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End of an era
Bargain Books opened in Mishawaka during my freshman year of college. Tomorrow, it’ll close for good. Martin and I shopped there one last time. The books were being sold for $1 each. My haul was this:
Martin, who teaches U.S. literature to 11th-graders, bought a couple of Oxford World’s Classics: Letters from an American Farmer, and Wieland: “One of the earliest major American novels … a thrilling tale of suspense and intrigue set in rural Pennsylvania in the 1760s. Based on an actual case of a New York farmer who murdered his family, the novel employs Gothic devices and sensational elements such as spontaneous combustion, ventriloquism, and religious fanaticism” (this last find was much admired by everyone in our household).
As we were leaving the store, Martin noticed some tacky old i-Pod cases for sale, and so he returned to buy one. I went out to the parking lot to enjoy the weather. The clouds were thick. The temperature was in the fifties (F). A desolate little lake had been created from the melted snow. The breeze formed tiny ripples on it.
Since this was a Friday afternoon, Grape Road had a good amount of traffic.
- Royce Flippin, ed., The Best American Political Writing 2007 (this has Larissa MacFarquhar’s essay on Barack Obama, “The Conciliator”);
- Penelope Lively, The Photograph (all I know is, she wrote Moon Tiger);
- Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries (I’d never heard of this);
- Barry C. Smith, ed., Questions of Taste: The Philosophy of Wine (this book, I once wouldn’t have touched; but, yesterday, when I glanced at it, its tightly argued pretentiousness was irresistible);
- D.M. Thomas, The White Hotel (I’d never heard of this);
- Alec Waugh, Hot Countries (his brother, Evelyn, wrote much, much better);
- Frank Welsh, Australia: A New History of the Great Southern Land;
- Paul West, The Universe, and Other Fictions;
- Mo Yan, The Garlic Ballads.
Martin, who teaches U.S. literature to 11th-graders, bought a couple of Oxford World’s Classics: Letters from an American Farmer, and Wieland: “One of the earliest major American novels … a thrilling tale of suspense and intrigue set in rural Pennsylvania in the 1760s. Based on an actual case of a New York farmer who murdered his family, the novel employs Gothic devices and sensational elements such as spontaneous combustion, ventriloquism, and religious fanaticism” (this last find was much admired by everyone in our household).
As we were leaving the store, Martin noticed some tacky old i-Pod cases for sale, and so he returned to buy one. I went out to the parking lot to enjoy the weather. The clouds were thick. The temperature was in the fifties (F). A desolate little lake had been created from the melted snow. The breeze formed tiny ripples on it.
Since this was a Friday afternoon, Grape Road had a good amount of traffic.
Paying attention
Another day, another cold cut sandwich – another assault. This time, I let Jasper have a morsel of the bread. I don’t think he ate it, but he did play with it, and so I was able to dine in peace.
We snuggled later.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The strongest objector to the wedding has been Karin’s dad. (In his defense: when Karin & I became engaged, he didn’t even know what my last name was.) But, lately, he’s been warming to our decision.
Last week, he gave us supper, twice.
The first time, we ate chicken wings. Karin’s dad told us a story about how he brought Hungarian soup to work, to share. He was afraid no one would like the soup; but once the sour cream was stirred in, his colleagues liked it fine.
The second time, we ate fried chicken.
Again Karin’s dad related the Hungarian soup story. “I thought everyone would hate the soup,” he told us. “But they all took leftovers home with them.” “Well,” I pointed out, “what the soup needed was a little sour cream.”
Karin’s dad looked at me curiously. “Yes,” he said. “Sour cream does help Hungarian soup.”
Karin was delighted. (Though, at the time, she didn’t show it.)
We snuggled later.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The strongest objector to the wedding has been Karin’s dad. (In his defense: when Karin & I became engaged, he didn’t even know what my last name was.) But, lately, he’s been warming to our decision.
Last week, he gave us supper, twice.
