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Showing posts with the label holidays

On holiday in the “Region” (Northwest Indiana)

Karin & I will soon have been married ten years.

To celebrate, we dropped off Jasper, Ziva, and Dory at a cats’ hotel and headed west with our three little sons.

Not very far west.

Not as far as Illinois. Not even as far as Gary, Indiana. We did cross over into the Central Time Zone.

Our activities in the “Region” were zoological, botanical, athletic, culinary (White Castle), and commercial.

We toured: Michigan City, Valparaiso, Merrillville, Hobart, and – unpremeditatedly – Beverly Shores.

Beverly Shores is a beach town next to the Indiana Dunes National Park. Our phone GPS took us there because we asked it to find a playground. But we couldn’t park the car without a city-issued permit, so we didn’t play in Beverly Shores.

Instead, we drove and gawked. We could see Chicago across the lake, and there were spectacular houses that looked out in that direction. Some had been built for the Chicago World’s Fair of 1933 and then transported east, by boat.

I hadn’t known that there was such glamor in the “Region.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Our hotel was in Portage. It had a breakfast buffet and an indoor swimming pool. We used those conveniences daily.

It took all our effort to keep the children from destroying our suite. Abel, in particular, was a menace.

Samuel asked to go home and, the first night, was physically ill. He improved.

It was Daniel who took to the holiday with especial keenness. We hardly could coax him out of the pool.

One night, our family was bathing when a man and a woman came into the pool area. They looked very sheepish (they had come in and gone out once before). They disrobed, got into the hot tub, worked up some courage, and, I daresay, proceeded to do the deed while we were across the room. You’d think it was their honeymoon or anniversary; such was their involvement. But I suspect they were adulterers who had come to the “Region” to escape detection.

Too many Easter baskets

By church’s end, each of my children had received three baskets. Here I’ve arrayed some of our Jesuses and sheep:


We have to keep Abel from swallowing these toys. He also steals his brothers’ chocolates and dissolves them in his mouth – still wrapped.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Will Michigan win the championship? As I type, the Wolverines lead UConn by nine points. The Big Ten has gone uncrowned for roughly a quarter-century. Michigan State won in 2000; Maryland, not yet a conference member, won in 2002. Each one of Indiana, Illinois, Ohio State, MSU, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Purdue – every turn-of-the-century conference member, that is, except Iowa, Minnesota, Northwestern, and Penn State – has lost in the championship game at least once since MSU’s victory.

UConn first won in 1999 and went on to claim five more titles.

There are eighteen Big Ten members now. Loyal to the region, I penciled in Nebraska and Purdue as finalists. It was a bold but not outrageous prediction. Purdue unsurprisingly reached the Elite Eight; Nebraska advanced to the Sweet Sixteen having never previously won a tournament game. Had the Huskers gone far enough, I surely would have claimed Yahoo!’s $25,000 prize. (But it was the Huskies who reached the final.)

(A couple of years ago, I picked Creighton to reach the Final Four. I figure, the state is due.)

I did predict that Michigan would reach the semifinal. I achieved 60th-percentile staus this year, which is much better than usual. Yahoo! graded my bracket as “fine.”

Peanuts PDFs; UK map; Midwestern wedding

All of the Peanuts strips, PDF format, $25. Offer ends in 12 days.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

My UK wall map – a Christmas gift from my father-in-law – has been framed at last in a heavy, wooden contraption from Goodwill. Karin, the handy one, did the framing. My idea is to hang the map next to the TV so that we can check it when we watch homicidal/​agricultural/​veterinary programs, e.g. our latest, The Highland Vet.

Current reading: François Mauriac, Genetrix; Sue Townsend, Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years (the last book in the series). And lots of other books.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I should describe the wedding we attended on Sunday. Samuel bore the rings with aplomb. The much younger flower girl lagged behind, so Samuel retraced his steps, grabbed some petals, and strewed them for her. All else went according to the script: the brief vowing ceremony; the post-vowing, pre-dining interlude for photos; the popcorn and donut tables; the soda and liquor booths; the dinner rolls, sweet corn, and mashed potatoes; the couple’s dance, the bride’s dance with her father, and the groom’s with his mother; and the Cha-Cha Slide. There was no removal of the garter with teeth – none we stayed for, anyway. When we left, I was dead-tired. I’d held squirmy Abel several hours. It was as wearying as if I’d spent the day moving house.

