My house is getting new windows! Well, not really new, since we wanted to preserve the original ones, but they are getting scraped clean and fresh white glazing is being tucked in everywhere. Primer and paint to follow!
It's really transformed the house, and with the blinds up so that we could remove all the storm windows, this place is flooded with light. Of course, with 8 4' by 7' windows, that's probably to be expected. Cats are writhing around on the rugs, delighted by the proliferation of sunspots.
I hadn't realized how much I'd avoided looking at the windows in the past two years. I'm always looking out, but that's really looking through instead of looking at. With dead bugs, flaking paint, and duct tape (The former owner was a big fan of three things: pneumatic staple guns, duct tape and stripping screws.), it wasn't exactly inspirational. But now, with fresh eyes for me and the house, it's a delight to go around from window to window.
Now, if we can get the sash weights reconnected, I will have windows that are a.) transparent and b.) open! What novelty!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Don't Dress Your Cat in an Apron
I was thinking of Dan Greenburg's poem this weekend. We went to a nephew's football game on Saturday - he's in third grade, so it was more entertainment spectacle than sporting event, but still.... There were about a million flags thrown, which was probably a good thing, since the little boys were clearly learning the fundamentals of the game. Holding is a difficult concept to grasp, and pretty natural for a small person trying to stop another small person....
The bizarre part was that they also had cheerleaders, and sadly, it seemed that little girls were learning the fundamentals of the game too - "Smile! Don't look so angry!," "Watch the boys!," etc. And you could already see the competition developing between them - the pretty little girl with a perfect French braid who bossed all the other girls around and the little girl with grass stains on her knees and a messy ponytail. It made me sad to realize how much heartache some of them have in front of them, trying to be something they aren't or trying to figure out what they are after all they've been told they're supposed to be.
I still have my copy of Free to Be You and Me. My mother, a budding feminist, bought it for me for my first birthday, I think, and despite her best intentions, she gave off some of those messages, too. The men in my family ate first, talked first, read first, left the table first, and for years, I tagged along with them, leaving my mother and my grandmother to clean up after all of us. Any good survivor can tell you that it's important to ingratiate yourself with the power structure. Mental survival is a different story.
Anyway, I muddled through, breathing phrases like, "Patriarchal bullshit" under my breath. They'll muddle through, too, and figure out how to make a neat ponytail, how to smile when you don't want to, and how to reinvent yourself the first time someone gives you a chance.
The bizarre part was that they also had cheerleaders, and sadly, it seemed that little girls were learning the fundamentals of the game too - "Smile! Don't look so angry!," "Watch the boys!," etc. And you could already see the competition developing between them - the pretty little girl with a perfect French braid who bossed all the other girls around and the little girl with grass stains on her knees and a messy ponytail. It made me sad to realize how much heartache some of them have in front of them, trying to be something they aren't or trying to figure out what they are after all they've been told they're supposed to be.
I still have my copy of Free to Be You and Me. My mother, a budding feminist, bought it for me for my first birthday, I think, and despite her best intentions, she gave off some of those messages, too. The men in my family ate first, talked first, read first, left the table first, and for years, I tagged along with them, leaving my mother and my grandmother to clean up after all of us. Any good survivor can tell you that it's important to ingratiate yourself with the power structure. Mental survival is a different story.
Anyway, I muddled through, breathing phrases like, "Patriarchal bullshit" under my breath. They'll muddle through, too, and figure out how to make a neat ponytail, how to smile when you don't want to, and how to reinvent yourself the first time someone gives you a chance.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Information Withdrawal
The last of Ike ripped through here Sunday, and we can count ourselves among the fortunate - no trees down and just a brief power blip. The cell tower that we draw service from was apparently having problems, so we found ourselves pacing around the first floor playing Hot and Cold with the phones, but that wasn't a terrible inconvenience. Cable was knocked out, but I have stacks and stacks of books to read and was happy to just be able to go to bed early and read.
