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.

Strange Occurrences

 If I were to have made a resolution for the new year, it would have been to set aside time, to actually SCHEDULE time to write more. Having taught a Franklin/Covey course several years ago, I know (in fact, I preached) that there is no 'someday' on the calendar, and that I have to incorporate all my 'someday' goals into concrete plans for my actual, written-down-on-paper days. However, in spite of my thoughts in that direction, I have managed to avoid the scheduling process thus far.

But last night, at a dinner party, the conversation turned to reading, and a recently-retired friend asked "How do you schedule time for reading?" I immediately leapt into full denial mode: one doesn't 'schedule' reading; reading is something you just DO, like eating or sleeping. But my inner voice (the one I seldom listen to) slyly chimed in..."..like writing?" And I fell silent. Yes. Like writing. The particular fact that I need to face in this new year is that, for me, reading and writing both have strayed from the natural rhythms of my life into 'to-do' list territory. The particular fact is that I have let my everyday invade and conquer the part of my brain that I use to understand and make sense of living.

Realizing this is one thing; battling back is another. Adding time to read and write means subtracting somewhere else.  We have an upcoming trip planned: a good time to examine the schedule and find a few gaps that can be better utilized. Maybe there's a resolution in there somewhere, but no matter. It's time to find my way back.

AND..on another matter--perhaps related, perhaps not:

With regard to that same dinner party, I had offered weeks ago to bring a dish and was assigned the job of bringing baked beans. I have a terrific recipe in my file box, given me by a friend who had copied it out for me years ago on the standard 3x5 card. Sandy had acquired the recipe from a neighbor of hers, who I also knew. (Back then, room mothers were a neighborhood all their own; we all knew each other..) In any case, when I pulled the recipe out yesterday, my thoughts immediately went to Sandy, who died some five years ago. There was her handwriting, and there also was the conversation, the neighborhood get-together that had sparked the recipe request...and, most strangely, the realization that I was preparing her recipe on what would have been her birthday.

I thought upon that odd coincidence, and this morning, in church, it occurred to me that this might be something to write about: the many times that friends and family have returned from the dead--or from long absence-- through their recipes. I was even turning over phrases in my head on the way home. Kitchen ghosts. Household haunts. Resurrection by recipe.

When I sat down to write this, I clicked on Anne Higgins' most recent blog (which sounded like me, apologizing for not writing--see above), and (in my usual scattered fashion) began to read previous entries. The following quote almost literally jumped off the screen at me:

"A good poem is made only in small part by the one who holds the pen and in great part by the ghosts that live in the writer’s house."

 

Book title:  the ghosts in the house

 

Question: Who are the ghosts in my house?

Who are you, Anne, and why are you reading my thoughts? Even though I didn't think them till months after your post.

It seems that the universe is pushing me back to writing. Okay. Okay. I can take a hint. Thank you, Sandy. Thank you, Anne. Thank you, universe. I'll take it from here.

Morning at the Meeting House

Today I am sweeping…

needles and berries and fragments of twigs 

left behind from my work.

Others have hung the roping

of fragrant pine

and set the candles in place.

They have placed the wreaths and ribbons,

wrapped the church entrance

in garlands of green,

positioned the tartan bow

on the lamp post.

Inside I gathered upright juniper

with pliant pine and cedar

into festive bouquets that guard the altar.

And now, alone, I sweep

holiday dust, the molecules of celebration

lost between the floorboards,

extending back for centuries.  

I sweep and trim and smile

as I imagine women have done

since this church began:

we set things right, tweak a bow,

fractionally turn a wreath or vase,

then step back (as we always do)

to see the church and judge it ready--

fresh and clean and candle-bright:

dressed for Christmas.

Search and Rescue

Yesterday, we went to an estate sale. I haven't decided whether I like doing this or not. I used to think of these things--like yard sales--as golden opportunities to get neat stuff at bargain prices. And they are. However, those bargains have another cost attached to them.

I can't help thinking about the people who owned these things. Maybe it's the reminder that, inevitably, I'll grow old(er) and someday, it might be MY stuff that the hordes are pawing through, and dismissing as junk. Maybe it will be my treasures that are being sold for pennies on the dollar. Whatever the cause, I find myself walking through other people's houses feeling sad, paying attention to the boxes of glassware, the closets full of sad sweaters, the linen closets packed with yellowed tablecloths and napkins. The dust and dirt in the corners, the neglected flower beds, the threadbare carpet continue the story of decline. How does one come to this state? Where are the children who should have found a cleaning lady, a yard man, a handyman to fix the sagging cabinets and wobbly bookcases? Are they the orchestrators--and beneficiaries--of the sale?

