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.”
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Many Loves of Lyttie Poe, Episode Two
I was raised atheist; in fact we were fundamentalist atheists. (Our bumper sticker would have read: “There Is No God, Only Ignorant, Superstitious People Believe In Him, And That Settles It.”)
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
From "The Many Loves of Lyttle Poe"
The story you are about to read is guaranteed 100% true. Only the names have been changed...
I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent
I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.
Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.
Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)
Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.
The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.
So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.
Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”
But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.
So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.
Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.
A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.
I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent
I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.
Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.
Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)
Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.
The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.
So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.
Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”
But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.
So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.
Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.
A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.
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