Samuel and Daniel loved the Cha-Cha Slide; their grandpa danced it with them. That ex-DJ was in his element. I’ve not met a more ardent ritual-relisher.

Valentine’s

Abel has cabin fever now. He points at the stroller, squawks, climbs onto my chest, and beats it. Soon, Abel, soon.

Like his brothers before him, he attacks my face and snatches at my glasses when I put them on at night. His little nails must have cut inside my eyelid. When I fold it back I find the scab. It has been chafing my eyeball.

Happy Valentine’s (this time, on the day itself). No celebration for Karin & me tonight. We’ll go out later this week.

I did put on Sleepless in Seattle for the family. There aren’t a lot of Valentine’s Day movies. I’ve seen these others:

My Bloody Valentine and the excellent Picnic at Hanging Rock – two for the horror aisle;

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind;

and:

Some Like It Hot.

Irrespective of overall merit or demerit, only Sleepless preserves the spirit of, and does justice to, the holiday. (I’ve not seen An Affair to Remember.)

Happy birthday to my long-dead Great Grandad Valentine, my father’s mother’s father.

February’s poem

Happy St. Valentine’s Day.

Massive Attack, “One Love”:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
It’s you I love
And not another
And I know our love
Will last forever
You I love
And not another
And I know we’ll always
Be together
Some men have one love
Two and three love
Four and five
And six love
But I believe
In one love
I believe
In one love

Some men don’t feel secure
Unless they have a woman on each arm
They have to play the field
Prove they have charm
They say, Don’t lay your eggs in one basket
If the basket should fall, all your eggs’ll be broken
But I believe
In one love
I believe
In one love
Oh girl
I believe
In one love
I believe
In one love
Oh girl

It’s not the everyday you find the woman of your dreams
Who will always be there – no matter how bad things seems
Ever so faithful
Ever so sure
No man could ever
Ax for more
I believe
In one love
I believe
In one love
Oh girl
I believe
In one love …

I believe …
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯


Vocalist: Horace Andy.

Another holiday at home

Merry Christmas. How plentiful the children’s recaudo was! (I raked in plenty, too.) During the unwrapping, a stomach bug struck Samuel, so I remained with him while Karin took Daniel and Abel to her mother’s. Thus, Samuel and I re-enacted our Thanksgiving.

Then I got sick. Dry cough; chills.

COVID test: negative.

Please excuse the brevity of this post.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Oh, yes, I want to note Abel’s delight in barnyard books, e.g. Duck on a Bike …


… and in babies.

We gave him a pack of wooden barnyard animals, as well as a baby doll.

Luke 2:8–12 (NIV):
And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
I’ve never heard it remarked how natural the story of Jesus’s birth must seem to the youngest listeners. Of course the hero is a baby; of course he first appears among the sheep.

Q.E.P.D.

Samuel’s winter holiday has begun. He doesn’t sleep in; he gets out of bed, puts the hall light on, and chatters to himself until I go out to him. I do gain 30–60 minutes of sleep because I needn’t take him to the bus. I’d say this improves my well-being; on closer inspection, however, I may actually feel worse.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Ecuadorians who died yesterday:

(a) Rodrigo Borja. The first politician I supported. I was seven when he became president.

(b) Mario Pineida. Decent fullback for Barcelona. Shot in broad daylight, outside a butcher’s shop. Partner murdered, too.

December’s poems

Say it isn’t so! Loveless by My Bloody Valentine has been removed from Spotify.


John-Paul: “What’s Spotify even for, if Loveless isn’t included?”

Karin: “A lot, considering how many hours Spotify is used in this house.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Here are reggae lyrics from The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. Bear in mind, the diarist/​poet is in his younger teens.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Hear what he saying by A. Mole

Sisters and Brothers listen to Jah,
Hear his words from near and far,
Haile Selassie he sit on the throne.
Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. (Repeated 10 times.)
JAH! JAH! JAH!

Rise up and follow Selassie, the king.
A new tomorrow to you he will bring. (Repeat.)
E-thi-o-pi-a,
He’ll bring new hope to ya.
Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. (Repeated 20 times.)
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Not a Christmas poem, exactly, but certain themes are characteristic of the season.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Another quasi-Christmas poem:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Little boy, O so small,
Please don’t pull upon my mole.
It’s attachèd to my neck.
When you pull, it hurts like heck.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Karin wrote it.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Mother Goose:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
When good King Arthur ruled this land,
He was a goodly King;
He bought three pecks of barley-meal,
To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the King did make,
And stuffed it well with plums,
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.