The first time, we ate chicken wings. Karin’s dad told us a story about how he brought Hungarian soup to work, to share. He was afraid no one would like the soup; but once the sour cream was stirred in, his colleagues liked it fine.
The second time, we ate fried chicken.
Again Karin’s dad related the Hungarian soup story. “I thought everyone would hate the soup,” he told us. “But they all took leftovers home with them.” “Well,” I pointed out, “what the soup needed was a little sour cream.”
Karin’s dad looked at me curiously. “Yes,” he said. “Sour cream does help Hungarian soup.”
Karin was delighted. (Though, at the time, she didn’t show it.)
The frustrations of cats
Today a cold-cut sandwich for me and Jasper. Or, rather, for me; Jasper dabbed his paw on some exposed mustard, but that was all he was able to get to. The little thief.
Some bedmates
Another visit to Jasper; this time, we shared potatoes & Salisbury steak. By “we shared” I mean I let Jasper have some of the dregs of the gravy. Then I napped in Karin’s bed. Jasper snuggled with me for a bit.
I read more of Moby-Dick. I’m on Chapter XIX, seven behind schedule. One hundred pages into the book, just now Ishmael and his savage bedmate, Queequeg, have signed up to go whaling with the Pequod; they still haven’t set out to sea. (I may have blogged about this when I last tried reading Moby-Dick.)
My boss in the high school English Dept is reading Moby-Dick with Martin and me. She told me that she intends, when she retires, to visit Nantucket and Walden Pond. This person taught Karin in high school (Karin was a little alarmed of her). “Karin …,” my boss recalled, “Karin! I loved her! She was so funny and smart, and she had such big, brown eyes!”
Later, she told my other boss, who runs the Social Studies Dept, that our match was made in heaven.
I read more of Moby-Dick. I’m on Chapter XIX, seven behind schedule. One hundred pages into the book, just now Ishmael and his savage bedmate, Queequeg, have signed up to go whaling with the Pequod; they still haven’t set out to sea. (I may have blogged about this when I last tried reading Moby-Dick.)
My boss in the high school English Dept is reading Moby-Dick with Martin and me. She told me that she intends, when she retires, to visit Nantucket and Walden Pond. This person taught Karin in high school (Karin was a little alarmed of her). “Karin …,” my boss recalled, “Karin! I loved her! She was so funny and smart, and she had such big, brown eyes!”
Later, she told my other boss, who runs the Social Studies Dept, that our match was made in heaven.
History
Between work shifts today I visited Jasper, Karin’s cat, whom I regard as my own son. We shared a lunch of turkey and stuffing. We were very happy together. Then, as I was leaving, I slipped down the icy stairs: bump, bump, bump. (Karin has since bought a bucket of salt.)
For my U.S./Latin American Foreign Relations class, I’ve been reading a grim little book, Secret History: The CIA’s Classified Account of Its Operations in Guatemala, 1952–1954. Its gimmick is that it includes gaps in the text, like this:
I’ve been wondering again (I’ve been wondering this for many years): why does it matter to study history? Lately, I’ve been inclined to say that the chief value of “doing” history lies in presentation. In other words, the chief value is in fashioning or in appreciating a pleasant object. The value is aesthetic.
I wish more historians would take this to heart.
For my U.S./Latin American Foreign Relations class, I’ve been reading a grim little book, Secret History: The CIA’s Classified Account of Its Operations in Guatemala, 1952–1954. Its gimmick is that it includes gaps in the text, like this:
Text text text [ ] text text text text text text text text text text text text [ ] text text text text text text text text text text …representing passages in the historian’s narrative deemed unfit for declassification. These gaps give the text an ominous air. They may be the best thing about the book.
I’ve been wondering again (I’ve been wondering this for many years): why does it matter to study history? Lately, I’ve been inclined to say that the chief value of “doing” history lies in presentation. In other words, the chief value is in fashioning or in appreciating a pleasant object. The value is aesthetic.
I wish more historians would take this to heart.