tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41304213524153772732024-03-17T11:36:04.766-07:00Books in NorthportIf you enjoy following Books in Northport, share a link with your friends. Winter hours in the bookstore are Wednesdays through Saturdays, 11-3. Reminder: Sharing is good. Pass it along.P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.comBlogger2258125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-8574192869955589492024-03-14T08:28:00.000-07:002024-03-17T08:31:40.748-07:00Morning Is Breaking More Gently<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgks-Rth_Id1zs07QHrhK5ArmPJ2vUYfCGfnpyioHk4KQqS-2hkSh8j_ISUp4wU5ywECuntIvp_Nxceq0o_LvclNGkmi56uu-JSTq9JItSWfSNrZf7WCYczCIWYbpVFRCuRcLVFRb8M4DN-rq1Yt9jfgprp3COsWK7msuh6h4bC9g8qmB1_Ur8Shtjd8atb/s1280/430145521_10232421107214366_3013135488378676969_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgks-Rth_Id1zs07QHrhK5ArmPJ2vUYfCGfnpyioHk4KQqS-2hkSh8j_ISUp4wU5ywECuntIvp_Nxceq0o_LvclNGkmi56uu-JSTq9JItSWfSNrZf7WCYczCIWYbpVFRCuRcLVFRb8M4DN-rq1Yt9jfgprp3COsWK7msuh6h4bC9g8qmB1_Ur8Shtjd8atb/w480-h640/430145521_10232421107214366_3013135488378676969_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">This morning I heard robins near the house. <i>Pretty-pretty-pretty</i>, they seem to boast proudly. Sparrows trill in the popple grove, crows call raucously from a distance, the heart-lifting sound of a sandhill crane comes from far overhead, and the woods rings with sounds of the busy cleanup crew, woodpeckers in dead and dying trees. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpOx17yblROpM2nQ_TrhwSIzdLivojv8BxGJKONw-vFqnXjyto_Wc3Pw7d3_N_Lg294toEEPsCbIvHRMh-h1fMUO1RCs57nVsTXcde_lIExMI-5fcPJBZARsrYRyYAkeLmpiMRNKUK3mVheSr0jOI1_FQtuU5UbY8ZFWeWqD9Kcddz2VAzo2lft65FS13/s1280/430614172_10232421106094338_2100268081696519779_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpOx17yblROpM2nQ_TrhwSIzdLivojv8BxGJKONw-vFqnXjyto_Wc3Pw7d3_N_Lg294toEEPsCbIvHRMh-h1fMUO1RCs57nVsTXcde_lIExMI-5fcPJBZARsrYRyYAkeLmpiMRNKUK3mVheSr0jOI1_FQtuU5UbY8ZFWeWqD9Kcddz2VAzo2lft65FS13/w480-h640/430614172_10232421106094338_2100268081696519779_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Spring’s arrival varies from year to year and can be quite teasing with its advances and retreats. We may yet have another blizzard. But if we do have a big snow in April, as I used to tell the Artist, “It will be a <i>spring</i> blizzard!” And sooner or later the seasonal page will be turned for good, and there will be only memories with which to answer the inevitable Up North spring question, “How was your winter?”</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY6wM9pU_YyANcCiVmN_xhifpixv9e8GMreXPWyWqzqz9A_nTv_suktcGbMWC5oynJvn7dU6l_DRZvchfRQkLv7FnB3kfmq8VeQJIZXpvsL4t9FXPy5dMvd6HMhMa-tJCLpQaIP1ff_6siSFreNY10YbK8Sv_tMEHTW4sJzv-K5mOevmORiZf8wa4oWur/s360/419516_3564179427279_235559810_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="360" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY6wM9pU_YyANcCiVmN_xhifpixv9e8GMreXPWyWqzqz9A_nTv_suktcGbMWC5oynJvn7dU6l_DRZvchfRQkLv7FnB3kfmq8VeQJIZXpvsL4t9FXPy5dMvd6HMhMa-tJCLpQaIP1ff_6siSFreNY10YbK8Sv_tMEHTW4sJzv-K5mOevmORiZf8wa4oWur/w400-h300/419516_3564179427279_235559810_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuRC14jh3Ul_h-Kst_iVfA1OOkoLdORf5xuSMNo40uR0vvthUyVqt0eRDkB9JvHvWJcIJFW9hulF3-tRXdh8g4hSBhGLk8CSYxiOrnLzFwql0OIIdRqGymE0t2GixPR20kWHsXkRvtWZb3x8onGC_LdtWuuoxxvecG0NbSc4l3Gs4dWgJc0HS3cX_9T3T/s1182/432941900_10232421101814231_1815893354932160777_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuRC14jh3Ul_h-Kst_iVfA1OOkoLdORf5xuSMNo40uR0vvthUyVqt0eRDkB9JvHvWJcIJFW9hulF3-tRXdh8g4hSBhGLk8CSYxiOrnLzFwql0OIIdRqGymE0t2GixPR20kWHsXkRvtWZb3x8onGC_LdtWuuoxxvecG0NbSc4l3Gs4dWgJc0HS3cX_9T3T/w365-h400/432941900_10232421101814231_1815893354932160777_n.jpg" width="365" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSV4dQwm7g0JoZWJfIK5Orali05FaNEA6DOyxwataY4ChDiNNOTe7MY_WnzlWEXdvG47laSRVF26R3lTyR_zSUuWodkBIaM3tPvMMVpGpYabUuUA2aueDQBzsJS2nPuZf7PlRLhOBGUkY9V0rzBYhE8Ez3m3LeuxbstsHgAAOxGDHnZyfYH3DZADDk1tM/s6000/IMG_0552.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSV4dQwm7g0JoZWJfIK5Orali05FaNEA6DOyxwataY4ChDiNNOTe7MY_WnzlWEXdvG47laSRVF26R3lTyR_zSUuWodkBIaM3tPvMMVpGpYabUuUA2aueDQBzsJS2nPuZf7PlRLhOBGUkY9V0rzBYhE8Ez3m3LeuxbstsHgAAOxGDHnZyfYH3DZADDk1tM/w400-h266/IMG_0552.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Mornings are easier and more pleasant with less cold wind and more birdsong as Sunny Juliet with her nose, I with my eyes, both of us with our ears explore a morning world that never grows stale. No two mornings –no two <i>moments!</i> -- are ever identical.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWlB5hS8MRk0EO9Ebf5umzLAfjjGEsRO15ova9EF0gqIXf65UhWU-lcvbdjAbsIhWzcDrrYVef1TYBX0WimsiZQWXDEyls0xYtGNgS-eP4HEPxivK75tZjcYN-FPkMggM0HUwtSn9pv-PmGF3eu94yYBIODmP3oEd9JpJn8qpK5ybQ6ZzI3zfbVijc3Gr/s414/432433885_394369819995786_6778518400588040497_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="233" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWlB5hS8MRk0EO9Ebf5umzLAfjjGEsRO15ova9EF0gqIXf65UhWU-lcvbdjAbsIhWzcDrrYVef1TYBX0WimsiZQWXDEyls0xYtGNgS-eP4HEPxivK75tZjcYN-FPkMggM0HUwtSn9pv-PmGF3eu94yYBIODmP3oEd9JpJn8qpK5ybQ6ZzI3zfbVijc3Gr/w360-h640/432433885_394369819995786_6778518400588040497_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading her morning newspaper</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">I’ll keep this short today. One bookish thing on my mind is the idea of a ‘page-turner.’ You know, a book you can’t stop reading until the end. It strikes me now (and I have not taken time to develop this thought) that page-turners are of at least two different sorts. Some are consumables: That kind of page-turner is like a deep tub of popcorn at a movie theatre, a near-mindless reading binge. Such books serve a purpose in our lives. They provide a day’s distraction and relief. Tomorrow we will be ready to face our own life situations again. </span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYc8tOAiL4nRVJwUeBT2jADMneMZPFo9B_ILp9DCOGOn4Tjifuwg-2GzE1dnARUXcwXV2SlK9NGtYJ0R31-ovxkdW_hB81FHBsBoRg0nnevk0sRrn4X4pWNiiekpSHQvpj1VLNczmmFig22CkNheFrmwN-HMsxomVGHaLPTmp7PiglwDNusQTde0qzb172/s2048/432760234_10232420580161190_2277125622531401885_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1713" data-original-width="2048" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYc8tOAiL4nRVJwUeBT2jADMneMZPFo9B_ILp9DCOGOn4Tjifuwg-2GzE1dnARUXcwXV2SlK9NGtYJ0R31-ovxkdW_hB81FHBsBoRg0nnevk0sRrn4X4pWNiiekpSHQvpj1VLNczmmFig22CkNheFrmwN-HMsxomVGHaLPTmp7PiglwDNusQTde0qzb172/w400-h335/432760234_10232420580161190_2277125622531401885_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">The second kind of page-turner is a life-changer, or at least a mind- or heart-changer, as well as a page-turner. We find ourselves totally immersed in a new world, seeing life through freshly opened eyes. Even familiar elements encountered in such a book evoke a new surge of love from us. <o:p></o:p>We can’t stop reading because we are spellbound, enchanted.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Those in the second group are likely to burrow into our lives for good, as precious as old friends of whom we never tire. At least, that’s how I see things this morning on the eve of the <a href="https://www.history.com/news/beware-the-ides-of-march-but-why">Ides of March</a>. How about you? And what's going on in your neck of the woods?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNgtybJxsRO6R7tA8dooyjKNo0WHKk4Xjnj7hJEAEF4nTCM2dJZzNCtdBCnE9XtKuxUVJc-zzFi46n0lrWshWi9GvmHIxzuOeOmZrQ9I2EvW7IuzuAbQ1YvqJyZkIZk46Rd-_h3c-IzHKNTYtZw2sL9uVaUlQ9pvggssAP_w5xAV4Tbiu5s6M0MfyajfL/s6000/IMG_0546.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNgtybJxsRO6R7tA8dooyjKNo0WHKk4Xjnj7hJEAEF4nTCM2dJZzNCtdBCnE9XtKuxUVJc-zzFi46n0lrWshWi9GvmHIxzuOeOmZrQ9I2EvW7IuzuAbQ1YvqJyZkIZk46Rd-_h3c-IzHKNTYtZw2sL9uVaUlQ9pvggssAP_w5xAV4Tbiu5s6M0MfyajfL/w400-h266/IMG_0546.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqhEkP5csrC4FKtkWxcLd-n-k44IQPRBwUSW2PCmJ4w7ZqHW1tEN9RyPxM2UH-OFaViAIEm16ay9XRsTE9DdzDKtPq2FqCfwZ57Ayh7SgvVC72rALW3bM40DoxI5INK42UNc4il1enBKq85MSu9TtwFVwCnw7UvKXtz_LNDREEjMLVnBNgCkMFWK0xrSh/s6000/IMG_0544.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqhEkP5csrC4FKtkWxcLd-n-k44IQPRBwUSW2PCmJ4w7ZqHW1tEN9RyPxM2UH-OFaViAIEm16ay9XRsTE9DdzDKtPq2FqCfwZ57Ayh7SgvVC72rALW3bM40DoxI5INK42UNc4il1enBKq85MSu9TtwFVwCnw7UvKXtz_LNDREEjMLVnBNgCkMFWK0xrSh/w400-h266/IMG_0544.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will there be more? Stay tuned!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">For what I learned in a very, very important new film, tap <a href="https://lackingaclearfocus.blogspot.com/2024/03/resilience.html">here</a>. For a comforting soup, winter or summer, tap <a href="https://frommypariskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/03/hot-or-cold-you-choose.html">here</a>. Thank you for sharing links with anything you find worth sharing.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-3637677567801720472024-03-07T11:32:00.000-08:002024-03-09T04:42:53.047-08:00If You Know Me, This Is Not News<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlONgvLwwH5bSC4gDWV86ovsELG9FdS__kKbdik-9C4gOdPR-qHfcFPDiN-IrcFRiytjrJBaiFDJ0O5XaHg0shiSPzx1ATGpgZcphxx1aVErJhFxTj1TycBj5K9Vwjuw-4Ju4FNmWZIHFNfRHHFHGThE5WntPevP9FiOvO7Rrlbo6j270zK7TXmeuwsuU/s320/MI%20Leelanau%20County%20Boynton%20School%20Interior%20DS%202016.JPG" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 24px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivlONgvLwwH5bSC4gDWV86ovsELG9FdS__kKbdik-9C4gOdPR-qHfcFPDiN-IrcFRiytjrJBaiFDJ0O5XaHg0shiSPzx1ATGpgZcphxx1aVErJhFxTj1TycBj5K9Vwjuw-4Ju4FNmWZIHFNfRHHFHGThE5WntPevP9FiOvO7Rrlbo6j270zK7TXmeuwsuU/w400-h300/MI%20Leelanau%20County%20Boynton%20School%20Interior%20DS%202016.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old school, Empire, Michigan</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">“Old School”<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Yes, I am “Old School,” as the phrase is used nowadays – as an adjective for someone who clings to old ways rather than leaping (blindly, I would say) into every new technology that comes along and leaving the tried-and-true behind. Recently a friend told me about a family whose expensive home is completely “paperless,” and I was, frankly, appalled. Family members read books and magazines but don’t keep them when they have finished reading. Out they go!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">My first thought was, how terrible that would be for babysitters! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">I was remembering a family I babysat for regularly in my old home neighborhood, a young couple who had only two printed items in their home, the current <i>TV Guide</i> and a tattered Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog. The parents stayed out late when they went out, there was only one child, and the parents paid well, but the barrenness of their home environment made the hours heavy going. These days, though, I suppose babysitters are simply glued to their phones after the children go to sleep. It’s a different world….</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvrhGNQp5IIC-TZD1SwmMRqLpUefHQd8HEW-D5WO_OyBRfQzGMyzViibdlzdSIAT8nAsl1-hd5dGrwA_waSeJz3gQ3scFoagr4NY_jYI6Ij4T3HReo4IMDSfJ5rqu7hLQ7qrLQQkxJeIS1FBV2DBdNzNxBEjlWPOcrpDM2651N92UCTF99GrelaqsN80m/s1280/429783416_10232387391331490_111670937844369518_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvrhGNQp5IIC-TZD1SwmMRqLpUefHQd8HEW-D5WO_OyBRfQzGMyzViibdlzdSIAT8nAsl1-hd5dGrwA_waSeJz3gQ3scFoagr4NY_jYI6Ij4T3HReo4IMDSfJ5rqu7hLQ7qrLQQkxJeIS1FBV2DBdNzNxBEjlWPOcrpDM2651N92UCTF99GrelaqsN80m/w480-h640/429783416_10232387391331490_111670937844369518_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three letters went out in the mail to friends this morning.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Someone who is “Old School” writes letters on paper, buys stamps for the envelopes, and trusts to the United States Postal Service to deliver. (Thank you, Benjamin Franklin and USPS!) One day last week I hit the jackpot and found <i>four letters</i> from friends waiting in my post office box. <i>Jackpot!!!</i> Letter-writing is not about immediate gratification but about taking time, “spending time” with absent friends, anticipation, and so much more. Follow this link to <a href="https://leelanauletterwriters.org">Leelanau Letter Writers</a> and see if you might want to join a slow movement.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuSXp066uksvlGhzRH5fUmrsfxAxRkvrZNNzk-jxvoZKD01jXdvY7Ioilr0aVLAYxBZjYXReGKuatXNimBcZKNK5iwJhvIXCYHTeaXbxTm9KH5ZLDYkP09evz8GokNvawIeVWrt87t5d-L2Tk2yBDMyU8idBgZR6kFwNPBmlBLRFlFqnEnuX3PRjxwSoe-/s1280/430040323_10232387416172111_1159224313406362260_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuSXp066uksvlGhzRH5fUmrsfxAxRkvrZNNzk-jxvoZKD01jXdvY7Ioilr0aVLAYxBZjYXReGKuatXNimBcZKNK5iwJhvIXCYHTeaXbxTm9KH5ZLDYkP09evz8GokNvawIeVWrt87t5d-L2Tk2yBDMyU8idBgZR6kFwNPBmlBLRFlFqnEnuX3PRjxwSoe-/w400-h300/430040323_10232387416172111_1159224313406362260_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDl-Bs214woqpljHmLfEV4_vJnfeXQz1tPPJDBxvBf8oI_gU4GzXpBwT-27RveB21iUNMU1dOQsrQsc6NlTz-b10uePpIkQ5UUVghvlBH4bU7R-B3ki7f2zQz8lxbvxqZhx37BJZ74nYEkJemxNClZfnMO4mnpDkjxDn91LWi0sWQJ-hkilVHHghNT3MwL/s1440/428694124_10232388327474893_6012677220559331608_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDl-Bs214woqpljHmLfEV4_vJnfeXQz1tPPJDBxvBf8oI_gU4GzXpBwT-27RveB21iUNMU1dOQsrQsc6NlTz-b10uePpIkQ5UUVghvlBH4bU7R-B3ki7f2zQz8lxbvxqZhx37BJZ74nYEkJemxNClZfnMO4mnpDkjxDn91LWi0sWQJ-hkilVHHghNT3MwL/w480-h640/428694124_10232388327474893_6012677220559331608_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well-used and well-loved road atlases from my home shelves --</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNxYgyr8zDCMgqnsAK0dXGOsR2F3PWexhhR1Ag9_tyRUuzm07YcdTBUCmIRo6ew8Q-T7cj9wjljmo75jwp0gsMaW3PFaLg_CJF29Xv3zF8_Q5Tp8A7TKWuMfg8-yFirJ9BRL9KuGZq8D99d2x5dR_431vZHie993s_jQfw9ScDV_i-CPVEqx3WFVq8T5Wd/s1280/road%20taken.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNxYgyr8zDCMgqnsAK0dXGOsR2F3PWexhhR1Ag9_tyRUuzm07YcdTBUCmIRo6ew8Q-T7cj9wjljmo75jwp0gsMaW3PFaLg_CJF29Xv3zF8_Q5Tp8A7TKWuMfg8-yFirJ9BRL9KuGZq8D99d2x5dR_431vZHie993s_jQfw9ScDV_i-CPVEqx3WFVq8T5Wd/w480-h640/road%20taken.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A road taken....</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Someone who is “Old School” loves maps – maps <i>on</i> <i>paper!</i> Yes, everyone can access maps on their phones and, in newer model cars, on screens built into the dashboard, but when you zoom in for detail, you lose the big picture, and <i>I want both at once!</i> I also want to make notes on the pages. A 2015 atlas is not “outdated” for me; it is redolent of trips taken and sights seen, possible roads as well as those remembered, because dreaming over maps is also another form of armchair travel. There are places I have never been, except through books and movies and maps. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaZh8IoSLePSJD4cw8d4BgcqGb9uVpIFFrhc1QtNogM5TOvMNhP2eeESq0xHiKbmsWTgeJB_kB4uscPTb0MiIw9m_Hu7-8TJUM8uBRZeTqxxC9xpfwIKh-Cq8inHsxn_SaIOJuVME4Cg0sR2w7FW5apAsTIx1twk3KuQ-dx0gLryCDTOe0kwCzI9SrJbok/s4000/20240307_121826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaZh8IoSLePSJD4cw8d4BgcqGb9uVpIFFrhc1QtNogM5TOvMNhP2eeESq0xHiKbmsWTgeJB_kB4uscPTb0MiIw9m_Hu7-8TJUM8uBRZeTqxxC9xpfwIKh-Cq8inHsxn_SaIOJuVME4Cg0sR2w7FW5apAsTIx1twk3KuQ-dx0gLryCDTOe0kwCzI9SrJbok/s320/20240307_121826.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ivy isn't plastic, either.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Writing checks is <i>really</i> “Old School,” and I make no apology for paying my bills with checks. How many companies do I want to have access to my bank account to grab what they say I owe? How large a balance do I want on my credit card to pay off every month? Fewer and fewer people bring either cash or checks to my bookstore, and I’ve adjusted to the changing times in that regard (there’s no staying in business without adaptation to change), but I prefer to pay my own business expenses and home bills by check. When told by another business a few days ago that they have “no way to process checks,” I was more than a little annoyed by that flimsy excuse. They had no problem “processing” the cash I handed over, and the “process” is the same: check or cash, deposit it in your business account! I have not stayed in business for over three decades by passing bad checks and do not care for the implied – though carefully disguised – insinuation. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyB8pWUNSOVb970yT3j5kmJmQpR40ntysUy0nDJZY9pzeVXv1qq4XjJUsqK-JGMrmLRtSQ8y4-h4LQqPYE6vdQ6ti5Vs98JXSQArgb30kwVVu7J4BpqziTIeuCUx6kX4dR3xh5Sm0J0wkZm1q6XgfXxB6WelYjAebsIsUVG9VJFRh7v2OKbc4XCPjddDR8/s2048/430023833_10232387392691524_9211808019155053943_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1687" data-original-width="2048" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyB8pWUNSOVb970yT3j5kmJmQpR40ntysUy0nDJZY9pzeVXv1qq4XjJUsqK-JGMrmLRtSQ8y4-h4LQqPYE6vdQ6ti5Vs98JXSQArgb30kwVVu7J4BpqziTIeuCUx6kX4dR3xh5Sm0J0wkZm1q6XgfXxB6WelYjAebsIsUVG9VJFRh7v2OKbc4XCPjddDR8/w400-h330/430023833_10232387392691524_9211808019155053943_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home library bookshelves reflected on glass of photograph</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Finally, being “Old School” means loving <b><i>books!!!</i></b><i> Printed books, bound books, books on paper</i> – the descendants of the 4<sup>th</sup> century Greek <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Codex-Sinaiticus">Codex Sinaiticus</a>. Handier than scrolls, much lighter in weight than stone tablets, books properly bound and cared for can outlast the civilizations that produce them. Take a look at the <a href="https://www.getty.edu/news/what-is-a-codex/">Florentine Codex</a>, a 12-volume work on the Nahua culture in Mexico, before and during colonization by Spain, with a general explanation of what constitutes a codex. A proud tradition of literacy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">For me, having my own home library is essential to feeling at home at all. Besides books, I also have many physical albums of photographs. Although more modern people (more modern than I will ever be) are content to store their “books” and “photographs” in a “cloud,” make no mistake about it: A cloud isn’t some physical warehouse in the sky; it’s just someone else’s bigger computer somewhere else, and that’s not good enough for me. I want to know that my photographs will be in my albums every time I open the covers, just as I want to know that the books in my home library will contain the same words, in the same order, every time I open to see and read <i>those</i> pages. No one is going to hack into some distant computer and alter my favorite histories, novels, essays, or poetry books!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">(I don’t want “<a href="https://northbranchnaturecenter.org/online/naturewalks/">virtual nature</a>,” either. I want <i>nature</i>, the real thing. What is the point of living on earth if we have to live as if we’re on a space station?) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">As I say, if you know me, none of this is news to you, and if we’ve never met you might guess at some of it because, after all, I have been a bookseller, with an <a href="https://lithub.com/the-big-highs-and-deep-lows-of-opening-an-independent-bookstore/">open shop, i.e., a “bricks & mortar” location</a> for over 30 years. Are independent bookstores all disappearing? The people who think so are not regular bookstore customers. Does nobody read any more? The people who ask the question are not readers. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Other questions people ask: “Where do you get all your books?” and “Have you read every book in here?” The answer to the second question is no. As for the first question, there is no single answer. Some books I buy, some are donated to me, some are brought in by customers for trade credit. I don’t have time to spend running around to auctions and garage sales, but occasionally I’ll be invited to take a look at a private library and make an offer – or simply take off their hands as many books as I think I can use. In the past few weeks, I had a chance to look at three different collections that needed to be downsized or dismantled. <i>Classics</i>, being classics, are always in demand; in a village on the Great Lakes with a maritime history and a beautiful modern marina, <i>boating</i> books are always important for my collection; and <i>philosophy</i>, while hardly a bestselling section, is one of my personal specialties, so I was happy to fill gaps that had appeared on those shelves. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tm2wFekb5gYBz1iMYKPNZ-R2cg9_iA8btx5qwKoCLPPCITKNhE-pHj1cZ0Q-xXBjCOMcEw0CrDEy8xNBqBzQP1F1cmkXWZcRkhQGvPc4PGIi2vb59TGpPsMaR_DnIyxuZletdMPan2cXdhyphenhyphenv0SgdR7fZ7EiiY4iL4YfoP3g-Yws8aYQqk26ZhRPz6Bga/s1280/431645320_10232386984881329_8472956237574472979_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tm2wFekb5gYBz1iMYKPNZ-R2cg9_iA8btx5qwKoCLPPCITKNhE-pHj1cZ0Q-xXBjCOMcEw0CrDEy8xNBqBzQP1F1cmkXWZcRkhQGvPc4PGIi2vb59TGpPsMaR_DnIyxuZletdMPan2cXdhyphenhyphenv0SgdR7fZ7EiiY4iL4YfoP3g-Yws8aYQqk26ZhRPz6Bga/w480-h640/431645320_10232386984881329_8472956237574472979_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aviation had to move over in the bookcase with military history ...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0ITQpETEb8bR0tgTriS1A4cIM06R_8O99AKYbLDRzbnRsFhNbkUT2nByXSTLQGPDNikSVIInthywnRsQRtmStueUj6SrNr34zzu8GMYNDLwv8Re44owXszzBSNNPd4azFrs2ZS7FSLIcnHO2eoY6CAIBkJr2qay0gPuPYXF8uOIgc6IhgCxjt8ohaodJ/s2048/430028118_10232386990401467_8385698376215715486_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy0ITQpETEb8bR0tgTriS1A4cIM06R_8O99AKYbLDRzbnRsFhNbkUT2nByXSTLQGPDNikSVIInthywnRsQRtmStueUj6SrNr34zzu8GMYNDLwv8Re44owXszzBSNNPd4azFrs2ZS7FSLIcnHO2eoY6CAIBkJr2qay0gPuPYXF8uOIgc6IhgCxjt8ohaodJ/w480-h640/430028118_10232386990401467_8385698376215715486_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">to make room for more boating books, with more in the way.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguL_zBEUG1Jcv5DYarHFS7Q4CORaDwPtsO5Fn0kAjDiJFW1vhDWYn5hC2loVpA66d7zJUkXe44P4OKJbQnMzn782CufJ9utbMeZSFSGmppMXnhBjsP3cz0vs1LeZoaKijV_KQeYBkwVDADiJ06rrknRRqMtUAwPSOGcMxXa1W6RHbWsc0wpw8x76hesXkR/s2048/429799581_10232386990121460_3354517690491368511_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguL_zBEUG1Jcv5DYarHFS7Q4CORaDwPtsO5Fn0kAjDiJFW1vhDWYn5hC2loVpA66d7zJUkXe44P4OKJbQnMzn782CufJ9utbMeZSFSGmppMXnhBjsP3cz0vs1LeZoaKijV_KQeYBkwVDADiJ06rrknRRqMtUAwPSOGcMxXa1W6RHbWsc0wpw8x76hesXkR/w480-h640/429799581_10232386990121460_3354517690491368511_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Philosophy got a complete reorganization ...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4qHDI-eUAYhrBL56JgPnPvTguVFCAPhqEBbrnczKLBhMjRYrhB0Aj-ciUUWx3hKxMbHnpAVh8xpEuwHtvuRPKNWau0mkJiTvoj3iKuWhumLLoogTqm1hRbe4zUWn2sqo7PkHnGXwYq_hjhd1NtQO-cQoOSlsp2MzHMZ6exxs3vW449aP8u4TIGqbqNcT/s1280/430023294_10232386990761476_7846817328348820914_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4qHDI-eUAYhrBL56JgPnPvTguVFCAPhqEBbrnczKLBhMjRYrhB0Aj-ciUUWx3hKxMbHnpAVh8xpEuwHtvuRPKNWau0mkJiTvoj3iKuWhumLLoogTqm1hRbe4zUWn2sqo7PkHnGXwYq_hjhd1NtQO-cQoOSlsp2MzHMZ6exxs3vW449aP8u4TIGqbqNcT/w480-h640/430023294_10232386990761476_7846817328348820914_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from A to Z.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Audiobooks<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Now, before anyone takes me to task for my old-fashioned ways, let me say that I understand perfectly well that as we age, there can be problems with eyesight or even trouble with hands, either making the holding and reading of physical books difficult -- or maybe you just want to listen to a book while on your stationary bicycle --- so this “Old School” bookseller has jumped on a modern bandwagon with <a href="http://libro.fm">libro.fm</a> for your listening pleasure. Your audiobooks won’t cost you any more on libro.fm than you would pay <a href="https://blog.libro.fm/authors-are-fighting-amazons-audible/">the online behemoth</a>, you can choose an independent bookstore to support, and naturally I will be happy to have you choose Dog Ears Books. Thank you!!!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglOj4zEj0tE4es3k92YrkrBvAx1kox2OPhd5da10UqY8hAkefFt32AC0XZYdbT2Ot7HKZEFVgzkWzIBpWn5mFOeutvNZu2VUTBGweKhR3fO7RxtjhJkLn4TRsAUDCEZnd5MoJhoJ1NNmoPcfT9WFJ8oA7aU17hs4A-lNdD4iQshFtQpwPhahwcIdiCOr4c/s1600/MI%20Leelanau%20County%20Maple%20City%20School%20DS%202015.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglOj4zEj0tE4es3k92YrkrBvAx1kox2OPhd5da10UqY8hAkefFt32AC0XZYdbT2Ot7HKZEFVgzkWzIBpWn5mFOeutvNZu2VUTBGweKhR3fO7RxtjhJkLn4TRsAUDCEZnd5MoJhoJ1NNmoPcfT9WFJ8oA7aU17hs4A-lNdD4iQshFtQpwPhahwcIdiCOr4c/w400-h300/MI%20Leelanau%20County%20Maple%20City%20School%20DS%202015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old school, Maple City, Michigan</td></tr></tbody></table>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-38232815572248784422024-03-01T09:00:00.000-08:002024-03-05T06:37:25.415-08:00Feast of St. David; February Books<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUD3Wgv8r5QVqPqMwny9Zh9aF_lAS4lHdN29Fle-LWC57N1CGDt9E27w5xacnWlDljVz4E7-Wxc4v7aZJW7xpedQwtT7wGfMO3UReShQrhcDZX7rD6p6S_cIfojxUbrEhQCPQFkKAWEyfHWmmK25LXbLokekn6Hk0vrp77NznlXCveuywhJNKsbipLG-K/s2048/430050082_10232356660963250_2176725298031006141_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1843" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUD3Wgv8r5QVqPqMwny9Zh9aF_lAS4lHdN29Fle-LWC57N1CGDt9E27w5xacnWlDljVz4E7-Wxc4v7aZJW7xpedQwtT7wGfMO3UReShQrhcDZX7rD6p6S_cIfojxUbrEhQCPQFkKAWEyfHWmmK25LXbLokekn6Hk0vrp77NznlXCveuywhJNKsbipLG-K/w400-h360/430050082_10232356660963250_2176725298031006141_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Omena Bay: blue sky, blue water</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">It was a<i> gorgeous</i> morning! The only problem was, for me, that there were no daffodils to be had, for love nor money, anywhere in northern Leelanau County! You see, March 1 is the Feast Day of St. David, patron saint of Wales. (In Welsh, the Hebrew name David becomes Dafydd; either way, ‘beloved’ is the meaning of the name. Dafydd ap Llywelyn was Prince of Wales from 1240 to 1246, others claiming the title through the years.) And as a day to remember the saint canonized in 1120, and also to honor Wales, the feast day is marked with bright yellow daffodils and green leeks. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAE6qdWdbtlQxN4QV0zsuIwf8F_I5IPq0mpE6lSxgtriJsq9qBMxeAe2j_Oqg1GWmVPYOa8hkJcAC_PoV7XDXrYNxnTqKvz6Tfl6TCz8-BKPZGsDYXEG0HHCe2eK9MLFLeL0lo1DJKG1IAghQUXS0ZdY8U8iiyJml1rHU9qxT20GPGsxVTK9oe4tzaaTi/s2955/430062461_10232356660763245_1704693249438246985_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1418" data-original-width="2955" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAE6qdWdbtlQxN4QV0zsuIwf8F_I5IPq0mpE6lSxgtriJsq9qBMxeAe2j_Oqg1GWmVPYOa8hkJcAC_PoV7XDXrYNxnTqKvz6Tfl6TCz8-BKPZGsDYXEG0HHCe2eK9MLFLeL0lo1DJKG1IAghQUXS0ZdY8U8iiyJml1rHU9qxT20GPGsxVTK9oe4tzaaTi/w400-h193/430062461_10232356660763245_1704693249438246985_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leeks were twice the price they should have been, but I bought them.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">So I'll make do with images of daffodils from old posts, for today I am remembering my late husband, the Artist, David Grath, and also my late friend Annie Pritchard, who was Welsh to the core, both still beloved by many in their absence. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrRsIfhL55vVDcB3zv-qzl5u8-Viv6gUceCuvS5_9Im3J78wnaQso0MsUJfFKJvJxNm5bLBn9HF6rFMBHhOuFPGp6MCrZ1xhvXaDIq73fJmg8TcA3K8saRMYuyze-BPuc-PosxmW8jUmuDErnv-2QWLI-nzGZtVk78vP0YBAHylbUaVBv4v84MDzGW8V5/s1600/IMG_2640.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrRsIfhL55vVDcB3zv-qzl5u8-Viv6gUceCuvS5_9Im3J78wnaQso0MsUJfFKJvJxNm5bLBn9HF6rFMBHhOuFPGp6MCrZ1xhvXaDIq73fJmg8TcA3K8saRMYuyze-BPuc-PosxmW8jUmuDErnv-2QWLI-nzGZtVk78vP0YBAHylbUaVBv4v84MDzGW8V5/w640-h360/IMG_2640.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4/27/2013</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><u>Books Read in February 2024</u></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">20.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wallace, David Rains. <i>The Turquoise Dragon</i> (fiction). A mystery, the story naturally begins with the discovery of a dead body, and from there complications sprout and multiply. Descriptions of hiking (not for pleasure) in California mountains had me picturing every step, but after all the suspense and hair-raising situations, escalating as the number of pages left diminished, I have to say I was disappointed in the way the book ended – or, rather, stopped. I inspected the binding thoroughly, thinking that final pages must have been left out or removed by a previous reader, but no, apparently not. Many loose ends. Rats! <i>Authors! Denouement, please!</i>*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">21.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shoemaker, Jan. <i>Slow Learner: Essays</i> (nonfiction). I met the author when she visited my bookstore with her previous book of essays, <i>Flesh and Stones: Field Notes from a Finite World</i>, and was very happy to receive this new volume in the mail. I devoured it much faster than I should have, always saying to myself at the end of one essay, “Just one more.” Shoemaker writes beautifully of life in her corner of the world, which of course connects to all other corners in one way or another.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">22.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Horowitz, Anthony. <i>Magpie Murders</i> (fiction). Something light and entertaining for the weekend, I thought, and it was that, but it was also much more. A murder mystery within a murder mystery, the ‘outer’ story (as it were) is told by the editor of the author of the ‘inner’ story. Horowitz did not make things easy for himself when he concocted this tale, but his skill is equal to the challenge.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">23.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Westover, Tara. <i>Educated</i> (nonfiction). I couldn’t recall if I’d read this book before but remembered a friend raving about it. About halfway through it began to seem familiar, but by then I couldn’t stop, of course. Kept away from doctors and out of school, with no birth certificate until she was nine years old, Tara’s hunger for learning had enormous obstacles to overcome, but overcome them she did. Now with a Ph.D. in history from Cambridge, what will she do next?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">24.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Deloria, Vine Jr. <i>God Is Red: A Native View of Religion</i> (nonfiction). Basically a history of Western Christianity and comparison of that to Native American religions, the latter being place- and community-specific, the former claiming universality, this is a serious theological treatment and not a book to be skimmed. Well worth reading; highly recommended.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">25.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqqUMqh_sGI">Gibbings, Robert</a>. <i>Coming Down the Seine</i> (nonfiction). Any book by this Irish writer and artist is a peaceful escape from all that ails. A solo traveler, he made friends everywhere along his way, and his ways were as various as dreams. The illustrations in his books are his own and as lovely as the writings. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">26.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Doyle, Brian. <i>One Long River of Song</i> (nonfiction). Celebratory essays on the wonder of ordinary things, the final volume from this author before his death. Surprises on every page. Sometimes you are caught sideways and laugh out loud when you least expect it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">27.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mosley, Walter. <i>All I Did Was Shoot My Man</i> (fiction). This is one of the author’s Leonid McGill series and, while not among my top favorite Mosley novels, engrossing enough that I couldn’t put it down as McGill seeks to make amends for past sins and finds nothing but more trouble for himself and others.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">28.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Theroux, Paul. <i>Millroy the Magician</i> (fiction). I kept hoping the narrative meander would develop an arc, but it never did. <i>Lolita</i> without either the sex or the insights. Desperate finale hardly seemed a conclusion. Theroux has written some wonderful books, but this isn’t one of them.*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">29.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Short, Wayne. <i>This Raw Land</i> (nonfiction). The author brought a bride to Alaska in the mid-1950s, where they began their married life fishing together for salmon. In the winter, Wayne and his brothers camped and trapped far from home base. Eventually, he and his wife and two young sons spent a winter of isolation on Murder Bay, where Wayne had taken on the job of dismantling a canning factory for the lumber to build a larger house for his growing family. Alaska became a state, and change was in the air….</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">30.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jance, J.A. <i>Paradise Lost</i> (fiction). I am a total sucker for Jance’s Sheriff Joanna Brady series, set in Cochise County, and this one will keep you guessing until the end, as a good mystery should do, but I also love it for the locales: the road to old Fort Bowie was just 8 miles from my beloved ghost town, and the Chiricahua Mountains less than 20 more down the road. Even <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2022/04/mourning-is-mountain-road.html">Onion Saddle</a> gets into the story! I felt right at home. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">31.