

in full assault,

demanding surrender.

Christmas is coming.

Joy to the world.

The Shortest Path to "Ka-Boom"!!!

I'm a recovering teacher. That means that I'm still trying hard not to admonish kids at the shopping mall for chewing gum or using bad language. I try not to jump into any barely-perceptible lull in the conversation, or sit in the front row in a class, or be the first to leap to my feet with a question, for fear that a speaker will feel badly. It also means I can eat lunch in 5 minutes flat, have an inordinate appetite for MandMs and can tune in and out of meetings more easily than I care to say. I can tap-dance around almost any topic under discussion, and leave people thinking that I might even know something about it, even when I don't. The other thing I can do--as almost all teachers can--is know when I'm connecting with an audience, and when I am out there on stage all alone. High school students teach you that lesson really fast.

Part of my recovery program is volunteering as a docent at the Folger Shakespeare Library. One thing  old teachers like to do is teach--preferably in positions where grading papers is not involved. The Folger is a great place to teach, by that standard and by many others. We have a terrific 'classroom'; we have a subject so interesting that scholars have been studying him for centuries; and we have an audience, most of whom are not there under duress.

However, as all teachers (and docents) know-- there are audiences, and then there are...audiences. We've all experienced the recalcitrant "My (wife, sister, mom, aunt, husband, teacher) wanted to come here, so here I am" participant. Likewise, the "It's in the guidebook" or "I have time to kill before the next tour of the Capitol" tourist group.  And there's always the family who's looking for a free bathroom, or an air-conditioned someplace to cool off during the summer. How do you draw them in? How do you fan that infinitesimal spark of interest that they might not even know they have? How do you find out where they connect to Shakespeare, and get them to see the connection? You've got to read the clues--and know what to do with them when you find them.

The key is: I watch cartoons. I have seen Wile E. Coyote lay a trail of gunpowder leading to a pile of dynamite and tippy-toe back into hiding and light the fuse that burns a path to the inevitable "Ka-boom!" (that, of course, backfires on him and causes not a moment's consternation for the Roadrunner...) This is what teaching is (without, we hope, the backfire). Teachers lay a trail that leads from something you like to something new and exciting, then light the fuse to that idea that explodes in your brain and makes you want to feed the fire and share it with someone else.  We are all explosives experts, looking for the shortest path to "Ka-boom!"

With the Folger, there are a myriad of paths from which to choose. Architecture? Start with the building. History buffs? The reign of Elizabeth. Art or science? The technology of restoration. Printing? The origins of the First Folios. All roads used to lead to Rome, but at the Folger, they all point to Shakespeare. In two years of tours, I've connected to Shakespeare and the exhibits using all of the above--as well as mystery novels, TV shows, baseball, horse racing, the gas laws, ice hockey, entrepreneurship, the colonization of America, the Astor Place riots, and--not to be forgotten--the bloody hand of Ulster. I tell stories. I lay a trail, and light a fuse. Sometimes it fizzles, but when you get the right combination of fuel and fuse and the right match...it's fantastic.

Student groups are trickier because you have to generalize. In a single class, you might have extroverts, introverts, some who are readers, and some who are reluctant. Finding their intersection with Shakespeare means more of a shotgun approach, setting off small test fires with shouted insults and compliments, with costumes, with competitions, with dramatic deaths. You put words in their mouths and wait to see what comes out. An expression, a smile, a spark..or a bored eye-roll. Magnify the former by setting a similar stick of dynamite and lighting another fuse. If they love to die, give them tragedies and let the bodies fall where they may. If they're in it for laughs, a taste of A Midsummer Night's Dream might do. Forget the fuses that fizzle out. Find the ones that work.

Occasionally there will be a class like a string of firecrackers. We had one a week or two ago. One match, one fuse, launching a continuous stream of fireworks. From insults to compliments to sarcasm, from spectacular deaths to pitch-perfect mini-Hamlets, to Q and A on Elizabethan life in all its glory and all its gross aspects...they exploded on stage and off, leaving us breathless and almost out of ideas to fuel the fires.

That doesn't happen often, but when it does, it replenishes all the enthusiasm stores required to stand up every day, at the docent desk or in the theater or the exhibition hall or the Reading Room, to say with a smile, "Welcome to the Folger!" --and start looking for your matches.

Happy Anniversary.