The only problem? The loss of Internet access. I was completely undone. Not only could I not find out what was going on in the world, how bad the damage was, etc., but I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I wanted to know something. What if I needed to know what the largest city in Qinghai Province is? What if I wanted to see what the interior of a '59 Chevy looks like? How could I find out the average temperature in May in Minnesota? A thousand times a day, it seems, I satisfy my curiosity about something - the subject of a Charles Russell painting, the anatomy of a cat's jaw, restoring and repairing doors. Lately, I've looked up Parabolon magic lanterns, the hull dimensions of the HMS Erebus, and the history of the Pablo Allard buffalo herd. I've also looked up Clean House episodes, Nanci Griffith song lyrics and pictures of English bulldog puppies, just in case you thought I was over here overdosing on Wikipedia.
I was nervous until Monday morning when Google finally loaded again. Eliminating uncertainty, even if it's about small, esoteric topics, is a comfort, maybe even more so since everything in the world seems so uncertain. If small questions have answers, maybe big ones do too.
The only problem? The loss of Internet access. I was completely undone. Not only could I not find out what was going on in the world, how bad the damage was, etc., but I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I wanted to know something. What if I needed to know what the largest city in Qinghai Province is? What if I wanted to see what the interior of a '59 Chevy looks like? How could I find out the average temperature in May in Minnesota? A thousand times a day, it seems, I satisfy my curiosity about something - the subject of a Charles Russell painting, the anatomy of a cat's jaw, restoring and repairing doors. Lately, I've looked up Parabolon magic lanterns, the hull dimensions of the HMS Erebus, and the history of the Pablo Allard buffalo herd. I've also looked up Clean House episodes, Nanci Griffith song lyrics and pictures of English bulldog puppies, just in case you thought I was over here overdosing on Wikipedia.
I was nervous until Monday morning when Google finally loaded again. Eliminating uncertainty, even if it's about small, esoteric topics, is a comfort, maybe even more so since everything in the world seems so uncertain. If small questions have answers, maybe big ones do too.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Excuses and Big Pointy Teeth
Honestly, I can find an excuse for reading and doing nothing all year long. In the winter, it's too cold and too nasty to go out, and in the summer, it's too hot and too nasty to go out. I don't need excuses in fall and spring, though, because it really feels like reading is what I'm supposed to be doing.
Actually, we've been doing work around the house, which gives me enough of a sense of productivity that I can lie around for hours afterwards reading without feeling guilty. We've been in the midst of a mechanical nightmare over here, I think. Last week, I took the washer apart to retrieve 30 cents from the valves of the drain motor. I was trying to get a nickel out and was struggling with a flutter valve that actually turned out to be a quarter, so.... Soapy water all over the floor and soggy underwear, blech.
And then the car wouldn't start on Wednesday, thanks to an ungrateful squirrel who sheered off two of my spark plug wires! It looked like the little maverick had taken a hacksaw to them. I had some stale pistachio nuts that I was holding onto until colder weather, but now I'm thinking of giving them to the raccoons. Or thinking of sitting on the deck and lobbing them at him. Wonder how effective a slingshot with a leftover broccoli band would be....
Actually, we've been doing work around the house, which gives me enough of a sense of productivity that I can lie around for hours afterwards reading without feeling guilty. We've been in the midst of a mechanical nightmare over here, I think. Last week, I took the washer apart to retrieve 30 cents from the valves of the drain motor. I was trying to get a nickel out and was struggling with a flutter valve that actually turned out to be a quarter, so.... Soapy water all over the floor and soggy underwear, blech.
And then the car wouldn't start on Wednesday, thanks to an ungrateful squirrel who sheered off two of my spark plug wires! It looked like the little maverick had taken a hacksaw to them. I had some stale pistachio nuts that I was holding onto until colder weather, but now I'm thinking of giving them to the raccoons. Or thinking of sitting on the deck and lobbing them at him. Wonder how effective a slingshot with a leftover broccoli band would be....