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Merrick, Leonard. <i>A Chair on the Boulevard</i> (fiction). Light, humorous stories featuring a host of impecunious artists (painters and writers) and artistes (performers) in Montmartre in the days before the arrival of the horseless carriage. English dialogue presented as literal word-for-word translation from French exaggerates the comedy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">32.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shaw, Irwin. <i>Paris! Paris!</i> (nonfiction). Wonderfully illustrated by Ronald Searle, in this book Shaw looks at Paris through his own experiences over many years, beginning with the exciting chaos of the Liberation in 1945 and through many changes in the city. Whether you know Paris or simply wish you did, this book will fill you with longing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">33.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Proulx, Annie. <i>Fen, Bog & Swamp: A Short History of Peatland Destruction and Its Role in the Climate Crisis</i> (nonfiction). As a longtime lover of “swamps” (I had no other words as a child for various types of wetlands), I felt called by this title. I was a bit afraid it might be too full of dates and numbers to be readable, but such was not the case. Proulx is a lover of wetlands herself, hence the book. A bibliography would have been helpful.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">34.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Herman, Mimi. <i>The Kudzu Queen</i> (fiction). Mystery without murder, suspense without gunfire or car chases, this book kept me up way past my bedtime. Fifteen-year-old Mathilda, called Maddie, seems an unlikely candidate for a beauty pageant, but the golden-haired, smooth-talking Kudzu King has turned her head. Where will it all end? Now, is the story 100% believable? Does it have to be? I willingly suspended disbelief. A real page-turner!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">35.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Dionne, Karen. <i>The Wicked Sister</i> (fiction). Psychological thriller suspense is not exactly my genre (I wouldn’t call this novel a murder mystery), but with a Michigan author and a story set in the U.P., I gave it a shot. As far as mystery goes, it was what a friend would call “a thin bowl of soup” (i.e, not mysterious), and there are loose ends aplenty, but the author has clearly set us up for a sequel down the road.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">36.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Coetzee, J.M. <i>Waiting for the Barbarians</i> (fiction). If you’re looking for lightweight escape reading, this is not for you, but the beautiful writing of a gradually unfolding brutal parable, which could almost be set at any time, past, present, or future, ensures that once you read this novel, you will never forget it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">37.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gibbings, Robert. <i>Lovely Is the Lee</i> (nonfiction). Thanks to books, we can travel back into the past and faraway visit places in their most lovely and most peaceful times. How did people live in Ireland in the mid-20th century, and what stories did they tell? The author’s illustrations add to the spell.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">38.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Smith, Alexander McCall. <i>My Italian Motorcycle</i> (fiction). A Scotsman’s plan to finish his book in the Italian countryside takes a surprising turn when no rental cars are available. Pure, gentle delight! For all who love Italy … or think they would … or simply need a break from the harsh edges of the nonfictional world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">39.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>McGinley, Patrick. <i>Bogmail</i> (fiction). A pub owner in rural Ireland murders his barman and buries him in the bog, then begins receiving blackmail letters. Which of the pub regulars is the “bogmailer”? One of the locals or the Englishman? Lyrical landscape writing, detailed Raskolnikovian account of the murderer’s increasingly unsettled state of mind – and a most unsatisfying finish, with loose ends galore, a fault shared with #20 and #28 in this list.*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">40.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Van Gulik, Robert. <i>Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee</i> (<i>Dee Goong An</i>) (fiction). Not one to be gentle with those he suspects, Judge Dee lands on the criminal every time. Illustrated. Tortures in the courtroom and grisly varieties of capital punishment but an interesting look into a different historical period and culture.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">41.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yu, Charles. <i>Interior Chinatown</i> (fiction). What parts are real life, and how much is acting? When a dream comes true (Generic Asian Man becomes Kung Fu Hero) but fails to fulfill, what then? The author brilliantly plays off Erving Goffman’s <i>Presentation of Self in Everyday Life</i> (nonfiction) to create a dramatic novel whose characters you’ll love. Serious and fun at the same time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">42.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Whitehead, Colson. <i>Zone One</i> (fiction). Post-apocalyptic fiction is not usually at the top of my list, and I have never read a book about zombies before, but I couldn’t resist a novel by Colson Whitehead. What an amazing writer! I kept thinking how much David Foster Wallace would have appreciated this masterfully written book. I also wondered whether I should take it as fantasy (in which case, zombies don’t scare me, since they don’t exist) or as an allegory for our times – in which case, it is terrifying! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">43.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Leon, Donna. <i>Friends in High Places</i> (fiction). Leon’s are not formulaic murder mysteries. Set in Venice, the stories are presented by the author as realistic episodes in Venetian life, where government is rife with corruption, the Mafia is strong, and murderers are not necessarily brought to justice. The 1960s idealism of Commissario Brunetti and his professora wife, Paola, have taken a beating over the years, but Brunetti holds to what shreds of justice he can find in his police work.</span></p><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">*And now, aspiring novelists and/or readers, if you missed my preceding post, in which I harp about problematic beginnings and endings of novels, you can find it <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/02/two-very-different-topics-first-trend-i.html">here</a>.</span><div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">For today, Happy St. David's Day!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMAyeyuGBwnILh3Ec0DfGgaaF5PGe0Jk4Q5-2w5VaJSvWAUaXeHp-x76pNnRQwyRw-dLuI918GRfDL4QZssk6o4OjjXdOyVhiNf_ec0k5mDAIaEWXclXsXWobkyn1rgrt5wnnNYvMA2Nky0muUljF18qoed_H4PPtkEv4-x0gnC9leJd65l2WCS_eMAF6r/s640/5:6:14.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMAyeyuGBwnILh3Ec0DfGgaaF5PGe0Jk4Q5-2w5VaJSvWAUaXeHp-x76pNnRQwyRw-dLuI918GRfDL4QZssk6o4OjjXdOyVhiNf_ec0k5mDAIaEWXclXsXWobkyn1rgrt5wnnNYvMA2Nky0muUljF18qoed_H4PPtkEv4-x0gnC9leJd65l2WCS_eMAF6r/w480-h640/5:6:14.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daffodils from May 6, 2014</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">For David and for Annie, Jane, and Curig --</span></div>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-33727654927126692292024-02-28T14:52:00.000-08:002024-03-08T10:13:26.234-08:00 Two Very Different Topics: First, A Trend I Despise; Then, Advice to Aspiring Novelists<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHFKCcLOCnTj7-z4-YvFDdORsgA2Cp0GSOSBPM9I5drMI3-tqAL00MuJ1ScBnBAN-mIbfWUTbqmkCJTEPBonAeLiN2iqY6iYfkkv1AmZaPlrwGsBv_YkWLoPgaV2kr8JHQIRTO3ho9slUxociIcvT0pLL_CYcvq1bXgjyKh73PmNmPyY7QHsX9M9wR0mK/s2048/430035693_10232344679423719_7417596471370967622_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHFKCcLOCnTj7-z4-YvFDdORsgA2Cp0GSOSBPM9I5drMI3-tqAL00MuJ1ScBnBAN-mIbfWUTbqmkCJTEPBonAeLiN2iqY6iYfkkv1AmZaPlrwGsBv_YkWLoPgaV2kr8JHQIRTO3ho9slUxociIcvT0pLL_CYcvq1bXgjyKh73PmNmPyY7QHsX9M9wR0mK/w480-h640/430035693_10232344679423719_7417596471370967622_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuesday afternoon, 2/27/24, 64 degrees and sunny -- like a day in May!</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">First, online sellers:<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">An increasing common trend on multiple-dealer book sites has to do with the so-called “descriptions” some dealers are attaching to books they offer for sale. For example, for one title I searched, a copy offered was graded as Good, the so-called “description” reading as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Missing dust jacket; Pages <i>can</i> have notes/highlighting. Spine <i>may</i> show signs of wear. </span></blockquote><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">I have italicized the words ‘can’ and ‘may’ to indicate my objection: The seller is simply giving a (partial) generic description to accompany the grade “good,” without reference to the particular copy beyond saying that it lacks a dust jacket. I don’t want to buy a book with highlighting! <i><u>Has</u> someone defaced the pages with highlighting <u>or not</u>?</i> I understand that a book graded as “good” <i>may </i>show wear on the spine ends, but <i><u>does</u> this copy have worn ends, and if so, how bad are they?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">By contrast, here is what can truly be called a description:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Clean and unmarked anywhere; front gutter cracked but binding firm; lovely engravings by author; unfaded green boards with gilt lettering and ornamentation on red patches well protected by pictorial dj that has chipping at edges, but protected from further wear by Brodart cover. Good in unclipped dj, plus Brodart jacket.</span></blockquote><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Both online dealers offer books for sale, but I would dignify only the second with the title ‘bookseller.’ Notice that both sellers have graded their copies (of the same title) as Good. Which copy would you feel more confident purchasing?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJfr-xE7KkLPbWZf_5AXrnubXKZAY7r2C9aV0ZjaeGitszXEX6ZZS-F5BP36AEW9XqjMfeLuRtWTHjvL5h1U6QK4XFFtz_Tw9CUB23i23YRoXPetUj5rERpsG9s-y5Eaprga4rS8MD-bmk0SYyvudY7CVDpAZwkQv46LVg3anj0Dci-dvHBZoFqFHW8be/s3264/20240228_161107.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJfr-xE7KkLPbWZf_5AXrnubXKZAY7r2C9aV0ZjaeGitszXEX6ZZS-F5BP36AEW9XqjMfeLuRtWTHjvL5h1U6QK4XFFtz_Tw9CUB23i23YRoXPetUj5rERpsG9s-y5Eaprga4rS8MD-bmk0SYyvudY7CVDpAZwkQv46LVg3anj0Dci-dvHBZoFqFHW8be/w480-h640/20240228_161107.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am very happy with the copy I bought.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Here is a <a href="https://firstsmagazine.com/grading-books/">general guideline for grading</a> collectible books, with grades ranging from Very Fine (VG) down to Good (G). <a href="https://www.abebooks.com/books/rarebooks/collecting-guide/understanding-rare-books/guide-book-conditions.shtml">In general, used books</a> not attractive to collectors but still desirable to readers or other book dealers may be given lower grades than Good, such as Fair; Poor; Binding Copy; or Reading Copy. Guides explain how to assign a grade, but only the seller can provide the specific information to explain how s/he arrived at that grade for a particular copy. Saying a copy “can” or “may” have such and such a flaw is not a description. It is a sign of unprofessionalism and laziness. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">I stopped listing books for sale online when the site I listed with was bought by the behemoth and a different format put in place for uploading titles, as my old lists could not simply be transferred to the new format, and there was no one “at the other end” to help. Add to that my reality as a one-person operation, a “Mom&Pop” that was and is (even more so now) just “Mom.” With no second person on-site who could devote fulltime to uploading titles to be sold online, and then factoring in the “<a href="https://english.stackexchange.com/questions/566470/origin-of-race-to-the-bottom">race to the bottom</a>” for prices (one dealer would list a book for $15, the next would list the same book for $12, and so on down to $1.99), it wasn’t worth my time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Given that race to the bottom on prices asked, along with the fact that processing an order for a $4 book is less time-consuming than processing an order for a $40 book (listing, delisting, packaging, shipping, and sometimes communicating with the buyer), you can see why sellers without traditional bookman standards would cut corners with their descriptions, but that's not the way I do business, and I prefer to deal with honest-to-goodness booksellers – preferably with open shops – who adhere to my standards. I don’t care to waste my time buying something I’ll be disappointed to receive – and that I wouldn’t want to sell to my own bookstore customers.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Now, to change the subject. I was going to add the notes below at the end of my February Books Read list, since three different books I read this month prompted these thoughts, but I decided to post them separately today and get it out of the way. Words to the wise!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><u>Advice to Novelists and Wannabes</u><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><b><u>Beginning the novel</u></b>: Beginning fiction writers often have a problem with getting their novels started, wanting to include too much backstory on every character. A good editor will tell them, “<i>You</i> need to know all that about your character, but your readers don’t.” A good model for filling in backstory with a sentence here and there is Walter Mosley. He is a master. Most editors coaching an otherwise wonderful novelist will help the writer overcome this problem, because the truth is, you can begin a story <i>anywhere</i>, and <i>wherever you start will be the beginning</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPzhxv9Gk_RAjoxI3vDcHFv_pWaPiZYeTTTkwaYTuQJlVAUxNafVvGtjoYBA0W_Ze4ILXIL0IIm_6M-iZvdd-0hZ1BpDUlCIf0KYh0klrL0U7FQo654tF1p6wFLw2Hy18kGxTKmNV64CphPjT5tjGrzmH5bvnX6i_3MIUXbNQbihYO8qool5l1-25Znbg/s4000/20240228_144050.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPzhxv9Gk_RAjoxI3vDcHFv_pWaPiZYeTTTkwaYTuQJlVAUxNafVvGtjoYBA0W_Ze4ILXIL0IIm_6M-iZvdd-0hZ1BpDUlCIf0KYh0klrL0U7FQo654tF1p6wFLw2Hy18kGxTKmNV64CphPjT5tjGrzmH5bvnX6i_3MIUXbNQbihYO8qool5l1-25Znbg/w480-h640/20240228_144050.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This author is a great model for how to incorporate backstory.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><b><u>Ending the novel</u></b>: A different problem is the unsatisfactory finish, because even readers who may persist hopefully through slow initial pages want a story that builds a strong narrative arc, reaches some sort of climax or epiphany or decisive moment – but doesn’t stop there, with the author suddenly slamming the door with a bang, whether or not on a tangle of loose ends! <i>Ouch! Rats!</i> Take the time to give us a metaphorical literary hug and murmur sweet nothings or at least wave goodbye, for heaven’s sake, before sauntering thoughtfully down the road. We don’t want to be dumped unceremoniously at the curb after spending all this time with you! That is <i>very</i> unkind! A comic novel, a tragic novel, a mystery will each have a different kind of denouement, but <i>some</i> kind each must have, if the reader is not to feel cheated.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3MDH091uBqkYyE965jgvpbpYqKl_lxtifMiP3cy6nWISzoX_Hw-DgZOa0Ku6oYpDVfGSKWY4LSmp0t542liQvX2VYn6xwy0CnEhYIs3OvRM3_pUN74zui5sQ98bMOf5UaJ8Z7oMitnMsTABvWWXPGL-_cVtumYHBqqOX6JJfY-ZL9voBWfBfrIkKOrMQ/s4000/20240228_154344.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3MDH091uBqkYyE965jgvpbpYqKl_lxtifMiP3cy6nWISzoX_Hw-DgZOa0Ku6oYpDVfGSKWY4LSmp0t542liQvX2VYn6xwy0CnEhYIs3OvRM3_pUN74zui5sQ98bMOf5UaJ8Z7oMitnMsTABvWWXPGL-_cVtumYHBqqOX6JJfY-ZL9voBWfBfrIkKOrMQ/w400-h300/20240228_154344.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wednesday: Be ready for a whiteout without warning! Dress for wind chill!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-27358988611219965882024-02-22T11:50:00.000-08:002024-02-23T07:51:42.035-08:00It's Travel Time<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04AVBTmj2CDi_WG7JvlwbFx9lmCfyl391lLP3vItM-ZSfTC0wNp-U-q81r1_pvfYwTgGZ20jWGSiCNyqVfKr9Dh6os_YTxWTeleYAZKdjqND6R-aLVN3mCOuV1HsTZBDXgDU9Vj-zBUrt8AZuaJuWmbyw3L25wv7HKA0HIe9DbHHU9ploHgR2n6F2FOPC/s2048/426649462_10232246468208500_5033798329787045255_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1321" data-original-width="2048" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04AVBTmj2CDi_WG7JvlwbFx9lmCfyl391lLP3vItM-ZSfTC0wNp-U-q81r1_pvfYwTgGZ20jWGSiCNyqVfKr9Dh6os_YTxWTeleYAZKdjqND6R-aLVN3mCOuV1HsTZBDXgDU9Vj-zBUrt8AZuaJuWmbyw3L25wv7HKA0HIe9DbHHU9ploHgR2n6F2FOPC/w400-h258/426649462_10232246468208500_5033798329787045255_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHAT month is it???</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span>In northern Michigan there are, besides weekend tourists and short-term vacationers, summer people and “year-round” people. The year-rounders who can afford to make a getaway in late winter or early spring, though, are not shy about doing so, and who can blame them? Some take February or March in Florida or Mexico or the Caribbean. For years, before and between the Florida and Arizona winters, the Artist and I made more modest forays to Lake Huron on early spring weekends when March rolled around, because cabin fever isn’t just about getting to an exotic location. It’s more about seeing different scenery and different people.</span><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“But we didn’t even have winter this year.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“We had a month of winter (January).” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“No, we had <i>ten days</i>. That’s all!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Okay, and now February, typically the coldest month in northern Michigan, has been bringing us daytime temperatures in the 40s! Along with many others, I feel a lot of ambivalence about this month’s weather. It isn’t <i>right</i>, isn’t <i>normal</i>, it bodes ill for the future – and yet, in the present, it makes life easier and certainly (because of lower fuel bills and no plow bills at all) less expensive, which is hard not to appreciate. And who can complain about blue skies? Besides that, for me (and I know I’m not the only one) this time of year is a minefield of associations. Anniversaries after loss are ambushes along life’s road, in that you know they’re coming – looming inexorably -- but not the moment or hour or the manner they will hit. So with all of the financial and emotional possibilities threatening, I found unseasonable February warmth and sunshine more than helpful. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb-h4wxfoDiMBbzvvMyJ4L-e17r3q_emXCugdYFtMN_-0A4ISLBGiK6dlD-6EnyRzdXFrUFdWOV8NqmPj5pDf6X1e9yfL4bjM9ZMf2WLdJPdwdA8izyE6GbUAqIEqOTm_hSwUGj2QQ7OphWbAJqtZdDI6Pe7_lG5PijcS5SePijjNDFtOAP_JASkD6JzM/s4000/20240219_090749.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb-h4wxfoDiMBbzvvMyJ4L-e17r3q_emXCugdYFtMN_-0A4ISLBGiK6dlD-6EnyRzdXFrUFdWOV8NqmPj5pDf6X1e9yfL4bjM9ZMf2WLdJPdwdA8izyE6GbUAqIEqOTm_hSwUGj2QQ7OphWbAJqtZdDI6Pe7_lG5PijcS5SePijjNDFtOAP_JASkD6JzM/w480-h640/20240219_090749.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While we still had snow --</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLDvgp75tfwGLF1Om92WeCB7yZn2LNdu55TrIWnCAEyy1wQFB1XHBhXBKb4tKFIvCg4uVD8_g0U29kdEBepEs6-5ZsLfsKtLgwc9LP5IYsT7ibdc1gw3oFDj0hILGqOyv0whLFgfMJ8DO1ZjVG6VFnZk0sve1ScyZ4p8dpOwuAjDeo7-7bcIQk9Aa4szs/s6000/IMG_0524.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLDvgp75tfwGLF1Om92WeCB7yZn2LNdu55TrIWnCAEyy1wQFB1XHBhXBKb4tKFIvCg4uVD8_g0U29kdEBepEs6-5ZsLfsKtLgwc9LP5IYsT7ibdc1gw3oFDj0hILGqOyv0whLFgfMJ8DO1ZjVG6VFnZk0sve1ScyZ4p8dpOwuAjDeo7-7bcIQk9Aa4szs/w400-h266/IMG_0524.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue view --</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Thanks to books, I’ve also been spending a lot of time in Ireland and Scotland, France and Italy, some of it over a hundred years ago and some in more recent times. Fiction, nonfiction – one is as dreamy as the other, when it comes to exploring mountain villages, river sources, stone ruins, and local stories from local folks in faraway places. When March arrives, I’ll post my “Books Read” list for the month of February, with enough annotation to give an idea of each title’s contents for anyone who might be curious.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Leelanau County itself, though, provided me with antidotes to cabin fever. Monday, Presidents Day, was a bank holiday, so I had to go to Traverse City on Tuesday instead to take care of banking errands. By noon, though, I was already zipping out of town when the beautiful sunshine inspired me to detour to Good Harbor Bay, where Sunny and I <i>walked on the beach!</i> As close as I live to Lake Michigan, you would think beach-walking would be a frequent life activity for me, but somehow, unless I have company, time just seems to slip away. Well, not <i>that</i> day! I <i>seized</i> it!</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRt4F8l9Ymr725bNDxaqXGNf0X1JABqnkrGczOPrYm9gG3XHuLv_i06cq5Zujpi4i8rin2yxDQufvXEYHbJGs-RI2PhzxknJDJksP7oABaWQMjJttaSzb78sxndD4X-gu41yDeOkeSPiCRJPu71vl8j-xhyphenhyphenH2wvX9-WAErzQaSs1eEA2xhia7ZhI7MQAj/s2048/Tuesday.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRt4F8l9Ymr725bNDxaqXGNf0X1JABqnkrGczOPrYm9gG3XHuLv_i06cq5Zujpi4i8rin2yxDQufvXEYHbJGs-RI2PhzxknJDJksP7oABaWQMjJttaSzb78sxndD4X-gu41yDeOkeSPiCRJPu71vl8j-xhyphenhyphenH2wvX9-WAErzQaSs1eEA2xhia7ZhI7MQAj/w480-h640/Tuesday.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good Harbor, Tuesday, February 20, 2024</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><i>Again</i>, the following day, Wednesday, the Artist’s birthday (he would have been 87, if still living), when I felt the need to do something special, Good Harbor was my choice. I'd first contemplated a stop at the Happy Hour for a beer on the way home, maybe even buying for whoever might happen to be sitting at the bar in the middle of the afternoon, but there was no way to include Sunny Juliet in that plan. And as it had on Tuesday, the sun was shining, the sky blue, so with sunset later and later every day, Sunny J. and I had plenty of time after I closed the bookstore at 3 o’clock to drive down to Good Harbor again, scenes of many memories and associations over the years.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQH6VZQQv6ALrBN2YLrV5o3ZFpOcdMnBaG_ZE8CGvZN-4If49F5Sf5OThDCGOOqzn-KLYyvfx4NwAJUNrsozOXLpff4C1bSG-tydPvWJLeGV2JGAQWa0wGqC1i4hCTwKkvqOt0HpTQ8d3wOn0JyuzaBo_9wp_IceI-zunNM_PMqdRU8f3J-EHiQchpnoCX/s2048/425308126_10232315531855048_1603819151330575783_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQH6VZQQv6ALrBN2YLrV5o3ZFpOcdMnBaG_ZE8CGvZN-4If49F5Sf5OThDCGOOqzn-KLYyvfx4NwAJUNrsozOXLpff4C1bSG-tydPvWJLeGV2JGAQWa0wGqC1i4hCTwKkvqOt0HpTQ8d3wOn0JyuzaBo_9wp_IceI-zunNM_PMqdRU8f3J-EHiQchpnoCX/w640-h480/425308126_10232315531855048_1603819151330575783_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Michigan, Wednesday afternoon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxWrl0tmJ5DRnG5MSUKNp3v6YWXEs0wT0D0l22acFQpk8tydbsO-FqtdtmLgGmZZAKC-clF_4VEYQswuxWsQ925NlefDNLd1N4sZobBBmoZFwETlDyIsES6OJzbGrF5oLGbX-omBrVCZjXRR9nLrnT54p2GpLorVf3mOXiiLvVyRAWlakrzWJ5EGz6699/s2048/424880288_10232315538135205_1977937546908106891_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxWrl0tmJ5DRnG5MSUKNp3v6YWXEs0wT0D0l22acFQpk8tydbsO-FqtdtmLgGmZZAKC-clF_4VEYQswuxWsQ925NlefDNLd1N4sZobBBmoZFwETlDyIsES6OJzbGrF5oLGbX-omBrVCZjXRR9nLrnT54p2GpLorVf3mOXiiLvVyRAWlakrzWJ5EGz6699/w480-h640/424880288_10232315538135205_1977937546908106891_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calm water</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">This is how I am traveling in February now. Books take me to other countries, and I take mini-vacations close to home with my dog, because, as the Artist loved to say, so often, “We live in a beautiful place,” and whatever the weather, every road of my county is saturated with memories, making it all the more beautiful. Travel time in my home county is any time, and any county drive is also time travel, my present brimming over with the past. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmIIoCBAEwNYnNJjo5dOGfSHWyyq2vpRjGEPJ6QVt5pSfDo10VDLrSN3wFkWIOWaILxh7nHTOidib87JrZWtKWXb7r4PGD8pBObRBzBRXrMlKS5x8V5s-zS1CYuLQmDaAgvLKkyByh-fe6TvM7A3tyVGkNQaDLkiof7QLk3W7Gvms6gotB9XpfOti-IO0/s6000/IMG_0534.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmIIoCBAEwNYnNJjo5dOGfSHWyyq2vpRjGEPJ6QVt5pSfDo10VDLrSN3wFkWIOWaILxh7nHTOidib87JrZWtKWXb7r4PGD8pBObRBzBRXrMlKS5x8V5s-zS1CYuLQmDaAgvLKkyByh-fe6TvM7A3tyVGkNQaDLkiof7QLk3W7Gvms6gotB9XpfOti-IO0/w400-h266/IMG_0534.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thursday morning fog -- beautiful!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Today’s postscript:<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">If audiobooks are your thing, please consider signing up to get yours from <a href="http://libro.fm">libro.fm</a> – and choose <a href="https://libro.fm/dogearsbooks">Dog Ears Books</a> as your bookstore. Your audiobooks won’t cost any more than they do if you buy from the online behemoth, but you will be supporting a small indie bookstore in northern Michigan. Thank you! And special thanks to those of you already ordering from libro.fm via Dog Ears Books!!!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QAIaloy01b88WIUvo0fTgEtcrJByJvLK6isCOURhb_OWnf99ij2yhqVH6wb-mw1D0TJLM5n9-gAri1QpK-7Bfl_n1iPzFUVm0piQBnCPVpM38w_o1CdYlpg8Oi0-_tM5ZG1ewxY-NCFOJx-JO2eOJ-igR7qpiuXwv8uOmJF-xNu5JXBhw21XAxXPrg_h/s4208/IMG_0536.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2800" data-original-width="4208" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QAIaloy01b88WIUvo0fTgEtcrJByJvLK6isCOURhb_OWnf99ij2yhqVH6wb-mw1D0TJLM5n9-gAri1QpK-7Bfl_n1iPzFUVm0piQBnCPVpM38w_o1CdYlpg8Oi0-_tM5ZG1ewxY-NCFOJx-JO2eOJ-igR7qpiuXwv8uOmJF-xNu5JXBhw21XAxXPrg_h/w400-h266/IMG_0536.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-63523742047419413862024-02-18T14:24:00.000-08:002024-02-19T00:47:43.349-08:00Bogged Down<p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepC-z8c3Uz-HZZG_c7oIZr2GrfS6Q62s9rmK1Lu0okrDFlIRc9TO8k8-yGq1Gf2P7-kGMfbFWBSC_BcXk8pG_oTCGQQ19chqrupybcSBxLOS16qH3cBOSPRukxPYu5cBs4L4tUHuktsaNQxnDCAO9zu4RCP5t25-inidIcfbsKi5jTiVbJluvTb37M27T/s4000/20240218_100802.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgepC-z8c3Uz-HZZG_c7oIZr2GrfS6Q62s9rmK1Lu0okrDFlIRc9TO8k8-yGq1Gf2P7-kGMfbFWBSC_BcXk8pG_oTCGQQ19chqrupybcSBxLOS16qH3cBOSPRukxPYu5cBs4L4tUHuktsaNQxnDCAO9zu4RCP5t25-inidIcfbsKi5jTiVbJluvTb37M27T/w480-h640/20240218_100802.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That pond on Alpers Road</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><blockquote><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> <span>…Northwest Indiana’s Kankakee was an extensive swamp-marsh of more than 500,000 acres on a sandy dune outwash plain, </span><i>in retrospect </i><span>[emphasis added] called “one of the great freshwater wetland ecosystems of the world….”</span><span> </span></span></p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> The Kankakee River snaked its 250-mile way through the swamp in two thousand twists and bends, a slow absorbent river punctuated with bayous and edged by riverine forests.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #2b00fe;">-<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Annie Proulx, <i>Fen, Bog and Swamp: A Short History of Peatland Destruction and Its Role in the Climate Crisis </i>(Scribner, 2022)</span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"></span><span style="color: #4472c4;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">When I was a girl growing up on the Illinois prairie in the 1950s, the term ‘wetland’ was not part of our Midwestern vocabulary, and my fascination with any ‘swamp’-like area that caught my eye was not generally shared by family or friends, but our postwar neighborhood outside the city limits of Joliet, Illinois, was filling in with houses on every 40-ft. lot, and while I appreciated -- for their expansive views of sunset and thunderstorms -- fields of soybeans or corn (in alternating years) across the road from my parents’ older home on the westernmost street of the subdivision, it was wildness I craved. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">What we called “the slough,” down the street, was semi-wild but also stinky and, sadly, forbidden – though if it hadn’t been stinky, its water except in flood barely moving and topped with scum and patches of iridescent oil, I’m sure the prohibition would not have been nearly as effective. As it was, however, most of my hunger for wild wetlands had to be satisfied with sightings from car and train windows. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Every autumn our mother would take us along on expeditions to gather cattails, milkweed pods and bittersweet for indoor fall arrangements (cattails, common as they are in my northern Michigan life, still hold dreamlike associations for me), and on a long train ride to Florida one spring, unable to stop gazing out the window at the romantic scenery flowing by, I made up a story, mile by mile, to accompany the moving panorama, peopling every hummock with strange, dangerous characters that my sister told me years later had given her nightmares.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">A memorable high school biology field trip involved wading in a creek and discovering and collecting caddisfly larvae, but visits to the Kankakee River were an annual occasion for years, with church choir picnics held at the river <i>shack</i> as they called it, belonging to the choir director and his wife. I didn’t know then that the original 250-mile river had once boasted 2,000 “twists and bends” before, beginning in 1902, being dredged and channeled into straight-line segments, such that its length was reduced to 90 miles. I had no idea the Kankakee Marsh, before its trees had been felled and land drained for farmland, had once been called “the Everglades of the North.” Stop and think for a moment: <i>reduced from 250 to 90 miles in length</i>, stripped of its trees (“oaks, walnuts, elms, sycamores”), and natural flood-absorbing marshes filled in to become farm fields.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span>My strongest memory of the river that flowed past the shack was the sucking, silty, clayey mud that had to be slogged through to reach water deep enough for swimming. When we climbed the ladder to the floating raft, our legs were coated up over the knees in that clinging mud. The water was thick and brown, too, and at the time, and given my age then, I never wondered if the river might once have been different. </span>Now, bit by bit, parcel by parcel, efforts are underway to restore at least pieces of the once extensive wildlife area. Read <a href="Read this to learn more.">this</a> to learn more.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sa-r2P8vg_RXEs3pmmwyH0c6FKtiuTyu2JbodcxGgIPHyrUvAI8ryLXsyyVnekPTnZj46c4xcleYLel87tFaU8HefH0k5guG2B5280kwK0NJ8zjgAKcP2VV-XfA8UaeW0rM7HAMFVEBzEwLi_pwb55WOwnaHj4EPvTluOp8_Ev2qOP70jQFhUuIPLF9J/s1600/IMG_6644.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sa-r2P8vg_RXEs3pmmwyH0c6FKtiuTyu2JbodcxGgIPHyrUvAI8ryLXsyyVnekPTnZj46c4xcleYLel87tFaU8HefH0k5guG2B5280kwK0NJ8zjgAKcP2VV-XfA8UaeW0rM7HAMFVEBzEwLi_pwb55WOwnaHj4EPvTluOp8_Ev2qOP70jQFhUuIPLF9J/w400-h266/IMG_6644.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Leelanau</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">“It is, of course, possible to love a swamp,” writes Proulx, recalling a larch swamp in Vermont that she loved in her early years. And while the fen and bog sections of her book have more to do with peatland destruction, it is the section on swamps that whispers more seductively to my personal experience. Swamp is sometimes a transition zone between higher land and fen or bog, the key difference being that swampland supports trees. There are trees in the Everglades and in the waterlogged wilds along the Suwanee River in Florida, and there are wetlands in northern Michigan where the Artist and I found beavers at work, spied cardinal flower in bloom, or hushed to watch a heron stalking fish or a raccoon washing its hands -- or where a friend and I waded slowly, reverently, into a wonderland of sunlight filtering down through the branches of yet-leafless trees where grassy hummocks held blooming lady’s-slippers as far as our wondering eyes could see. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Scandinavia and Canada are rich in bogs. Proulx tells us that the word ‘muskeg’ comes from Algonkian and Ojibway words, ‘maskek’ and ‘mashkig.’