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.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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 |
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.
Friday, November 7, 2014
'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.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
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.
Monday, September 22, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
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?
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?
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