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.