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Fen peat forms in groundwater locations where reeds, sedges, cattails, rushes and bog beans grow in mineral soils. The plants around the edge and in the water grow, then perish, season after season, gradually filling up the fen with partially decayed vegetable matter that <i>over thousands of years</i> [emphasis added] becomes fen peat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #2b00fe;">-<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Proulx, <i>ibid</i>. </span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="color: #4472c4; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRaiEZ4P7v4wzrcnstJhKe3rnXUbFeooDoMgqNxX2n4b6t2RrD3QAcxRP9MAeVgpHbx9iDdovIYT3bDFvDcXvAgBmX6teD6dYA8q4q4wqn57aj5DM-7DUiLmb617nT5WbpcM6nhgujZ7pe7WRRB5xt9ytrEmm04SxJC0uZgAvbNNQ2KLOPPOnu2faYlh1M/s3072/U.P..JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRaiEZ4P7v4wzrcnstJhKe3rnXUbFeooDoMgqNxX2n4b6t2RrD3QAcxRP9MAeVgpHbx9iDdovIYT3bDFvDcXvAgBmX6teD6dYA8q4q4wqn57aj5DM-7DUiLmb617nT5WbpcM6nhgujZ7pe7WRRB5xt9ytrEmm04SxJC0uZgAvbNNQ2KLOPPOnu2faYlh1M/w400-h300/U.P..JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Yoop</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">On Saturday evening I pulled a comfort book from the shelf at home (for there are comfort books just as there is comfort food – surely, as a reader, you have favorite comfort books of your own?), <i>Lovely Is the Lee</i>, by the same <a href="http://www.robertgibbings.org">Robert Gibbings</a> whose <i>Coming Down the Seine</i> I so recently enjoyed, and only a few miles inland from Galway, Gibbings is exploring moorland and bogs, where “Black bullocks munch the heather” and “Wild geese rise from the bog.” The year is 1945, and the old ways are still practiced. Turf, Gibbings tells us, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">…is cut with a slane, a narrow spade with an ear at right angles to the blade so that two sides of the sod are cut at the same time from the stepped face of the bog. Each newly cut sod is like a large brick, dark and oily.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #2b00fe;">-<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Gibbings, Robert, <i>Lovely Is the Lee</i> (Dutton, 1945</span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="color: #4472c4; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ39QkBtetsFoltZOSfC64b3mlZT7TYLbzYt34ZU0DXmceHLKqCdGaybC7OZ4QruQ3qkCaz87I5Yx8XAbmKdsxBUAwKBIMhAbUe6qz7q5PLo6Jnwp_p4cHmooqXRi9JzjB0W429m7ih9-dPeKS2XpYuX4qbVzlGOKJyyChU645FDUDQcYkLW2MjSMjI9-S/s4000/20240218_193827.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ39QkBtetsFoltZOSfC64b3mlZT7TYLbzYt34ZU0DXmceHLKqCdGaybC7OZ4QruQ3qkCaz87I5Yx8XAbmKdsxBUAwKBIMhAbUe6qz7q5PLo6Jnwp_p4cHmooqXRi9JzjB0W429m7ih9-dPeKS2XpYuX4qbVzlGOKJyyChU645FDUDQcYkLW2MjSMjI9-S/w300-h400/20240218_193827.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">An experienced slanesman could cut four tons of raw turf in a single day, which then had to be spread to dry, stacked, and finally thatched with straw “against the weather.” Gibbings, as does Proulx, notes that much material culture of previous ages is uncovered in the cutting of bog turf: bronze and obsidian implements, wooden dishes, canoes and paddles, clothing made from wool, skin, or leather. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">The title for today’s post came to me, however, in addition to my reading, by way of a figure of speech. We say we are “bogged down” when we are stuck, as in mire, unable to move forward. The <a href="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/be-get-bogged-down">Cambridge dictionary</a> gives examples as examples using the expression “Let’s not get bogged down with individual complaints” and “Try not to get too bogged down in the details.” A related figure of speech is “swamped,” meaning overwhelmed, as if one is flooded. There is also the Slough of Despond, which Proulx mentions, from the classic <i>Pilgrim’s Progress. </i>All felt appropriate in this shortest month of the year.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Because February is a difficult month for me, with day-by-day anniversaries of the Artist’s final weeks of hospitalizations and surgeries, the emotional gamut we ran from confident hope to his final days, his last birthday. Images and sentences and remembered feelings from that time swamp my dreams and solitary hours. I don’t want to say I am permanently bogged down, only that --- what? I don’t want to profane it by trying to put it into words.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">As you know, though, I have a dog, and there is no crawling into a hole and playing dead when one has a dog. No, the dog has to go outdoors, and so the dog momma has to get dressed and go out, too, and this discipline my companion imposes on me is a life-saver. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEvl-M6nVMUcEy85AmtywnQjth9RvxCKFMJZagPHlPqd6B41uz95g3A_IIvlKeVkcTV4A_D0_tGW12hSuHu_2Ew-6PSQozNzXJr6EQvwcxeHnYoDRy_ZQPINrtzrJ9bN9kVz_p5boMCR4aJVqbmyHRcewfRNyU9WzcpLVBotgGi_XeE-B4bj7AcwPiJXV/s4000/20240218_073549.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEvl-M6nVMUcEy85AmtywnQjth9RvxCKFMJZagPHlPqd6B41uz95g3A_IIvlKeVkcTV4A_D0_tGW12hSuHu_2Ew-6PSQozNzXJr6EQvwcxeHnYoDRy_ZQPINrtzrJ9bN9kVz_p5boMCR4aJVqbmyHRcewfRNyU9WzcpLVBotgGi_XeE-B4bj7AcwPiJXV/w480-h640/20240218_073549.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Let's get the day started!"</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">Following springlike days, we had a heavy, wet snow that quickly became slush, only to harden to cement when the temperature dropped. Then the temperature dropped further, and more snow came overnight Friday, this time the light, fluffy stuff beloved of cross-country skiers. Single-digit wind chill. And Sunny Juliet discovered something new in her Michigan world: ice on our little no-name creek. She tried it, but it was not strong enough to hold her weight. Luckily, the creek is shallow. Only her feet got wet. And the dog momma didn’t want to stay outdoors for an hour in the cold wind, anyway.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QRfwZUBvUFe1nXQRaQUjtNEItssABicFSeuImmT2YhLHKhVbq1XNAfIMbbvR_ikWTBcQD7nSpgLdMk0bS5v6zFWPuZir_Dd2av6UQy6xVYpJIIhkfd80lpbFRcOUQ4cZ8E3Ho-IcZcKDU8VKpE9oDptR95HhB71flEzPyiQEud2hxMCXPg9M6E7vgQxm/s4000/20240217_085048.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QRfwZUBvUFe1nXQRaQUjtNEItssABicFSeuImmT2YhLHKhVbq1XNAfIMbbvR_ikWTBcQD7nSpgLdMk0bS5v6zFWPuZir_Dd2av6UQy6xVYpJIIhkfd80lpbFRcOUQ4cZ8E3Ho-IcZcKDU8VKpE9oDptR95HhB71flEzPyiQEud2hxMCXPg9M6E7vgQxm/w300-h400/20240217_085048.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny exploring frozen creek...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOXDbvSVocbbX4OOjPR2TPkN_ABEnpf8um5I4vQ3q-bHXdYjBq2Cd81W0XVLq590k6r50fyPWlND0ujSCVe-yoUUmkbHdEFJxquuqWD2IzNsLlGEa572_1V5hjHWt6ycPMaV5IkkRhOTuFZPJSkg6lO77PwfHh1JlyzEeU2Gsgi-HnjvZsYwEFrlCMYyX/s4000/20240217_085019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOXDbvSVocbbX4OOjPR2TPkN_ABEnpf8um5I4vQ3q-bHXdYjBq2Cd81W0XVLq590k6r50fyPWlND0ujSCVe-yoUUmkbHdEFJxquuqWD2IzNsLlGEa572_1V5hjHWt6ycPMaV5IkkRhOTuFZPJSkg6lO77PwfHh1JlyzEeU2Gsgi-HnjvZsYwEFrlCMYyX/w480-h640/20240217_085019.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...where she broke through the ice</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">And yet we went out again in the afternoon and again the next morning and again the following day, morning and afternoon, because this is our life, and it’s what we do. We wake up and get on our feet and go out into the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">And now, did I write myself out of the swamp? Or was it my HappyLight that did the trick? The patches of blue sky and beautiful cumulus clouds we had before grey skies returned? Or my lovely little companion, always so happy be outdoors with me, whatever the weather, always full of energy and enthusiasm even when I might be short on both? Maybe all of those contributed to an afternoon happier than the dark morning had been. There is no way we can live two different lives at the same time, in some kind of sci-fi controlled experiment, and know for certain which is preferable or better or more true. One life, each moment of it a gift to do with as we will….</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_qq8w5CLPWKOlPvBa7cMKBWbVDk7ovtWxAqE1Mlcfi_BTyxvIuKfoT7Isrlxt2B6erVVDvUQJbL5iW-723hFHNEC6aeHw2xlgs0FwgnMiKkJU4vUT2Dp2cjT07Rm45tL7266bLc7C4huv8kfn6rTz083URurop7uJLyf9XLzC6mSXqWv5_9f3rCe7k3j/s1539/20240214_180106.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="1340" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_qq8w5CLPWKOlPvBa7cMKBWbVDk7ovtWxAqE1Mlcfi_BTyxvIuKfoT7Isrlxt2B6erVVDvUQJbL5iW-723hFHNEC6aeHw2xlgs0FwgnMiKkJU4vUT2Dp2cjT07Rm45tL7266bLc7C4huv8kfn6rTz083URurop7uJLyf9XLzC6mSXqWv5_9f3rCe7k3j/w349-h400/20240214_180106.jpg" width="349" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She says, "Be happy! We have each other!"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-49769685645215573662024-02-12T09:47:00.000-08:002024-02-14T08:50:48.511-08:00 Back For More<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6Ln3bbnCelDDgwsD9BTeeVP8XzI8DKX-VChgiOZPouSqVBUieftxbNHvHwrv-JSrLZBRaX8BRBdW47NrontPUkTVgr1NWzOigIPrsDnskNWHy5upfrK2cO5QAZi7WUYpeOFuTy8hWyTYtYdXgQG3Juh336FnhilEa1inXzNT24Ex8-IcFYptEVdMmEwM/s2048/426649462_10232246468208500_5033798329787045255_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1321" data-original-width="2048" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6Ln3bbnCelDDgwsD9BTeeVP8XzI8DKX-VChgiOZPouSqVBUieftxbNHvHwrv-JSrLZBRaX8BRBdW47NrontPUkTVgr1NWzOigIPrsDnskNWHy5upfrK2cO5QAZi7WUYpeOFuTy8hWyTYtYdXgQG3Juh336FnhilEa1inXzNT24Ex8-IcFYptEVdMmEwM/w400-h258/426649462_10232246468208500_5033798329787045255_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">February 9 seems early, even for hellebore.<br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">(Always) More Garden Thoughts<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Other than a few remnant patches here and there, our snow melted and evaporated, leaving bare, squashed grass, weeds, and last autumn’s fallen leaves, a tired palette not at all brightened by a string of grey, overcast days. Cold wind didn’t help, either. During an unseasonably warm spell, my sturdy hellebore dared to put forth blossoms. Will they survive, now that the temperature has gone back below freezing at night?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Friday was busy in the bookstore, Saturday not, but a cheery surprise awaited me at the post office: my seed order had arrived! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSeIpmEyIlk3tsSaCx5FglT6-6dDeHbYG3pVKc34gTnbXQTc_DMiOx6s55Snbl9v6zK7dpLUt6xVm4Xz5QnjV4CcBXjX-YFJ5yBiVqzfUyIl8S4_6ttUMhEVNLvUdvI9km9RJ7fqFxl-UG0iBQEYQ-S5VpnwqySjbC4utfE-MmBi4rjq0W2YQk6oKMVYq/s1280/427867904_10232258507349471_8142806558636531485_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSeIpmEyIlk3tsSaCx5FglT6-6dDeHbYG3pVKc34gTnbXQTc_DMiOx6s55Snbl9v6zK7dpLUt6xVm4Xz5QnjV4CcBXjX-YFJ5yBiVqzfUyIl8S4_6ttUMhEVNLvUdvI9km9RJ7fqFxl-UG0iBQEYQ-S5VpnwqySjbC4utfE-MmBi4rjq0W2YQk6oKMVYq/w400-h300/427867904_10232258507349471_8142806558636531485_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small packages hold big dreams.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">It may not look like much, but my kitchen garden is small, so I tried not to get carried away, because besides these packets I’ll be starting tomatoes from seed and, as usual, buying other plants as my budget permits. Oh, frabjus joy! Another year of gardening! More planting and weeding and watering and pruning and moving things around in the endless search for the right placement for all -- the doing as rewarding as the results, if not more so.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTS1QYctJM7K8xz_HmQv7kPsStKF7Wq6ngEUbzqx9c4W0Exuy5C8qfCxSux8UJO9TBtSP4UNZHfiqfkhCbuLANMDsh-rHG5PgSgrBfUd_m8fvSWi3ndnSVeZj2MPZokUU0MEbnB_KejTm-9li69bodxCoziLK1QQF5fA_FqmhKrLV9CmnYvlMibum-nitm/s1280/427613362_10232258507149466_2646809490555560869_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTS1QYctJM7K8xz_HmQv7kPsStKF7Wq6ngEUbzqx9c4W0Exuy5C8qfCxSux8UJO9TBtSP4UNZHfiqfkhCbuLANMDsh-rHG5PgSgrBfUd_m8fvSWi3ndnSVeZj2MPZokUU0MEbnB_KejTm-9li69bodxCoziLK1QQF5fA_FqmhKrLV9CmnYvlMibum-nitm/w480-h640/427613362_10232258507149466_2646809490555560869_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeds to start indoors --</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Six weeks from last frost date. As I see it, that means it will be mid-April when I’ll have to rearrange my home office to make way for seed trays and pots in the big south-facing window. Meanwhile, at the bookstore, the big pot of parsley continues to thrive, as do geraniums, asparagus fern, and citronella. Citronella has small pink blossoms! Not showy, but still, it’s cheery and encouraging at this time of year to see any kind of blooms. The citronella will go back outdoors for the summer, but perhaps I should break off some leaves now to take home and deploy as mouse repellant? Because a couple of those little devils made uninvited indoor appearances recently....</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMyPKxum21lE0phmxKoM77pZkNL1dst_0pPAD3995VzNO04pJXoKF65g8h16I3bjeprHQzBEAj7DDAfobshdK3DTa87ZQxBtYAWa4ds3yynVk6bpxQ7jCULTDQxBEh-ZS0Yrl5vk538xq-QiiAKyDugbob0DBjEFNmaGf3sqp5T5ky4oyR7O-JxEtz_13/s2048/417431760_10232080643342982_8228197379546993500_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="2048" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMyPKxum21lE0phmxKoM77pZkNL1dst_0pPAD3995VzNO04pJXoKF65g8h16I3bjeprHQzBEAj7DDAfobshdK3DTa87ZQxBtYAWa4ds3yynVk6bpxQ7jCULTDQxBEh-ZS0Yrl5vk538xq-QiiAKyDugbob0DBjEFNmaGf3sqp5T5ky4oyR7O-JxEtz_13/w640-h338/417431760_10232080643342982_8228197379546993500_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiakBAY3E7mWdSb-bvycyHi2qDkm5Vc_pj63faVnjZmHLLI6-hBaQmn8CY7TUsQ0Lwi-NkioP6HSIIMoSbvfsZmzcdt4c7WHGTE4SSwMspBXyP7L8ph3UZaD6qvjoaM5syCv4NC4zHcNHpwnJrz5d9MdhkuAAkq35Wy5-iwGGwYQ5NPS1D8JFvWda0lGEhC/s2626/20240214_103732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2237" data-original-width="2626" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiakBAY3E7mWdSb-bvycyHi2qDkm5Vc_pj63faVnjZmHLLI6-hBaQmn8CY7TUsQ0Lwi-NkioP6HSIIMoSbvfsZmzcdt4c7WHGTE4SSwMspBXyP7L8ph3UZaD6qvjoaM5syCv4NC4zHcNHpwnJrz5d9MdhkuAAkq35Wy5-iwGGwYQ5NPS1D8JFvWda0lGEhC/w400-h341/20240214_103732.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">More Book Thoughts<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Since <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/02/early-morning-musings.html">my last blog post</a> (which was shorter than usual, with not a single picture of my dog), I’ve continued to think about Bonnie Jo Campbell’s novel, <i>The Waters</i>, in connection with Tara Westover’s memoir, <i>Educated</i>. A novel is fiction, a memoir nonfiction, so that’s an important difference, not to be forgotten, and there are others. For example, <i>The Waters </i>puts a woman in the driver’s seat, as it were: Hermine Zook, the healer, dominates the island as well as the hearts and minds of her daughters and granddaughter. Westover, on the other hand, despite relationships with her mother and sisters, is ruled over (as are the mother and sisters and brothers) by her father in more ways than one. Her brothers play major roles in her life, as well -- for better or for worse.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXDUuvcOtkZlo_emRfayydsqHKiXAsbb4P1rUjq9TCQYbfb2Ii3EwHAtJvPe14sA523Ux0ECpHmGruKO5MOSKHQHZJTEtOlxHfqS4p3cX8y5E8IZiSsvi6SGe8Mpmp5qDDIi9aovom6E7ElivO2EyN2Wbu29TqgZGJ5CRd8-4_G_uWm2Vw1U1NhRcmEEeW/s2048/426417946_10232235768661018_4806221467190822199_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1495" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXDUuvcOtkZlo_emRfayydsqHKiXAsbb4P1rUjq9TCQYbfb2Ii3EwHAtJvPe14sA523Ux0ECpHmGruKO5MOSKHQHZJTEtOlxHfqS4p3cX8y5E8IZiSsvi6SGe8Mpmp5qDDIi9aovom6E7ElivO2EyN2Wbu29TqgZGJ5CRd8-4_G_uWm2Vw1U1NhRcmEEeW/w468-h640/426417946_10232235768661018_4806221467190822199_n.jpg" width="468" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">As for similarities, here I’ll quote what I wrote a few days ago: “Yet in both stories, unlike as they are in so many ways, there is a family isolated from its own surrounding community, as well as from the larger world; a young girl, hungry to learn, who is kept out of school; a mother who knows herbs and how to take care of babies; and violence, an omnipresent threat, that breaks out from time to time without warning.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Continuing to think about both stories, the fictional and the actual, has led me to watch several interviews each with authors <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P06rmb58WhY">Campbell</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDQcFkCkixU">Westover</a>. (I’ve linked two here, and you can find many others by searching online yourself.) One thought since my last post (this came from the linked interview with Campbell) is how important <i>choice</i> is to the women we meet in <i>both </i>stories. As in life, much happens that was not chosen by Tara or Hermine or Rose Thorn or Donkey, but in other moments and situations they did make choices, sometimes considered for a long while beforehand, but not always. Sometimes impulse gave voice to feelings that had been simmering unrecognized beneath the surface until the moment they burst through. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Tara’s father made many choices for her before she became strong enough to know what she wanted for herself, and the same was true of Donkey, with her mother and grandmother deciding her fate for years. <i>Is personal growth is a paradox or a feedback loop?</i> It is only by making choices that we become ourselves, and at the same time we have to gain knowledge of ourselves in order to be strong enough to make choices that we need to make.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">(Campbell seems to be having a wonderful time with her book tour travels and visits, and she has certainly earned every bit of the attention she’s getting. Also, as she herself notes, it doesn’t make sense to spend years working on a book and then not do everything possible to get it into readers’ hands. Westover’s memoir was a sensation when it first appeared in 2018, and she was a national phenomenon, appearing everywhere, so if she has chosen to disappear from the public eye for a while, as it seems is the case, one can hardly wonder at that decision.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">The question of home, like that of choice, looms large for Tara in the memoir and for the women of M’sauga Island in the novel. Molly and Prim have left the island to live elsewhere, and Molly wants her mother and Donkey to move off the island, too, but Hermine would not be at home anywhere else, and the four adult women are “more themselves” when there, together, the author tells us, even when they are at odds with each other. For Hermine and Donkey, the relationship to the natural world in which they live is as important as Rose Cottage. But Donkey needs a larger world, one that includes school – and boys and men.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Tara Westover had to leave her mountain home to go to school, and she wanted to go much more than she wanted to stay, and yet the mountain pulled her back over and over again. In “the end” -- of the memoir, that is, which isn’t “the end” of her story, of course, since she and family members are all still alive -- she had to lose half her family, including both parents, in order to be true to herself. It was interesting, however, that in one of her appearances (on a podcast called “<a href="https://www.mormonstories.org/portfolio-items/tara-westover/">Mormon Stories</a>”), two of her aunts and a cousin showed up to support the decisions she had made.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><i>Q. If Tara Westover were to read <b>The Waters </b>(and I hope she will), would she think Campbell romanticized rural isolation and the life of a child kept out of school and away from doctors, despite the violent incidents that take place in the novel?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><i>Q. If Bonnie Jo Campbell were to read <b>Educated</b> (and perhaps she has), I’m sure she would point out differences between the Westover family and the Zooks, but would she also see parallels in the strength that both Tara and Donkey needed to make their own way in a larger world?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">I keep searching out interviews with both authors and will continue to think about their stories, I’m sure, for a long time to come.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">More Dog Reports and Thoughts <o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArGZWZsvuHI1u4KnS7W6n5itYnS6TEZ4mYJCbEO_436WWQzI_HMdbiWnykDi6QvKjvpqvEXVBFUpWjDTdhsXN1NHiDcUdrO6xnPHBnKrba0lVXeeEpa_VBEpRc6UV-84seSwq3pzUhC4VRv5DQZqeBiNMNBSirHeG0uzbSp090E3dPqNLME-glgx8eduC/s1939/273889316_10227521914097600_4459266074414410631_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArGZWZsvuHI1u4KnS7W6n5itYnS6TEZ4mYJCbEO_436WWQzI_HMdbiWnykDi6QvKjvpqvEXVBFUpWjDTdhsXN1NHiDcUdrO6xnPHBnKrba0lVXeeEpa_VBEpRc6UV-84seSwq3pzUhC4VRv5DQZqeBiNMNBSirHeG0uzbSp090E3dPqNLME-glgx8eduC/w356-h640/273889316_10227521914097600_4459266074414410631_n.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two years ago I often called her "Tiny Girl."<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Sunny and I have been to the dog park in Northport a couple times in the past weeks, and she has made some new friends, human and canine. The last time we were there, she was one of four dogs (about an ideal number, as far as I’m concerned, at one time), the others a hound named Gilbert (who chases soap bubbles) and two Labrador retrievers, but Sunny Juliet was the only one of the four with any interest in chasing tennis balls. I thought of my sister saying that their Labs have never been big on chasing balls, and for the first time it occurred to me that while Labs are “retrievers,” they are <i>bird dogs</i>, and <i>the hunter does not throw a bird</i> for the dog to bring <i>back!</i> Ah, but then I remember a friend’s golden retriever, who would chase and bring back tennis balls for as long as anyone could be persuaded to throw them, so – small sample, no conclusions here. Any thoughts on this burning question?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">As for why a dog like Sunny, bred for herding, would care for tennis ball play, I have no explanation, and neither can I venture a guess why she behaves like a terrier – <i>dig! dig! dig!</i> -- whenever she senses a mouse or mole in a pile of brush or underground. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Oh, and then there is her fascination with wild animals that take refuge in our old, ramshackle barn! Birds and feral cats and skunks, you name it. Sunday morning she had a mild skunking, what I call a "skunking-at-a-distance," i.e., not so strong as to bring tears to human eyes but still not a smell I would want on my bed, so out came the Dawn detergent (2 T), hydrogen peroxide (1 quart), and baking soda (1/4 cup) for a deskunking bath (need to renew those important supplies), plus a strip of bacon to lure her into the bathtub. She was not eager but didn’t make a big fuss, thank heaven. <b><u>Important note</u>: The deskunking mixture must not be mixed up ahead of time and/or ever stored in a closed container! </b>But if you have a dog,<b> </b>it’s a good idea to have the ingredients and recipe on hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Afterward, she was full of smiles and wiggles and so much energy that I gave her three of the calming treats that would have been helpful, maybe, an hour earlier. Supplies have since been restocked, but I do have to hope that Sunny won't go back for more skunk experiences any time soon!<span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MDw9crry76sANeXS9D4ojNJzIE7U4ybcVbN-Y-nvHedyWd4ysuhXQGDJQi8f1ke1JEEDUwKZhbsD6LXBti3MU06zdz3rQ1yF1chvHRGkH2IGASkZ7_tahnqNcZG81YGSVG2AZtd0csATspLKGLwSokhWr7vT0w-eqlfLe7jrdcmpRbtjUY51GDvmsPMN/s2048/427850369_10232258506269444_8632053339039659138_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1942" data-original-width="2048" height="606" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1MDw9crry76sANeXS9D4ojNJzIE7U4ybcVbN-Y-nvHedyWd4ysuhXQGDJQi8f1ke1JEEDUwKZhbsD6LXBti3MU06zdz3rQ1yF1chvHRGkH2IGASkZ7_tahnqNcZG81YGSVG2AZtd0csATspLKGLwSokhWr7vT0w-eqlfLe7jrdcmpRbtjUY51GDvmsPMN/w640-h606/427850369_10232258506269444_8632053339039659138_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">None the worse for her experiences!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-69859676739304613912024-02-07T08:39:00.000-08:002024-02-07T08:39:57.323-08:00Early Morning Musings<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFAPj4948dFjTM2BPq9KhPnA8NmRZ3PHOfQa-cJqZA8pKEhi7eM8WkWFQiqIf2fTWYpZJNW5GQ8sMMHVULqnJGYyvrz285QcNxDcii-oPsJpP23W8nlsXYMXIdkx_31I053uTjicV2GLzMdTLQJIrUEMDrN9Dsokr8n4V_o1oP95zIn8fPdpDqVLnildj/s3980/20240207_104918.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3980" data-original-width="2906" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFAPj4948dFjTM2BPq9KhPnA8NmRZ3PHOfQa-cJqZA8pKEhi7eM8WkWFQiqIf2fTWYpZJNW5GQ8sMMHVULqnJGYyvrz285QcNxDcii-oPsJpP23W8nlsXYMXIdkx_31I053uTjicV2GLzMdTLQJIrUEMDrN9Dsokr8n4V_o1oP95zIn8fPdpDqVLnildj/w468-h640/20240207_104918.jpg" width="468" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today's books</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Early,” in this case, would not be when I woke at 4:30 a.m. but when I came back indoors at 7 after driving a red bag of garbage (“Red Bag of Courage,” the Artist used to say) out to the highway for pickup, which could only be done after the windshield and rear and front windows of my car had been scraped free of the night’s hard frost. Since my loving nighttime and morning companion (canine) is speechless and illiterate, there’s no point in sharing all my thoughts with her, especially when I’m thinking about books I’ve read, so I’ll put them out here.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The latest book I finished reading was one I’d read before but hadn’t remembered reading until about halfway through, at which point there was no stopping, because Tara Westover’s memoir, <i>Educated</i>, is not a book you put aside before reaching the end. My recent re-reading of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s novel, <i>The Waters</i>, was a different kind of second reading. As the first had been only a couple of months ago, I had picked up the book again not by accident or to remind myself of what happened to the characters, but rather to luxuriate, more slowly this time, in that lush Michigan-fictional world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nonfiction/fiction. Mountain/waters. Brothers/sisters. Yet in both stories, unlike as they are in so many ways, there is a family isolated from its own surrounding community, as well as from the larger world; a young girl, hungry to learn, who is kept out of school; a mother who knows herbs and how to take care of babies; and violence, an omnipresent threat, that breaks out from time to time without warning. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I wonder if BJC has read TW’s memoir and if TW has read – or will read – BJC’s novel. What would they have to say to each other about their respective lives and books? Have you read both books? What do you think?</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ40SKl_Awq1dPrBbAKk_tPeVuUFNigubBHZXYMA9rx-NwQs3HNhqCvnfa0hJAq3F1vWrIbg4_Yzgxu3Mu5j-hZQuIQ20f1rj4-fA8CyWeGtMwF_EmEQBe6sR1Yw-b0s2FuWNq5NlXSH4KmAN2_AD-lJIcYSZX190xCjnYDvlJPHBgFnZA_iWj1s1CvYB6/s1440/rural.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ40SKl_Awq1dPrBbAKk_tPeVuUFNigubBHZXYMA9rx-NwQs3HNhqCvnfa0hJAq3F1vWrIbg4_Yzgxu3Mu5j-hZQuIQ20f1rj4-fA8CyWeGtMwF_EmEQBe6sR1Yw-b0s2FuWNq5NlXSH4KmAN2_AD-lJIcYSZX190xCjnYDvlJPHBgFnZA_iWj1s1CvYB6/w480-h640/rural.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My rural world</td></tr></tbody></table>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-64125634192082103482024-01-31T15:37:00.000-08:002024-02-19T12:34:20.318-08:00A Month of Winter, A Month of Reading<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPbUaP50e1dHM9VxRmTP9pU-2osOrPBhZfFcJLP0gwXGVBOdWkKpXcGDu0ZZWG_ijosWgFJT8v_aTFphrzGjNCXgQgMcUo2koYenSSbXCBibgJO4yDtw-PrfzcFc-puhIFi0iAjG-tSsZ4i9qa_OKxoJhd455IxvcBXuLBhl3H6pqXRTySEQqSsZjl4Qg/s4000/20240128_161855.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPbUaP50e1dHM9VxRmTP9pU-2osOrPBhZfFcJLP0gwXGVBOdWkKpXcGDu0ZZWG_ijosWgFJT8v_aTFphrzGjNCXgQgMcUo2koYenSSbXCBibgJO4yDtw-PrfzcFc-puhIFi0iAjG-tSsZ4i9qa_OKxoJhd455IxvcBXuLBhl3H6pqXRTySEQqSsZjl4Qg/w300-h400/20240128_161855.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">We finally had a big snow. Plows were at work for days and days. Is what we are experiencing now simply a late January thaw, to be followed by another couple months of winter? Mother Nature doesn’t seem any surer than we are – and feels as ready as we are to welcome spring. But no ice fishing? No ice boating? Can we call it winter at all? Some are wondering, saying, "It doesn't feel right."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84LuHxYN3Hzw4Z4NpMBPJAXhUku4xWMKSv9UdGEU2cLiLa2_QQ7jPdxvz9JT-aJ0WJ3aOuV6c7Fr-FzfVayLnU3PqtxZ2zngEHls0bcGbpwkOzhs3-TgOyX0-wRcXQAZqSV-YVaN58yHbsmVn_uqwUzw3MMUZxtqmbl70LGZtky9415azvIWe56lPftIG/s4000/20240128_160123.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84LuHxYN3Hzw4Z4NpMBPJAXhUku4xWMKSv9UdGEU2cLiLa2_QQ7jPdxvz9JT-aJ0WJ3aOuV6c7Fr-FzfVayLnU3PqtxZ2zngEHls0bcGbpwkOzhs3-TgOyX0-wRcXQAZqSV-YVaN58yHbsmVn_uqwUzw3MMUZxtqmbl70LGZtky9415azvIWe56lPftIG/w480-h640/20240128_160123.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">I didn't make a New Year’s resolution, but I did decide that instead of publishing bare lists of books read, either by the year or the quarter-year, in 2024 I will give the lists monthly and annotate lightly. Don’t look for full reviews here (when I have written more elsewhere, I will include a link), just somewhat a little more indication than ‘fiction’ or ‘nonfiction’ of what you can expect to find inside the covers if you look for any of these books. </span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">So here they are, the books I read this January 2024:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAGm7XK0z0nUhvMo2IPfUpO2Z4AJXvkkVPcqInMoU5_P5IldHNslNs43Ekp5mHck4JeT28b-jv0X9CxZ7PlVymPtzoEVbgRZlx4zrn4FCtqjiOjwi0LaDPev5YwHtTiauOsn1mgttnC7_FsiEWod19EVkmZvTiCoBrDikOCiAEWa_osFgiHNQeSqu912z/s4000/20240128_161332.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAGm7XK0z0nUhvMo2IPfUpO2Z4AJXvkkVPcqInMoU5_P5IldHNslNs43Ekp5mHck4JeT28b-jv0X9CxZ7PlVymPtzoEVbgRZlx4zrn4FCtqjiOjwi0LaDPev5YwHtTiauOsn1mgttnC7_FsiEWod19EVkmZvTiCoBrDikOCiAEWa_osFgiHNQeSqu912z/w400-h300/20240128_161332.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/01/out-with-old-in-with-new.html">Straight, Susan</a>. <i>The Country of Women</i> (nonfiction). I characterized this elsewhere as “a long love letter addressed to her three daughters, telling them everything she knows about previous generations on both sides of the family.” I love this author!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Brach, Tara. <i>Radical Compassion</i> (nonfiction). A how-to text for getting below and beyond anger, knowing ourselves better, and loving others better.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mosley, Walter. <i>Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned</i> (fiction). Of all Mosley’s novels, this is my favorite, a book I consider absolutely perfect. The HBO film version is excellent, too, no doubt thanks to the author’s involvement in the production. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">4.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Picoult, Jodi. <i>My Sister’s Keeper</i> (fiction). The only novel of Picoult’s I have read, I found it well written and compelling but was disappointed in the ending, which seemed unnecessarily contrived and over the top.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">5.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Johnson, James Weldon. <i>The Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man</i> (fiction). Johnson was not only a writer but a real VIP: Broadway lyricist, the first Black lawyer admitted to the bar since Reconstruction, consul to Venezuela and Nicaragua, university professor, civil rights activist, and head of the NAACP for ten years. This work should be more widely read than it is today.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">6.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>McCullers, Carson. <i>The Heart is a Lonely Hunter</i> (fiction). It was only coincidence that I read this novel, featuring the deaf Mr. Singer, right after reading Johnson’s novel with another fictional Mr. Singer. Both are classic American stories, and both highlight the loneliness often found at the heart of the American Dream.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">7.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>McHugh, Laura. <i>Arrowood</i> (fiction). This semi-Gothic, cold case story was more engaging than I expected, and I am interested now in reading the author’s <i>The Weight of Blood</i>, set deep in the Ozarks, as the first few pages included following the end of Arrowood gave a vivid sense of place that I did not find in the novel I read.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">8.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Clymer, Eleanor. <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/01/snowbound.html">The Trolley Car Family</a></i> (fiction – juv.). A charmingly written and illustrated children’s story set in the early post-WWII period, with streetcars, milkmen, and small family subsistence farms. Never didactic, often rough-and-tumble, a summer in the country provides adventures and lessons for the Parker children.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">9.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Deaton, Angus. <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/01/snowbound.html">Economics in America</a>: An Immigrant Economist Explores the Land of Inequality</i> (nonfiction). Deaton explains what it is that economists do, inside and outside the academy, and explores ways that American systems (such as healthcare) and American expectations and beliefs differ from those in Europe and the U.K.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">10.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Van Dyke, Henry. <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2024/01/long-winter-nights.html">Little Rivers</a></i> (nonfiction). Author, diplomat, educator, and clergyman, Van Dyke appears in these reminiscences as a travel and fly-fishing aficionado. Although he generally has guides and camp cooks and paddlers to do the work out in the wilderness, he keeps them behind the scenes, and he does plenty of tramping himself from place to place.