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Reading Overdose
I have been chewing through books lately, and not keeping up with notes. I polished off three Martha Grimes novels - Hotel Paradise, Cold Flat Junction, and Belle Ruin. In all fairness, billing them as mysteries is a bit deceptive, because the mystery is only a fraction of the plot and the suspense is non-existent. There was something appealing about them, though - some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're swimming through molasses - you just want to read the last ten pages and be done with it all already. Some writers move slowly through their material and you feel as though you're lounging around in an innertube on a lazy river - you know you're going somewhere, but the ride is so nice that you're in no hurry. I can't articulate why this works for some people and not for others, but I can say that it certainly works for me and Martha Grimes. Once I accepted the mystery misnomer, I was happy to just loll along with the plots.
Before vacation I also finished The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, and I can't say enough good things about it. It's a model of what historical fiction should be. By anchoring his modern-day story with the history of the Mormon Church and the built-in mystery of Ann Eliza Young's fate, David Ebershoff makes you want to dig around for more historical dirt and more stories that are just waiting to be told. I'm sure many Mormons aren't thrilled with the story, as his "dressed-up" retelling of Ann Eliza's story doesn't always deify Brigham Young, but he manages to handle polygamy in a non-National Enquirer fashion. By the end of the novel, I was convinced that truth is so individual that there really is no truth. Personal truth becomes a burden when you feel that part of that truth is the need to hang it on others. A number of good novels leave me thinking about the characters, but few left me mulling over philosophical issues the way The 19th Wife did.
On vacation, I tore through Douglas Preston's The Monster of Florence, written in connection with journalist Mario Spezi. It was better than run-of-the-mill true crime, well-written and reading like a travelogue with quirky bits of information about the history and personality of Florence, although I have to say my heightened awareness of the Italian legal system has made me wary of travel. Truly, after finishing it, I found myself dwelling less on the unsolved horrific nature of the case and more on horrific lack of basic rights that we erroneously assume are part of all advanced nations.
After that was Charlatan by Pope Brock, a odd tale of the growth of the American Medical Association and the fame of quack doctor John Brinkley. Brinkley made a fortune from a number of questionable ventures, but none more questionable than his transplants of goat glands into humans, complete with promises of renewed youth, vitality and longer life. Medicine has come a long way in an amazingly short time, apparently, and so has common sense.
Oh, and Tana French's The Likeness. She's an amazing writer. Story is conveyed through plot, setting, character and language, and so many modern writers get by without the full package. (In fact, any number seem to get by on just one of the four, but that's not what we're here to talk about.) Language is sadly so neglected, and to be honest, many writers known to be gifted with the use of language never make the transition from "literary" to "popular," simply because they fail to create a compelling plot. Tana French is one of the few writers who shapes an addictive story, but uses language in such a way that I'm jolted with an awareness of it that occasionally overpowers my interest in her plot, her setting or her characters. In the Woods, her first novel, got a bad rap, because the publisher needed to pigeonhole it to market it, and it got stuck in the "mystery/suspense/police procedural" category. It is those things, but it presents two mysteries, and only solves one (the less intriguing one, you could argue). I'd read enough raging reviews to align my expectations before starting it. The Likeness is just as compelling, but more traditional - one mystery, one solution, and I'm already waiting for her next book.
Before vacation I also finished The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff, and I can't say enough good things about it. It's a model of what historical fiction should be. By anchoring his modern-day story with the history of the Mormon Church and the built-in mystery of Ann Eliza Young's fate, David Ebershoff makes you want to dig around for more historical dirt and more stories that are just waiting to be told. I'm sure many Mormons aren't thrilled with the story, as his "dressed-up" retelling of Ann Eliza's story doesn't always deify Brigham Young, but he manages to handle polygamy in a non-National Enquirer fashion. By the end of the novel, I was convinced that truth is so individual that there really is no truth. Personal truth becomes a burden when you feel that part of that truth is the need to hang it on others. A number of good novels leave me thinking about the characters, but few left me mulling over philosophical issues the way The 19th Wife did.