The King and Queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The Queen next morning fried.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Not only have I run out of “mole” poems, I must give up the “Christmas” pretense.

Happy Thanksgiving

This nightmare got me out of bed:

I was teaching college again and couldn’t get the whippersnappers to hear, let alone listen to, what I was saying – not least because my mother was visiting the class, and her phone kept ringing. It played the overture to Rossini’s William Tell.

I had to ask her to leave the room.

I hope the students understood the gravity of the offense.


Happy Thanksgiving. Karin took Daniel and Abel to her mother’s. I stayed behind with Samuel, who was ill. I cleaned the basement.

I’ve been mystified by a billboard proclaiming KFC’s temporary “festive” pot-pie. How’s it supposed to differ from ordinary pot-pie?

My research has yielded no satisfactory answer – although I’ve read that this pot-pie doesn’t contain turkey (as I thought it might).

Obviously, to find out, I should hike over to KFC and eat one of these new pot-pies.

P.S. Karin wonders if the campaign is a response to McDonald’s’s “holiday” pies.

A Veterans Day pup

Monday’s and Tuesday’s schooling began two hours late, due to snow. Karin delayed her Monday work to sit with Samuel in her heated car while he waited for the bus. Good thing, because otherwise I’d’ve stood by the curb with Samuel and Daniel and Abel, thirty minutes longer than usual, not knowing whether the bus would come at all. (The bus-tracking app was out of order.)

(Time was, people’d wait for buses in the cold, not having apps to reassure them. Ours is a softer time.)

Tuesday – yesterday – was Veterans Day, so Karin didn’t go to work. She put Samuel on the bus again. When he came home, he was carrying a drawing he’d made of a “Veterans Day pup”:


Daniel and Abel played in the snow. Mormon missionaries stood by our yard and invited our family to church. They were so winsome, I hated to say no. I should’ve invited them to church.

They knocked on doors on our street, then drove away in a Texas-plated ute (my preferred term for that car) (pun not intended).

Sweet teeth

For the longest time, Abel had just two teeth, and then this week four more broke through the top gum. How long he’ll keep them is anyone’s guess. We trunk-or-treated last night at the school where my brother Stephen teaches, and I was amazed that so many of the teachers tried to give Abel candy. (He’s only ten months old.) Afterward, as we waited in the McDonald’s drive-thru, Samuel told us that children eat McDonald’s at school on their birthdays. I’m skeptical, but it’s within the realm of possibility. (For his upcoming birthday, he’s asked for McDonald’s, chocolate cake with icing, and a piñata.) Daniel ate sweet toast for breakfast today, like most days, and then asked for ice-cream. I held him off fairly comfortably by pointing out that he’d only eaten half of his toast.

Abel’s pediatrician told me that children’ll eat anything until they start eating sugar, and then that’s all they’ll want.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Karin uses Duolingo (an app, if you didn’t know) to practice Spanish, Welsh, math, chess, and sometimes piano. The sentences for practicing Spanish are like a high school/​Almodóvar melodrama.
No saldré con él si usa ropa anticuada (I won’t go out with him if his clothes are out of date).

Todas mis amigas son lesbianas (all of my woman friends are lesbians).
Some Welsh sentences, translated:
Owen is eating parsnips in the rain.

After the dragon had eaten Owen, it went to Cardiff.
See this compilation. A literature grad student ought to publish a paper about national stereotyping in Duolingo. But isn’t that what the app is for? When, really, will we have occasion to meaningfully use Icelandic or Korean? Isn’t mental tourism the point?

Independence weekend

It was our most traditional July 4 in who knows how many years. The people next door fed us hot dogs, ribs, and chicken. Then they launched fireworks. The whole neighborhood put on quite a show. Samuel and Daniel twirled sparklers. Samuel dropped his, stepped on it, and burned his foot. What an ordeal that was.

No one displayed much patriotism. The neighbors told me they expect violent upheaval, sooner or later. So, their mood was: It’s party time!

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Today we saw my cousin Matthew and his family. They’re visiting from Montana.

Matthew works in academic support at a small university campus. He worries that his job’ll get DOGE-ed out of existence (or whatever the local equivalent of getting DOGE-ed is).

Not that things are better here: Indiana has passed legislation that’ll axe hundreds of public academic programs.