I hope not. It would be unfair that neglectful heirs would gain from this harsh and cold disposition of belongings. But then, here we are, pecking away like vultures at this carcass of a life: the books, the records, the old unidentified photos of mystery relatives, the unused gifts squirreled away in their original boxes...even the ornaments and trappings of Christmases past.

I know it's not reasonable, but I always feel that I should rescue something from these sales: some thing that might have had personal meaning, and might again. I've saved chairs at one house, china at another, a crocheted tablecloth, a footstool...hoping to capture and reignite some spark of identity, some remnant of happy times that lingers within. If nothing else, when I look at these pieces, I remember a house, a location, a circumstance. They become stories to be told to friends and family, and, as such, they live again.

Yesterday I bought a set of Shakespeare plays: miniature leather-bound books, 24 tiny books with gold-stamped covers--each one the size of my palm--arrayed in a battered wooden box, furred with mold. Five dollars well-spent for someone's priceless memories.

Lunching at Nordstrom's

I went to Nordstrom's for lunch yesterday--all by myself, on the return trip from my Folger Docent Training class. It was odd. I hardly ever go there unaccompanied. It's some sort of self-imposed rule that seems inviolable, but has no basis. In any event, I wanted a salad, and--in case you didn't know this--Nordstrom's Cafe has a whole menu of great salads, including my favorite: their Chinese Chicken Salad. (I have to say that my previous statement about the 'whole menu' is based on other opinions. I never get anything BUT the Chinese Chicken Salad.) And I had parked at Pentagon City and caught the Metro downtown, so I had to pass Nordstrom's anyway...

While I waited for my meal, I lost myself thinking about how many people I've met at Nordstrom's Cafes. These restaurants are my rock. No matter where you go, if there is a Nordstrom's, there's a Cafe--usually tucked away near the children's department, or by the china section, but always there. The menu is always the same (my Chinese Chicken Salad!) and I know the drill: order, pay, find a table, and wait for your food to appear. Even the clientele is pretty predictable: ladies pausing in their shopping, groups of office workers meeting for lunch, moms with strollers and/or toddlers. It's surprisingly quiet, it's seldom crowded inside, though there is occasionally a line at the entrance. Service is prompt, and there's always a piece of chocolate on the tip tray afterwards.

Over the years, I've met friends there; I've taken a break during my Christmas shopping blitzkriegs there; I've discussed issues, problems, decisions with any number of friends and relations. It's been the scene of reunions, casual meetings, and farewell luncheons. I can barely remember all of them.

Some lunches stand out. The friend who initially put me on to the place has moved away, but I think of her whenever I walk in the door. "You've never eaten at NORDSTROM'S??!!!" she asked incredulously when I mentioned I didn't know they had a restaurant in the store... Whenever I order my salad, I think of another friend. She urged me to try it (me! who barely tolerates lettuce in any form!) and I was won over immediately. She died several years back, but she lives in the Nordstrom's menu for me. The co-worker who surprised me when I took her there for a 'ladies' lunch' when she told me she'd always wanted to go there because the GUYS in her department always did.

My favorite story was another 'lunching alone' occasion. I had flown to Providence to meet my daughter's movers. She and her husband and their daughter were driving cross-country and the movers beat them to the east coast. I arrived at 2 PM the day after the movers had pulled in, landed at the airport, rented a car, picked up a key at the real estate office, tracked down and paid the housecleaner who had cleaned the place the week before, located and paid for a storage unit, contacted the movers, met them and transferred a portion of the van's contents to the storage unit, arranged to meet them at 8 am the next day at the house, had myself located and gone to the house and bought some basic supplies after finding the nearest Wal-Mart and supermarket. All this in a city I had never before visited. A city where streets are erratically plotted and often unmarked. In short, I had spent the entire afternoon going the wrong way, making u-turns, missing turns entirely and being frustrated beyond endurance. In unprecedented 90-degree heat. And with no AC at the house.

Finally, I was ready to find my B&B and collapse. I tried. I really did. But downtown Providence defeated me. I found myself on the road to Boston, made my thousandth u-turn of the day, and headed back toward downtown. I missed the turn onto the road I needed, and saw ahead, like a beacon in the distance, the sign for Providence Place--and the Nordstrom's logo. I took the exit, parked in a dark and confusing garage, and walked into the mall. I found Nordstrom's. I found the cafe. I found a table overlooking the state capitol building, and relaxed for what seemed to be the first time in a week. (Did I mention that the day before I'd left home, we had closed on a new house ourselves and had been packing for a week or two already?) I had the move-in the next day, unpacking galore ahead of me, and I still hadn't found my bed for the night, but for one brief dinner-hour, I was back to normal. It seems anticlimactic to add that, when I pulled out of the garage, there was, miraculously, a sign that pointed me toward the street where my B&B was. I arrived within minutes.

My port in a storm--Nordstrom's and the friends I've lunched with there. They go together.