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">11.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anselmo, Anthony. <i>The Spirit of the North Wind</i> (fiction – YA). This novel from a member of the Sault Ste. Marie Ojibwe tribe combines, in a thirteen-year-old’s vision quest, both happy modern family life and elements of magic realism.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">12.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Foster, Elizabeth. <i>Gigi in America</i> (fiction – juv.). No, not the “funny little girl” from Paris. This Gigi, male, began life in Vienna, and he is a merry-go-round horse. Until they grow too big for the horses’ saddles, children who ride the merry-go-round horses can enter into conversation with them, and several children help Gigi return to the first little girl he loved, now grown up with a daughter of her own. World War II intrudes but only in rather vague, subtle ways. Gypsies are for the most part portrayed in a positive light.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">13.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hopson, Nasugraq Rainey. <i>Eagle Drums</i> (fiction – YA). Expecting another vision quest, I was taken much further by this retelling of the Inupiaq society creation myth, small family groups learning from golden eagles how to live together in harmony and pass on their history in song and dance. Mesmerizing and important work.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">14.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cott, Jonathan. <i>Wandering Ghost: The Odyssey of Lafcadio Hearn</i> (nonfiction). Excerpts from Hearn’s own writings are so numerous and so lengthy that he deserves to be called a co-author on this volume, but in the end I have no complaint with either man’s contributions. Cott is sympathetic to his subject, and Hearn so completely himself, that the result is superb.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">15.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hesse, Hermann. <i>Autobiographical Writings</i> (nonfiction). The selection takes him through life into old age, and he doesn’t hide his feelings. His likes and loves, agonies and peeves are all expressed. He would not have wanted to meet you or me, but here he is, revealed to us all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">16.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meis, Morgan. <i>Ruins: Selected Essays</i> (nonfiction) Surprising. Meis, Ph.D. in philosophy, is a man of catholic interests and thoughtful opinions on such diverse subjects as art, literature, “ruin porn,” the freedom of private life in formerly Communist East Berlin, and the public commemorations of tragedies. I was particularly fascinated by the essay on David Foster Wallace’s <i>The Pale King</i>. Though I doubt I will ever read that novel, unfinished at the time of the author’s death (I have read <i>Infinite Jest</i> and many of DWF’s essays), I look forward to reading more essays by Morgan Reis. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">17.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Campbell, Bonnie Jo. <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/12/total-immersion-recommended.html">The Waters</a></i> (fiction). Since this was my second reading and the first was not long ago, I was able to appreciate anew and in much greater depth countless details on almost every page of this novel, some having to do with the setting, others foreshadowing events or, often, borrowing from or echoing familiar myths and fairy tales. <i>The Waters</i> is not a simple “retelling” of any one particular older story but contains timeless worlds within itself, even with a setting that could not be more local to southcentral Michigan. And her characters are true to the bone. So proud that she’s a Michigan writer!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">18.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Straight, Susan. <i>Aquaboogie</i> (fiction). I’ve already written that Susan Straight and Bonnie Jo Campbell have a lot in common. Both write of real people in real places, such that you are pulled irresistibly into a world you may never have encountered before. This volume of Straight’s, her first published book, is short stories and is the fourth book of hers I’ve read, following two novels and a memoir. Highly recommended author!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">19.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Berger, John. <i>Ways of Seeing</i> (nonfiction). From oil paintings to photography to advertising images, Berger pursues a thesis of the power of wealth and its message to the rest of us. “Glamour cannot exist without personal social envy…. The industrial society which has moved towards democracy and then stopped half way is the ideal society for generating such an emotion.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">Again and again, I echo the words of Christopher Morley’s fictional Roger Mifflin: “Thank God I am a bookseller!” I don’t promise my customers that they will become happy and glamorous, desirable and envied when they buy books from me. Instead I offer them food for thought and hassle-free armchair travel to worlds real and imaginary. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObiptLOH3-Lcm7WXlXLsOPTlrH3Y0GowSmGhiwvsT-EZJ_qBvpFAVPR38HJFA6Lolo2nkqB8XPU68VUEXCLWg9p72sJvB60JO7wWXK7DuyhGf2mfhndfyEPpw7h2ESopLhbT8gzF4PspOyxMzVpxeswSRma5voQZJQE3zZDAMaTvQDhj4oK2mtQ1KFoIV/s4000/20240128_161323.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObiptLOH3-Lcm7WXlXLsOPTlrH3Y0GowSmGhiwvsT-EZJ_qBvpFAVPR38HJFA6Lolo2nkqB8XPU68VUEXCLWg9p72sJvB60JO7wWXK7DuyhGf2mfhndfyEPpw7h2ESopLhbT8gzF4PspOyxMzVpxeswSRma5voQZJQE3zZDAMaTvQDhj4oK2mtQ1KFoIV/w400-h300/20240128_161323.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">One last thought for today:<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Have others besides me noticed how often businesses “need” our feedback these days? There are no more simple transactions, it seems, in which what we paid for is delivered to us and that's all there is to it, but an ongoing, endless plucking at our sleeves, a kind of needy attempt to establish a “relationship.” I might be inclined to thank salespeople in person (or on the phone) or send a grateful note, but I find these endless requests for e-mail feedback unnecessary and annoying, not only because there are so many of them but also because they ask formulaic questions and provide answers from which I must choose. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t and won't do that to my customers! When I mess up (which I try not to do very often), I apologize! On the other hand, frequent repeat customers make me very happy, and many have become my friends over the more than 30 years I’ve been in business, and that did <i>not </i>happen because I asked them to "rate their experience” on a scale of 1 to 5 or 6 or 10. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Do we understand each other? You don’t have to answer that, because yes, I think we understand each other!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrogQY2BQx_hm5N9borUWJWXB7fhDxZciRbdGWRF5ZN4bX667fxNdblq3sX7G5RAx1l-38_QXIm-9pxR0wZ4ktdk35dTujEiam92cx6jHkvb5kAMU0YNlUy5wZCDi92sOoB0sZVnjorEKgBNg4aRsLQ1MSjtpAn7Ej3nWuEeTa0a_FgXHnXeqlNXt_Ysb/s4000/20240128_161553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrogQY2BQx_hm5N9borUWJWXB7fhDxZciRbdGWRF5ZN4bX667fxNdblq3sX7G5RAx1l-38_QXIm-9pxR0wZ4ktdk35dTujEiam92cx6jHkvb5kAMU0YNlUy5wZCDi92sOoB0sZVnjorEKgBNg4aRsLQ1MSjtpAn7Ej3nWuEeTa0a_FgXHnXeqlNXt_Ysb/w480-h640/20240128_161553.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqP-YtMpmzrQQsyYvtZziiSGK-bw_1KWB2Drkilrwa37z-omUlxJbSHWeoSgLuP8IorD_k3tO18dhlxPPQsgrT_owtRwtUaySvEuADPw7jpg8y4CkHZ7orHDQp0p-zkJ-B4t1hy4dGKdPXCUSbnUeRsGAtX6IwXhPjJXA2ABZJHIQHih_7PQK4wlkB4LYA/s4000/20240131_161515.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqP-YtMpmzrQQsyYvtZziiSGK-bw_1KWB2Drkilrwa37z-omUlxJbSHWeoSgLuP8IorD_k3tO18dhlxPPQsgrT_owtRwtUaySvEuADPw7jpg8y4CkHZ7orHDQp0p-zkJ-B4t1hy4dGKdPXCUSbnUeRsGAtX6IwXhPjJXA2ABZJHIQHih_7PQK4wlkB4LYA/w480-h640/20240131_161515.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-77734912277253840532024-01-25T08:51:00.000-08:002024-01-25T15:27:34.829-08:00Is Our World Black and White?<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzFWDSaguQNbZEjrFaN1VG_BilltunO-PamBHukXj1FXXF4-XAY-hVci4BR2tCGzGOX6TQSAyj-0ZSx7L22SfqlqiZduH7NfBi7GAA56BxSyfJPa4WFsHMLHWS9xvQBjLLQR19qW_ufaD3A0G-DntjtPaRLDztPhcQ8qu6VqjzmEYJsCWOqF7hL2e5H6tz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzFWDSaguQNbZEjrFaN1VG_BilltunO-PamBHukXj1FXXF4-XAY-hVci4BR2tCGzGOX6TQSAyj-0ZSx7L22SfqlqiZduH7NfBi7GAA56BxSyfJPa4WFsHMLHWS9xvQBjLLQR19qW_ufaD3A0G-DntjtPaRLDztPhcQ8qu6VqjzmEYJsCWOqF7hL2e5H6tz=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">On Wednesday morning the outdoor world appeared black and white to my winter-weary eyes. Stark. Empty of color. Warmer air and absence of wind were pleasant, but I found it hard to celebrate what struck me as a morose, monochrome landscape. Sunday's blue sky and sunlight -- so joyous! -- only made the return of grey skies that much harder to bear. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to capture the scene -- b<span>ut the truth is that I edited today’s opening photograph to bleed out its color. The original looked like this:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDpMdxEd_uJF2a5AZPUHjzYxwK4gj30FxYMkPVo-_skS-YVKBz7FDra7kanODXYoQNUEfZ48ZrfOa23r3rxYGmDfosXReLTgZIiz44lLI5r6gtetNtLTpy1pqZgXBVwyQWs45qpEmDkRN94pOl7Mssvwps2Uthv2XlqfkE5ZZm1C5Tk4x_n3jB3vndp1Dv/s4000/20240124_084219.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDpMdxEd_uJF2a5AZPUHjzYxwK4gj30FxYMkPVo-_skS-YVKBz7FDra7kanODXYoQNUEfZ48ZrfOa23r3rxYGmDfosXReLTgZIiz44lLI5r6gtetNtLTpy1pqZgXBVwyQWs45qpEmDkRN94pOl7Mssvwps2Uthv2XlqfkE5ZZm1C5Tk4x_n3jB3vndp1Dv/w300-h400/20240124_084219.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Not only the deep green of pines but that subtle, rosy-plummy color of the cherry branches. I had to admit it: there was color in the winter palette. Not exactly a rainbow, but color nonetheless.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">I love black-and-white photography and often find b/w images more striking (do we see those images as "timeless" because we associate them with photographs and snapshots predating color processing?), but I’ll go in the other direction today for a rule to live by: Nothing is ever black and white. We can always find color if we look for it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">(Lately I’ve been dreaming in startlingly vivid hues. One dream segued from soothing, muted tones to garish red and gold. In the dream, I protested the hideous decor, yet that startling scene is the one I remember.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Children’s books, bright with illustrations, draw us into their pages at an early age, and as adults we can still be seduced by beautiful books of photographs or drawings, but think about black lines of type on the page of an unillustrated book and how easily they disappear when you read, converted to lively, moving images you "see" as if you were amidst them. “Make mind movies,” the grade school teachers now say to their pupils, because just as a movie screen takes over imaginations and erases for a time our immediate physical surroundings, so the room around us can vanish when we let ourselves be captured by a story on pages we turn one by one, barely conscious that we are turning pages. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">And so I’ve been far from Michigan lately, reading two biographical/autobiographical books, a hybrid term I use because the author of <i>Wandering Ghost: The Odyssey of Lafcadio Hearn</i>, Jonathan Cott, intersperses his chronological narration of Hearn’s life with many long excerpts from the subject’s own writing. Hermann Hesse’s <i>Autobiographical Writings</i>, on the other hand, contains short pieces all his own. Although both Hearn and Hesse led interesting lives, Hearn’s to me was fascinating, and his writing much more vivid. His <a href="https://www.cincinnati.com/story/news/2022/01/02/lafcadio-hearn-and-other-notable-cincinnati-journalists-who-made-history/9022847002/">early journalism</a>, in fact, was downright lurid, his appreciation for beauty and simplicity coming to the fore in his years in Japan. But I was saving <i>Wandering Ghost</i> for bedtime reading, so it was the Hesse compilation I took to my neighborhood tavern, the Happy Hour, on Tuesday afternoon, anticipating that my friend would be a few minutes behind me for our rendez-vous.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_AtPbKUMZ24jNjJfk2Kn3mcqaZzIBNtDOu5Z2d-oHqV-hGstvWXIJgkm5Jztw70BUXvkUv0WdINH-xEvXkMfdKuduKMNJcpOpXiuipQ9RhGGwbOaM1t_luNLaZsQXasXjBsOzAPMHtffndRyKXmOmPZ7_5ZEs8mtRDT1hh6rd_k9tjSab8y5zqy-YELQ/s4000/20240123_160246.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_AtPbKUMZ24jNjJfk2Kn3mcqaZzIBNtDOu5Z2d-oHqV-hGstvWXIJgkm5Jztw70BUXvkUv0WdINH-xEvXkMfdKuduKMNJcpOpXiuipQ9RhGGwbOaM1t_luNLaZsQXasXjBsOzAPMHtffndRyKXmOmPZ7_5ZEs8mtRDT1hh6rd_k9tjSab8y5zqy-YELQ/w300-h400/20240123_160246.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">How much did I read while waiting? Very little, of course! Surrounded by warmth and memories, curious about strangers at the bar and in the other booth, I spent more time soaking in the familiar, well-loved atmosphere than turning pages. How many happy hours did the Artist and I spend at the Happy Hour? And his exceeded ours together, as he often stopped on the way home from Northport while I was still in my bookstore. He was a regular....<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Another friend once told me that she studied library science because she loved books, only to discover that her first job as a librarian left her little if any time to read on the job. Such is not the fate of a northern Michigan bookseller in winter. The only problem facing me most days is which book to pick up next, with so many tempting choices within reach, and I am always carrying volumes back and forth between home and bookstore. Soon, though, I will begin my second reading of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s <i>The Waters</i>, because that lushly sensual story is a perfect antidote for winter's silent, superficially monochrome reality. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfJuWvExL5SbMMi49qNolktbxZw8HBwv2yiDJjHn8pTSTqree6yh_7Tlrsez2PbmZ4PZpT3LZUqMTa4RqeVDvaiKkeMfDC91Vcxguk00prJuhp3t8Kl5qx2yqwViehRyQfuTIr0oq9wyty0w6nyojjqxTJY7p_HffywIaCqtxuaLjhJ3DN4ESfmqaJG8T/s4000/20240124_150835.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfJuWvExL5SbMMi49qNolktbxZw8HBwv2yiDJjHn8pTSTqree6yh_7Tlrsez2PbmZ4PZpT3LZUqMTa4RqeVDvaiKkeMfDC91Vcxguk00prJuhp3t8Kl5qx2yqwViehRyQfuTIr0oq9wyty0w6nyojjqxTJY7p_HffywIaCqtxuaLjhJ3DN4ESfmqaJG8T/w300-h400/20240124_150835.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-24621602083097989552024-01-17T09:04:00.000-08:002024-01-23T04:45:42.965-08:00 Long Winter Nights<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmNsFF8OELd91EV7h0kxb9JM1vjb7G_XJbP0Y4JHBj3qOFwwS6FHphvxEc9u8BTcS4loOYX4nsMZwj4NrQ-SraDabfglsGcE49fQE2ylIU2Ao15mMJX1wwrMQaIgBs1_vUlnLXV-vuZ55oOYbNfbUL-BQQJTLszspmM2_6Guc9vkvy8hdJEN83HcifJoqw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmNsFF8OELd91EV7h0kxb9JM1vjb7G_XJbP0Y4JHBj3qOFwwS6FHphvxEc9u8BTcS4loOYX4nsMZwj4NrQ-SraDabfglsGcE49fQE2ylIU2Ao15mMJX1wwrMQaIgBs1_vUlnLXV-vuZ55oOYbNfbUL-BQQJTLszspmM2_6Guc9vkvy8hdJEN83HcifJoqw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little light, except as reflected off snow, and almost no color -- color comes further down.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">We are past the winter solstice, so each night is shorter than the night before, but somehow in January it doesn’t feel that way to me. Daylight skies are grey, and cloud cover continuing through the night hides moon and stars, making darkness deeper, colder. Theoretically and no doubt actually, cloud cover would make night warmer <i>if</i> there were warmth to hold in, but that <i>if</i> is a big one. And daylight is not exactly a relief, either, when it means having to bundle up and go out in the cold, one of the few minuses of having a dog in winter. Or maybe it’s a plus, that having to wade through knee-deep snow and breathe cold, clean air, but, like the gradually shortening nights, it’s often hard to feel the positive aspect. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCBsH6kxxiFhjb1EkOrO4V-jarh5i1wUsstaWvJOzTdAPtCfOATjuBpPW9ZGn3l7TnD0MHbLmJ37Bf_Tc9merhkdOIuuA1wecJgM-eL8MWcwoTRyrt6moHB1y2vBHd40rUmGzezto5bl6zTXBe2z0lvyDRG4HoTcC-2Vyt9daeLhsrTvtb9XDdiw3EBsGP" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="1755" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCBsH6kxxiFhjb1EkOrO4V-jarh5i1wUsstaWvJOzTdAPtCfOATjuBpPW9ZGn3l7TnD0MHbLmJ37Bf_Tc9merhkdOIuuA1wecJgM-eL8MWcwoTRyrt6moHB1y2vBHd40rUmGzezto5bl6zTXBe2z0lvyDRG4HoTcC-2Vyt9daeLhsrTvtb9XDdiw3EBsGP=w395-h640" width="395" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Are you putting on your coat?"<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Beginning with the end of December and continuing through March come also for me difficult anniversaries. The Artist and I had to say goodbye to a dog we had all too briefly, and only weeks later came the Artist’s first trip to the local ER (we were in Arizona at the time), quickly followed by a jolting ambulance trip to Phoenix and, finally, major surgery. At first, that January two years ago, after successful surgery we thought everything was taken care of and were happily, if briefly (as it turned out), planning the rest of our life together. Respite from worry was short-lived. More trips to the ER, more surgery – and ultimately, the end of our earthly adventures together, March 2, 2022.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">Scenes from those emotionally intense five to six weeks of my life are burned into memory, and while I can set them aside during the long, sunny, birdsong-filled days of spring and early summer and the busy, colorful days of late summer and fall, the dead of winter brings them all to the fore again. I</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">t isn’t that I reach intentionally for the most difficult remembrances. Hardly! When I wake with those scenes crowding in on me, I try to put myself back to sleep with happier memories, such as September walks in the grassy, hollyhock-lined alleys of Grand Marais, our dreamy travel through France another September, or the most ordinary summer Sunday spent mowing grass and moving cars and boats around the yard here at home. All those scenes and more I would welcome in dreams!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Meanwhile, in my waking hours, I take refuge in books.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRxpawtstX1CyUEHd1NYq5yq6wYcYYONinBybRdCjAlqSBZDvi7CsoADxDtvjkDjeK_Ho26DqwEowexU5WTGuiyV3mimBpYuno8ihoiZaQxZ78qA0bpNKyRyTWeBvF5miOqri9esVEgYsdlPUNysQfZEtP90Jvj74dRaRGsTh3FNzLhM_fWXfXYO0TB3wV" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRxpawtstX1CyUEHd1NYq5yq6wYcYYONinBybRdCjAlqSBZDvi7CsoADxDtvjkDjeK_Ho26DqwEowexU5WTGuiyV3mimBpYuno8ihoiZaQxZ78qA0bpNKyRyTWeBvF5miOqri9esVEgYsdlPUNysQfZEtP90Jvj74dRaRGsTh3FNzLhM_fWXfXYO0TB3wV=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Over the years, the Artist and I put together quite a little collection of books having to do with rivers and boats, and the one in which I sought solace during the season’s first massive storm was Henry Van Dyke’s <i>Little Rivers</i>, a collection of travel and flyfishing essays first copyrighted in 1895 by Charles Scribner’s Sons and first published in 1903. Van Dyke, an American cleric, writes of boyhood fishing and later travels with father, friends, wife, or by himself to various flowing waters in Canada and Europe, always with bamboo rod and “fly-book.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">His fishing was for trout and salmon or grayling. (Here I pause, because I have always thought grayling was a trout, not, as he describes it, some lesser, bottom-feeding fish, and now, looking into the matter, I see <a href="https://www.wildtrout.org/content/grayling-trout">it is a salmon</a> and considered very good eating.) But the most prized of all, for Van Dyke, is the <a href="https://www.anglingnewfoundlandlabrador.com/angling-stories/ouananiche-little-brother-of-the-king">ouananiche</a>, “the famous land-locked salmon of Lake St. John” and other Canadian lakes. Don’t you love that name? <i>Ouananiche!</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Any fisherman would delight in Van Dyke’s description of waters and fishes and the stalking and hooking and landing – or sometimes losing – of piscatorial prizes. (Piscatorial: that’s the kind of old-fashioned language of this book from over a century ago.) For my own pleasure, I am equally pleased by his knowledge of wildflowers and birds and noting which appear in each season along the rivers he walks and fishes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Even that is not all, however, as the book is a collection of memories, and as the author looks back on his happiest vacations his thoughts are colored by what Susan Cain calls bittersweetness, sometimes even recalled from the happy times themselves.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">And yet, my friend and I confessed to each other, there was a tinge of sadness, an inexplicable regret mingled with our joy. Was it the thought of how few human eyes had even seen that lovely vision? Was it the dim foreboding that we might never see it again? Who can explain the secret pathos of Nature’s loveliness? It is a touch of melancholy inherited from our mother Eve. It is an unconscious memory of the lost Paradise. It is the sense that even if we should find another Eden, we would not be fit to enjoy it perfectly, nor stay in it forever. </span></blockquote><span style="color: #4472c4;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Our Paradise, the Artist’s and mine, encompassed happy hours in a variety of places: A little trout stream in southwest Michigan prosaically known as the Mentha Drain; another unbeautifully named river, the Sucker, in the Upper Peninsula, its mouth meandering an always-changing watery path through woods and wetlands to Lake Superior; Leelanau County’s lovely Crystal River (despite the leeches that clung to us after we waded out); and our own little hidden-away, no-name creek, keeping its secrets until we followed it upstream after a storm to a miniature waterfall. There were the Allier and the Alagnon in France’s Auvergne region, rivers whose names we had never heard until our wandering brought us to their banks. And of course, principally – because of the many times we explored various stretches, never encountering another vessel or explorer – Van Buren County’s Paw Paw River, the “Little River” that gave that name (Little River Cafe) to a restaurant friends of ours had for a while in the town of Paw Paw.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">During this lifetime, none of us ever “stays” in Paradise, but if we happen upon it now and then, we can count ourselves fortunate, and those are the memory scenes that I court during these long, dark, cold winter nights. Also, dark eventually gives way to daylight, if not always sunshine, and I have a ever-eager companion in the outdoor cold.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWZUG1_Gi3ll5qormETwVX693JK1XfW2YCIa2LtSjX2p-dPNTaDIadBwXJHp_BmFZnk3J94zGgSLxysGwJqh1pmkZykxrMzYEN_Nnx3vuKck1chHtgzOakj6adHQe-yBnUU74wc4CxW6OMFjFwMYj7g6BrSAWFkkpxDdSTQo2d3Gar83ZXB4FtK-OCsq-w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWZUG1_Gi3ll5qormETwVX693JK1XfW2YCIa2LtSjX2p-dPNTaDIadBwXJHp_BmFZnk3J94zGgSLxysGwJqh1pmkZykxrMzYEN_Nnx3vuKck1chHtgzOakj6adHQe-yBnUU74wc4CxW6OMFjFwMYj7g6BrSAWFkkpxDdSTQo2d3Gar83ZXB4FtK-OCsq-w=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpCGGQNOk3RY7aWOjW0PVzW-BieSN_8x2-0E9izVngAVfOMgr5LKfptc5HXzWiwHe-svbeVAOeaQHOxSO1Ni8Dl6zghrOYerb2Fq4cDeZmZyG62BZ8uS8fbbFTL4z3cWxZ_dAxMqDI0aFF4Q1X19Z93HCEBIm2kOhwgYhugzN3WjuIYmv20WgBlMt4eBAe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpCGGQNOk3RY7aWOjW0PVzW-BieSN_8x2-0E9izVngAVfOMgr5LKfptc5HXzWiwHe-svbeVAOeaQHOxSO1Ni8Dl6zghrOYerb2Fq4cDeZmZyG62BZ8uS8fbbFTL4z3cWxZ_dAxMqDI0aFF4Q1X19Z93HCEBIm2kOhwgYhugzN3WjuIYmv20WgBlMt4eBAe=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But my dog, while great, isn’t news, and I do have some very good news this week. On Tuesday, (one of my two by-chance-or-appointment days -- BCOA -- along with Monday), I came to the bookstore in hopes of a UPS delivery, and sure enough – my order of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s <i>The Waters</i> came! You can just imagine how happy that made me, and I know it will make many of my customers happy, too. In fact, one local woman walked in just after I had photographed the box of books and said immediately, “I want one!” </span><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">And we’re off!</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv72uY7iJibibKDLfUOEx3PTXvHloAB2g_Szw4BXQmA63CKgHOjEaoYcSQeutVQyTwIpaB4PSCRELt3k8Z0FVHU1LxwGBQZLfZm7tUc4piqg3kCR7et7p-eLupJZVl1r5rmY5JmH6hkhVpEXBin78cEIywL3V1FbyhKKOXROtz8yuroCmjWwCtyAWZQsNo/s4000/20240116_121549.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv72uY7iJibibKDLfUOEx3PTXvHloAB2g_Szw4BXQmA63CKgHOjEaoYcSQeutVQyTwIpaB4PSCRELt3k8Z0FVHU1LxwGBQZLfZm7tUc4piqg3kCR7et7p-eLupJZVl1r5rmY5JmH6hkhVpEXBin78cEIywL3V1FbyhKKOXROtz8yuroCmjWwCtyAWZQsNo/w400-h300/20240116_121549.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The books are here!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i></div><i><br /></i></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2hrvVhZMfmIHMAwhHcnWiotkScswJF_bJRgwqbLFEUVT1qtw9XbJsSyHuNIQuRmYBm4upldrTwW1vtVvtVBNe71IbYIJGRZGeEVDwpekaFkszE0txFcK-6AWxWEweLZsMt09WedcLNyvx-5CNNOeFlvVScz9cD3haJWkqTiIM_FvDEjwsXpDNVf5Lg1w/s4000/20240116_121700.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2hrvVhZMfmIHMAwhHcnWiotkScswJF_bJRgwqbLFEUVT1qtw9XbJsSyHuNIQuRmYBm4upldrTwW1vtVvtVBNe71IbYIJGRZGeEVDwpekaFkszE0txFcK-6AWxWEweLZsMt09WedcLNyvx-5CNNOeFlvVScz9cD3haJWkqTiIM_FvDEjwsXpDNVf5Lg1w/w480-h640/20240116_121700.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First one out the door!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-62997439111229489992024-01-14T09:30:00.000-08:002024-01-14T14:43:00.838-08:00 Snowbound!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t7XeU5Lj1aPCzACrw6XRkPVYGX44pP9cajzDzdW5wtLa-ggEJ-P4M9OkprLGTZ-tzoDuI6_6sd3zmsOvvIZMAWSuJwwerUqAgm3cUv0B6sSnJ1WelouqX9MUfwZqSgnY9D2fvqtRyNeH7kx77Q9b__9vLaQ_iY-T1_R_zkLAob3X1NnUx_ks84pLK0E-/s1987/20240113_140926.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1987" data-original-width="1860" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-t7XeU5Lj1aPCzACrw6XRkPVYGX44pP9cajzDzdW5wtLa-ggEJ-P4M9OkprLGTZ-tzoDuI6_6sd3zmsOvvIZMAWSuJwwerUqAgm3cUv0B6sSnJ1WelouqX9MUfwZqSgnY9D2fvqtRyNeH7kx77Q9b__9vLaQ_iY-T1_R_zkLAob3X1NnUx_ks84pLK0E-/w375-h400/20240113_140926.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early Saturday afternoon, 1/13/24</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Winter has finally arrived in northern Michigan. Almost halfway through January, we are having the weather that many years has landed on us as early as November – cold winds, snow squalls, heavy accumulation and blowing and drifting. Lots of horizontal snowing, Friday from the south, Saturday from the north, Sunday morning from the west, as far as I can tell. Everyone, in villages and countryside, is praying we don’t lose electrical power. The power company was busy clearing trees away this past fall, but those of us in the country, on wells and without generators, took the precaution ahead of the storm of filling large containers with water, because this is not our first rodeo.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KWAllIOCL84xABHTs-eIvBC2zYMKz_7wZstnw5pmQBYKB0rPnWg96WB9k8fpwKiBMQo0-tpBai8kbXjG6iQ52uIcBJXMF8w5gnnu7_hhhFn6MlxLY05Jy3eGk4hS6dM3gXrc_y-boOFqFEi1tGj6QU1EtzAus4LRPP_99LbzBqCeRSoTKYE2j9ro11tj/s4000/20240114_084856.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KWAllIOCL84xABHTs-eIvBC2zYMKz_7wZstnw5pmQBYKB0rPnWg96WB9k8fpwKiBMQo0-tpBai8kbXjG6iQ52uIcBJXMF8w5gnnu7_hhhFn6MlxLY05Jy3eGk4hS6dM3gXrc_y-boOFqFEi1tGj6QU1EtzAus4LRPP_99LbzBqCeRSoTKYE2j9ro11tj/w300-h400/20240114_084856.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowy Juliet</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Sunny Juliet loves the snow and doesn’t seem to mind the cold wind. She will often put her nose and paws to work to unearth (unsnow?) hidden treasure, which could be – and has been more than once -- a mouse nest or a deer leg. I’m relieved when it’s only a windfall apple.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGLjLrpuc2Fn69A4OytgRkr3aVM6KeJDr12AW8DcnjRSariFIEpJA9aH1w_anjROdoWbnUF1_o1b4JyVTsxFIEGvM0DPPy5UBTFPYncxjHmgAE-mlk2AKeQispjrB9rrKWuyeewwUzEt_O1uaIJwIQ3crgO19CS9MMLSTW3OqcDYRgMFCyUxJ35VAAam4/s4000/20240114_084814.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGLjLrpuc2Fn69A4OytgRkr3aVM6KeJDr12AW8DcnjRSariFIEpJA9aH1w_anjROdoWbnUF1_o1b4JyVTsxFIEGvM0DPPy5UBTFPYncxjHmgAE-mlk2AKeQispjrB9rrKWuyeewwUzEt_O1uaIJwIQ3crgO19CS9MMLSTW3OqcDYRgMFCyUxJ35VAAam4/w480-h640/20240114_084814.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's under here?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mCXPLqazPfO0x3qaJ9nRqD6CYvrOZwhfeD2JQIgnwXWXYZe4VOU4V0G3Gc0IPAEfWR2DfSUmNmKlbIpJDvMtPKiPZho2PKfG8IW78lPuuNHckpjFfhNXENqG-GbtYsEikIZoG9Vu2Z7Byws_s9C-2LhihFmEtzdcp8QH1M7GvO7BBRU93t-YjXFCJtHh/s4000/20240114_085027.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mCXPLqazPfO0x3qaJ9nRqD6CYvrOZwhfeD2JQIgnwXWXYZe4VOU4V0G3Gc0IPAEfWR2DfSUmNmKlbIpJDvMtPKiPZho2PKfG8IW78lPuuNHckpjFfhNXENqG-GbtYsEikIZoG9Vu2Z7Byws_s9C-2LhihFmEtzdcp8QH1M7GvO7BBRU93t-YjXFCJtHh/w480-h640/20240114_085027.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An apple!</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">You might guess that, besides water, I am prepared with plenty of books for a snowbound siege. On the serious end of things, I’m halfway through Angus Deaton’s <i>Economics in America</i> and should finish it soon, though it isn’t the book I expected. Rather than a unified treatise on how the American economy is put together and how it works overall, the book is a compilation of various shorter pieces written by the Scottish author (who is at now Princeton now and has lived in the U.S. for a couple of decades) over a long period of time, updated and introduced for this volume. There is a lot in it about economic inequality (as well as what he calls “relational” inequality), with closer looks at American health care costs and retirement finances, all of which he is able to contrast with those overseas, usually in the U.K. and Europe. So far my favorite observation is this one: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Chicago economics gave us a healthy respect for markets, as well as a previously underdeveloped skepticism about the idea that government can do better, but it left economics with too little regard for the defects of markets and what they can and cannot do. Not everything should be traded. The profession bought too far into the idea that money is everything and that everything can be measured in money. Philosophers have never accepted that money is the sole measure of good, or that only individuals matter and society does not, and economists have spent too little time reading and listening to them.</span></blockquote><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">It isn’t often that anyone outside academic philosophy thinks that philosophers deserve a listen, so thank you, Angus! Here’s another bit in the discussion of Chicago economics and Milton Friedman that I found thought-provoking: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Friedman dismissed much of inequality as natural; some people like to work hard and get rich, while others prefer to enjoy their leisure. Some like to save and build up fortunes for their heirs, while others are more concerned with their own immediate enjoyment. Any attempt to diminish this sort of inequality would penalize virtue and reward vice. </span></blockquote><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">A couple of thoughts come to mind here. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Hard work does not necessarily lead to riches. My maternal grandparents were some of the hardest-working people I’ve ever known, and I know people today, younger than I am, who labor intensively for hours no rich person would ever consider and who will </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">never</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> be rich. Sometimes their hard work is a choice, while other times it is not choice but necessity. There are plenty of people who work hard, do not get rich, and have little leisure. Friedman’s dismissal (if Deaton has summarized it fairly, and I have no reason to think otherwise) is an oversimplified false dilemma. Life is not that either/or.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">For those among the not-rich, whether hard workers or otherwise, </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">if</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> they have </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">chosen</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> a way of life that does not involve hard work and are </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">content</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> with not being wealthy, why should this be seen as “vice”? And why is working to accumulate wealth, apart from other life goals, to be considered “virtuous”?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">Economics fascinates me. I have never understood people who hold strong political views, many of them based on economic policies, who have never themselves explored the subject of economics but rest content with a chosen ideology.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsl5GlBo0ZgQRuX0Gos3GDzwhaPtl5iPv_OKx73bhs9xS9eX_DUpl9upUbedUELA79v1l0hydaIQP52hyphenhyphen0tbjNl4TTPSLJ86otPDYrz7tGWD4nzTbgj85fnI5nAVN_BE2towqT47p_u4XbyOB-xfzHrlPEczJilp8zgFk3TmphZqwFapLRU5Bjhl2PzG0L/s4000/20240114_103922.