Today is our wedding anniversary.  Forty-one years ago today,  I was in Charlottesville, heading for Sarge's for breakfast with one of my college friends. I was stopping at VNB to withdraw some cash (these were the days before ATMs: how can that be?); was packing my little gold Toyota with all my worldly possessions (would that I could fit them all in that kind of space now!)preparatory for our long drive to California, where JC was stationed; was going over to my professor's home to change into the dress (that I had made myself--the pieces laid out and cut on the Biochemistry Department library table); and then, make my way to the University Chapel. But I digress.

Anniversaries aren't about remembering the day (though it was a great day...) Anniversaries are for looking at the times between: how far we've come and who we've met along the way; how we've changed, and how we've stayed the same; who we were and who we've become. I can't cover all that in a single sound-bite on a single day, any more than I could relive all those years. But I can talk about the person behind those changes, behind that growth. JC.

We have been together far longer than we've been apart. We are each other's best friends, and, while I grumble and disagree and sigh and roll my eyes occasionally, I wouldn't be anywhere else WITH anyone else, at any other time than now. Why? Hmm. Living is easy; analysis is hard--but...

1. He makes me laugh. No one is surprised at this, but it's not all funny stories when you're married. Things go wrong. I've been tired, discouraged, impatient, angry, frustrated--the whole gamut of emotions. And yet, he makes me smile.

2. He made me believe in me. Forty-one years ago, I would never have dreamed that I could host a dinner, plan a party, paint a room, plant a garden, entertain a child...And yet, I've done all these and more because he believed I could. He gave me the support and confidence I've needed over the years to get through all my doubts and shortcomings.

3. He taught me about people, about the importance of thank yous, and paying attention to every person you meet, every day.

4. He is a wonderful father. He is there, he is available for our daughters--and always has been. He traveled for most of the time they were growing up, but every night, they talked to him. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he called. Sometimes I think it was less for them and more to keep me sane, but he called. And when he came home, he brought stories for them: cab-driver stories, gleaned from whatever taxi he stepped into, about where the driver was from and what he did there and how he came to the U.S. And the girls had a globe to point to all those places. And whenever they had an event--a play, a recital, an award ceremony--he was there.

5. He is kind. I can be mean, I can be selfish, I can be suspicious--he's not. Just NOT.

6. He helps. He has always been the premiere vacuum person. He does a better job than I do. He takes out the trash; he does the dishes (this is where my eye-rolling comes in because he washes the dishes thoroughly before he puts them in the dishwasher; but, why complain? He's doing the dishes and I am not.) And since retiring, he does the laundry as often as I do, and is doing some cooking as well.

7. He appreciates what I do. He THANKS me for making breakfast, for picking up a prescription, for dropping off dry-cleaning occasionally, for making a jell-o salad that I know he likes, for folding laundry...I may be a lot of things, but never taken for granted. And if I draw a blank on what to have for dinner, he is quick to say "Let's go out.."

Sure, he has selective hearing sometimes. I am sure he has issues with my quirks, plentiful as they are. I suspect he has also rolled HIS eyes at some of the events I've dragged him to through the years, and some of the crack-brained ideas he's gone along with to please me. But, on balance, he comes down decidedly on the good side of things. Far more than I, I fear.

Somewhere along the way (and it may have been JC who said it--I'm willing to give him the credit) we adopted the line that marriage is a bargain--and the secret of any happy marriage is that BOTH people think they got the best of the deal. He may think he did, but he's wrong. I KNOW I did.

Ten Books

I hesitate to mention it, but I've noticed the glimmerings of one of those FaceBook things that ask you to answer a question in detail and pass it along..you know..that "10 Things You Don't Know About Me" or something like that? This one is "Ten Books I Could Never Get Rid Of".

This one strikes at the very heart of my family. ALL of us have far more than ten books we can't give away--or at least, we never seem to be able to get down to ten apiece. Setting all that aside, what books would I keep if I had to pick ten of my collection?

Some people (in fact, even I) at first glance would start looking for books that they would read again and again, or would go back to repeatedly. The Bible, Shakespeare, Don Quixote...books that never grow old, that have a seemingly inexhaustible font of wisdom. The more I thought, however, the more I came back to the fact that I have a slightly different relationship with books. I re-read, of course. I consult. I look up facts. I read books for pleasure. But, for me, books are more than information. I like books for their feel, for their smell, for their comfort value. I can always remember the stories; I can usually call up the famous quotes or the clever descriptions. Books aren't THINGS, to be numbered and weighed against each other. Books are friends.

