VOTING FOR TRADITION

 

 

No meal is harder than Thanksgiving. It lacks the sparkle of New Year's Eve, the elegance of Christmas dinner, or the casual spontaneity of a summer grilled feast. Thanksgiving is burdened with too many uninspired ingredients -- the pterodactyl-sized turkey; gravy, always difficult to do well; cranberries; assorted root vegetables; and the culinary oddity of pumpkin pie.

 

Many of these foods are eaten only once a year, and Thanksgiving brings them on with abundance. Thus it is no surprise I began hearing signs of insurrection two weeks before the big event.

 

"What, turkey again?"

"Can we have steak instead?"

"I hate pumpkin pie."

"I hate mashed potatoes."

"What are yams and why do we have them?"

"Couldn't we just get Chinese?"

"Can we get a really, really big turkey?"
"Could we have no turkey?"

"You should definitely brine the turkey."

"This is the year for tur-duck-en."

"Let's deep fry it this time."

"Let's have ham instead."

 

So, we agreed to have a nice dinner and not worry about what we are "supposed" to have. But tradition has a way of sneaking up one you. First it was C.J. and Ellie's art classes. They produced quantities of cute little turkey objects designed to serve as centerpieces for the table. They sing turkey songs at school. They expect to see a turkey.

 

Then it was the additional guests -- one who is a victim of Hurricane Sandy. I'm sorry, but someone whose home has been without power deserves better than Chinese takeout.

 

Then it was all those side dishes. It turns out people like them.

"I hate turkey but I really love the stuffing you made last time."

"We can still have the wild rice dish, right?

"You're going to make homemade rolls, aren't you?"

 

Thus tradition wins. The photo above, which has absolutely nothing to do with turkey, shows HOME, amidst the long shadows of late autumn, which is where everyone wants to be.  Home with an almost-completed driveway.

 

Although Harold will not yet be with us, his time at Spaulding is coming to an end, and we are  hoping very much that he will be home -- the best place in all the world -- for the next big holiday, Christmas. All of us will be so very glad to see him at the head of the table we would gladly eat McDonald's just for the pleasure of his company once again. With any luck, all the turkey leftovers will be gone!      

 

 

MEN IN TWEED

In an age of too many kindles, it is a relief to attend something as well-worn as the Boston Antiquarian Book Fair. I went last night with our daughter Andie, and we knew where we were long before we got to the door. We found ourselves in a sea of middle-aged men in tweeds of every hue. One even sported a monocle.

Exhibitors came from many of the world’s corners. There was an overabundance from Maine, several from east coast states, and one from Santa Monica. European booksellers came in droves from the U.K., but also from Denmark, The Netherlands, Spain, Germany, and France.

No matter their origin, they all arrived slightly rumbled, professorial, and owlish. Never have I seen a group of people inhabit their role more fully than these booksellers, who skirted as close to the edge of self-parody as is possible. When I tired (if that is possible) of the books, I began eavesdropping on their conversations. They spoke knowingly of provenance, frowned in troubled ways over bindings, and proudly pulled out their very best selections under the tablecloths for their friends. They sipped wine (where did they get it?) and in one or two cases, sherry. It was clear they all knew each other, clubbable men from another era.  

It was laughably clear that we were amateurs. Sellers courteously asked us if were were looking for anything special. How to reply? "Just looking" is what you say in a clothing store."Just drooling," was more like it. We examined signed first editions by Aldous Huxley, Julian Barnes, and Charles Bukowski. We read a letter from Henry James to his publisher. And held in our hands a signed volume from Winston Churchill, in an odd fountain pen script, to a his dear friend.

It was easy to gravitate toward the "pretty" books, bound in red Moroccan leather with gold leaf and ribbed spines with familiar names. We saw Jane Austen titles, over and over. And in between all the books, scores of antique maps, incunabula, artist’s books, and even a Nobel prize medal from 1959.

Clearly, many of these books are art objects, skillfully hand-crafted, sometimes with hand-made paper and hand-sewn bindings. Many of them carried lush illustrations that drew the reader further into the story. It made me realize that books from our era never carry illustrations, a factor that may be more of a loss than I realized.

These books raise a disturbing question -- are they actually meant to be read? Over and over I had to resist a life long habit of pulling down books and reading in them. Then, with a start, I'd realize that this was not Barnes and Noble. As collectibles, these books had an entirely different role.

Or do they? Some would argue that they are no different from coins, stamps, or fine china. But their dual purpose suggests otherwise. No one would be so stupid as to use a rare stamp to mail a letter, but one could, as least theoretically, read these books. It might take white gloves and a "clean room,"  but it would be a qualitatively different experience than reading the words on a Kindle, while riding the subway to work in the morning.

To that end, one could wear tweed, sip a sherry, sit in a library in an over-stuffed leather chair in front of a crackling fire.

 I know which I would prefer. 

THE IMPORTANCE OF BELIEVING IN COME-BACKS

This photo of Harold was taken late last summer. He's sitting sideways, for some reason, in his favorite chair, surrounded by his books, his cat, and NPR playing in the background. The photo is a reminder of all the good times we had last summer: on the Cape, with family, and on the deck overlooking the river.

It occurs to me that it is increasingly possible that Harold's story will have a happy ending. Or, like the proverbial cat, he still has many of those nine lives left. He is patiently and steadfastly recuperating from the stroke he suffered. His determination impresses all those who work with him at the rehab hospital, and he is lucky to have a remarkably resilient body.

Today I visited toward the end of his physical therapy hour and was surprised to learn that he had already walked three laps around the 9th floor. I watched him walk a fourth lap and saw that there was no difference in gait with his left and right legs. His speed has not quite reached the level of "strolling" yet, but he had a good, easy rhythm. He is finding it easier to chat, and the islands of fluency his speech and language therapist mentioned are more and more apparent.