(See this Forbes report [of limited free access]. And see this list of items for the chopping block.)

Anyway, perhaps Matthew, like me, has caught the apocalypticism bug, because he agreed to read Late Victorian Holocausts with me when the schedule permits. It’s nice when readers of this blog say they want to read things with me.

Happy Father’s Day

… to all fathers; particularly:
  • mine own
  • mine by marriage (two living, one deceased)
My family almost always spends the day with Karin’s dad and his dad, in Goshen. We eat grilled meats, then go out strolling in the heat. Today it was painfully bright if not quite sweltering. We took the boys to a park.

Photos of my progeny: Samuel, Daniel, Abel.




Notice Samuel’s fighter jet: a gift from his grandpa, who, I believe, had just toured the Grissom Air Reserve base. (Daniel got one, too.)

The boys all loved the swings. Daniel fell off his, soon after the pic was taken.

I’m not used to being celebrated. It’s been only a few years since I became a father. Karin asked if I wanted anything. I said an opportunity to mow, a fastfood snack, and a thriftstore book hunt; and that’s what I got.

Throw a kiss, Harry

Samuel’s first spring break. We didn’t go out of town, but we did take the boys to the local Bricks & Minifigs store. I’d never seen them more excited to be anywhere. It’s a pleasant store: clean; well-lighted; not overwhelmingly full of merchandise; inexpensive, as long as one can keep from going hog-wild.

The cashiers were a couple of sad-sacks. Not just bored: despondent.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The more time I spend with children, the more I marvel at the lifelikeness of Mary Chalmers’s Throw a Kiss, Harry.

Read it here. This is the bowdlerized version from the ’nineties. It’s the version familiar to our household.

The original version, from the ’fifties, is even truer to life: Harry’s mother casually threatens to spank him.

Whether they actually spank or not, parents’ll recognize how tempting (and gratifying) it is to threaten retribution.

Children are simultaneously so naughty and so adorable, so ornery and so affectionate. These are the truths that Throw a Kiss, Harry understands.

February’s poems

Happy St. Valentine’s Day. Samuel and Daniel are with grandparents. Karin & I – accompanied by sleeping Abel – romantically gorged at the local diner (I ordered Mexican food and pancakes). We knew it’d be a quiet venue; there were just a handful of couples. But all races and persuasions were represented, including people with MAGA hats.

Afterward, I remarked to Karin how nicely everyone got along. “They all ignored each other,” she said.

Then I realized, not everyone shares my idea of “getting along.”

Back at home, we read love poems to each other.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“Forget-Me-Not,” by William McGonagall:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
A gallant knight and his betroth’d bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk’d of love, and they talk’d of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

At length the bride to the knight did say,
“There have been many young ladies led astray
By believing in all their lovers said,
And you are false to me I am afraid.”

“No, Ellen, I was never false to thee,
I never gave thee cause to doubt me;
I have always lov’d thee and do still,
And no other woman your place shall fill.”

“Dear Edwin, it may be true, but I am in doubt,
But there’s some beautiful flowers here about,
Growing on the other side of the river,
But how to get one, I cannot discover.”

“Dear Ellen, they seem beautiful indeed,
But of them, dear, take no heed;
Because they are on the other side,
Besides, the river is deep and wide.”

“Dear Edwin, as I doubt your love to be untrue,
I ask one favour now from you:
Go! fetch me a flower from across the river,
Which will prove you love me more than ever.”

“Dear Ellen! I will try and fetch you a flower
If it lies within my power
To prove that I am true to you,
And what more can your Edwin do?”

So he leap’d into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
To fetch a flower for his young bride,
Who watched him eagerly on the other side.

So he pluck’d a flower right merrily
Which seemed to fill his heart with glee,
That it would please his lovely bride;
But, alas! he never got to the other side.

For when he tried to swim across,
All power of his body he did loss,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flowers to his lovely bride.

And he cried, “Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
For I was ever true to you,
My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!”

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, “Edwin, dear, hard is out lot,
But I’ll name this flower Forget-me-not.

“And I’ll remember thee while I live,
And to no other man my hand I’ll give,
And I will place my affection on this little flower,
And it will solace me in a lonely hour.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“May Colvin,” from The Oxford Book of Ballads (ed. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch):

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
False Sir John a-wooing came
To a maid of beauty fair;
May Colvin was this lady’s name,
Her father’s only heir.