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsl5GlBo0ZgQRuX0Gos3GDzwhaPtl5iPv_OKx73bhs9xS9eX_DUpl9upUbedUELA79v1l0hydaIQP52hyphenhyphen0tbjNl4TTPSLJ86otPDYrz7tGWD4nzTbgj85fnI5nAVN_BE2towqT47p_u4XbyOB-xfzHrlPEczJilp8zgFk3TmphZqwFapLRU5Bjhl2PzG0L/w400-h300/20240114_103922.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">My snowbound reading, however, is not all so serious. My own home bookshelves turned up a children’s book I don’t remember ever reading, <i>The Trolley Car Family,</i> by Eleanor Clymer and illustrated by Ursula Koering. Published by David McKay, with a copyright date by the author of 1947, <i>The Trolley Car Family </i>opens with Mr. Jefferson, grouchy next-door neighbor of the Parker family. Mr. Jefferson has to hitch up his horse and wagon in the middle of the night to deliver milk while the rest of the neighborhood is still asleep, and when he comes home to try to sleep, the Parker children are always making noise. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Mr. Parker is a motorman on a street car, and (unlike Mr. Jefferson) he loves his job. Complications arise when the trolley company decides it is going to transition from trolleys to buses. Buses! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">“Always hated the durned things,” said Mr. Parker. “They won’t stay on a track. You never know what they’ll do, careening all over the street. Now with a street car, you know where you are. But with these buses, the cars are all the time swooping in and out around you. I don’t like it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">“I don’t blame him,” said Mrs. Parker. “I never did like to see a man do something he didn’t like.” </span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Things take what looks like a temporary turn for the better. When Mr. Parker is able to buy his old street car and rent a piece of land five miles from town, and Mr. Jefferson offers the use of his horse and wagon to get the street car from the end of the line to the rented land. The Parkers invite Mr. Jefferson to come along, and he obtains vacation time to do so.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Everyone is happy except for reminders that this summer idyll is not a permanent solution. Sally, the oldest Parker child, reads the writing on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">…The boys could hardly wait to be grown up. They were going to do such wonderful things! But Sally had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be so easy. When you were little, you thought that grownups could do whatever they liked. But lying there in the twilight, listening to their voices, she knew that they couldn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Pa and Mr. Jefferson just wanted to stay out here, milking the cows, or weeding the garden. But Mr. Jefferson had to go back to his job, and Pa would have to find a job soon, and they would all have to go back to town and leave this nice place. And Ma knew that Pa liked farming, and felt sorry that he would have to stop. But they couldn’t do as they liked. They had to think of the children. The children had to go to school, and have meals and clothes. So the grownups had to work.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Sally felt like waking the boys up and telling them what she had discovered. But she knew it wouldn’t be any use. They were too young. </span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #4472c4;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;">Of course, this is a book for children, a mostly happy book, where all ends charmingly for everyone, so I managed to enjoy it without thinking too much about Earl Butz coming along with his “Get big or get out!” policy for small farmers, but what a coincidence that a bit of this mid-century children’s book should echo some of my thoughts while reading Angus Deaton on economics….</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VTBm58NI6kT_Nux67ElkpmN0aZIhyphenhyphengVyaW0k0awVWetgkuBD40ADsb1Ksig_nw9uL6j5aiaGB6gIdi_G8Wg5oKCYA9de8gjzVwoG0c9xE72Web0D-nMoNg7Th3J4pQUzAiC3BvSfPzh2UGAPnh5vPtvXjOteaQv1TgoRVqz_axYnkXVknp1SKP6v2Lpj/s3000/20240114_121134.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="3000" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VTBm58NI6kT_Nux67ElkpmN0aZIhyphenhyphengVyaW0k0awVWetgkuBD40ADsb1Ksig_nw9uL6j5aiaGB6gIdi_G8Wg5oKCYA9de8gjzVwoG0c9xE72Web0D-nMoNg7Th3J4pQUzAiC3BvSfPzh2UGAPnh5vPtvXjOteaQv1TgoRVqz_axYnkXVknp1SKP6v2Lpj/w400-h399/20240114_121134.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style;">I have also started <i>Eagle Drums</i>, by Nasugraq Rainey Hopson, and want to get back to Henry Van Dyke’s <i>Little Rivers</i>, and then there is a beautiful little antique volume I received as a Christmas present, <i>Le marquis de Grignan</i>, a book about Madame de Sévigne’s grandson by Frédéric Masson.</span> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w7UaJswHqPjTgBvKSoHdFtN8dfHWGBTjwCr2lNLRTquB0TtqvfIaPZiIySIGweUYq3jpidReLv0ILxNezOv3iCM54w-G7l-yxKXg5eWnYxO8gfUGelhlkzE3ujEVrFRc81EzMYdi4ITGVGvexbLBJGGCRGVrqwY5dHPISAqMCUPPFsF3Bl5HwAo0U1R5/s3000/20240114_105310.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2940" data-original-width="3000" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3w7UaJswHqPjTgBvKSoHdFtN8dfHWGBTjwCr2lNLRTquB0TtqvfIaPZiIySIGweUYq3jpidReLv0ILxNezOv3iCM54w-G7l-yxKXg5eWnYxO8gfUGelhlkzE3ujEVrFRc81EzMYdi4ITGVGvexbLBJGGCRGVrqwY5dHPISAqMCUPPFsF3Bl5HwAo0U1R5/w400-h393/20240114_105310.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style; font-size: x-large;"><span>– Oh, oh, oh!!! And it’s about time I start re-reading Bonnie Jo Campbell’s </span><i>The Waters</i><span>, too! Plenty to occupy me for as long as this winter storm lasts!</span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucIx1EH4svq6aZP273N2ejKIvHXrqjobSO9tSuyf7xP3u9Da7PYWj2blFs1-vHFy0iP5BzrDkHRm1louMaToGAkBUMHAF0bestvZaoykiW9IQO25az2x8LCuHTYy1Rm3FLmMGsSH5x5KS2WgdtPgl87R2rqMc1cJtKHpnJkeQZolRE-Ryk0ypVLkn2LsB/s4000/20240114_104544.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucIx1EH4svq6aZP273N2ejKIvHXrqjobSO9tSuyf7xP3u9Da7PYWj2blFs1-vHFy0iP5BzrDkHRm1louMaToGAkBUMHAF0bestvZaoykiW9IQO25az2x8LCuHTYy1Rm3FLmMGsSH5x5KS2WgdtPgl87R2rqMc1cJtKHpnJkeQZolRE-Ryk0ypVLkn2LsB/w400-h300/20240114_104544.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching from indoors...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCyPkeVvbbJyD9tdmSHVW2aGD8BGBawRedPir8se-Bjjd1FA9YvCiJZ0FQpSRJDiKrP7dULTuGDNSpAyKz1NwIpZdVO_W31Tcnquqs74kt6c2aE4spxrf_Fl2TT0grjc1AIm5ze9N2i_euSZcc8nvLWa0JgZp4b1EPcia_OMeMTnM540b5jFYHh19s0O8/s3205/20240114_115914.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3205" data-original-width="2900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCyPkeVvbbJyD9tdmSHVW2aGD8BGBawRedPir8se-Bjjd1FA9YvCiJZ0FQpSRJDiKrP7dULTuGDNSpAyKz1NwIpZdVO_W31Tcnquqs74kt6c2aE4spxrf_Fl2TT0grjc1AIm5ze9N2i_euSZcc8nvLWa0JgZp4b1EPcia_OMeMTnM540b5jFYHh19s0O8/w363-h400/20240114_115914.jpg" width="363" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...with my girl by my side.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-3226877336303030702024-01-10T08:53:00.000-08:002024-01-10T08:55:09.596-08:00What We Feel and What We Do About It<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWw81R27muiHLiYHlblSU5lg1SXC44bs9CRzI0ieKqylqHYxE5UG08BjquoeX5nHfJ6-mJCqyKSg3H8KcMDHaRFQja8i2tGb5uGh-VgQ7qG8G4BoXmPNGNIYZ7MubV4qzhSiAAkGJD6RjKHVLAO4YYPki7VfBIv2QnNuxvygG1KYgIZG_ZVX5K0dFu7Ik/s2048/418734598_10232103252388194_8676863510024959871_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWw81R27muiHLiYHlblSU5lg1SXC44bs9CRzI0ieKqylqHYxE5UG08BjquoeX5nHfJ6-mJCqyKSg3H8KcMDHaRFQja8i2tGb5uGh-VgQ7qG8G4BoXmPNGNIYZ7MubV4qzhSiAAkGJD6RjKHVLAO4YYPki7VfBIv2QnNuxvygG1KYgIZG_ZVX5K0dFu7Ik/w480-h640/418734598_10232103252388194_8676863510024959871_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny isn't angry but caught in rapid motion she looks a little crazed, doesn't she?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Anger</u><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Things were not going well for me on Monday and Tuesday, from a business point of view, and I don’t mean the expected post-holiday “cooling” (which is more like a solid freeze), but the fact that books I ordered from my national distributor in early December, with a back order in place, so I would be sure to have them by the book’s January 9 release date, had not even been shipped by January 9. They should have been shipped the previous Friday to get to me in time. On Monday I called customer service and spoke with a very pleasant young man about the situation, but he was too low on the hierarchy (bottom rung) and too far offshore (the Philippines) to be able to do anything for me. It’s Wednesday now, the book was released to the public yesterday, and my two orders are still not on their way to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In retrospect, I see that I should have ordered directly from the publisher. Hindsight. It never occurred to me that an order from my usual source of new books would not be honored in a timely fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The online behemoth is sold out, on the first day of sales! <i>They</i> got their books! Are <i>mine</i> now being shipped to <i>them</i>? I am seriously and impotently pissed off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>…Sit with the anger. How does it feel? I feel disrespected. Invisible. Treated as valueless. Totally without power.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Yesterday I posted a question on Facebook in second person: “What would you lose if you gave up your anger?” One friend’s answer, which another echoed, was: “Stress, headaches, and more.” Okay, I’ll buy that. But when I put the question in first-person form, “What would <i>I</i> lose if I gave up <i>my</i> anger?” the question took on a different tone, because who would want to hang onto stress and headaches? No, I must be hanging onto something else, something important to me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Angry that my book order was not filled in time to have books by the on-sale date, what am I <i>getting</i> out of anger? What’s in it for me? If I can’t have the books, I’ll have instead -- .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Oh, yeah: Self-righteousness! If I’m powerless, I’m a victim. If I have been wronged, someone else is to blame. And I can feel, oh-so-<i>right!</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But.… Does that feel <i>good?</i> Does it make me <i>happy?</i> Does it get me <i>anything I really want</i> – not only the books but visibility and respect?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(Do you recognize rhetorical questions when you encounter them?)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It isn’t even third prize. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>In this instance, there is no specific person to single out for blame -- which didn’t stop me from becoming very pissed off -- but what if, hypothetically, an individual </span><i>could</i><span> be identified? Let’s imagine some snotty Higher Up looking down at </span><span>tiny little me</span><span> (how likely is that? Ha!) and saying, “Don’t fill that order! Let her wait. Who cares about a little one-person bookshop in Northport, Michigan?” If that unlikely scenario </span><i>were</i></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> true, would blaming that HU get me my books any sooner? Make me feel respected and happy?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The truth is that I <i>have</i> no power here in this situation (I’ve done all I can do with phone calls and e-mails) and that life, as my father told me so often when I was growing up, is often not fair. And, honestly, this is <i>one</i> book release. If I don’t get first printings when my order finally arrives (assuming it does!), there’s nothing I can do about it, and although I’ll be disappointed (I’m already disappointed not to have the books on time), it won’t be the end of the world. It won’t even be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. My husband died. That was the worst thing that’s happened in my life – and I’m still alive, still engaged enough with life to get all upset about a late book order! What foolishness! Cool it!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcIZRZ-sP53HPT4OfkyVx24g6HpMNBaJd6P8LravSKqIeXo3bOAa9BbmsXbnn-EmV0dIRcAUcolxpaKTNwjl2FtzhX9VMvMG9cad4yUKbJV6kLdhj9cM3tDpzK0uFCvtE51YDXhFeQvrxiUG8tdFgUJtjudA4DIrjDq25ZpWwK_16C2AX8uKDKouI_5HL/s1280/418733869_10232103249388119_8415434198304803141_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcIZRZ-sP53HPT4OfkyVx24g6HpMNBaJd6P8LravSKqIeXo3bOAa9BbmsXbnn-EmV0dIRcAUcolxpaKTNwjl2FtzhX9VMvMG9cad4yUKbJV6kLdhj9cM3tDpzK0uFCvtE51YDXhFeQvrxiUG8tdFgUJtjudA4DIrjDq25ZpWwK_16C2AX8uKDKouI_5HL/w400-h300/418733869_10232103249388119_8415434198304803141_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Altruism</u>:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What I was thinking about most recently related to the brain stuff (see <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/11/and-here-is-envelope-ready-to-open.html">here</a>, where I wrote about my top nonfiction picks for 2023) is the question of altruism. Psychologists and philosophers and others argue back and forth on this. Some claim that if apparently other-regarding acts benefit the giver (and studies show that they do: <a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/15901215/">here</a> is a whole list), then they are egoistic rather than altruistic. Freud saw altruism as neurotic, and Nietzsche saw it as antithetical to full human flourishing, while others point out that altruism, even extreme self-sacrifice, is not limited to the human species but can be seen exemplified in other animals, that we naturally care for each other, not only for ourselves, and that we would never survive otherwise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(Does this remind anyone else of the nature vs. nurture question?)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I was thinking of the Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners I took to our old friend. <i>Why did I perform those apparently Good Samaritan acts? If it made me feel good, was it for his sake or really for myself?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Then dawn suddenly broke!</i> What a <i>completely</i> left-brain question!!! The whole either/or, can’t-be-both manner of carving up the world is <i>totally</i> left brain! The need to have everything clearly categorized, right or wrong, yes or no. “Bullocks!” as Buck Mulligan said so often to Steven Dedalus. <i>That</i> isn’t life. That is a poor, thin imitation, not worth the bother of an algorithm creator. Life is much messier. It is both/and, paradox and ambiguity and mystery and enchantment. No one is an isolated, self-sufficient individual. And without the <i>theoretical</i> assumption of radical individualism, the question of whether or not altruism exists would never arise.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsvuAu9xQk3ywVgk_igsAk1eAYihOEhl_mhCsKfX55V_zAwL4oJB36yK9QI9xh2BTLglwukqrbVSSuCZbQaQp1dJrWug5j-Bys1IB3KsNFgOAk_ISZrtXm4BNi-SUN2ij4nM7zQMqZV8V7ivzlLQ_xmdIB9Dm6gkDjF3Hgqu7BZutmZYzu-kKQVvWfeuj/s2048/418734322_10232103252868206_2662152389623240548_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsvuAu9xQk3ywVgk_igsAk1eAYihOEhl_mhCsKfX55V_zAwL4oJB36yK9QI9xh2BTLglwukqrbVSSuCZbQaQp1dJrWug5j-Bys1IB3KsNFgOAk_ISZrtXm4BNi-SUN2ij4nM7zQMqZV8V7ivzlLQ_xmdIB9Dm6gkDjF3Hgqu7BZutmZYzu-kKQVvWfeuj/w480-h640/418734322_10232103252868206_2662152389623240548_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No more lights, but a magic wand remains.</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Memories</u>:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I wrote about <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/12/another-holiday-now-past.html">Christmas Eve</a>, I said our old friend had been having a good day. He recognized me, remembered my name, etc. When he walked me to my car after the dinner we shared, he looked around at his yard and 40 acres and said, “We’re so lucky!” “Yes, we are,” I agreed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Nine days later, on January 2, our friend was in the ER in Traverse City, and it’s pretty clear he won’t ever be able to return to his long-time home. Everyone saw it coming. We had just hoped it was going to be further down the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll admit here to a selfish satisfaction -- in having what may well be my last memory of that old friend being a good time. We shared mutual memories, the sun was shining, he knew who I was and remembered my husband. He felt fortunate and expressed that feeling. “We’re so lucky,” he said in a heartfelt tone. Yes, we were. <o:p></o:p>I hope his change in circumstances won’t be too hard on him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Another friend of mine, who lost his beloved life partner some years ago, finds meaning in living as her “chief rememberer.” I feel some of that, too, although <i>many</i> remember the Artist. I remember not only him, my beloved, though, but many friends of years and decades past. The old Bluebird, the old Happy Hour. Winters when Sugar Loaf pulled in families of skiiers in the winter, and the Bird and HH did great weekend business. Jim and Linda, Fred and Molly, Les and Marina, Cy, Lisle, Marsha, Betsy,<b> </b>Hooper,<b> </b>Benny – oh, the names!<b> </b>I remember them all, even when the names elude me!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Today I am remembering many happy times shared. The snow is coming down hard tonight, but we had harder snows in the old days. Deeper snows. Longer, colder winters. You’ve heard it all before. Oldtimers’ recollections….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t care. I’m glad I was there. I wouldn’t trade those times for quids.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6KdZDgEXsaGXfjI3Tddytv8mqunnf6TtefLB_LMLW48Mp8ql3iFw8PINPOZ1QBNP_NbTQdDYVL3W73d2ynoH5iFb-3P5uD5BhFOZmCorK47U_Bj1hEqBcAhmReVrS-_KfHWvqyz81JPjv17pmYVfNc8rXuh86nSiqsRMYVQQz4bUN2hAzBiESTANQBa8h/s1190/418729722_10232103251708177_5972886071260001246_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1190" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6KdZDgEXsaGXfjI3Tddytv8mqunnf6TtefLB_LMLW48Mp8ql3iFw8PINPOZ1QBNP_NbTQdDYVL3W73d2ynoH5iFb-3P5uD5BhFOZmCorK47U_Bj1hEqBcAhmReVrS-_KfHWvqyz81JPjv17pmYVfNc8rXuh86nSiqsRMYVQQz4bUN2hAzBiESTANQBa8h/w400-h323/418729722_10232103251708177_5972886071260001246_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK0ncMtkct-jADaPc_jUjQNDBDJRbkBM7a-eLLKPfSR91rbAb_ShMaNdNnnTh7tALpFfDQUIiYvpHIgBQMVN8oefCtGaeMKGt16lQBUaL1ksNmvBV90N-hzJrrKesl_G8xDJQ3SEnmJkz2p4UcCvFIqbjdp6shlzXxKq9lUOUCkPZ5gLUrope0A0elfjD/s1280/418731230_10232103253548223_6269264489190678568_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK0ncMtkct-jADaPc_jUjQNDBDJRbkBM7a-eLLKPfSR91rbAb_ShMaNdNnnTh7tALpFfDQUIiYvpHIgBQMVN8oefCtGaeMKGt16lQBUaL1ksNmvBV90N-hzJrrKesl_G8xDJQ3SEnmJkz2p4UcCvFIqbjdp6shlzXxKq9lUOUCkPZ5gLUrope0A0elfjD/w300-h400/418731230_10232103253548223_6269264489190678568_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Closing thought:<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Somewhere recently (and to be quite honest, it was probably someone’s Facebook post) I read that we shouldn’t put beautiful things aside and save them for a “special occasion,” because every day we’re alive is a special occasion. So, sister Deborah, I took that Zabar’s babka out of the freezer, though I wasn’t having company, and let me tell you, it is delicious! Thank you! Another day of <i>life!</i> Another special occasion! </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfABC92SsG3kTkDHgn3-XDo4RK6g-S800SePpgT0FoI7XuBzcdw6s-qD1TP_XqkWCISCQ6Bf7bRqsCk0e1cEnb1fWBEcoLVp_Exxd6SfrWXindq7YvUOWYcAD3ftt4_NJG9UoVTlteRRseKJjd7F6pP69pqeZEESwvXK0zkKwGsQBgd20csqrBuDeKEBex/s2048/418731812_10232103254108237_843742196971667957_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfABC92SsG3kTkDHgn3-XDo4RK6g-S800SePpgT0FoI7XuBzcdw6s-qD1TP_XqkWCISCQ6Bf7bRqsCk0e1cEnb1fWBEcoLVp_Exxd6SfrWXindq7YvUOWYcAD3ftt4_NJG9UoVTlteRRseKJjd7F6pP69pqeZEESwvXK0zkKwGsQBgd20csqrBuDeKEBex/w400-h300/418731812_10232103254108237_843742196971667957_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-66600538728093845512024-01-06T08:34:00.000-08:002024-01-06T08:34:34.406-08:00What will I practice this year?<p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw5cB1tdtGC_ttlG3oExcKGKWcJ7VRZUUB-aH5rKiX0m-NtEFx7TvIho4DtCmpbz-TaAlyEWgvOiRWW3xQCkGnk6Bo8gJ_z2PEQoAmS-SePPTGKpsAUw3L_VBrCu-VF5bP7SSFeUkhRxS8apzurIcdiORHwGF6I0zFPKhTFcmzz0rdko8xzh1Ivrztfy8/s2194/20240104_180704.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2194" data-original-width="1843" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw5cB1tdtGC_ttlG3oExcKGKWcJ7VRZUUB-aH5rKiX0m-NtEFx7TvIho4DtCmpbz-TaAlyEWgvOiRWW3xQCkGnk6Bo8gJ_z2PEQoAmS-SePPTGKpsAUw3L_VBrCu-VF5bP7SSFeUkhRxS8apzurIcdiORHwGF6I0zFPKhTFcmzz0rdko8xzh1Ivrztfy8/w336-h400/20240104_180704.jpg" width="336" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"What's up, Momma?"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Whatever you practice</b></span></span></span></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>grows stronger.</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Those five words stopped me in my mental tracks. They’re from a little book called <i>Radical Compassion</i>, by Tara Brach. A practice is intentional, whereas a habit is often unconscious, but in either case repetition creates a groove.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">(1)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Only yesterday I was looking at the pages of my very first sketchbook, given to me by the Artist Christmas of 2004. It came in a wooden box (with carrying handle) that also contained pencils of all kinds, watercolors, brushes, and pastels. Trying out the pencils that first morning took courage on my part, but even in this first book, before any classes, there are a few drawings made as time went by that I see now as “not awful.” (Many, admittedly, are pretty lame.) Much more importantly, for each one I see, I recall the place, the day, the circumstances, such that together they constitute a kind of visual diary stretching from 2005 to 2010, many entries from winter months in Florida. More than does a photo album – because a drawing takes so much longer to produce – they bring the past back to me and give me pleasure. And so I inch slowly, in thought and preparation, back into my once-daily practice of <u>drawing</u>, a way of recording the ordinary stuff of my everyday life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5KgvFpyyfAWDXpWWy8-d5SFFUZJ54qp5pN6XNO-enx3ZL7FQxjLssPssDdbWskn4E9fwfz0c-tk3B55mBU1yg-1CB12OMH5aK4CLnn1m_v4tAzm-GFaEwXkORSCyLCuiNMdA5puD436QziUeSbrBy9msuH3kTf3pjbSHhPe-HNsBYDAmmdtVTJjArXzQ/s4000/20240105_180241.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5KgvFpyyfAWDXpWWy8-d5SFFUZJ54qp5pN6XNO-enx3ZL7FQxjLssPssDdbWskn4E9fwfz0c-tk3B55mBU1yg-1CB12OMH5aK4CLnn1m_v4tAzm-GFaEwXkORSCyLCuiNMdA5puD436QziUeSbrBy9msuH3kTf3pjbSHhPe-HNsBYDAmmdtVTJjArXzQ/w300-h400/20240105_180241.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2006</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjty4rmhFNSIsNJ-C6xjK9DSGGcp3oeIeCIM22ScUlfDKo5CxiaDV4ywTAEefeVPeVYt_IZlhAmGvxQdYYBuKqp3yEWY8GtG3PeqDkJirA0jYxFVr-losq_1IwCDLJUn9hb8RFhI1sml40kzZMbag8HBUErezWq1kMtdf6ronXwPIyC9TsjDxxlbMBAONKf/s4000/20240105_180313.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjty4rmhFNSIsNJ-C6xjK9DSGGcp3oeIeCIM22ScUlfDKo5CxiaDV4ywTAEefeVPeVYt_IZlhAmGvxQdYYBuKqp3yEWY8GtG3PeqDkJirA0jYxFVr-losq_1IwCDLJUn9hb8RFhI1sml40kzZMbag8HBUErezWq1kMtdf6ronXwPIyC9TsjDxxlbMBAONKf/w300-h400/20240105_180313.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2009</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Big jump here. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpKqCfRGbcf6zkYKBV_8y6_DZx2NDP2qGnUItSVatFTgFHtFcEKlvb7Y04q5Vy5T9weknooYwW5pVI-zDCnPfuM80Epbyx0yVT5-SOjMP4B1-Dc39QJ_Ez2j9enadMiXQdlQ4Wrnucix8BqlnQx1vQwCClrTxIq5IPW_7h1D5TE9OcrqXZYqNqi-HB8Dh/s1440/1276104_10202155729358835_612240345_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpKqCfRGbcf6zkYKBV_8y6_DZx2NDP2qGnUItSVatFTgFHtFcEKlvb7Y04q5Vy5T9weknooYwW5pVI-zDCnPfuM80Epbyx0yVT5-SOjMP4B1-Dc39QJ_Ez2j9enadMiXQdlQ4Wrnucix8BqlnQx1vQwCClrTxIq5IPW_7h1D5TE9OcrqXZYqNqi-HB8Dh/w480-h640/1276104_10202155729358835_612240345_o.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">us</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span>(2)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><u>Giving and loving</u>, in thought and action, is a practice for which my marriage was a school, and now that the Artist is no longer with me, I have been consciously and intentionally expanding outward that small, personal world. How far can my loving intentions reach?This thought will connect to others (perhaps) in what follows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><!--[if !supportLists]--></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">(3)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->In general, over my lifetime, <u>humor</u> has not usually been my first response to anything (and I can be obtusely literal at times), but lately I’m finding it a better response than my habitual reactions to a lot of situations. Instead of leaping to argue or withdrawing to brood, my slower response (because I am not a fast thinker) is gentle and often leads me to laugh at myself. Because whether or not another person intends to say or do something cruel or dismissive or presumptuous – and often they <i>don’t</i> intend that! – if I don’t feel I deserve it, why would I want to take it on and feel bad and launch an angry exchange? Or silently hold a grudge? If the other is speaking or acting from such a negative space, isn’t that just sad? Don’t they need, maybe, reassurance? At least a smile! – I don’t know. I’m just today beginning to work through these thoughts. (Note: Snippy or smart-ass humor would only be anger in disguise. Not what I’m talking about.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOG8dZjw1UhybUIVeIrJ8tM5m8GZ0xydHbsCnl7AV7rx3lFIJtd2n2JI4KGjKvzcZgWeaDqMsxcG7mSbiwJ6cboI5nKq4OcHVybfjCFm8TENaShuQ2dWn7wdWTlEcgq3oYYkiGi6nEKg-ghXvcHNF7Q13h1QZiF7rsYiKa79Vq18J9XwxDNvz2YdFJOEK/s4000/20240105_180249.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOG8dZjw1UhybUIVeIrJ8tM5m8GZ0xydHbsCnl7AV7rx3lFIJtd2n2JI4KGjKvzcZgWeaDqMsxcG7mSbiwJ6cboI5nKq4OcHVybfjCFm8TENaShuQ2dWn7wdWTlEcgq3oYYkiGi6nEKg-ghXvcHNF7Q13h1QZiF7rsYiKa79Vq18J9XwxDNvz2YdFJOEK/w300-h400/20240105_180249.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to the drawing board</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Drawing, giving and loving, laughing are all practices I’ve chosen to focus on in this new year. The last one on my list, (4) <u>forgiveness</u>, is the biggest challenge of all for me, but I am hoping that the others will help me get there. BLTN. Better Late Than Never. <i>Mieux tard que jamais</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My bookstore Christmas tree dropped almost all its needles at once, making procrastination not an option for taking the tree down and putting away the ornaments, and that in turn cleared space in the front window to showcase other green plants, living plants, which received a much-needed beauty treatment, ridding them of dead leaves and cutting back where needed. Having live things indoors with me helps on these gloomy-skied January days.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Dp5V45_G1ZWX-A0u1yNIrq9_AGgD2I8-DVtljtqpxUXTKY1U82mzz7a5jt-YGv38-0w6emHTAXtKSyjNFyVuJXcTlVFjOqXRKuLUzBeGrdNi4QCCfh1WbdYdP0MQ2lGZkJrAoFUnA5t3zvoufPGc0YijdFJNGimiocyl6Xvfw0vJoI-r1jn5Se8dE0ei/s2048/417431760_10232080643342982_8228197379546993500_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="2048" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Dp5V45_G1ZWX-A0u1yNIrq9_AGgD2I8-DVtljtqpxUXTKY1U82mzz7a5jt-YGv38-0w6emHTAXtKSyjNFyVuJXcTlVFjOqXRKuLUzBeGrdNi4QCCfh1WbdYdP0MQ2lGZkJrAoFUnA5t3zvoufPGc0YijdFJNGimiocyl6Xvfw0vJoI-r1jn5Se8dE0ei/w400-h211/417431760_10232080643342982_8228197379546993500_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window greens</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Because yes, the sky is grey, and the days are dreary and cold. “Do you miss Arizona?” someone asked. Mornings </span>in the mountains of the Southwest aren’t much warmer than northern Michigan mornings, but I do miss the almost daily appearance of the Arizona sun and the way it brought the temperature up considerably by afternoon. So, the sun. And the mountains. I miss the mountains.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG7cUNRcUL62MqiapPgppQw15v4xSRVoBkXqI56OjQUvzyCWLGp6jVeQS9SviFNjuOIyru4pFx2kMUCPTdwjUkQaT-j_nFSuYRjjm3rKVBWI9B6TAH1vwl6YFTYzmnOhB_-Mk-ncjaq5DMEnOKHnm9xiu0u9cOeGIhnzJaQU_QPFAWiLd5OBH0CiucNw8/s2400/IMG_4425.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG7cUNRcUL62MqiapPgppQw15v4xSRVoBkXqI56OjQUvzyCWLGp6jVeQS9SviFNjuOIyru4pFx2kMUCPTdwjUkQaT-j_nFSuYRjjm3rKVBWI9B6TAH1vwl6YFTYzmnOhB_-Mk-ncjaq5DMEnOKHnm9xiu0u9cOeGIhnzJaQU_QPFAWiLd5OBH0CiucNw8/w400-h266/IMG_4425.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“When you were in Arizona, did you miss Michigan?” No, I said, because I knew I would be coming back to Leelanau in May. I didn’t have to miss Arizona in summers past, either, when I could count on returning to the mountains in winter. Life is different now. But it’s okay. I am not unhappy about where I am. This is my beautiful home, and when we finally get more snow, it will be even more beautiful. <u>Update</u>: It's Saturday, and it's snowing!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RWhaK6y8-6I-1AlAl0HnMjUVJRPD_EL-CjAix1QGQmPoIzyACcovTNMgGUSw7fhZwFDtMfwRyfORLW7fyR40AtnSMjYj-iqJWA2uTbwVyVKxLnEU2n2zwt7R4mdbcX87N-54IVnrGTbP6Mxm2V7FG0JHy2T2iQ11Ofb0fC4XJb9GyN4KhMwl3tMQT4nY/s4000/20240106_085823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RWhaK6y8-6I-1AlAl0HnMjUVJRPD_EL-CjAix1QGQmPoIzyACcovTNMgGUSw7fhZwFDtMfwRyfORLW7fyR40AtnSMjYj-iqJWA2uTbwVyVKxLnEU2n2zwt7R4mdbcX87N-54IVnrGTbP6Mxm2V7FG0JHy2T2iQ11Ofb0fC4XJb9GyN4KhMwl3tMQT4nY/w400-h300/20240106_085823.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only the beginning -'</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>There are exciting aspects to 2024 Michigan winter bookstore life, too. For one thing, the long-awaited release date for Bonnie Jo Campbell’s new novel, <i>The Waters</i>, draws near! As the buzz builds, my impatience grows! </span>Meanwhile, in addition to the Tara Brach book quoted at the top of this post, I am rereading one of my favorite Walter Mosley novels, <i>Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned</i> (a book I find absolutely <i>perfect)</i> and have read William L. Andrews, the editor’s, introduction to a paperback edition of <i>The Autobiography of an Ex-Coloured Man</i>, a novel (yes) by James Weldon Johnson that I will jump into as soon as I reach the last page of Mosley. Finally, from the Grath collection of river books, I most recently chose to read (or re-read? I don’t remember) a book titled <i>Little Rivers: A Book of Essays in Profitable Idleness</i>, by Henry van Dyke. Obviously, a book with such a title is not one to race through, so I read the preface and first chapter and then slid it back in its place, to pull out again perhaps on Sunday afternoon. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Many more thoughts percolating about enchantment and right and left brain stuff, but I will keep those for another day. </span><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Zl7F0r9EhRgGEp8dlaojjD_1ZCxe8BsSt_PWAjGR15NOJF6zhkAIIOitHRM8zKmJJNqbBjDM1l0dg1RQuyAS_I5pp09dSnD9KZyjx88D5DVjJfHuUS6fhJy4x4ujG86GJhexFo_SW9MWtVo4lQalN9nOsB6qgFHvIrY2Tes7SpUgputVsruJR5-T9WUo/s4000/20240105_182450.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Zl7F0r9EhRgGEp8dlaojjD_1ZCxe8BsSt_PWAjGR15NOJF6zhkAIIOitHRM8zKmJJNqbBjDM1l0dg1RQuyAS_I5pp09dSnD9KZyjx88D5DVjJfHuUS6fhJy4x4ujG86GJhexFo_SW9MWtVo4lQalN9nOsB6qgFHvIrY2Tes7SpUgputVsruJR5-T9WUo/w300-h400/20240105_182450.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To be continued....</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-86506524081268921972024-01-03T08:27:00.000-08:002024-01-04T04:57:10.363-08:00 Out With the Old, In With the New<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWg2CY88nOwNEgqZaBUSagzjBdIa_NYwFNxKf0zf94ziuOTQ7SilvtImbaDv2yCZANxqbaXpLb0Qd9KKXWo3GM_YbIQiGHMjW2Hbd2WGUoDf7OXR9ES8qNabs2cxB8s0kUjY3h9jLXePIN0PqYjuRhRfAqVpxGAbXE7-7HkNJaL8t4lynbFr4aVz02WZcb/s4000/20240102_090304.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWg2CY88nOwNEgqZaBUSagzjBdIa_NYwFNxKf0zf94ziuOTQ7SilvtImbaDv2yCZANxqbaXpLb0Qd9KKXWo3GM_YbIQiGHMjW2Hbd2WGUoDf7OXR9ES8qNabs2cxB8s0kUjY3h9jLXePIN0PqYjuRhRfAqVpxGAbXE7-7HkNJaL8t4lynbFr4aVz02WZcb/w480-h640/20240102_090304.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Table!" is an agility command that translated well to this forest stump.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Since winter arrived (or this season's version of winter, anyway, which hasn't been all that wintry in terms of snow), Sunny and I go out a couple times a day for half an hour to an hour on what I call a walk -- she does a lot of running, which I’m happy to leave to her -- and New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day were no exceptions. Before I get into those days, though, I want to back up in time. If you read my <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/12/another-holiday-now-past.html">12/28/23 post</a>, you already know that Sunny was invited with me to the home of friends for Christmas Day dinner and that she behaved very well (i.e., amazingly well, which is to say, she amazed me!). My reason for turning back so far in the 2023 calendar is not to repeat myself, but to focus on one of the ornaments on our friends’ holiday tree. You might not see it if you didn’t look closely. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONMrVl5TTafFMTLPzULRirqeqgBLGKNl5l5eowzOBpoacBPnnPjg-GOs9xxdZhnR2l6n6OowLveiFFq6I6iT0OyetQ5ZI3SbQznniEPk5c3TmyUl4pUIZwEBDwhda8kLFviJ1Pog5dsXp42yI8spyb1_CoYhbBw_AbpQ2MC8EiE-cH0jKlCRsWTjut7oQ/s1280/416604264_10232067331610197_4956544604428028910_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONMrVl5TTafFMTLPzULRirqeqgBLGKNl5l5eowzOBpoacBPnnPjg-GOs9xxdZhnR2l6n6OowLveiFFq6I6iT0OyetQ5ZI3SbQznniEPk5c3TmyUl4pUIZwEBDwhda8kLFviJ1Pog5dsXp42yI8spyb1_CoYhbBw_AbpQ2MC8EiE-cH0jKlCRsWTjut7oQ/w480-h640/416604264_10232067331610197_4956544604428028910_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much to notice on one tree!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRXRtKUA087jKKZ50C6lbcoFMLp2IIXpzOptnhc4MXbUejsas8wL6r6JrVEXTpCb4Achd3LWRzZj4MefPSIBk0hOq3j7fUG5-hqnHCQzMscNgLJh40A9WCJSm8hi4fe1rrOc4K_MKLbN_tKUtpoFr40vm5Dpt2rLr8PvW7N_eUWVxy4INGk7NpcnB41M9/s1280/416836549_10232067328570121_2635201474321441665_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRXRtKUA087jKKZ50C6lbcoFMLp2IIXpzOptnhc4MXbUejsas8wL6r6JrVEXTpCb4Achd3LWRzZj4MefPSIBk0hOq3j7fUG5-hqnHCQzMscNgLJh40A9WCJSm8hi4fe1rrOc4K_MKLbN_tKUtpoFr40vm5Dpt2rLr8PvW7N_eUWVxy4INGk7NpcnB41M9/w480-h640/416836549_10232067328570121_2635201474321441665_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But here is the dragon.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">There, you see? I don’t recall the artist’s name who made this ornament (Marjorie would have to remind me), but isn’t it perfect for my first post of the new year, the <a href="https://www.lifestyleasia.com/hk/astrology/zodiacs/year-of-the-wood-dragon-explained/">Year of the Wood Dragon</a>? (I would have put it at the very beginning, except that Sunny thought she deserved top billing.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A day or two later, I had another invitation that included Sunny, and while I wouldn’t have time to get her out for a lot of hard exercise before we went to the home of these friends, our hostess promised a walk on the beach – and, as I say, a “walk” off-leash for Sunny means she gets to run -- and run she did! She had a glorious romp, and sunset was glorious, too! Dinner conversation was so lively that Sunny didn’t start barking until she noticed her reflection in the windows. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYvj5EuLvvR1UoSVuZxcHdLMxNHG5s-roak2PZQX1eWLRSbYzmIjz3UtjPa0gLDY_TsZYp0ClbtOQNQUAyn9vpDppuo_7aywO2w8ib9EdkajylGJYOY_Sz7-N_xZrxHcDmonz7bZaRb5vAuI3xw3AIOxmFfoJ9c7VRvp0RKsD9Ni6_kb8BDcrdSIhLoFh/s2048/416518888_10232067288409117_1623694471013167924_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1689" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYvj5EuLvvR1UoSVuZxcHdLMxNHG5s-roak2PZQX1eWLRSbYzmIjz3UtjPa0gLDY_TsZYp0ClbtOQNQUAyn9vpDppuo_7aywO2w8ib9EdkajylGJYOY_Sz7-N_xZrxHcDmonz7bZaRb5vAuI3xw3AIOxmFfoJ9c7VRvp0RKsD9Ni6_kb8BDcrdSIhLoFh/w528-h640/416518888_10232067288409117_1623694471013167924_n.jpg" width="528" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara leads the way.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5aTyrkQFKN-fExIGxfX5yrmRA7xc2xbt8BAtbeahSG4RvXSymPOPi3GlaYdY2W8cN0OhTsH3jrzSF4niF-4gEHhGLO2MZ-HUoIGfPxr9QgZXrTc9Zv36O2EKrvTHulyKCwNIDA08loP5hzE68s8vgnVv4R6eT948l9IY7nmxGPlNjPUZuSj-duO5hzmv-/s3750/20231229_165758.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3750" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5aTyrkQFKN-fExIGxfX5yrmRA7xc2xbt8BAtbeahSG4RvXSymPOPi3GlaYdY2W8cN0OhTsH3jrzSF4niF-4gEHhGLO2MZ-HUoIGfPxr9QgZXrTc9Zv36O2EKrvTHulyKCwNIDA08loP5hzE68s8vgnVv4R6eT948l9IY7nmxGPlNjPUZuSj-duO5hzmv-/w512-h640/20231229_165758.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy girl!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgoAtcAxy3d9MCyMih-ZNRiZ0mSESMBPrHBEADRMvXQf8n94z1FEZFtD1a8pjzJd3ekszwxPD8RpE-c6mnBKCXJJ4umdGKHgdcLks4bw3mE7KrS5lxDpJzIV86t-IDBavu_2gmSm9PMwRM43L8QM0EYqWelYdcgeJUdlVihR5BWIh2ukQpmbIamRmppQc/s2048/416839970_10232067288929130_7558155542862948046_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRgoAtcAxy3d9MCyMih-ZNRiZ0mSESMBPrHBEADRMvXQf8n94z1FEZFtD1a8pjzJd3ekszwxPD8RpE-c6mnBKCXJJ4umdGKHgdcLks4bw3mE7KrS5lxDpJzIV86t-IDBavu_2gmSm9PMwRM43L8QM0EYqWelYdcgeJUdlVihR5BWIh2ukQpmbIamRmppQc/w400-h300/416839970_10232067288929130_7558155542862948046_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glorious sunset --</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">So not only did I have an unusually social week, but so did my dog, and that made me happy! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLxvnQmteudFvc8ZuA4AIV9L6MdbXS5Czg1_20BsWoYU3pxElzDEXNlyggmXE_Fr447MRX_J8sZsqp71py-tsI5JgmraHJI4MTj6vpxMsttdWfy_w7Pl1WcJC3XGUB9bddgwiEuz1UHOhg7-9Du0J7UsIQmArdYvkhS832aNI6jlQe-UT1oc6j9bwnYSq/s1280/416584989_10232067286969081_6283412349568574955_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLxvnQmteudFvc8ZuA4AIV9L6MdbXS5Czg1_20BsWoYU3pxElzDEXNlyggmXE_Fr447MRX_J8sZsqp71py-tsI5JgmraHJI4MTj6vpxMsttdWfy_w7Pl1WcJC3XGUB9bddgwiEuz1UHOhg7-9Du0J7UsIQmArdYvkhS832aNI6jlQe-UT1oc6j9bwnYSq/w480-h640/416584989_10232067286969081_6283412349568574955_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Without any big plans for ushering in the new year, I asked friends if I could bring them cheesecake on New Year’s Day afternoon, and they graciously agreed. Then, out of the blue, I had an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party that was scheduled to run from 7:30 to after midnight, hosted by old friends I hadn’t spent time with for quite a while, so while I have never been much of a “party animal,” I resolved to attend and enjoy myself. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Driving the back roads of the township after dark, I was visited by ghosts of years past, remembering Basil S. back when he still did car repair at his place; Louis R., an old Barb’s Bakery regular; Ellen B., who drove her big car much longer than she should have been driving. Driving out of my way at one point and, turning around, seeing cattails in my headlights, I thought of Ellen going off the road and into the swamp, where she stayed overnight until someone discovered her. (That must have been before cell phones.) I remembered the parents of my host of the present evening, too, and sitting next to his mother at a New Year’s Eve dinner years ago….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJfi9ODsN9SCzCGJa75jQezdcxlQuhdk3HHsnRx3F9N8lo7jJM5S6kDnZa3Fh_zppSlaa4smT3-K8ma2vAD1HgNm0iX10w1_A0nkQgq5BI1wbEfnl5_f1rZtTZeTwYIAdMphQ86UNguNNqQ1AytqiB0GcvmgPqBmD-k1h2R-Y0Yp5GGejBAkAMl9b1jE1/s2048/416842598_10232067287289089_3632378681706330992_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJfi9ODsN9SCzCGJa75jQezdcxlQuhdk3HHsnRx3F9N8lo7jJM5S6kDnZa3Fh_zppSlaa4smT3-K8ma2vAD1HgNm0iX10w1_A0nkQgq5BI1wbEfnl5_f1rZtTZeTwYIAdMphQ86UNguNNqQ1AytqiB0GcvmgPqBmD-k1h2R-Y0Yp5GGejBAkAMl9b1jE1/w480-h640/416842598_10232067287289089_3632378681706330992_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old trees make way for the young.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now we – my host and hostess, her brother and sister-in-law, and I – are the old folks. There was a moment in the evening when the younger people fell silent while we oldtimers belted out Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone,” but otherwise we were the quiet generation, and that was fine. I looked around the living room at everyone gathered there and felt a surge of tenderness for all, tinged with a bit of melancholy, of course (because in years past, the Artist and I attended this NYE party together), but I was happy to be there, even at that.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’d spent most of the day on Sunday making a big pot of hoppin’ john and a pot of rice to go with it so on Monday afternoon took a couple containers up to my neighbors, as well as, later, a container of each with the cheesecake to my Northport friends. Another good visit, comparing notes on one another’s lives past and present and our hopes (mine very modest) for the year to come.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(Two nights coming home in the dark! Really, I guess, it was all the same day, first at 12:30 a.m. and then around 6 p.m.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I finished out my 2023 reading year with two books of fiction, both first novels by authors I hope to see more from in future: from Detroit, <i>Shifting Through Neutral</i>, by Bridgett M. Davis, and from Idaho, <i>Winter Range</i> (a novel set in rural Montana), by Claire Davis.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaXI7Ls6m4pxN7LjXRRWgZA2iXalat4ijZNsfW6_BwDzJ-4fys47hRYvMX9hztrPz7GOi0U3hK0UHYZIZYam6SROE3dQmqkEI8x3tyx7BPUAhQWTwUyHL3bHShX2RA527t1jb4qrO0Mh8ivAUtIrxM5X14yZQNU6M8mEdbiW2LklK1xzil7AXISOBNdri/s2048/416604238_10232067286089059_3287229804379341602_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaXI7Ls6m4pxN7LjXRRWgZA2iXalat4ijZNsfW6_BwDzJ-4fys47hRYvMX9hztrPz7GOi0U3hK0UHYZIZYam6SROE3dQmqkEI8x3tyx7BPUAhQWTwUyHL3bHShX2RA527t1jb4qrO0Mh8ivAUtIrxM5X14yZQNU6M8mEdbiW2LklK1xzil7AXISOBNdri/w480-h640/416604238_10232067286089059_3287229804379341602_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On the last day of the year, I began what will be the first title on my Books Read 2024 list, a memoir by Susan Straight entitled <i>The Country of Women,</i> and<i> </i>I cannot say enough about this author. I did say a bit back <a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/11/repeats-and-first-times.html">on November 2</a>, but since then I have read another of her novels (<i>Mecca</i>, her most recent) and have been devouring her memoir, a long love letter addressed to her three daughters, telling them everything she knows about previous generations on both sides of their family.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">Now, with Bonnie Jo Campbell’s new novel, </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">The Waters</i><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">, coming out in only </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">days</i><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">, something that strikes me, despite their different worlds, i</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">s h</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">ow much Campbell and Straight have in common. Both of them are content to live in what “sophisticated” people on the East and West Coasts (or even in the higher echelons of academia in any part of the country) would probably see as poor, backwater communities. Straight was asked in one of her writing classes why she kept turning in stories about working-class people, and Campbell’s fiction has been labeled “rural noir” or “grit lit.” I just shake my head. These women are both</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">brilliant </i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">writers, and they make, of their overlooked neighborhoods and neighbors, fiction that rings true and important for the same reasons that</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">any</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">fiction rings true and important: the characters are people whose lives are fraught with challenge, who are sometimes (not always) noble even in failure, families that are, as much as any other,</span></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Americans</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">, all of them together making up not a melting pot but a rich, many-flavored stew -- vivid characters who come alive on the pages and live in our minds and hearts after we close the books. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">I should probably add that Straight and Campbell’s works are also noteworthy for portrayals of strong women. So whatever your gender or orientation, if you are weary of the women in Henry James or Ernest Hemingway, or if you simply want literature that includes more layers of complex and diverse humanity, make 2024 the year that you discover Bonnie Jo Campbell and Susan Straight. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Make it also, please, a year of enchantment, if you can. Pick up a pencil or paintbrush or a flute or guitar, go for a walk in the woods or on the beach or just around the block, and leave the to-do lists in a desk drawer. Get lost, if only in a dream. Explore, if only with a paper map. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">We won’t always be here. Don’t overlook the wonderful in ordinary life. Today we are alive, and that is beautiful.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77i2KxUQgCeZF1o9GUv4-E627VK8_KskeLcdKQ8lDtCJ51tVJCnW0yeQ0GVHhER0cZcSmZmv_WP6s5GaeUbpR4qabaknK5vhuF0qVcZX-qKj0RyYAP9NE3VtksynyqL7zJsSirJ1WGxQYd7IW2dhndpSv8xDQm1xw5xShykcs1Rk0QL-2AZSQhUa7DX76/s2048/416855495_10232067286689074_5303175877080132875_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77i2KxUQgCeZF1o9GUv4-E627VK8_KskeLcdKQ8lDtCJ51tVJCnW0yeQ0GVHhER0cZcSmZmv_WP6s5GaeUbpR4qabaknK5vhuF0qVcZX-qKj0RyYAP9NE3VtksynyqL7zJsSirJ1WGxQYd7IW2dhndpSv8xDQm1xw5xShykcs1Rk0QL-2AZSQhUa7DX76/w400-h300/416855495_10232067286689074_5303175877080132875_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home, Sweet Home</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Postscript</u>: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve gone back mentally over my holidays and decided they definitely deserve a higher rating than I’d been giving them. When people asked, I was saying, “Not bad.” Well, the time was much better than “not bad.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">From the people I fed to the people who fed me, from the bookstore customer who brought his tools to put one of my bookcases back into working order to friends who invited my dog to their homes, from quiet hours cooking in my “<a href="https://frommypariskitchen.blogspot.com">Paris kitchen</a>” to outdoor rambles in the countryside that has seen so little snow that I haven’t had to have my driveway plowed a single time yet. Messages of holiday greetings to and from distant loved ones. People who found their way from faraway to Dog Ears Books. My own reading at home. Those peaceful, dark country roads with occasional outdoor holiday lights on homes passed. The dog park and the beach. My little Charlie Brown tree on Waukazoo Street and my much tinier tree at home. And so much more!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My holidays were <i>good</i>. As for this new year just begun, it’s a wonderful life, and I don’t want to waste it, so my friends, let us be light to one another.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDkg1Zaz8XzJXbO_NGOGv-W3XNG0xzjoXzNJ4YuzMfJZSWynbuA71eDysh4cDPmj0qptefd-W9GGo_AzIiqmAEIzH0BolBFrxr56kThxUtywHXbKRN7sS0tsZHdQ_b63Avon_nW3bx9FUFZc1CBcT0bqe5VAFx8DQ5sV536snRah5v8SQ64S4r5Hnk6S4/s2048/415924473_10232067283729000_5988565653748701951_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDkg1Zaz8XzJXbO_NGOGv-W3XNG0xzjoXzNJ4YuzMfJZSWynbuA71eDysh4cDPmj0qptefd-W9GGo_AzIiqmAEIzH0BolBFrxr56kThxUtywHXbKRN7sS0tsZHdQ_b63Avon_nW3bx9FUFZc1CBcT0bqe5VAFx8DQ5sV536snRah5v8SQ64S4r5Hnk6S4/w480-h640/415924473_10232067283729000_5988565653748701951_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"When it's cold outside / I got the month of May...."</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Post-postscript:</u></span></div>Interview with Bonnie Jo Campbell <a href="https://www.writers-on-writing.com/writersonwriting/bonnie-jo-campbell-author-of-the-waters">here</a>.<br />Interview with Susan Straight <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11911338/my-job-is-to-represent-my-place-susan-straight-on-her-new-novel-mecca-and-the-beauty-of-overlooked-california">here</a>. </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Many more to be found online -- just search for the authors by name.</span></p><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-7184287917896562023-12-28T06:55:00.000-08:002023-12-28T08:07:52.535-08:00Another Holiday -- Now Past....<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidl7_D8KxHPLOaEiZSWk5Xmwjekqrnm-3YeWPrg6dSdovmesDmySm0Is8G_A-ld9mipmv700RjuywNxdsUa7EsJn09C5DBmB_20MvEtjJSjxGdiKeRR7rOVTZX3f2x2quZ1pJn33KsDvjBu1VeUU_gVw4IxxEwyBuPCK8yD_XauwftKLjwJyXgfC3thrlI/s6000/ornaments.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidl7_D8KxHPLOaEiZSWk5Xmwjekqrnm-3YeWPrg6dSdovmesDmySm0Is8G_A-ld9mipmv700RjuywNxdsUa7EsJn09C5DBmB_20MvEtjJSjxGdiKeRR7rOVTZX3f2x2quZ1pJn33KsDvjBu1VeUU_gVw4IxxEwyBuPCK8yD_XauwftKLjwJyXgfC3thrlI/w400-h266/ornaments.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holiday spirit on Waukazoo Street</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">A lot of people mentioned having trouble getting in the Christmas mood without snow. With daytime temperatures up to 50 degrees, it felt more like spring than winter. I was happy that the rain held off until nighttime on the 25</span><sup style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">, because Sunny Juliet was invited to come with me to dinner at the home of friends, and while I was already dubious about how my wild child would behave, “wet dog” would have been a</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">whole</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">‘nother ball game.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrg4Z19aV7HK4MlCijvVlbwIZtu775fovFYCYpXk8EsW-PSzpIuGO9IAJd6ZW30hhYzXacWmjYFyJlKIiM12gtwyWw0onQrf1KFcg5opZWqLtCj3V7RU8Q480_st8W4-BVR9LiHVVDIEF5IWj3vnBxVyDX02XkerWKgkMVVPIXR0nis5ZbncBB2keCmJ3g/s2048/414442913_10232025546685600_5357274059998635980_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="2048" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrg4Z19aV7HK4MlCijvVlbwIZtu775fovFYCYpXk8EsW-PSzpIuGO9IAJd6ZW30hhYzXacWmjYFyJlKIiM12gtwyWw0onQrf1KFcg5opZWqLtCj3V7RU8Q480_st8W4-BVR9LiHVVDIEF5IWj3vnBxVyDX02XkerWKgkMVVPIXR0nis5ZbncBB2keCmJ3g/w400-h379/414442913_10232025546685600_5357274059998635980_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this a December sunrise? Where is the snow?</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">On Saturday evening (Christmas Eve Eve), I made cheesecake and was up early Sunday morning making the roux for a shrimp gumbo, both of which I took to the home of the friend I’d taken Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks back. He was having a good day, and we had an excellent visit: He not only recognized me but remembered my name! I guess that’s how it goes in early stages of dementia – the person can be very different from one day to another. Anyway, this visit was easier than the last. There was even sunshine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3N45SOBtHu2ktGE0kooSikrSIB4TRUJMXjjD7VMh4VcoWDo_9lbmTYCVhS5cY-IKIJlqKMCsKdNdnQsnI2qvH0ekhdh0Os6cdKMkch6c8KrmTsfmG9n_fh9I48OzPuBcV2_v8Rrp_JWD6VdrwPwNNx6xVSloH_86FwTUc9QItD5Cei5mgVx5psg88CuNa/s2048/411364086_10232025548365642_5989463492550154546_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1343" data-original-width="2048" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3N45SOBtHu2ktGE0kooSikrSIB4TRUJMXjjD7VMh4VcoWDo_9lbmTYCVhS5cY-IKIJlqKMCsKdNdnQsnI2qvH0ekhdh0Os6cdKMkch6c8KrmTsfmG9n_fh9I48OzPuBcV2_v8Rrp_JWD6VdrwPwNNx6xVSloH_86FwTUc9QItD5Cei5mgVx5psg88CuNa/w400-h263/411364086_10232025548365642_5989463492550154546_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning sun on winter trees</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><span>(By the way, you shouldn’t get the wrong idea about the real me. The truth is that taking dinners to a homebound friend was as much for myself as for the friend. Planning and cooking for someone else – thinking about someone else -- takes the focus off holiday aloneness.)</span></span><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">That evening I had a nice, long phone conversation with my son, and in the morning, after Sunny and I got out for plenty of good exercise, my sisters and a couple of friends texted each other greetings of the day. <span style="color: red;"><i>Merry Christmas!!!</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBV5zGZpakksUVmgVY2Y91INL04xNo-8QBwGGM7hzD5rP19qrgMZy0cR92pBAjK-yaVnLUutqMPKc0SjFt_Gxw5d28BXJI7_dyCrp7E4tDJ-ch93iT94vI3xfXOfgnO0_rteh7t6PRl1gyR-1MSAQv_AptLD-8X4uoLYr2Zi7C3cshNI1MHLT3ycTEqvB/s4000/20231224_163645.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBV5zGZpakksUVmgVY2Y91INL04xNo-8QBwGGM7hzD5rP19qrgMZy0cR92pBAjK-yaVnLUutqMPKc0SjFt_Gxw5d28BXJI7_dyCrp7E4tDJ-ch93iT94vI3xfXOfgnO0_rteh7t6PRl1gyR-1MSAQv_AptLD-8X4uoLYr2Zi7C3cshNI1MHLT3ycTEqvB/w480-h640/20231224_163645.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before opening presents....</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Sunny and I had another walk and then stopped for a session at the dog park on our way to our friends' house</span>, because I figured there was no such thing as “too much exercise” before Sunny visited indoors in a new place. How would she be, amid beautiful holiday decorations and while humans were having a meal? Oh, my heartstrings! She was <i>such</i> a good girl, I could hardly believe it! Only when we got back home, three or four hours later, did I realize I had forgotten to give her the calming treats beforehand, and then I was even more impressed with and grateful for her good company manners.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObWzW5vpT7wjJ86y6a9onTqoSqOlpLt8ckeoY-3Uc-TmRoOFT4i28UMmnch2aJzOXt0uCR5UbnXdw6QOgzDZl5bOekGm8gAK1UZWTES9Xmfbn79Q1Mn7NwvdXbeLMRo_T-pHrKUMAUAXs_ZGXaGuFeXC9oVhcpr1GXR4cRKsYghSpoCaXTMaRUoWSrGko/s4000/20231226_081311.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObWzW5vpT7wjJ86y6a9onTqoSqOlpLt8ckeoY-3Uc-TmRoOFT4i28UMmnch2aJzOXt0uCR5UbnXdw6QOgzDZl5bOekGm8gAK1UZWTES9Xmfbn79Q1Mn7NwvdXbeLMRo_T-pHrKUMAUAXs_ZGXaGuFeXC9oVhcpr1GXR4cRKsYghSpoCaXTMaRUoWSrGko/w480-h640/20231226_081311.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good dog and her dog mom got matching cozy blankets!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Christmas Day 2023 for me wrapped up with finishing a Steve Hamilton mystery novel and beginning, before falling asleep, a novel by Susan Straight, one of my new favorite fiction authors of the year. </span><span>And so ended my second Christmas without the Artist. </span><span>I can’t say I didn’t revisit memories of other Christmases, especially 2021, our last together and a cozy, contented, happy day – David and Peasy and me -- but this most recent one was good, thanks to friends and my little canine companion. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBZRE2JKFqzgQSetahAKdzICzkCQoP51bFtqHSA84ME_ZdpTQE5d_5dm6TbLkQDTOmKoLfcXro-QZemFKQoP29HmTFr_5RyYEiscCmrnfj91sjFMr6lAbg83YQEmdg47UR1Udsi1qXVakISMFVXacf2hGTm2e4on19tV0t72mM0-LTrH1j5UOdJ9RUaLj/s2048/415004131_10232039441992974_967489241832705199_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBZRE2JKFqzgQSetahAKdzICzkCQoP51bFtqHSA84ME_ZdpTQE5d_5dm6TbLkQDTOmKoLfcXro-QZemFKQoP29HmTFr_5RyYEiscCmrnfj91sjFMr6lAbg83YQEmdg47UR1Udsi1qXVakISMFVXacf2hGTm2e4on19tV0t72mM0-LTrH1j5UOdJ9RUaLj/w480-h640/415004131_10232039441992974_967489241832705199_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Now in the last week of the year I find myself looking forward to closing out this year’s Books Read list, along with this year’s business accounts, and starting fresh with new, clean pages. As always with election years (especially recent ones), I’m apprehensive about what the next 12 months will bring, but there’s no way to put a hold on Time, is there? </span>So here is my last quarter’s list of the year, books read in October, November, and December 2023:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">129.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Hull, Cindy L. Human <i>Sacrifice</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">130.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Minka, Dzidra Kepitis. <i>The Empty Sleeve</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">131.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Atwood, Margaret. <i>Hag-Seed</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">132.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Dimaline, Cherie. <i>Empire of Wild</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">133.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Shipman, Viola. <i>Famous in a Small</i> Town (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">134.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Straight, Susan. <i>I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">135.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Bourdain, Anthony. <i>A Cook’s Tour: Global Adventures in Extreme Cuisines</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">136.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Markoe, Merrill. <i>What the Dogs Have Taught Me and Other Amazing Things I’ve Learned </i>(nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">137.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->May, Katherine. <i>Enchantment:</i> <i>Awakening Wonder in an Anxious Age</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">138.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Conley, Susan. <i>Paris Was the Place</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">139.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->McGilchrist, Iain. <i>The Master and His Emissary: The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World</i>(nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">140.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Beresford-Kroeger, Diana. <i>To Speak For the Trees:</i> <i>My Life’s Journey from Ancient Celtic Wisdom to a Healing Vision of the Forest</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">141.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Lee, Leslie. <i>We Are the Land: Ireland</i>, 2<sup>nd</sup> ed. (nonfiction )<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">142.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Nevin, David. <i>Meriwether</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">143.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Wickens, Kim. <i>Lexington</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">144.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Mosley, Walter. <i>Walkin’ the Dog</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">145.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Airgood, Ellen. <i>The Education of Ivy Blake</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">146.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Enright, Elizabeth. <i>Gone-Away Lake</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">147.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Smith, Alexander McCall. <i>The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse </i>(fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">148.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Campbell, Bonnie Jo. <i>The Waters</i> (fiction – ARC)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">149.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. <i>The Sorrows of Young Werther</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">150.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Lee, Leslie. <i>The Hole Made by a Waterfall: Ireland </i>(nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">151.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Wilkerson, Isabel. <i>Caste: The Origin of Our Discontents </i>(nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">152.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Hamerton, P.G. <i>The Unknown River</i> (nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">153.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Maugham, W. Somerset. <i>Cakes & Ale</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">154.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Casebeer, Karen. <i>Calling: A Northwoods</i> <i>Mystery</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">155.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Garvin, Ann. <i>I Like You Just Fine When You Aren’t Around </i>(fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">156.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Williams, Justin Michael & Shelly Tygielski. <i>How We Ended Racism: Realizing a New Possibility in One Generation </i>(nonfiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">157.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Ariyoshi, Sawako. <i>The Twilight Years</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">158.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Godwin, Gail. <i>The Odd Woman</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">159.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Hamilton, Steve. <i>Let It Burn</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: x-large;">160.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Straight, Susan. <i>Mecca</i> (fiction)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -39pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Brush Script MT";"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Happy New Year, Friends!</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Brush Script MT";"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Brush Script MT";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28LefGStMXMDiuJyIHbDKiBMiHKYGehQ6ztcrHx7TBLa30l2peEqUB_V3APzKcSaibVJfZEu3tJHyNvxu8b71AwsjaXmZoUDvTubkgZ_op2vEymNC8tftFvoJ2QjN5fGNSkAlu0n6o5zCgcXicHcYbL-nOYlfPX0gywHYfkIqsDdFM2F9ubAPYNJrjCbi/s1708/horses1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="1708" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28LefGStMXMDiuJyIHbDKiBMiHKYGehQ6ztcrHx7TBLa30l2peEqUB_V3APzKcSaibVJfZEu3tJHyNvxu8b71AwsjaXmZoUDvTubkgZ_op2vEymNC8tftFvoJ2QjN5fGNSkAlu0n6o5zCgcXicHcYbL-nOYlfPX0gywHYfkIqsDdFM2F9ubAPYNJrjCbi/w400-h329/horses1.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p></div>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-34593367920100908062023-12-23T11:58:00.000-08:002023-12-23T13:35:41.918-08:00Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKq5pGD49pK3uhJtPvvo4zcVMA6Aiukhr0MD2krkIvR3PQwa12RRv2L0OzUJpJk45wDF5VnGBadgTM4O-iGZ0zcHMNSNk0logxmFdVGGvzyyFpTQePnX6a4MDu5ix-C7hg6Aq5lxnGBSZUhTS8r_IPCb0KOd6qGSME3N6oaOeHerMXm9LCRa-51X-rBldj/s6000/IMG_0511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKq5pGD49pK3uhJtPvvo4zcVMA6Aiukhr0MD2krkIvR3PQwa12RRv2L0OzUJpJk45wDF5VnGBadgTM4O-iGZ0zcHMNSNk0logxmFdVGGvzyyFpTQePnX6a4MDu5ix-C7hg6Aq5lxnGBSZUhTS8r_IPCb0KOd6qGSME3N6oaOeHerMXm9LCRa-51X-rBldj/w426-h640/IMG_0511.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-13247397748361120072023-12-19T09:03:00.000-08:002023-12-19T14:19:21.228-08:00 Almost to the Turning Point<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2YjCt4e4syMSLcEX4ueYeyCyppx7I_uoDvhJLC3GrWCC0lvJKG4-bMg-3xhFF90EAvAwfSr94-z6ZqF1gzaGsiC3gzRqTr297GAzRz9vpabnK78zAps-4td8cCn3KE2oiRI2qNL5mKXR9PXWD1jVHdDalL1Z5g2TVVZFOFMoUYvCi6FajdDzdyCaXOy4/s4000/20231219_084525.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2YjCt4e4syMSLcEX4ueYeyCyppx7I_uoDvhJLC3GrWCC0lvJKG4-bMg-3xhFF90EAvAwfSr94-z6ZqF1gzaGsiC3gzRqTr297GAzRz9vpabnK78zAps-4td8cCn3KE2oiRI2qNL5mKXR9PXWD1jVHdDalL1Z5g2TVVZFOFMoUYvCi6FajdDzdyCaXOy4/w400-h300/20231219_084525.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Only two days until we reach the winter solstice, and then the light will begin to lengthen day by day. Almost imperceptibly at first, and we will certainly have many more weeks of cold (winter, after all), but the return of the light is something to celebrate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Weather Notes<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This morning’s “feels like” reading of 21 degrees did not encourage me to rush outdoors! On the other hand, the wind had died down, and I took that as a blessing, after Monday’s gales from the north, which were fierce, destructive, and gave no quarter. Sunny and I had the wind at our back on Monday when we walked out but directly in our faces on the way home, and it was brutal! Well, I should speak for myself. The dog girl didn’t mind it at all and would happily have stayed outside all day, playing in the wind and snow on <a href="http://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/12/someone-is-two-years-old-today.html">her second birthday</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I thought about venturing into the woods on Monday to get away from the wind, reasoning that standing trees would provide some shelter, but all the fallen trees and branches, criss-crossed on the ground like jackstraws, gave me pause. After all, I think, they were not always on the ground, and it’s usually wind that brings them down, so standing in the wrong spot at the wrong moment could be fatal.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdA3BITCJP5ta7EuWqTV8dUrp7FFVUwX6OOuhuVOUvZKHgXY9JAyH8vckr9a9h46pOA0abNbzv3TNrJlLT9U1HVK5PXqE2C59by-Gdx_63-52EMpTJwPm2fKf6iQsCXgFN5xXUgBdpfivyX2O7Yc_Y9xqqSf0QLolGt5np6IAPuKmeox6yxJt0JfDV6IYx/s4000/20231219_084442.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdA3BITCJP5ta7EuWqTV8dUrp7FFVUwX6OOuhuVOUvZKHgXY9JAyH8vckr9a9h46pOA0abNbzv3TNrJlLT9U1HVK5PXqE2C59by-Gdx_63-52EMpTJwPm2fKf6iQsCXgFN5xXUgBdpfivyX2O7Yc_Y9xqqSf0QLolGt5np6IAPuKmeox6yxJt0JfDV6IYx/w400-h300/20231219_084442.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“What are the odds?” a friend asked skeptically when we talked that evening, adding, “I think you would have been all right.” She had a point. The odds would definitely have been in my favor, and if I were escaping a more awful fate, I would have taken the chance without a second thought. Now that so many friends my age no longer venture into the woods or even out on long walks at all, however, out alone with my dog I look to minimize unnecessary risk. Today, though, ah, yes! Only a mild west wind, and the woods called me in among the trees, where I took a reading of present and future walks. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When the snow is deeper in the woods (it’s only a sprinkling on fallen leaves at present), it is the <i>fallen</i>, not possibly falling, trees and branches that must be minded, along with so much more. Branches disguised by the blanket of snow, deep, hidden pockets in the ground (pitfalls?) where an old stump has rotted away, and the always treacherous wild grapevines – there is much in the woods waiting to trip up the unwary. And yet, stepping carefully and watching where you step, the woods are peaceful in winter and well worth visiting.