So, who should accompany me to a desert island? Who should I spend my waning years with? Who do I want to have hanging around my house indefinitely, kibitzing on my life and reminding me why I'm here? Oh, boy.

My circle of fictional friends is probably pretty strange. I want Louise Penny's whole village of Three Pines--even Ruth and her duck. I want Parker's Spenser and Hawk, because they entertain me endlessly with their wisecracks. I want Dick Francis' composite character--Sid Halley in all his incarnations, because each of them teaches me something. And Laurie King's people, not limited to Mary and Sherlock, because they all share a devotion to common sense. Margaret Maron's Deborah Knott, and her NY cousin, Sigrid Harald..Sigrid because she has known tragedy and has managed to overcome it. Can I sneak in Elvis Cole and Joe Pike? In their own ways, they set the bar for us all. John Lescroart's gang of policemen and lawyers out in San Francisco would be a great bunch to have around as well. And Richard Jury (so good with children) and Melrose Plant (if only for tea.) Phryne Fisher for her fabulous clothes and irrepressible sense of fun...You see? It's hard to limit the guest list  when you're planning a book party. And I haven't even started on the poets I'd like to have drinks and dinner with. Imagine the conversations!

So don't ask me to start winnowing through my lists and my shelves. As long as I have a house, my friends are welcome there. It might get a little crowded, but when you're rubbing elbows with the greats, who cares?

Hello?

My daughter, the blogger, just posted a cartoon from Grammarly that purports to explain why the blogger gets no comments on his/her blog..and it concludes that the major magnet for comments is mistakes. Hmm.

My daughter's blog (kayorzech.blogspot.co.uk) is pretty interesting and entertaining, I think (over and above the precious pictures of my granddaughters, believe it or not.) She writes about Americans living in Scotland and the cultural adjustments they are making, the sights they are seeing, the food they are eating, and all the other 'inconsequentials' that are SO consequential when it's YOUR life they're talking about. (Read it--you'll like it.)

But...now that I've wandered off my point...she hit upon one of my pet bugaboos. Every time I post an entry on my blog, I watch the record of 'hits' I get. I know there are some people who read what I have to say (thank you all) but I have no way of knowing who, unless you comment. I don't know if you like what I'm saying, are infuriated, are even reading it. All I know is that you opened the connection.

So--if I could crawl through the wire or surf through the ether and find you, I'd try to start a conversation: what do YOU think? am I way off-base? did I make you think of something (other than "I waste far too much time on FaceBook")? Are you a friend of a friend? Do I even know you? Unlike the peripatetic "Like" on FaceBook, your 'hit' doesn't even tell me your name. It may not always be obvious, but I try to say something to a blogger or a post-er other than blindly hitting the 'Like' button, other than simply reading the blog and moving on. Sure, it sometimes means  deciphering some picture 'so we know you're not a robot', but that's a momentary irritation. 

Were it up to me, we'd all go back to writing letters. (Remember learning in school how to write 'friendly letters' as opposed to business letters? I'm dating myself.) I LIKE writing letters, but, even more, I like GETTING letters. Facebook is my outlet for that particular weirdness. Every post is a 'friendly letter'--or, more often, a friendly post-it note stuck on my door. And every reply, every comment is like a little friendly note in response. Even the 'like' response is welcome, though it doesn't engender the same kind of 'You've got MAIL!' enthusiasm in my heart.

Therefore, I declare today (whatever day you read this) as "Make Yourself Known Day". Write a comment, reply to an e-mail, respond to a blogpost. It doesn't even have to be mine. I guarantee you that most personal blog responses are not as ill-mannered, unintelligent, grammatically ignorant, and narrow-minded as the remarks left on most FaceBook articles you might encounter. (At least I hope not!) And, in addition to all that, you'll make your favorite blogger's day. 

Claire

Shiny-bright and beautiful:

her face upturned,

her sunny smile,

rivaling

all the brilliant days,

the flashing birds’ wings, 

the sun and sand and pillowed clouds,

rosy sunsets, spring-green trees;

out-sparkling

waterfalls and mountain streams

and galaxies of stars:

her face, her eyes…
clear and bright,
lighting up
my life:

Claire.