He woo’d her but, he woo’d her ben [Editor’s note: both in the outer and inner rooms],
He woo’d her in the ha’;
Until he got the lady’s consent
To mount and ride awa’.

“Go fetch me some of your father’s gold,
And some of your mother’s fee,
And I’ll carry you into the north land,
And there I’ll marry thee.”

She’s gane to her father’s coffers
Where all his money lay,
And she’s taken the red, and she’s left the white,
And so lightly she’s tripp’d away.

She’s gane to her father’s stable
Where all the steeds did stand,
And she’s taken the best, and she’s left the warst
That was in her father’s land.

She’s mounted on a milk-white steed,
And he on a dapple-grey,
And on they rade to a lonesome part,
A rock beside the sea.

“Loup [leap] off the steed,” says false Sir John,
“Your bridal bed you see;
Seven ladies I have drownèd here,
And the eight’ one you shall be.

“Cast off, cast off your silks so fine
And lay them on a stone,
For they are too fine and costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.

“Cast off, cast off your silken stays,
For and your broider’d shoon,
For they are too fine and costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.

“Cast off, cast off your Holland smock
That’s border’d with the lawn,
For it is too fine and costly
To rot in the salt sea foam,” –

“O turn about, thou false Sir John,
And look to the leaf o’ the tree;
For it never became a gentleman
A naked woman to see.”

He turn’d himself straight round about
To look to the leaf o’ the tree;
She’s twined her arms about his waist
And thrown him into the sea.

“O hold a grip o’ me, May Colvin,
For fear that I should drown;
I’ll take you home to your father’s bower
And safe I’ll set you down.”

“No help, no help, thou false Sir John,
No help, no pity thee!
For you lie not in a caulder bed
Than you thought to lay me.”

She mounted on her milk-white steed,
And led the dapple-grey,
And she rode till she reach’d her father’s gate,
At the breakin’ o’ the day.

Up then spake the pretty parrot,
“May Colvin, where have you been?
What has become o’ false Sir John
That went with you yestreen?” –

“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot!
Nor tell no tales o’ me;
Your cage shall be made o’ the beaten gold
And the spokes o’ ivorie.”

Up then spake her father dear,
In the bed-chamber where he lay:
“What ails the pretty parrot,
That prattles so long ere day?” –

“There came a cat to my cage, master,
I thought ’t would have worried me;
And I was calling to May Colvin
To take the cat from me.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A story

“Of the Coming of John”: the only fictional chapter in Du Bois’s Souls of Black Folk, the book that my reading group discussed tonight.

There are similarities to Twain’s Puddin’head Wilson. What this means, I’m not sure.

I’m too tired to say more.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Update (7 Feb): Good morning! Last night, I left the blogging until the last minute, and fell asleep.

’Tis the season! I bought Karin some roses. A week early, yes. But the opportunity presented itself, and I thought that this year I wouldn’t leave things until the deadline.

There was a table at the supermarket with bouquets and cute little buckets. I chose a bucket with roses because I knew those flowers wouldn’t poison the cats. I brought it home.

Uh, that’s a bush, for planting, said Karin.

Trouble is, we’d agreed to uproot an existing rosebush from our yard.

Could you have it on your desk, at work?, I asked.

Not enough sun.

The moral is, what matters isn’t to be early but to put thought into your gesture! It’s the thought that counts! (A corollary is, the supermarket pretends to be helpful by putting these displays near the checkout area, but it isn’t! It’s just rushing you! Beware!)

Can you feel it



No school for Samuel: MLK Jr. Day, then two “snow days” (temps below zero °F). And he has a stomach bug. He’s lain on the sofa, except to puke. It’s been our day’s work to keep Daniel from harassing him.

During one glorious moment, Samuel ran to the toilet to puke, but Daniel was sitting there already, doing his business, so Samuel puked on Daniel. I was so proud of them both for going where they were supposed to go. We tossed Daniel into the shower.

Abel has done some puking, but that’s normal.