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jJOc3wUJb21asa8c3-wc2FFs_hvFcfADs2dbyxI_O_PxYWivIN0T13luYuf8arTnE-mTcmaiwxcudK8oO_3EloJjPIQLKTKYvZPSU7fwrClUgAiiW497iK5Gtfom9xr03VvkVFgkpjKu9ZpJWunb1rQiphCTqnbLW3va-KZ4LD6Nb8KfSKukz-YTjKwu/s4000/20231219_085118.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jJOc3wUJb21asa8c3-wc2FFs_hvFcfADs2dbyxI_O_PxYWivIN0T13luYuf8arTnE-mTcmaiwxcudK8oO_3EloJjPIQLKTKYvZPSU7fwrClUgAiiW497iK5Gtfom9xr03VvkVFgkpjKu9ZpJWunb1rQiphCTqnbLW3va-KZ4LD6Nb8KfSKukz-YTjKwu/w480-h640/20231219_085118.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Book Notes</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><u><br /></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuaLyH_874F9FQOk4Y_QCYwvd8dXEexCxSyf2LYWbzQJgp1Lxkw8wYiXAttrhYfLQ3lcyjM-cbbfvdHPFbGiglpip6m-KyJ02IsgJ-I_52KNunu24-jHZmUOpuav8Z5B0s87243ZH120yxHQfVlYZfW1-WEq-Hln53TjcvdUnJWQsIjSg1Ujtqttk5TUQ/s4000/20231219_115558.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuaLyH_874F9FQOk4Y_QCYwvd8dXEexCxSyf2LYWbzQJgp1Lxkw8wYiXAttrhYfLQ3lcyjM-cbbfvdHPFbGiglpip6m-KyJ02IsgJ-I_52KNunu24-jHZmUOpuav8Z5B0s87243ZH120yxHQfVlYZfW1-WEq-Hln53TjcvdUnJWQsIjSg1Ujtqttk5TUQ/w480-h640/20231219_115558.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My local readers and mystery aficionados will want to pick up a copy of Karen Casebeer’s new novel, <i>Calling</i>. Her Northwoods Mystery murder story is definitely plot-driven, with plenty of complications, and I enjoyed equally a running sidebar – cleverly related to the plot -- on one of northern Michigan’s most beautiful seasonal birds, the sandhill crane.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Another book I want to highlight this week is <i>How We Ended Racism: Realizing a New Possibility in One Generation</i>, by Justin Michael Williams and Shelly Tygielski. If the title puzzles you, that’s intentional. Rather than pose a familiar problem and get bogged down in familiar hopelessness, the authors propose a vision and then ask, if we imagine ourselves already there, what would it have taken to get there? I am not only thinking racism in America, but also political divisiveness in America, and I’m also thinking <i>Gaza</i>. Having a vision is not mere wishful thinking. It provides a goal – <i>seeing</i> it – which provides a direction, which illuminates steps to be taken. And the first steps are to be taken by each of us. We can do it. The greatest barrier to a solution is hopelessness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpALnSYt37aAitehlJqgDHTHt72aXQN0bgAg4bI4UG2zUznmUCBNi0eupxpo4QiwX7AX9gwOTtnVxChZtHq5CCAF5eNTYQP4cZ3bvLRPPuammPRwR3PA03m8koteqVtBsaEJzsPSlJpNvwS8peD6vyHHW57dm8ink-uAiX6h-55-00Od3Nck3AmjsI6DC/s4000/20231219_115643.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpALnSYt37aAitehlJqgDHTHt72aXQN0bgAg4bI4UG2zUznmUCBNi0eupxpo4QiwX7AX9gwOTtnVxChZtHq5CCAF5eNTYQP4cZ3bvLRPPuammPRwR3PA03m8koteqVtBsaEJzsPSlJpNvwS8peD6vyHHW57dm8ink-uAiX6h-55-00Od3Nck3AmjsI6DC/w480-h640/20231219_115643.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Bookstore Notes<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Today is Tuesday, a “by chance or appointment” day for me, but it’s also the last week before Christmas, so here I am in the bookstore. I even have a little wrapping paper and tape for the totally unprepared. Probably won’t be here past 3 p.m., but I’ll be back again tomorrow and Thursday and Friday, 11-3, and then 11-5 on Saturday, as usual.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmtkcfo3yNVA4FAA6XB8nzGXBfs163O0koKldDD3ntSFKcpTKc8PE0yE5CDQqogjvc5_D4KqM40gBxiuSQ5Bz8DVfKS9Spwc84Wy5l1Vvxj7Zn5WWDWcSJni3F2eAka6xMyKOf9W2SIVBrpgVsyuN8v_5l-xsmiJzPp39kF79lZbXYTzxJK6Hqonicsnf/s4000/20231219_115725.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmtkcfo3yNVA4FAA6XB8nzGXBfs163O0koKldDD3ntSFKcpTKc8PE0yE5CDQqogjvc5_D4KqM40gBxiuSQ5Bz8DVfKS9Spwc84Wy5l1Vvxj7Zn5WWDWcSJni3F2eAka6xMyKOf9W2SIVBrpgVsyuN8v_5l-xsmiJzPp39kF79lZbXYTzxJK6Hqonicsnf/w480-h640/20231219_115725.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-91478367378115813202023-12-18T03:35:00.000-08:002023-12-18T09:45:44.763-08:00Someone Is Two Years Old Today<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRIkoUksF0BNIsS3V7_kkaOMyVsu-sav1CeGp7sg4_bu5VuyT0Qi9BAiKZEyyVGpDAFdFFuq8oE7fA3B9s-ewMqbxMvw56Q8qCbaShtPSGBkjsi24_W4hA3KoXxPCNKZtFO2lM3O7kDTEIYUTnXcZDiz84JgLVV4fX-PJEHqhKM_0EXQ9F4TkV3A-o8HS/s524/Her%201st%20pic.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="524" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRIkoUksF0BNIsS3V7_kkaOMyVsu-sav1CeGp7sg4_bu5VuyT0Qi9BAiKZEyyVGpDAFdFFuq8oE7fA3B9s-ewMqbxMvw56Q8qCbaShtPSGBkjsi24_W4hA3KoXxPCNKZtFO2lM3O7kDTEIYUTnXcZDiz84JgLVV4fX-PJEHqhKM_0EXQ9F4TkV3A-o8HS/w400-h316/Her%201st%20pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First picture I saw of her</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M9TEcaKwcpbnKyQ46A7l8tFxqLGAR-AL9ce3zLXLpUl8XAH6D3lB_xF6IDKBtlPuxWX3sxFHBgE6d2uK3HHKUOiU14nkLz7j-QkiwNlGXBmKUi_hkYyfqp7ix6-yoFMlIeVysIFnc4FPFnzu1reoo13miLnpUcnGY9YMWTSayUY3taACKalHIOlRqEiD/s3264/puppy%20pile.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="3264" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M9TEcaKwcpbnKyQ46A7l8tFxqLGAR-AL9ce3zLXLpUl8XAH6D3lB_xF6IDKBtlPuxWX3sxFHBgE6d2uK3HHKUOiU14nkLz7j-QkiwNlGXBmKUi_hkYyfqp7ix6-yoFMlIeVysIFnc4FPFnzu1reoo13miLnpUcnGY9YMWTSayUY3taACKalHIOlRqEiD/w400-h225/puppy%20pile.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First time I met her</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Sunny Juliet is two years old today, Monday, the 18</span><sup style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">day of December, and she is not suffering from the “terrible twos” at all -- that is, I am not suffering terrible twos with her. The little crybaby puppy (“Tiny Girl”) and teen barker (“Naughty Girl”) has settled down considerably. She still barks on occasion (often public occasions I would rather did not include barking), but in general the challenging, demanding, willful, opinionated puppy has become a pretty grownup dog girl and a delightful companion.</span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwwmI4aC3jKY_t-TOwrjODvjS6jOuf7FhTJ8SlSoTg5pzAG437wSZzVLT0n_DgKEXNw9Tdw0EIVWM4DkyEGZ9in-ZNEqdRmQ9kS1dURMARnWIUhmn368xFP4hyyent11wFIozMfC2KhtdmRrf___aloDL-V8NQw-L2dUwj345c0mmt0sMyz_gAUOMx1Nf/s1440/410243959_10231994042578017_4250152039460276252_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwwmI4aC3jKY_t-TOwrjODvjS6jOuf7FhTJ8SlSoTg5pzAG437wSZzVLT0n_DgKEXNw9Tdw0EIVWM4DkyEGZ9in-ZNEqdRmQ9kS1dURMARnWIUhmn368xFP4hyyent11wFIozMfC2KhtdmRrf___aloDL-V8NQw-L2dUwj345c0mmt0sMyz_gAUOMx1Nf/w300-h400/410243959_10231994042578017_4250152039460276252_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naughtiest thing she ever did (when about a year old)<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOwgbUCdFz-IFb1YcG-RNg2ypDJhC2o7L7m4TyjWjUxWUSVeYuR97pk3FlNO9SHtAV9gUagQ5wt7Qddn8_O75gKZVwKsFWumpMZIBYIJ9hmuHeRKCUyFSmH9MWMNnckOprP9-EwSav3HHURUw2VM9_SndEoN0_s6T7eROjMLtoZNPlHaMvpGSrlDO-OUP/s2048/381517648_10231496517540202_4625333007501781777_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOwgbUCdFz-IFb1YcG-RNg2ypDJhC2o7L7m4TyjWjUxWUSVeYuR97pk3FlNO9SHtAV9gUagQ5wt7Qddn8_O75gKZVwKsFWumpMZIBYIJ9hmuHeRKCUyFSmH9MWMNnckOprP9-EwSav3HHURUw2VM9_SndEoN0_s6T7eROjMLtoZNPlHaMvpGSrlDO-OUP/w300-h400/381517648_10231496517540202_4625333007501781777_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer tennis ball play in the yard<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dweUlAfdJvRxfzHs3vjueldtasuIrQCGlEsQa6RdxCrVoi719EvvOaJxr3Tj10vO0o9Pav3F1H47uEo1e2XFw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(Does that video work???)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sunny and I are staying in Michigan all winter this year -- quite possibly from now on; time will tell -- and that’s fine. Although without canine encouragement, it’s unlikely that I would be going out for early morning walks every cold winter day, starting before the sun has crested the wooded horizon and regardless of how hard the wind is blowing, she needs it, so we do it, and it’s good for both of us. <i>Fresh air! Exercise!</i> Cold doesn’t faze the little girl, and she <i>loves</i> snow!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPmb-gs0HN1UXnn95skfEYDBz14ksPzM2zQWLTub2JNZhOIH565FoRebvu6m-gaXrlwNwyvuUhDaM2BiGEtCY26ydIfL-iKjimq4K8WhKGkzIV5-65BfaAEqt43ZiKOP6go8UvHcZPKgJd-f3Nx89ykIquG_MyEoyEn4Mw4ERsouZaDscZV2v-4OMPoUV/s1358/387035126_10231670534010505_823173520015885667_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1355" data-original-width="1358" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPmb-gs0HN1UXnn95skfEYDBz14ksPzM2zQWLTub2JNZhOIH565FoRebvu6m-gaXrlwNwyvuUhDaM2BiGEtCY26ydIfL-iKjimq4K8WhKGkzIV5-65BfaAEqt43ZiKOP6go8UvHcZPKgJd-f3Nx89ykIquG_MyEoyEn4Mw4ERsouZaDscZV2v-4OMPoUV/s320/387035126_10231670534010505_823173520015885667_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last year in Arizona snow</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPO5Xab4W6bFV88AaJq260drMnZ4sacvoKK9E6k4AobNoXqIJS9JE-WAYOuVqRe1LwCTHToV5VZ_uRFkVAsrQv8OF90ax-lOZW_Y_kOncCCU8pbqcoeskpYnvseW_L7XoRdw0wozNhgHmKegUY79xW18n7Bj6zxzODNIOosrNxBjcVgTsypdUpSdbxORj6/s405/406513708_10231935201787034_7015898834798530547_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="405" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPO5Xab4W6bFV88AaJq260drMnZ4sacvoKK9E6k4AobNoXqIJS9JE-WAYOuVqRe1LwCTHToV5VZ_uRFkVAsrQv8OF90ax-lOZW_Y_kOncCCU8pbqcoeskpYnvseW_L7XoRdw0wozNhgHmKegUY79xW18n7Bj6zxzODNIOosrNxBjcVgTsypdUpSdbxORj6/s320/406513708_10231935201787034_7015898834798530547_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First big Michigan snow for Sunny</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Sunny is accustomed to my daily routine, always ready for more time outdoors when afternoon brings us back together after my work day. She will never learn to read books, and I will never have her keen nose for invisible trails in the grass, but Sunny is patient with my morning and evening reading, and I make sure we have ample time outdoors. Learning to be patient has been good for Sunny, and time outdoors is always good for me. Voilà! We both gain and enjoy each other more when we give each other time and space to indulge our respective gifts and loves.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">Happy birthday, little girl! The momma loves you!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Mi90uPDJjZYBRPeJ78giARLbtYfYUhDrJoTidpUJ7yaLGd3iZbdGjvF9UmPR3zcjwiJ5FM9w4ClI7QAQgOsw5LJlo9Jovleux4b1J8X-GsUhBZtjc83lWd6xXN0tVDmpnkd-loAYPIzZsnfrDj63qxtaRBs0xt1-XV2p6bq4xu0zx8BEpt_OEEDeM8f-/s2048/407659331_10231932196471903_5690255146297855640_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Mi90uPDJjZYBRPeJ78giARLbtYfYUhDrJoTidpUJ7yaLGd3iZbdGjvF9UmPR3zcjwiJ5FM9w4ClI7QAQgOsw5LJlo9Jovleux4b1J8X-GsUhBZtjc83lWd6xXN0tVDmpnkd-loAYPIzZsnfrDj63qxtaRBs0xt1-XV2p6bq4xu0zx8BEpt_OEEDeM8f-/w480-h640/407659331_10231932196471903_5690255146297855640_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny wants more snow!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-71537661837325673472023-12-13T09:38:00.000-08:002023-12-15T08:58:49.984-08:00 Everything is Different Everywhere<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLSzY38zFTUJS_OurO1fRdPPx12An2uwtlr64HEBS5dwg77nGqItNX9MNdCEJyxBKri8Fuz2QkOu2caJzHY0s30t7-aOOv5QfrA5UXsuvFSu1TjiKKFR3WEXwelvhahHyJbW0h9-cyBsQH-DvfS7Y7g9bc47Xd-F91VXS97BlbmklimrXJMOQT8KnrLMY1/s2048/410380309_10231974730655231_5491718264678947561_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="2048" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLSzY38zFTUJS_OurO1fRdPPx12An2uwtlr64HEBS5dwg77nGqItNX9MNdCEJyxBKri8Fuz2QkOu2caJzHY0s30t7-aOOv5QfrA5UXsuvFSu1TjiKKFR3WEXwelvhahHyJbW0h9-cyBsQH-DvfS7Y7g9bc47Xd-F91VXS97BlbmklimrXJMOQT8KnrLMY1/w400-h270/410380309_10231974730655231_5491718264678947561_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wednesday morning, 12/13/23</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Everything is different not only from year to year but also from day to day. Yesterday’s fierce, bitter west wind made the air feel ten degrees colder than the temperature reading. Today is still cold, but the sun is shining, and there are more smiles on the faces of even the most rushed pedestrians in Northport. <o:p></o:p>I did my village errands before opening and then found contentment in adding ornaments to my little Charlie Brown tree.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcqioQASzbOoEe0J0ZNljcynn1zBGWe5sfUX9effLgieerD2TwUQ_H3NtgzNIWYiszoX3XkSTmWynAZPJOAI3w_3Qe0gFFZZNa2zLmlrp9A1u3jaTAf3ZhDmNQapUYVa_PBzayGdcbS_LNIP7NA66yz-8rTcUW7XO5JW-q2UsUXjLndxp3OAd5lj9egLv/s6000/IMG_0501.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcqioQASzbOoEe0J0ZNljcynn1zBGWe5sfUX9effLgieerD2TwUQ_H3NtgzNIWYiszoX3XkSTmWynAZPJOAI3w_3Qe0gFFZZNa2zLmlrp9A1u3jaTAf3ZhDmNQapUYVa_PBzayGdcbS_LNIP7NA66yz-8rTcUW7XO5JW-q2UsUXjLndxp3OAd5lj9egLv/w400-h266/IMG_0501.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy in the bookstore window, sunny today</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">A Recent Encounter and Thoughts It Sparked<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“It’s not the same town it used to be,” the salesperson muttered bitterly. I was trying on boots and had asked specifically for footwear made in the U.S. or Canada. Her remark about change in Traverse City came as a response to my request and followed her more immediate response: “You won’t find them. No one here wants to work any more. The only boots we can get from China or Vietnam or ….” I forget the third Asian country she named, but in the moment I thought instantly about the wage scale in China, where factories workers are housed in clusters of high-rise dormitories in the middle of nowhere, and so I remarked, “Well, people here don’t want to work for <i>nothing</i>,” but that was the wrong thing to say, because although my tone wasn’t angry, the words were argumentative. I wish it had occurred to me then (and not an hour later) to ask curiously, “Why do you say that?” Maybe we could have had a conversation. Instead, she countered quickly, “They don’t want to work at all!” I still could have asked the question, if I hadn’t let her words and demeanor put me off so completely, but next she made that remark about Traverse City not being the town it used to be, adding, “And it isn’t the same country it used to be, either.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Of course, she was perfectly right to say that Traverse City has changed. Nothing like the small town I moved to in 1970, Traverse City now seems to exhibit growth as such a fast pace that the Artist and I were always exclaiming over new buildings whenever we made the trip to town. Big condominium complexes everywhere, multistory hotels, city traffic! Downtown is still attractive and walkable, and the sidewalks are usually filled with foot traffic (a good sign for a downtown), but the newfangled parking arrangement – meters that take credit cards instead of quarters – discourages some (I am one) from making the effort to shop downtown. Maybe it’s out-of-town visitors in the big hotels who shop Front Street boutiques these days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Luckily, when I inspected the label on the inside of the second pair of boots the gloomy salesperson brought out (the ones I’d initially pointed to in the display), I saw that they were made in Canada. They fit. They were warm and snug and simple. No need to look further. So I got what I came for, and we ended with smiles, but the transaction as a whole left me feeling sad and discontented over a missed connection. I wish I’d had my wits about me in the moment. But going to Traverse City overwhelms me, too, most of the time….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Stores and restaurants and traffic and high rises are hardly unique in the American landscape. When I am back in Kalamazoo, there are parts of that city that I barely recognize, and the same is true of Joliet, Illinois, where one of my sisters still lives. Cities everywhere are sprawling outward. Growth in Tucson and Phoenix made those cities’ outlying areas look different from one week to the next as I traveled from ghost town to city hospitals and back in early 2022. Apartment buildings and condos are rising skyward in all American cities. Shops and restaurants have become more expensive (and more like New York) than they ever used to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2018/08/nothing-is-what-it-used-to-be.html">Nothing is the way it used to be</a>. Anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">Part of this sea change is population growth. The world population, 3,695,390,336 in 1970, had grown to 8,045,311,447 by 2023, more than doubling. The population of the United States went from 203,392,031 to an estimated 339,996,563 in the same time period, not doubling but greatly increasing. How could we ever imagine that the world would not change with so many new people in it, including the babies we welcome so joyfully into our own families? </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Another aspect of changes, however, as I see it, has to do with <u>expectations</u>, which are much higher than those of the postwar twentieth century. Is it also a greater willingness to carry debt? Refusal to delay or do without gratification? Resignation to “just the way things are”? The average new <i>car</i> today costs two and a half times what my first house cost and five times what my parents paid for their first house. Not that my parents <i>ever</i> bought <i>new</i> cars, and I never have, either, and both of those first houses, I should note, had three bedrooms and a single bathroom -- but who expected more? Our family’s vacations in the 1950s consisted of two weeks in Ohio, one week with one set of grandparents, a second week with the other set – and that was a <i>summer</i> vacation. Winter vacations were unknown except for “jet-setters,” back when only the rich and famous flew around the world for pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Materially speaking, the growing world population <i>on average</i> is richer than ever. Many middle-class Americans are drowning in their own toys! (Are they happier?) However the average is calculated, though, many are left behind, as what was a gap between highest and lowest income levels threatens to become a chasm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Somehow – and I have no basis other than intuition for saying this – I doubt that the unhappy salesperson in the shoe store and I would agree on which changes we see as the most negative or what might be done to mitigate negative effects. Of course, I don’t know that, and obviously she was having a bad day. I remember a day 28 years ago when I had to close my bookstore early, realizing that my mood was not one that walk-in customers should have to meet, and a couple years after that, during summer tourist season, annoyed by being asked the same questions over and over, I had to slap myself upside the face, metaphorically, and tell myself either to get a new attitude or find a different line of work. Attitude is what I changed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: x-large;">I’ve moderated both my moods and my expectations since those early years and grown accustomed to the rhythms of the calendar. I’ll never be rich, but I manage to make a modest living doing something I love in a place where I feel comfortable and visible. A first-time visitor recently assured me that no reader need ever leave my bookstore empty-handed, as there is something for every reading taste. “Write in my guest book!” I urged him shamelessly. Everyone loves to be appreciated! I certainly appreciate my customers and am happy that so many have become my friends over the years. What more could I ask? </span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;"><span><o:p></o:p></span>I am a lucky human being.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhxYDMR5h6Ulrf3BD92AZFCAIF54iTDOZ4DhVmJcrXmP40bCQ85ISBC3jAsk_CR5ETzJcZqg8-dNkqIUeNyFCg9pAK3hU6mJfjYUAgtkr6miVgoo9qi858vdFK2Z-5ZSzoRI3jKD11StzI5S-YPj5p9_ngRoQnIYB3l7TweAiTQaWyC4YXH58ZZam_QU8/s6000/IMG_0502.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhxYDMR5h6Ulrf3BD92AZFCAIF54iTDOZ4DhVmJcrXmP40bCQ85ISBC3jAsk_CR5ETzJcZqg8-dNkqIUeNyFCg9pAK3hU6mJfjYUAgtkr6miVgoo9qi858vdFK2Z-5ZSzoRI3jKD11StzI5S-YPj5p9_ngRoQnIYB3l7TweAiTQaWyC4YXH58ZZam_QU8/w400-h266/IMG_0502.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">Additions to Top Recommendations From My 2023 Reading<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Added to my <a href="http://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/11/repeats-and-first-times.html">top fiction</a> and <a href="http://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/11/and-here-is-envelope-ready-to-open.html">top nonfiction</a> book picks of the year are now: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For fiction, it is, of course, <i><a href="http://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/12/total-immersion-recommended.html">The Waters</a></i>, by Bonnie Jo Campbell, which I read in an advance review copy, though the release date was pushed from October to January 2024. I’ll be writing more about that novel after the first of the year and <i>hope</i> the author can come to Northport! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For nonfiction, it’s Isabel Wilkerson’s <i>Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents</i>, published back in 2020. I read <i>The Warmth of Other Suns</i> earlier but only very recently <i>Caste</i>. Such a brilliant writer and thinker she is, and while you probably know, as I did, the basic historical events, her analysis puts them in a new, pitiless light. How did 2016 happen? Read Chapter 26. That is, read the first 25 chapters, and <i>then</i> Chapter 26. Every American needs to read this book. If you need more convincing, <a href="https://time.com/6252144/american-life-caste-isabel-wilkerson/">here's an article</a> for you. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Time Is Slipping Away!<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">How does it happen? One day the holidays are visible on a distant time horizon, with weeks available to plan and make ready, and then suddenly Hanukkah is almost over, and it's less than two weeks until Christmas! Whatever the day on which these thoughts occur to us, however, we are <i>here now</i>. Take a deep breath. Sun or clouds, you are <i>here now</i>.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI51ve_VPCcXEAXeKZA2f-Jtx7_t8Pd9wY71WpFhpuVgum4EKRAx8N7yfsjqBFPM6T0fcqHOFw3Jy2dLLpItiCb1HiTmOwTKobaJ6xdLrAUrZH3sTtBRB5Nvv3k2rSKCnosmDogv1w06nroYTSPEW0aYOyJwhQMDFhK-W8ljL6gn-wDt7C-FnBQbRmJnox/s438/beherenow.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="438" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI51ve_VPCcXEAXeKZA2f-Jtx7_t8Pd9wY71WpFhpuVgum4EKRAx8N7yfsjqBFPM6T0fcqHOFw3Jy2dLLpItiCb1HiTmOwTKobaJ6xdLrAUrZH3sTtBRB5Nvv3k2rSKCnosmDogv1w06nroYTSPEW0aYOyJwhQMDFhK-W8ljL6gn-wDt7C-FnBQbRmJnox/w400-h338/beherenow.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-76756678234822592612023-12-06T09:37:00.000-08:002023-12-07T16:10:08.520-08:00 Total Immersion Recommended<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccRx2viTwbtrvJeZim0yBABmoRebl5W5vCaibIqFbmujdszEidkUmWDRCMOfcj9rbUhzievGcah-cjLEf5AfOjYAmLHf75w110_J32z-YuNx7gHYfHTdowvFkOKTVN2emehk1za21Heguh8bvmCFc2yBPCWQXfB1cJGfvHpr5o02VHYytVYG9wkDxzKqe/s3072/creekside.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccRx2viTwbtrvJeZim0yBABmoRebl5W5vCaibIqFbmujdszEidkUmWDRCMOfcj9rbUhzievGcah-cjLEf5AfOjYAmLHf75w110_J32z-YuNx7gHYfHTdowvFkOKTVN2emehk1za21Heguh8bvmCFc2yBPCWQXfB1cJGfvHpr5o02VHYytVYG9wkDxzKqe/w400-h300/creekside.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">[Note: Images in this post are photographs from my Leelanau home, not the </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">world of downstate </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">Whiteheart, but I tried to get as close in spirit as possible</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">.]</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Weeks passed between the day I received my ARC of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s new novel and the evening I finally gave myself the delayed pleasure of opening it and plunging into that rural mid-Michigan world, familiar to me not only from her previous books but also from my years spent in Barry and Kalamazoo counties. It’s a rather different world from Leelanau. The soil is different, the sun rises and sets over different landscapes, and the people inhabiting that world live different lives from most of Leelanau. Most. Not all. The thing is, Campbell’s world is one not often ventured into by American literature, but it's been there all along, waiting to be seen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s short story collections focused on men, another on women, all apparently lost souls to whose lives she brought great sympathy. Her novel <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2023/09/michigan-people-in-middle-american.html?fbclid=IwAR3q2uGo_wZsg49b-uuYz0gEw1SAr4neI1ToytdYkbwcMWazZY1uVXhnAsg">Q Road</a></i> gave us three protagonists -- a man, a young woman, and a boy -- along with a host of fascinating minor characters. Then came <i><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2011/06/book-review-once-upon-river.html">Once Upon a River</a></i>, the novel completely owned by Margo Crane. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The Waters</i> is a different kind of story. Large and ambitious, containing themes and worlds both mythic and postmodern, <i>The Waters </i>gives us from Campbell, for the first time, an entire community, bound together -- and torn apart – and bound together again -- by its own unique history. A community seeking redemption and a way forward in difficult and uncertain times. They often have a hard time showing it, but these people care about each other.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZrVtSqiD11nQdBSkhpAZiA3msgm4VJAoLlwhvsQPNO3p2RkwIQy54PdwXNNm58aqeaV0cxFVYTuM6NQjuCpJBJpfvE4g0-suqPxWeUrscE6GJc4xpRm7CS3yL5W6FBpi5M0jSiQ2IK-ZdQN-glLMSL8ZrDeL6kjm3GHRA80FcwwzbkG2GcWPfFww12px/s2048/407393869_10231944656463395_2221114947261190860_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZrVtSqiD11nQdBSkhpAZiA3msgm4VJAoLlwhvsQPNO3p2RkwIQy54PdwXNNm58aqeaV0cxFVYTuM6NQjuCpJBJpfvE4g0-suqPxWeUrscE6GJc4xpRm7CS3yL5W6FBpi5M0jSiQ2IK-ZdQN-glLMSL8ZrDeL6kjm3GHRA80FcwwzbkG2GcWPfFww12px/w480-h640/407393869_10231944656463395_2221114947261190860_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>The home of Hermine (<i>not</i> Hermione) Zook, healer and matriarch, is a bog<span face="-webkit-standard"></span> island protected by a drawbridge. When local people come to her for healing medicines, consultations take place off the island, out by the house built and formerly lived in by Hermine’s husband, the legendary Wild Will Zook (long ago banished by his wife), a house he lived in alone until joined by Hermine’s oldest daughter, Primrose, who has also disappeared, moving across the continent to California. </span><span>Molly, a nurse of modern medical ways, is the practical, nearby (and only biological) daughter. Finally, there is the lazy, lovely, magical Rose Thorn, golden-haired mother of eleven-year-old Dorothy, known as Donkey, a mathematical genius made nervous by infinity, a child being raised on M'sauga Island by Herself (Hermine). </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: x-large;">Donkey milks the cow, avoids eating meat, </span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif; font-size: x-large;">eavesdrops and spies on adults, and longs for a father. Titus is the father she wants, and the choice is logical (passionate Donkey tries hard to be logical), given the electricity that has always crackled between Rose Thorn and Titus. In this postmodern rural Michigan fairy tale, as in European fairy tales of old, however, missing fathers are a recurring theme. Never mind that the entire community of Whiteheart, Michigan, longs to see Titus and Rose Thorn together.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GvzPL0vtloXOVdiGKc_XXcDWQL3__tj10R_fu9yJlUsI5cxXxZt-yJzkDEHt0FrHd-lZQjteWEhwXK4if6fTIpuvtVmyWh9zPko3j-zBuIQldAD2lJBLmGZFnIAqk-tOU3fOUSSK5Lewqb7xZBLbmAMAkaodUewjSv7QLG_Y4wvbd0r2q0oI5GlUmCw9/s2048/408857724_10231944655943382_788842113341426966_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GvzPL0vtloXOVdiGKc_XXcDWQL3__tj10R_fu9yJlUsI5cxXxZt-yJzkDEHt0FrHd-lZQjteWEhwXK4if6fTIpuvtVmyWh9zPko3j-zBuIQldAD2lJBLmGZFnIAqk-tOU3fOUSSK5Lewqb7xZBLbmAMAkaodUewjSv7QLG_Y4wvbd0r2q0oI5GlUmCw9/w480-h640/408857724_10231944655943382_788842113341426966_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Once upon a time” opens Chapter Zero: Prologue, and Chapter Six opens with an echoing “Once upon a time,” the phrase signaling both history and fabulism. Each chapter bears, besides its number, a sentence heading. Chapter One announces a crucial truth: “Rose Thorn always comes home.” Whiteheart can accept the absence of Wild Will Zook, but they need Rose Thorn. They need Rose and Titus together. This is where we begin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Chapter One introduces us to Whiteheart. With the addition of Smiley, the barkeeper, the men drinking beers and pops at the picnic table outside the Muck Rattler Lounge after church on Sunday – Rick Dickmon, gun-totin’ Jamie Standish, Tony Martin (known as “Two-Inch Tony,” but not for reasons you might at first imagine), Whitey Whitby, pot-bellied Ralph Darling – constitute the core community we come to know as we read. The men reappear singly and as a group throughout the novel, their wives and girlfriends remaining in the background, along with Titus’s father and his Aunt Ada, but together they fill in a picture that foregrounds the reclusive healer and her three daughters. It is, however, Titus Clay to whom all local eyes turn. It is Titus, together with Rose Thorn, they believe, who will hold them together, if only --. But it is Rose Thorn, not Titus, who leaves and returns….</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Old celery fields, a cranberry bog, a gravel truck that makes its regular run along Lovers Road (that truck reminds me of the caterpillars in <i>Q Road</i>, easily overlooked but a symbol of what life has become in this place), rumbling past Wild Will Zook’s empty house and the Boneset Table where Hermine leaves her cures to be retrieved by those in need. Farm fields and giant black willows. Somewhere in the background, the Old Woman River and pollution from a paper mill no longer in operation. Donkeys and wild, flowering plants, <a href="https://www.fws.gov/species/eastern-massasauga-sistrurus-catenatus">massasauga rattlesnakes</a> (“muck rattlers,” Whiteheart calls them) and church-going people, unsure of what they believe but longing for beauty.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What will become of them all?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kxdhgguxp2dWpR8EvMgf2YW4v0ByHe7u-IpiTTtNGEFFXQ8zha3osUzk7tXDFOdXQW1hISDmLJzckGEN_qV5jAcVoIeRdUfI_9nGmgdvofZ3ne5GtLo3KqCtvw78AN1RFv_IUjONf5qsL03izOyxlGdohjI9cQYhaqTz_wqVeKrJMdJjBJ5Pf5UwciT5/s2048/408861228_10231944651663275_7133637309347846742_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kxdhgguxp2dWpR8EvMgf2YW4v0ByHe7u-IpiTTtNGEFFXQ8zha3osUzk7tXDFOdXQW1hISDmLJzckGEN_qV5jAcVoIeRdUfI_9nGmgdvofZ3ne5GtLo3KqCtvw78AN1RFv_IUjONf5qsL03izOyxlGdohjI9cQYhaqTz_wqVeKrJMdJjBJ5Pf5UwciT5/w480-h640/408861228_10231944651663275_7133637309347846742_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A customary request accompanying ARCs asks that reviewers refrain from making direct quotes, as changes may be made between advance copies and the book as later released to the public, and <i>only</i> that request and my bookseller conscience could have stopped me. But this post is not even, I realize, a book review, as I have written almost nothing about the conflicts and secrets that create a taut, suspenseful story line. So be it. I waited as long as I could before beginning this novel, because I knew before opening to the first page that I would not want it ever to end, and what I want for you, dear readers, is to have the <i>whole</i> of the pleasure, also, as you immerse yourself in <i>The Waters</i>, of coming to know the world of Whiteheart and its people for yourself, as I did. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Before writing this post, I read no other reviews of <i>The Waters </i>(and still have not), though eventually I’m sure I will. For now, I am simply basking in the luxury of being a small-town bookseller and blogger rather than a paid reviewer who must meet certain conventional expectations. I am also happy, in my modest role of bookseller-blogger, not to be preparing a class in American literature, which would require me to trace out echoes of mythic themes that reverberate through the novel. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(<i>After</i> you read this marvelous story, you may want to review the story in Genesis of the snake in the garden and explore other stories, as well, such as the Brothers Grimm tale of “Rumpelstiltskin” and the <i>Lives of the Saints</i> -- but please wait until <i>after</i> you have read the book! What you already know and what you find in the novel’s pages will be enough for your first time through. Just be <i>immersed</i> in the experience, please.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Afterward. After-word. Ah, yes! I finished the last chapter of <i>The Waters</i> before going to sleep and saved the Epilogue to read the next morning. My last word today is that if an epiphany be tearful and inarticulate, that’s what I experienced. Stillness. Gratitude. Perfection.