On vacation, I tore through Douglas Preston's The Monster of Florence, written in connection with journalist Mario Spezi. It was better than run-of-the-mill true crime, well-written and reading like a travelogue with quirky bits of information about the history and personality of Florence, although I have to say my heightened awareness of the Italian legal system has made me wary of travel. Truly, after finishing it, I found myself dwelling less on the unsolved horrific nature of the case and more on horrific lack of basic rights that we erroneously assume are part of all advanced nations.
After that was Charlatan by Pope Brock, a odd tale of the growth of the American Medical Association and the fame of quack doctor John Brinkley. Brinkley made a fortune from a number of questionable ventures, but none more questionable than his transplants of goat glands into humans, complete with promises of renewed youth, vitality and longer life. Medicine has come a long way in an amazingly short time, apparently, and so has common sense.
Oh, and Tana French's The Likeness. She's an amazing writer. Story is conveyed through plot, setting, character and language, and so many modern writers get by without the full package. (In fact, any number seem to get by on just one of the four, but that's not what we're here to talk about.) Language is sadly so neglected, and to be honest, many writers known to be gifted with the use of language never make the transition from "literary" to "popular," simply because they fail to create a compelling plot. Tana French is one of the few writers who shapes an addictive story, but uses language in such a way that I'm jolted with an awareness of it that occasionally overpowers my interest in her plot, her setting or her characters. In the Woods, her first novel, got a bad rap, because the publisher needed to pigeonhole it to market it, and it got stuck in the "mystery/suspense/police procedural" category. It is those things, but it presents two mysteries, and only solves one (the less intriguing one, you could argue). I'd read enough raging reviews to align my expectations before starting it. The Likeness is just as compelling, but more traditional - one mystery, one solution, and I'm already waiting for her next book.
The Dangers of Sentiment
Also known as Family Vacation. It always seems like a good idea, right up until the moment that it doesn't, but will magically seem like a good idea again by the time a vacation deposit is due. I've no idea how that happens. It's like my friends describe childbirth - nature intentionally allows you to develop amnesia, probably because family (like children?) is a necessary evil. Nostalgia and sentiment are always painted in folksy sepia tones, but those of us ensnared by them know otherwise!
Actually, vacation was okay. It was SO hot, with the heat index reaching 100+ nearly every day, but as with all things vacation, this has only served to make being home, where it is a comfy 80 degrees, delightful. We ate well, although a little morosely, as vegetarians. Fresh seafood was a powerful temptation, but we managed. We read lots. Lay about like beanbags, snoozing in the air-conditioning when the heat was too much. Found hundreds of shark teeth. Corrupted a small child as much as possible. Avoided my 15-year high school reunion. All in all, a success.
Cats and tomato plants are happy we're home. Both have been sprawling about in a disreputable, disorganized fashion in our absence, and I'm now whipping things back into shape. Am obviously having more luck with tomato plants than cats, but perhaps I should try binding them up with twine as well....
Actually, vacation was okay. It was SO hot, with the heat index reaching 100+ nearly every day, but as with all things vacation, this has only served to make being home, where it is a comfy 80 degrees, delightful. We ate well, although a little morosely, as vegetarians. Fresh seafood was a powerful temptation, but we managed. We read lots. Lay about like beanbags, snoozing in the air-conditioning when the heat was too much. Found hundreds of shark teeth. Corrupted a small child as much as possible. Avoided my 15-year high school reunion. All in all, a success.
Cats and tomato plants are happy we're home. Both have been sprawling about in a disreputable, disorganized fashion in our absence, and I'm now whipping things back into shape. Am obviously having more luck with tomato plants than cats, but perhaps I should try binding them up with twine as well....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