More about the weather. I’ve made a list of books about natural/​ecological disasters, for this coming reading year (it begins in May). One book per month. Some, I’ve already read portions of. The list also is inspired by the SoCal fires.
  • Maclean, Young Men and Fire
  • Stewart, Storm
  • Egan, The Worst Hard Time
  • Hughes, In Hazard
  • Steinberg, Acts of God
  • Krakauer, Into Thin Air
  • Grunwald, The Swamp
  • Stewart, Fire
  • Davis, Late Victorian Holocausts
  • Hughes, A High Wind in Jamaica
  • Jacobsen, Nuclear War
  • Weisman, The World Without Us
This is a manly list. The only woman on it is Jacobsen. Then again, these last couple of years I’ve read the “Little House” books, which feature fire, blizzards, locusts, and tornadoes; Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God; and short disasterpieces by Didion.

One might complain that some of these disasters aren’t so “natural,” that humans are to blame for them. I agree. So would van Inwagen, who minimizes the distinction between natural and freely chosen evil. And so would various authors on the list (especially, I gather, Steinberg and Davis). But the point isn’t to allocate responsibility; it’s to imagine stuff and people getting burned up, or blown or washed away. There’s grandeur and pathos in these disasters. My former tutee at IUSB, an old Black woman, recalled how a tornado hit South Bend and she and the other children were dismissed from school to go die at home. They ran to their houses, into the wind. That’s like something out of Their Eyes Were Watching God, a colleague said, not a little incredulously, when I told him. Yes, exactly.

Some “life hacks”

(1) Stretch pants.

(2) Using the Internet to find out what’s avaliable at your local Half Price Books store.

This is harder than you might think.

The critical link:

https://www.hpb.com/search?q=&prefn1=instorePickUpAvailableStores&prefv1=HPB-131&prefn2=rareFind&prefv2=No&srule=recently-added&sz=80

Suppose that, at Christmastime, both sets of in-laws put gift cards for HPB in your stocking.

Rejoice! Be glad!

But also: How good is this “good” luck, really?

For it may be that you live in South Bend, on the West Side, and that HPB is in faraway Mishawaka (known, locally, as “BFE” or “near-BFE” [“E” is for east; “BF” is vulgar]). Who wants to trek out east twice in January to use both $5 discounts – each, activated by a separate $25 gift-card purchase – without prior knowledge of the inventory?

But HPB has online ordering!

Alas, it costs $3.99 to have each book shipped to your house.

But books in your preferred store can be reserved online and retrieved, gratis, in person.

Again, how are you to know what’s in your preferred store? (Besides by searching for one book or author at a time and then trawling through items that may or may not be in that store.)

By clicking the above link, that’s how. Behold a list of most of the books in the store.

Here’s the link again:

https://www.hpb.com/search?q=&prefn1=instorePickUpAvailableStores&prefv1=HPB-131&prefn2=rareFind&prefv2=No&srule=recently-added&sz=80

I’ve tweaked the search to exclude collectables and to show recent arrivals on top.

To add keywords (e.g., “Agatha+Christie”) to the search, type them into the web address between the first equals sign and ampersand:

https://www.hpb.com/search?q=Agatha+Christie&prefn1=instorePickUpAvailableStores&prefv1=HPB-131&prefn2=rareFind&prefv2=No&srule=recently-added&sz=80

Maybe you don’t want to order and retrieve from Mishawaka’s store. Maybe you live in darkest Chesterfield, Missouri. Then replace “131” above – the Mishawaka store’s number – with the “120” pertaining to Chesterfied’s store.

https://www.hpb.com/search?q=Agatha+Christie&prefn1=instorePickUpAvailableStores&prefv1=HPB-120&prefn2=rareFind&prefv2=No&srule=recently-added&sz=80

Voilà.

(The “store finder” page is here.)

Body-text fonts, pt. 34: Stempel Garamond


(from E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India)

What I really enjoy about Stempel Garamond is that its zero is thickest at the top and bottom ends, rather than at the left and right sides. (This is a feature of the “lining” – i.e., tall or uppercase – zero. The “oldstyle” zero – short or lowercase; in, e.g., “30,” above – is just a thinnish circle.)

It’s unusual for a tall zero to be top-and-bottom heavy.

Cf. the more ordinary tall zero of Adobe Garamond, Stempel Garamond’s plainer descendant.

O Christmas tree

We erected and decorated our waist-high plastic Christmas tree.

Karin was dissatisfied. The tree stank. The cats had peed on it in the storage-room.

So, Karin’s friend, Nora, lent us a taller plastic tree. Samuel and Daniel decorated it.

Almost all the ornaments now hang from the bottom third of that tree.

(Some have been smashed.)



We put gifts under the tree. Samuel has been tearing off the wrappers.