Strokes are mean, insidious things, but Harold's surprising progress reminds me of the old half-empty glass. I can focus on how unfortunate it is that he suffered this stoke, or I can focus on his amazing courage and adaptability as he fights his way back to what he calls "normal" once more.

Obviously, he's the one calling the shots and, eternal optimist that he is, it is newly clear to me that he wants me to focus on how far he's come in six weeks, not on how much he lost. I will try to remember to take another photo of him in that same chair a year from now, in the hope that he will look every bit as good.  

Comeback stories are inspirational at any age, and Harold deserves all the credit in the world for his own remarkable journey. 

THE SECOND SHIFT TAKES OVER

Ellie and C.J. arrived Friday afternoon, just after the workers had parked all the big rigs for the day.  The late afternoon sunlight on an unseasonably warm autumnal day made this work-in-progress a perfect place to try out all the equipment.

Children always contribute a valuable perspective. While I stress about completion dates, styles of masonry, and above all, how much this is going to cost, Ellie and C.J. delight in discovering each new stage when they come on Fridays. They check out the tractors right after the chocolate milk but before the heart waffles. 

Children love routines, and doing something unusual once is often sufficient to establish it as customary. Since I took their pictures one Friday afternoon, I am told that I "always" take their pictures on Friday afternoons. This is now an important part of the ritual. Shameless hams, they eagerly bound from one tractor to the next and vie for the most outlandish poses. 

We part company, however, on our attitudes toward completion. While C.J. and Ellie will be heartbroken when the tractor finally goes back to whatever construction yard it came from, I will be cheering because at long last, our project will be at an end!

But I fear we have many more Fridays before that happy days arrives.

In Between Two Storms

My 57-mile daily commute is testimony to the reality of microclimates.

I left this morning amidst limb-cracking winds and temperatures in the low 40s. As I made my way north, I ran through the entire wintry mix repertoire: freezing rain, sleet, slush, snow, and back to wintry mix, and finally rain.

Some people will tell you that we got the first snow of the year today, but it did not snow at Brigantine. The storm did, however, rain, howl, and wreak havoc all night long. The workers picked up the pace on Monday and Tuesday to compensate for the impending hiatus. As a result we've lost the wild look of a Jurassic Park with gigantic two-storey pine roots upended into the air -- they're all gone.

Now we look like a highway project. At least three differnt kinds of gravel, substrata, aggregate, and other road building materials are being poured over and into the new driveway. Thanks to the time change I am never home in the daylight, but Gwynnie was good enough to conribute this photo of a dump truck.

We should have a spate of good weather and deliveries next week of the long-awaited stones with romantic place names like Cape Ann, Old York, Ashlar, and Belgian Cobbles.
Yet to come -- the breaking up of the old driveway.

Please to remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I see no reason that gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

Thirty years ago today, Harold and I were married by Winslow Christian, a state Appellate Court Judge, in his San Fransisco office. We had met him earlier that year on a USIA-sponsored U. S. Speakers tour in Peru and Chile. He and Harold served on panels explaining how reporters, lawyers, and judges interact in newsworthy court cases.

Over the years we've had a lot of fun associating our anniversary with Guy Fawkes Day, a holiday nearly unknown in the U.S., but one associated with very un-anniversary like images of fireworks, bonfires, and "burning the guy" in effigy. 

Like any marriage, our has had its share of fireworks, but the years sneak by and suddenly here we are, celebrating 30 years together. I honestly don't remember how we celebrated the previous 29. A few are memorable, a few were probably marred by forgettable skirmishes. But this year is tough, because we are not exactly together, physically, as Harold continues to recover at a rehabilitation hospital. But as it turns out we were both very mindful of the day.

I started out thinking the best way through was to "forget" it was our anniversary and treat it as a normal day. I had plenty of work to keep me busy and it would have been relatively easy to have gotten lost in all the demands of meetings, reports, and classes.

But, in a wonderful tribute, our children wouldn't let either of us forget. "Happy Anniversary," was the first thing Gwyneth said to me this morning. Then she sent me a valentine's text, fearing I would be sad. And Gareth visited his dad, since I could not, and strolled into his room reciting, "Please to remember the fifth of November." He reported that Harold instantly grasped the significance of the phrase, looked utterly panic-stricken, and said the only possible word under the circumstances: "Flowers?"

To hear that my dear husband recognized the rhyme, still knows the meaning it has for us, and is desperate to buy me flowers is the only anniversary present I need. 

  

Welcome to Jurassic Park!

It's hard to capture in a single photo all the mayhem of our front yard. In addition to the big piles of dirt, we have massive tree roots -- the remains of six behemoths -- strewn about. Wires, cords and small trenches make this treacherous. But of course, the machinery makes it more fun than a playground. Our grandchildren C.J.and Ellie are happily dwarfed by the big shovel, above.

The Norwell Board of Selectmen postponed Halloween because of the hurricane -- at one point 80% of the town was without power. We had our Halloween on Saturday and despite, or perhaps because of all the upheaval, we had just as many treat-or-treaters as ever. One of Gwyneth's friends took an appreciative look at all the destruction, and said, "it looks like you've got Jurassic Park here."

All in all, we managed to create a yard scene for Halloween far scarier than anything as conventional as skeletons or witches. And indeed, we are a big attraction. Although I am away at work all day, I hear that the neighbors set out lawn chairs and cold drinks cases for their front row seats at the proceedings. So I guess we can be proud of our big mess.

Once again we are racing the weather. A Nor'easter comes in on Wednesday, so Monday and Tuesday are supposed to be big progress days. The idea is to truck in masonry and truck out all the lumber in a tactical tour de force.

I"ll keep you posted.