As promised, our contest winner on his all-expense-paid vacation. (Confused? See previous blog entries "We've Got a Winner" and "Something For My Literary Friends.")
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A Bit of Art by Poe
As promised, our contest winner on his all-expense-paid vacation. (Confused? See previous blog entries "We've Got a Winner" and "Something For My Literary Friends.")
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Is Poe Good or Just Obsessive-Compulsive? You Decide.
People who walk head-down tend to have depressive personalities.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
"Make a Mental Picture"
Shortly after my grandpa turned seventeen, he got mad, socked his teacher, and took off out of town. For the next twenty years he lived the life of a hobo, riding the rods, taking odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place long. In 1918 he’d found good work as a machine operator for Standard Oil in California, but that had gotten dull. He and a friend decided to go to Alaska and pan for gold.
But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.
A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.
Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.
I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)
He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.
I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.
At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”
I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?
Gently he said, “Look at me.”
I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.
“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”
I nodded patiently.
“That’s good,” was all he said.
I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.
Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.
All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”
But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.
A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.
Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.
I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)
He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.
I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.
At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”
I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?
Gently he said, “Look at me.”
I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.
“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”
I nodded patiently.
“That’s good,” was all he said.
I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.
Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.
All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”
We've Got a Winner!
Congratulations, Steb I. of Egosuperego, ID for your winning entry in last week's "Name Those Books Contest."
Steb I, you win a free portrait of yourself, in beautiful contruction paper and Scotch tape,mailed to your home address and displayed on the Internet(Please allow 7-10 working days for delivery)
Again, congratulations, Steb I, on your superior knowledge of books and googling!
Here are the winning answers!
1. The Secret Garden
2. Wind in the Willows
3. The Grapes of Wrath
4. Alice in Wonderland
5. Watership Down
6. Little House in the Big Woods
7. The Great Gatsby
8. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
9. Great Expectations
10. Jane Eyre
Steb I, you win a free portrait of yourself, in beautiful contruction paper and Scotch tape,mailed to your home address and displayed on the Internet(Please allow 7-10 working days for delivery)
Again, congratulations, Steb I, on your superior knowledge of books and googling!
Here are the winning answers!
1. The Secret Garden
2. Wind in the Willows
3. The Grapes of Wrath
4. Alice in Wonderland
5. Watership Down
6. Little House in the Big Woods
7. The Great Gatsby
8. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
9. Great Expectations
10. Jane Eyre
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Something for My Literary Friends
My daughter, an aspiring writer, and I were discussing what makes a good opening line for a novel. LPR says, “You’ve got to hook ‘em and make them want to read the next sentence.” I say it’s like the Supreme Court’s definition of pornography: "I know it when I see it.”
So, instead of writing something intelligent this week, I will list the opening lines to ten of my favorite books, all of them classics. You might want to see how many you know.(I'll post the answers next week)
But, more important, Do any of them make you want to read the next sentence? Also, which ones can you identify? All the people who respond will win a very special prize selected especially for them.
THE LINES:
1. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable–looking child ever seen.”
2. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.”
3. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”
4. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures of conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice ‘without pictures of conversations?’ “
5. “The primroses were over.”
6. “Once upon a time, many years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”
7. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
8. “These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr. Bucket.”
9. ”My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.”
10. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
So, instead of writing something intelligent this week, I will list the opening lines to ten of my favorite books, all of them classics. You might want to see how many you know.(I'll post the answers next week)
But, more important, Do any of them make you want to read the next sentence? Also, which ones can you identify? All the people who respond will win a very special prize selected especially for them.
THE LINES:
1. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable–looking child ever seen.”
2. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.”
3. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”
4. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures of conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice ‘without pictures of conversations?’ “
5. “The primroses were over.”
6. “Once upon a time, many years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”
7. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
8. “These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr. Bucket.”
9. ”My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.”
10. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
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