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioM1vmitnNIPATscyXP5HLd8vLAGbIoFFqWw-SDA9oLT3Y-UarZYE52txpZ-bgbsK_t5UC6mRTXTJqwhWeh9wvxRjWjoll5ssj2Ph7_jL1hp8YXszO4RTtqquasuaBfw4TU9UqoriielePWWwgXPUOjCXJnGVSgxA9ucYa-_304eoB2Ljso6Ldg16O7UG2/s1440/406459647_10231945006472145_5773364028487447162_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioM1vmitnNIPATscyXP5HLd8vLAGbIoFFqWw-SDA9oLT3Y-UarZYE52txpZ-bgbsK_t5UC6mRTXTJqwhWeh9wvxRjWjoll5ssj2Ph7_jL1hp8YXszO4RTtqquasuaBfw4TU9UqoriielePWWwgXPUOjCXJnGVSgxA9ucYa-_304eoB2Ljso6Ldg16O7UG2/s320/406459647_10231945006472145_5773364028487447162_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioM1vmitnNIPATscyXP5HLd8vLAGbIoFFqWw-SDA9oLT3Y-UarZYE52txpZ-bgbsK_t5UC6mRTXTJqwhWeh9wvxRjWjoll5ssj2Ph7_jL1hp8YXszO4RTtqquasuaBfw4TU9UqoriielePWWwgXPUOjCXJnGVSgxA9ucYa-_304eoB2Ljso6Ldg16O7UG2/s1440/406459647_10231945006472145_5773364028487447162_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Waters<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">by Bonnie Jo Campbell<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">W.W. Norton & Company<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Janary 2024<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Hardcover $30</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>I will happily take orders in advance for reserved copies!</i></span></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-32532848860248400142023-12-04T12:25:00.000-08:002023-12-04T15:31:07.638-08:00 Winter Days Are Here<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DSikhdoUm8NdFK9lSE6jw6o8yz4IIWCzKPGSE_tjJTdySbb01MGGgLrYC3tbIg952e69294OoynB5_8f71OkKJloEzsAIHeF4EHpVLuHBt_gZhyhS6Er9we2DLquqcNwnnd5Akw5ckfs6rfVYNAJmroOROCO_SCLf3Hhj_0fCNnHseIN4kietdpicvk7/s1374/altered%20sunrise.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1358" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DSikhdoUm8NdFK9lSE6jw6o8yz4IIWCzKPGSE_tjJTdySbb01MGGgLrYC3tbIg952e69294OoynB5_8f71OkKJloEzsAIHeF4EHpVLuHBt_gZhyhS6Er9we2DLquqcNwnnd5Akw5ckfs6rfVYNAJmroOROCO_SCLf3Hhj_0fCNnHseIN4kietdpicvk7/w395-h400/altered%20sunrise.png" width="395" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clouds delayed sunrise that day.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The sun doesn’t top what I call the Eastern Woods until about 9 o’clock these days, but daylight is sufficient to get me out with my dog an hour before that, and since morning coffee time usually begins for me at 5 a.m., Sunny Juliet is more than ready to go outdoors by 8 o’clock for a good, hard run. She loves to play with frozen apples or -- even more exciting -- the battered, torn remnants of an old boot that still excites her every time she finds it again. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-tNCNqzDu_OVOMQgBrAaYcH-UTdWbiaL6FoD-H1LXtzbII_ITK1oRB2OiZDfB1bUFKUeJdqF5chnhabozee5KbaAcu98BTrtA9v3xMLseJYCUb1jLTsprDQMau3aoyQxIHCZLrwC9DBVZrJQsmvkod_HOH88n2wMrYW_euirWjpoaKwAf_ruNjnJfmvR/s1440/406466997_10231921320120001_2990574357476527676_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-tNCNqzDu_OVOMQgBrAaYcH-UTdWbiaL6FoD-H1LXtzbII_ITK1oRB2OiZDfB1bUFKUeJdqF5chnhabozee5KbaAcu98BTrtA9v3xMLseJYCUb1jLTsprDQMau3aoyQxIHCZLrwC9DBVZrJQsmvkod_HOH88n2wMrYW_euirWjpoaKwAf_ruNjnJfmvR/w480-h640/406466997_10231921320120001_2990574357476527676_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny practicing her Zen patience --</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Between 5 and 7:30 a.m., though, Sunny stretches out long and patient beside me on the bed or draped over my feet (she is on top of the covers) while I read, write in my journal, write a letter, and look at news and Facebook on my phone. Checking in with friends on Facebook reminds me of my mother’s long telephone conversations with friends and neighbors when I was a child, except that she could only talk to one person at a time, and those were the days of “long distance” telephone charges, so her daily chats were confined to nearby friends, whereas I can keep up with loved ones anywhere in the world. Of course, there’s always that book I was reading the night before, too, waiting for me before dawn….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Northport was deadly quiet on Friday, streets empty. Holiday season or not, this is winter in a summer tourist town. Many, many years ago, a successful Leland entrepreneur told me, “People always want to take their businesses year-round, but the key to a successful seasonal business is to keep it seasonal.” I can hardly complain about anyone spending the winter elsewhere, as I have done so myself many times. Staying in place this year, of course I would be happy to have more regular local customers, but I am grateful for those I do have. And having been in business for over 30 years, quiet winter days do not surprise me. It’s an old story.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Saturday was livelier. Even though the horses arrived so late that they kept driving around the village until 9 p.m., I had enough browsers and book buyers to make my day, plus the chance to catch up in person with a local friend whose summers are no doubt as busy as mine. Fun to visit with friends old and new over books!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I go home to Sunny Juliet after a bookstore day (this works better on the short days when I close at 3 than it does on 11-5 winter Saturdays), she is ecstatic to have me back again – and to get outdoors for another ramble before dark. I’ve put her agility equipment away for the winter, and we won’t be going back to class until spring, either, but we are outdoors every day, whatever the weather. Our most frequent path takes us uphill between woods and orchard, where before the big snow Sunny would run and leap and pounce like a fox on dry, skittering leaves and tease me with apples she dropped as an invitation and then grabbed up again herself. Now even the apples are frozen and mostly buried in snow – but she is a girl who enjoys a challenge! </span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHE5F4_sRq39_scUE7fO1pMZuOHl5kJReZzh7f5BvseXmzx9XjaMRlC-J3Mp7yQOjE01nNRDWUwn5RXic1hZ6rf8aqXCUoIzrRNiOqdN_Pi_ADnn0h6AbdSzLUhlQWrm4cpHTHvPexoAwVArzhQWb0j6dGdCXUDNQyEMAEHT-0C_XbIAA_iVzwhafeH-L/s1280/407702389_10231932196111894_8348002520834338600_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHE5F4_sRq39_scUE7fO1pMZuOHl5kJReZzh7f5BvseXmzx9XjaMRlC-J3Mp7yQOjE01nNRDWUwn5RXic1hZ6rf8aqXCUoIzrRNiOqdN_Pi_ADnn0h6AbdSzLUhlQWrm4cpHTHvPexoAwVArzhQWb0j6dGdCXUDNQyEMAEHT-0C_XbIAA_iVzwhafeH-L/w480-h640/407702389_10231932196111894_8348002520834338600_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woods on Saturday morning </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChjiclV7SESYDZjWVZ1UxLUfksRJDxyfx-eE5X-oM02lPTk4e_DBWcCi26Dx4KtFAWyqv7Wm0r7IGNBy-65vWeDtzAmSL-8-wIkVOkBbH8sFI4iQetedVuR8gi8z0l1l_Nwd4h2EW9Aa-_Yc5SUv_fuXj9xAvY8pXf617bzxWwMlGVlgITigaHJLc7THb/s1280/407976659_10231935438192944_6693801959636995408_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChjiclV7SESYDZjWVZ1UxLUfksRJDxyfx-eE5X-oM02lPTk4e_DBWcCi26Dx4KtFAWyqv7Wm0r7IGNBy-65vWeDtzAmSL-8-wIkVOkBbH8sFI4iQetedVuR8gi8z0l1l_Nwd4h2EW9Aa-_Yc5SUv_fuXj9xAvY8pXf617bzxWwMlGVlgITigaHJLc7THb/w400-h300/407976659_10231935438192944_6693801959636995408_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deeper snow on Monday morning </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg882T4bpFAY1qMAJxrjXuglPkHwCqQDVYlkbzuOdG_XgyRpMM9_biasj7GCvzc8cGwGhZ2DvBaVQnhDTqjxMjE8JlA50zDQAdeo9Nm3ESH44SbZV_YeYxMfh1Wz8-oBPMCdNiSwiLrWYUUvPO5HKOrjpkCKTI6x2CnIHnlE3LBwrTzO9M4ZnfJ6Wgv_tta/s2048/407648327_10231932196671908_4279489345834047232_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg882T4bpFAY1qMAJxrjXuglPkHwCqQDVYlkbzuOdG_XgyRpMM9_biasj7GCvzc8cGwGhZ2DvBaVQnhDTqjxMjE8JlA50zDQAdeo9Nm3ESH44SbZV_YeYxMfh1Wz8-oBPMCdNiSwiLrWYUUvPO5HKOrjpkCKTI6x2CnIHnlE3LBwrTzO9M4ZnfJ6Wgv_tta/w480-h640/407648327_10231932196671908_4279489345834047232_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful red apples in snow </td></tr></tbody></table><o:p> </o:p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEDb6SlYwqrQb58Or5C14eIzhdIJSmLCcTw4IIRBux1pV-jCtu9eIzZCfR8W1TuP7KNvjFqrf5wIBjs0uIY7FRHKIxZbwYeEHqBSVS_GIabdsRPeyPUNdqVzfB_5XV02WbhynAUjO92NJNNelgfAFLt03uKe_ACZKI4V8De9qVYD3LuFZczlS_9-5-Wnr/s2048/407947105_10231932198191946_2146066349865021734_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEDb6SlYwqrQb58Or5C14eIzhdIJSmLCcTw4IIRBux1pV-jCtu9eIzZCfR8W1TuP7KNvjFqrf5wIBjs0uIY7FRHKIxZbwYeEHqBSVS_GIabdsRPeyPUNdqVzfB_5XV02WbhynAUjO92NJNNelgfAFLt03uKe_ACZKI4V8De9qVYD3LuFZczlS_9-5-Wnr/w480-h640/407947105_10231932198191946_2146066349865021734_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foraging dog </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ordinarily, I wouldn’t come to the bookstore on Mondays, but the last part of my new book order hadn’t arrived on Friday, so here I am until the big brown truck comes. What fun Sunny and I had this morning, though! And how beautiful all the trees looked, both around home and on my drive to Northport, every branch outlined and weighed down by snow! My new snow tires did the job, too, even without the driveway plowed yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SICm5C5u8WW0WTeFkAk8BoI4_dyfDpEQDUJZGMsCgjp1qR4G3AKjRZA5ph1g00Of7d1o0HbvJ70LNwPT6VWYSBmAVvjrkE2zcUN7zPkO84AfDs-7JO2vjmu1sOiRH6aOs-FG4sXjmp237kWgaX9kJDE73qrN3e3a360w1guCBfUXd58sCSociqGXtnBD/s1440/407665445_10231935807402174_8630664206374967778_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SICm5C5u8WW0WTeFkAk8BoI4_dyfDpEQDUJZGMsCgjp1qR4G3AKjRZA5ph1g00Of7d1o0HbvJ70LNwPT6VWYSBmAVvjrkE2zcUN7zPkO84AfDs-7JO2vjmu1sOiRH6aOs-FG4sXjmp237kWgaX9kJDE73qrN3e3a360w1guCBfUXd58sCSociqGXtnBD/w480-h640/407665445_10231935807402174_8630664206374967778_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>So let it snow! It is, after all, December in northern Michigan. </span>And I am well supplied with books.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofYvDXLN8wUOIkNaedZpr6dWfI7_FBMtAKCsaaQlZrovQP59Xndgj_j6oqHxhLbt1hjTh7A5KDElw6Ys9xlU-wyafenWcmqEVYxDHWPWTwCjTxE_g3hl4Uc1aqi99vJrN-loXUNmB3wpUaFc1FIf-DpUMeksUVqSDYJhpevUjYQ1y7TFX4J6BqR0E-Rob/s1440/405430087_10231931269888739_4922371965391536327_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofYvDXLN8wUOIkNaedZpr6dWfI7_FBMtAKCsaaQlZrovQP59Xndgj_j6oqHxhLbt1hjTh7A5KDElw6Ys9xlU-wyafenWcmqEVYxDHWPWTwCjTxE_g3hl4Uc1aqi99vJrN-loXUNmB3wpUaFc1FIf-DpUMeksUVqSDYJhpevUjYQ1y7TFX4J6BqR0E-Rob/w480-h640/405430087_10231931269888739_4922371965391536327_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seen from indoors through window and screen on Sunday </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFzjA9GwLQuY4XWAE3_wcUHPSWGgKCIpbxQD4rn5tpQYka8woRaMfkTi1zZgAMgMp1zJeD4u8X0YYKgSsMZ6chxTyC0W9FiLGy9uooah0sBsKXSXSKdQzkuX6oF-BCj8gONzQSq0QVSS7jTmK5GFlmqQS5KgZAmyXy921MNR9Hy-p5WRVW2Bx3jqNekL6/s2048/407917114_10231935436432900_5887965285353965352_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFzjA9GwLQuY4XWAE3_wcUHPSWGgKCIpbxQD4rn5tpQYka8woRaMfkTi1zZgAMgMp1zJeD4u8X0YYKgSsMZ6chxTyC0W9FiLGy9uooah0sBsKXSXSKdQzkuX6oF-BCj8gONzQSq0QVSS7jTmK5GFlmqQS5KgZAmyXy921MNR9Hy-p5WRVW2Bx3jqNekL6/w480-h640/407917114_10231935436432900_5887965285353965352_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up close and personal, outdoors on Monday </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FYqiM_3l585WqdD4v8xOybqNuiYBtCucZ2dKOG8LLIoYt9MTdEmyJCw2vhcRp6nACkdxBDgmzkaPL6q7pjf8jDyplVeLkGP_g07KLnlDwrE3n1if9Kve90a3Fpzj0ZBye3oq5uCLLeKNfyGlQAEKDW_edPCRr3RwdddnzmQEJZWQ6oPOT6Q88svbkdBv/s1082/Sinsnow.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1082" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FYqiM_3l585WqdD4v8xOybqNuiYBtCucZ2dKOG8LLIoYt9MTdEmyJCw2vhcRp6nACkdxBDgmzkaPL6q7pjf8jDyplVeLkGP_g07KLnlDwrE3n1if9Kve90a3Fpzj0ZBye3oq5uCLLeKNfyGlQAEKDW_edPCRr3RwdddnzmQEJZWQ6oPOT6Q88svbkdBv/w400-h315/Sinsnow.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny in the snow </td></tr></tbody></table><br />P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-50860805270413927282023-12-01T03:11:00.000-08:002023-12-01T11:08:48.711-08:00 Meeting Mrs. Carter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3HO7q1XPdZSkygk_DSxl0HWi-Wb-D9NJqlAnhClFCJzxMs8PJ7wrmu3lPQ7VANysndFwCxryNKdm5DIUQ0ZtEVKCQPZyiqBLHY2dU3eSpD9Nqgz_fqXhvgmcSSyEYPt5L5AYU0Ga7ZfRk4LzfGEjx6ibn05Td8Ro0CMPdx_SlBPaPlTdWlGQR636NBdf/s2048/Outside%20Mom's.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3HO7q1XPdZSkygk_DSxl0HWi-Wb-D9NJqlAnhClFCJzxMs8PJ7wrmu3lPQ7VANysndFwCxryNKdm5DIUQ0ZtEVKCQPZyiqBLHY2dU3eSpD9Nqgz_fqXhvgmcSSyEYPt5L5AYU0Ga7ZfRk4LzfGEjx6ibn05Td8Ro0CMPdx_SlBPaPlTdWlGQR636NBdf/w400-h300/Outside%20Mom's.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where are we?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://booksinnorthport.blogspot.com/2013/02/georgia-road-trip-january-2003.html" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">This link</a><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"> will take anyone who wants to follow it to an old post of mine about the little town that President Jimmy Carter and his wife of 77 years, Rosalyn Carter, called home. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">If you choose, you can see the high school from which both Jimmy and Rosalynn graduated, and – more pointedly to my little story – Mom’s Kitchen,</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;">the</i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">restaurant in Plains. (I have included above a photo of the parking lot.) Go ahead. Take a moment to look back now at Plains….</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When the Artist and I drove to Florida for a winter getaway, as we did for several years (first with our old dog, Nikki, later with puppy Sarah), we always made sure that our otherwise freeform route would put us overnight Saturday in Americus, Georgia, so that we could go to Plains for Sunday dinner the next day at Mom’s Kitchen. From there we would make another pilgrimage, out to Archery, Jimmy Carter's boyhood home. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One year, though --. But I need to explain. Mom’s Kitchen has a large dining room with a cafeteria arrangement at one end where you line up and make your dinner choices. In the back corner past the food, another doorway leads to a second dining room. The Artist and I always sat in the main room, but when President and Mrs. Carter were there after church, their place was at the big round corner table in the back dining room. The restrooms, accessible from both dining rooms, are at the opposite end of the building from the kitchen and cafeteria line, and you turn left in the hallway coming out from the restroom, you re-enter the main dining room, while a right turn and then a left takes you to the back dining room. I’m telling all this for a reason.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0mgV30AviOMH19GMI4VUnUXkF66L9TfirUzTcz-ey_zeXdly-jUmK3o2N3Z7US9dZP1UmD7rLCimuGm9UfXS0jev8Ggw2C5hFmg9czRSeJYXF3HXzm5RWwQLmQlf6Z78G8Q7io6-EI11b4qY1h9YZ-g5xgtLJClVL8XsMyDeYRhIqY8Xg_FVV_Qz1rJ0/s2048/Inside%20Mom's.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0mgV30AviOMH19GMI4VUnUXkF66L9TfirUzTcz-ey_zeXdly-jUmK3o2N3Z7US9dZP1UmD7rLCimuGm9UfXS0jev8Ggw2C5hFmg9czRSeJYXF3HXzm5RWwQLmQlf6Z78G8Q7io6-EI11b4qY1h9YZ-g5xgtLJClVL8XsMyDeYRhIqY8Xg_FVV_Qz1rJ0/w400-h300/Inside%20Mom's.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See doorway at far right.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Because once when we were there, Mrs. Carter came from the restroom through the front dining room (where she probably knew everyone but us!) and stopped at our table to welcome us to Plains and exchange a few friendly sentences. She would not have had to come through the main dining room at all to rejoin her husband in the back room, and nothing obligated her to stop to welcome strangers. Nothing but exquisitely gracious manners and the sense of social obligation she no doubt felt as a former First Lady of the United States in this simple little farm town. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As we shared a few moments, it was obvious to me that Mrs. Carter was a very reserved person, perhaps even shy, and had undoubtedly pushed herself beyond what we would now call her “comfort zone” for a lifetime. Not only, I think, because her role as a president’s wife demanded it but because she realized that she was in a position to do good in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For me, that encounter was terribly moving, and as we left to continue our way south my eyes filled with tears. They fill with tears again today, thinking of that dear lady and her loving husband.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter, after four years in the White House, returned to Plains to live what many saw as a startlingly modest life. Whenever they were interviewed, however, their smiles and soft Southern accents could not hide the firm convictions held by both or the keen, penetrating intelligence both possessed, and they continued to make contributions to their country and to the world through <a href="https://www.habitat.org">Habitat for Humanity</a> and <a href="https://www.cartercenter.org">The Carter Center</a>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">How sad that stories such as theirs are so rare in our world! But how wondrous that they lived in our world – and worked for us and beside us -- for so long!</span></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-28380350842534799092023-11-27T03:34:00.000-08:002023-11-27T06:24:21.146-08:00 Dear Faraway Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCkJW_m9HW1F8jh1bSwyoN0BlqKum3vagsAA7DmiGFEoxOArCOdJGJvDHawdt0n4GrtD9xB65BoVxxIt_VG90njtOS0LvyDt6eTDJaog1E4XXP49rzQ54ZADQ-KM581rezCU0VFjUaBLL3k6gtst5oKjATm89se_hRm-l7rLl6sysvt4aIwpZHvIeuKpB/s1280/402086592_10231863389391769_1135522216214829602_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCkJW_m9HW1F8jh1bSwyoN0BlqKum3vagsAA7DmiGFEoxOArCOdJGJvDHawdt0n4GrtD9xB65BoVxxIt_VG90njtOS0LvyDt6eTDJaog1E4XXP49rzQ54ZADQ-KM581rezCU0VFjUaBLL3k6gtst5oKjATm89se_hRm-l7rLl6sysvt4aIwpZHvIeuKpB/w400-h300/402086592_10231863389391769_1135522216214829602_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sunday, November 26, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Those of you as far from me geographically as Seattle, Washington … Tucson and Dos Cabezas, Arizona … northern and central Illinois … and, coming closer, Kalamazoo, Michigan … all of you are in my thoughts today, but Leelanau County and Traverse City friends seem “faraway,” too, as the first real snow accumulates in the yard and on the roof of my old farmhouse. I’m not feeling isolated. Cozy, rather. It’s so lovely, after a busy week, to have a whole day at home, me and Sunny Juliet, with nowhere else we need to be. <o:p></o:p></span><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">-- Wait, wait, wait! I did not mean to forget those in Minnesota, New York State, the U.P, and Brazil!!!</span></i></p><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Did I say it was a busy week? Monday was a trip to Traverse City for new snow tires. I took Frederick Franck’s <i>Zen Seeing, Zen </i><i>Drawing</i> to read while the tires were being mounted, because just reading Franck’s books is a meditation -- actual drawing <i>practice</i> that much more so, however, and something I want to get back to this winter. Tuesday I cut a tiny little pine tree and took it to the bookstore, then cancelled agility class for Sunny and me, needing those four hours at home to mix cookie dough and shop for Thanksgiving. Wednesday was my day to decorate the bookstore tree, along with accepting deliveries of new books, and that evening I began preparations for the next day’s dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh820hix4wz_RNjtOoqrIruMGJsnUnwesBWBXkTH-tWV0Vj_k3HhFHbP_n0zrzD0EF_fLOu9y_50eqYmky_KsZbzxvZwRY6YynBa-TN2wq5XN9zsZF-fhsDvsc5JxtsUZ3RLiuM1l2Q6-JW9D-THoJ1myyGu_VwiaT58cw8KB20_LqQVRhqrIksMpLOsl5/s1440/404290346_10231882155580912_2419788414450511902_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh820hix4wz_RNjtOoqrIruMGJsnUnwesBWBXkTH-tWV0Vj_k3HhFHbP_n0zrzD0EF_fLOu9y_50eqYmky_KsZbzxvZwRY6YynBa-TN2wq5XN9zsZF-fhsDvsc5JxtsUZ3RLiuM1l2Q6-JW9D-THoJ1myyGu_VwiaT58cw8KB20_LqQVRhqrIksMpLOsl5/w480-h640/404290346_10231882155580912_2419788414450511902_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like Charlie Brown, I love my little tree!</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Because Thursday, of course, was Thanksgiving! A different kind of holiday for me this year, as I fixed turkey dinner for a friend and took it to his house to share the meal with him. This man was like a brother to the Artist for many years, they were that close, so I would tell people, “He’s like my brother-in-law,” and now he has forgotten the Artist and had no clue who I was, either. He knew me a few short months ago, but when I arrived at his house on Thursday afternoon, having called the previous Saturday to tell him I would be coming, he asked, “Do we know each other? Do you live around here?” When I reminded him it was Thanksgiving, he was astonished. Still, he was pleased to have company, and his appetite was good. It was strange to be with someone so familiar to me, whose house is so familiar to me, as well, a friend with whom the Artist and I shared many holidays past, but for whom I am now become a stranger. How much more difficult it must be for family members in such a situation….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Friday evening was a cookie baking session with my friend Susan, accompanied by lots of visiting, naturally. (Susan and I shared happy memories!) Then at last came Saturday! Horses in Northport! (Sadly, for me, on a shorter loop this year that did not include Waukazoo Street, but I think that was to avoid long wait times for all the families who wanted the horse-drawn village tour.) Activity gatherings and open houses all through the town! And at 6 o’clock, Santa turned on the tree lights. What a day!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyXYnlv3VN5U-wgLfY7PSBjVCeHUX7mscsfuQM-w4A93mwSD28cq9iQqJE5qDtP_FWvx1tDjFOI6NC_RmQUc-jkygsNgij3igsVfm6PpUz3oHY2XsJdhyphenhyphen-vZkxzhN7Mirqs446DIHowX7nLrcNeARCC9Etfd7K37sBjd9oLkB1lmPLgyIgVkJEQKZLXXG/s2048/405357936_10231898948720730_2943483467500570464_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyXYnlv3VN5U-wgLfY7PSBjVCeHUX7mscsfuQM-w4A93mwSD28cq9iQqJE5qDtP_FWvx1tDjFOI6NC_RmQUc-jkygsNgij3igsVfm6PpUz3oHY2XsJdhyphenhyphen-vZkxzhN7Mirqs446DIHowX7nLrcNeARCC9Etfd7K37sBjd9oLkB1lmPLgyIgVkJEQKZLXXG/w400-h300/405357936_10231898948720730_2943483467500570464_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carolers at the bookstore</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZ1qvz5f7RUKIMu8ZwIokby3Bod132wZ-ZX6p8RIYeuihrNfLwAwMbqcUmd-D-XdaLKovhORx-hKS3TbnuYcO_Ac2EUV1by5uvGLIoB2PSobwsrVzu_xF8WTqXe9WoRlv6bVJxvtNL9Tq8_DehuJ65kX_zaFWpqDFbR4Mhj50tX4aTDfp3QUL_NRNU3Ip/s1514/darkness%20falls.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1514" data-original-width="934" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZ1qvz5f7RUKIMu8ZwIokby3Bod132wZ-ZX6p8RIYeuihrNfLwAwMbqcUmd-D-XdaLKovhORx-hKS3TbnuYcO_Ac2EUV1by5uvGLIoB2PSobwsrVzu_xF8WTqXe9WoRlv6bVJxvtNL9Tq8_DehuJ65kX_zaFWpqDFbR4Mhj50tX4aTDfp3QUL_NRNU3Ip/w394-h640/darkness%20falls.png" width="394" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darkness falling...</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwu1vn1QSYnx_jU2UYOGQvds5bQWmIkE2AD4Uld6wOhjpqizVvwKV0W07tl8TptvHBpA0xIInfC5ty2m4I4rZoeQjNkqojt1qm4SZ_oCMsjPtqVNpxW07YgOfbJpRKZJ2bKqO3KlAirQ2fdJ8E6LHxOviksfe8yJNp_4pF9nCKph2DgkR3_ep3Y1DFgvh/s6000/IMG_0480.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwu1vn1QSYnx_jU2UYOGQvds5bQWmIkE2AD4Uld6wOhjpqizVvwKV0W07tl8TptvHBpA0xIInfC5ty2m4I4rZoeQjNkqojt1qm4SZ_oCMsjPtqVNpxW07YgOfbJpRKZJ2bKqO3KlAirQ2fdJ8E6LHxOviksfe8yJNp_4pF9nCKph2DgkR3_ep3Y1DFgvh/w400-h266/IMG_0480.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire truck in front of bookstore, blocking traffic...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6QVlbOOqq7UfrtVTiMEgLfBc7qbgYsOFXU6yT1LQCcf3UezXjCZZXv2a_Nenx2Cdhvp4eaNk5b7JKgaFhAcFJu6tqWPB9rTgz970DSXiIfNN3ljI9D5PASnPSDJ6RzZFTVgBsG8N73idIfzcodYx5ZCxNGqbyR6BJp4x4e8FruSGtfOA9WwukYKfP3im/s6000/IMG_0479.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6QVlbOOqq7UfrtVTiMEgLfBc7qbgYsOFXU6yT1LQCcf3UezXjCZZXv2a_Nenx2Cdhvp4eaNk5b7JKgaFhAcFJu6tqWPB9rTgz970DSXiIfNN3ljI9D5PASnPSDJ6RzZFTVgBsG8N73idIfzcodYx5ZCxNGqbyR6BJp4x4e8FruSGtfOA9WwukYKfP3im/w400-h266/IMG_0479.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Passerby stopping to admire artist Deborah Ebbers's work...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDu27PyMa5-W9j7KPa3tLYplqCnE9rvd2uvzC2eBv31hJHKIPt810wfi5tVkmfHONo_9N-JF0qZtkdMUKdZw2_x22GipstoftWj-kaI1EisfanftLLlhdWk38d0dQyHSB359mTbFlEbLBgoSLgpE0OMW3_yCjLug7j822iopNNoZxCdVGavAGCDaxHCkRA/s6000/IMG_0478.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDu27PyMa5-W9j7KPa3tLYplqCnE9rvd2uvzC2eBv31hJHKIPt810wfi5tVkmfHONo_9N-JF0qZtkdMUKdZw2_x22GipstoftWj-kaI1EisfanftLLlhdWk38d0dQyHSB359mTbFlEbLBgoSLgpE0OMW3_yCjLug7j822iopNNoZxCdVGavAGCDaxHCkRA/w400-h266/IMG_0478.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowd awaiting Santa and tree lights...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtIaOwHAAHv7wmTuW17SlggjWnbLUFBaCPHMpOFhnDdi7dbPV0MtuSNym370L2b30PD5pNr7ix8BxsQyljNX5nGl3JqFaIXGMIGcT3pbmmRukKbtOuOxz2KXt2iMFt0Hhh6tzpMe82OsmT3uF-S84Y7xLN-KopL7qFkhyphenhyphenhw6f1XCfv-Cgx46sLf-hmQ0m/s6000/IMG_0481.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtIaOwHAAHv7wmTuW17SlggjWnbLUFBaCPHMpOFhnDdi7dbPV0MtuSNym370L2b30PD5pNr7ix8BxsQyljNX5nGl3JqFaIXGMIGcT3pbmmRukKbtOuOxz2KXt2iMFt0Hhh6tzpMe82OsmT3uF-S84Y7xLN-KopL7qFkhyphenhyphenhw6f1XCfv-Cgx46sLf-hmQ0m/w426-h640/IMG_0481.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our beautiful village tree!!!<br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: xx-large; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">So you see why I was ready for a Sunday of rest!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">After busy days all week I turned at bedtime to re-reading: Ellen Airgood’s <i>The Education of Ivy Blake</i> and Walter Mosley’s <i>Walkin’ the Dog</i>. Two very different works of fiction, but both favorites of mine, with characters I love and satisfying but not simplistic conclusions. Writers whose work means a lot to me. Another comforting young person’s novel was Elizabeth Enright’s <i>Gone-Away Lake</i>. Enright really knew her botany! Then, beginning Friday night, came a first-time read, <i>The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse</i>, by Alexander McCall Smith, Not one from any of his series but a stand-alone tale from World War II England and Germany -- and not sugar-coated, either, but still, in the most difficult decisions his characters must make and in the complicated emotions they experience, delivered with Smith’s characteristic gentle wisdom. Peter Woodhouse, by the way, is a dog….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now two nonfiction books, both begun but neither more than one-quarter read yet, await. <i>Undaunted Courage</i>, by Stephen Ambrose, needs no introduction or explanation. The other, <i>Beyond the Outer Shores</i>, by Eric Enno Tamm, is the story of the man who inspired Steinbeck’s “Doc” in <i>Cannery Row</i>, and I’m learning a lot more about Steinbeck, too, namely, his friendship with Ed Ricketts and their collaboration on tidewater collecting expeditions. Fascinating. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>Ricketts and Steinbeck on the Pacific shoreline, Enright delighting in her bogs. </span><span>For me the natural world these days is snowy meadow, woods, and orchard -- </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3J30oGdXSoZUNOP55oJLp60CTWi9v7cQ5K_xFpBbBcEFty3ATF_mJMHIkM-BOjuFT-m6yxCxG-eKTYV9s0dLM71AvKe1ixyDLS2dK3aa6FpGDRrtYWmM6_2tzN5-FTOC1m3eU-vPayF5LQM5Sz7oNGDXutki6F1cN1K7I6VZ7yceRigrf64cn4OraGQ5D/s2048/406043096_10231900842088063_1108578505104028376_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3J30oGdXSoZUNOP55oJLp60CTWi9v7cQ5K_xFpBbBcEFty3ATF_mJMHIkM-BOjuFT-m6yxCxG-eKTYV9s0dLM71AvKe1ixyDLS2dK3aa6FpGDRrtYWmM6_2tzN5-FTOC1m3eU-vPayF5LQM5Sz7oNGDXutki6F1cN1K7I6VZ7yceRigrf64cn4OraGQ5D/w480-h640/406043096_10231900842088063_1108578505104028376_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReCNGw3TbuX_Q1GWzTytFV5pc9HC_sRH6SgWmL6sMhbSdnXyuPfvX2kcUK2tsegXMWlGhLtI3JeP6g3fAm-4sxkeyqf0HlSBNEDh7Ij7AKMZxJ0FyGfvhBmcYiP7xGGhb4IaMnX82Gf9EBK_F7w_cxaYvQnpYgtq7nlUiHX3AV6R8eci__tJgmWjJAtGn/s2048/406006829_10231900843568100_4382978719913280998_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReCNGw3TbuX_Q1GWzTytFV5pc9HC_sRH6SgWmL6sMhbSdnXyuPfvX2kcUK2tsegXMWlGhLtI3JeP6g3fAm-4sxkeyqf0HlSBNEDh7Ij7AKMZxJ0FyGfvhBmcYiP7xGGhb4IaMnX82Gf9EBK_F7w_cxaYvQnpYgtq7nlUiHX3AV6R8eci__tJgmWjJAtGn/w480-h640/406006829_10231900843568100_4382978719913280998_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfv6zQgFG13XvjHU3vXki5qmHePMMWmywZ5pDc9mMM5p0bHCPXUQwXEE6ixC8UXOJ5yPoUG8HuizhZ2mB-tteUv0H5FBb5Kwgg-njFaaTd8deoK1bLuFlDhalBxeBc_pvtKBDzGesppItYzOyH6jTWr8r3VR5jTDS1C5fuI7xvnpl6Sde2XOnzuH6FbVV/s2048/405780464_10231900844488123_5693592081855811399_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1359" data-original-width="2048" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfv6zQgFG13XvjHU3vXki5qmHePMMWmywZ5pDc9mMM5p0bHCPXUQwXEE6ixC8UXOJ5yPoUG8HuizhZ2mB-tteUv0H5FBb5Kwgg-njFaaTd8deoK1bLuFlDhalBxeBc_pvtKBDzGesppItYzOyH6jTWr8r3VR5jTDS1C5fuI7xvnpl6Sde2XOnzuH6FbVV/w640-h424/405780464_10231900844488123_5693592081855811399_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And yet, although I could not possibly be more <i>at home </i>than here in my Leelanau farmhouse, it felt strange this month not to be crossing the country from Great Lakes to Southwest, as the Artist and I had done for several years and as I did once again last year with Sunny Juliet, from the north woods and Great Lakes to prairie to Great Plains to high plains and mesa lands and finally mountains. My little ghost town neighborhood, our “mountain family,” so far away! One friend there sent me a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmZqdJUNxEg">Thanksgiving video</a> her son made of wildlife in their yard (deer, fox, coati mundi) and her house and yard and the entire ghost town from a drone overhead, a video I know I’ll watch over and over. The music with it is perfect, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZq88ZtYgFBzMpaBA98_VGOWCv3VHZsTVDrRfgFIKFnaIMypkq3nrNbeca7oH4ucC4_RcEbC_W9aQGrieJuBF0inZyRtJflS0RgJ_B4JIxy-W_BQLVV7D_qEfsSLshuHaQ1KQQ5bWbzbT7n-zwd68w8CTIMKNoWU4SM1iwlRd-XX5frAeB0fe-E3WX075_/s2400/cabin.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZq88ZtYgFBzMpaBA98_VGOWCv3VHZsTVDrRfgFIKFnaIMypkq3nrNbeca7oH4ucC4_RcEbC_W9aQGrieJuBF0inZyRtJflS0RgJ_B4JIxy-W_BQLVV7D_qEfsSLshuHaQ1KQQ5bWbzbT7n-zwd68w8CTIMKNoWU4SM1iwlRd-XX5frAeB0fe-E3WX075_/w400-h266/cabin.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Other years ... another life</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But here I am in my own beautiful home place! And it is snowing! What kind of a winter will it be? I remember my first northern Michigan winter, Traverse City in 1970-71, when it was never <i>not </i>snowing, whenever I looked out a window, and the icicles grew like stalactites from roofs to the ground. Bundling up my toddler to pull him on his little sled to the tiny Oleson’s store on Front Street a couple of blocks from our house was an expedition that consumed half a morning! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Whatever comes this year, right now it’s good to be in a warm house, looking forward to homemade turkey soup and meanwhile catching up on desk work and housework, with periodic breaks for outdoor dog fun. Winter is underway, my friends. And when spring comes again, we older ones will be looking back and saying that, in retrospect, winter flew by. I already know that will be true.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span>May everyone traveling today be prepared and safe, and may the freeing of hostages from Gaza continue with maximum happy results -- until all are once again home.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2WhS6CrhAe-MSsRYPvXtL-2PZjLPzE13ngy1gAwoMdL-WSixNdxgAvwGwavMilDl4VjJEx291iv22XJ2SAbheMlVMYYwZ6OmdyfpYHlCLeAYR_O8vhIt290Z04hMff8PIzsDrVR5sKXS-gDe0339fM8pAMzZFDffANKQcA3s0CMi2W7AcfEBYe-84mQ2/s2048/406048937_10231900841728054_7724849354283646827_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2WhS6CrhAe-MSsRYPvXtL-2PZjLPzE13ngy1gAwoMdL-WSixNdxgAvwGwavMilDl4VjJEx291iv22XJ2SAbheMlVMYYwZ6OmdyfpYHlCLeAYR_O8vhIt290Z04hMff8PIzsDrVR5sKXS-gDe0339fM8pAMzZFDffANKQcA3s0CMi2W7AcfEBYe-84mQ2/w400-h300/406048937_10231900841728054_7724849354283646827_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4130421352415377273.post-72697696891323429122023-11-22T12:21:00.000-08:002023-12-18T14:15:42.515-08:00From the Fringes -- Grateful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEA_X07ktsk5Fd30RuoVHTgrcbwTh4606AXwi-zuvoTC97WU5ZguBdGBnH4sWICDXi0E-EY5NJ6lHZcQs10o4g4V21H0PMcMUwvhJ9pG3XFxQ6TDzUTIz6cscx1nP_COVrHAohHjjCn-eIDpiLkAWBspoa3mtTMNp3CQuHS9ue3-VHdLJpskid944GvGf/s2048/gallery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEA_X07ktsk5Fd30RuoVHTgrcbwTh4606AXwi-zuvoTC97WU5ZguBdGBnH4sWICDXi0E-EY5NJ6lHZcQs10o4g4V21H0PMcMUwvhJ9pG3XFxQ6TDzUTIz6cscx1nP_COVrHAohHjjCn-eIDpiLkAWBspoa3mtTMNp3CQuHS9ue3-VHdLJpskid944GvGf/w400-h266/gallery.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At some point in the life of this blog – and I can’t tell you the exact date when it began – I began to refer to him as “the Artist” rather than as “my husband” or by name, following a kind of minor tradition among bloggers, who often use first-letter capitalized common nouns to stand in for the names of steady partners who play a part in their stories. My point today is that until he died in early March 2022, I was married to an artist whom I called <i>the </i>Artist, because in my life he was the one who counted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">His studio and gallery, in the same building as my bookstore, had a separate entrance, but a doorless doorway connected my bookstore to his space. Nevertheless, on busy summer days, with people coming and going for hours through our respective domains, both of us living days brimful of talk and laughter with friends and strangers, along with sales of books and paintings, we might not see each other until day’s end, when at last we had time to share accounts of what had transpired in our side-by-side but separate realms. Both in those physical spaces and in our lives beyond Waukazoo Street, his art world and my book world intersected and overlapped and enriched our life together year after year. In this bookstore blog I called him the Artist. His name was David Grath.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The late years of our winter life (“seasonal retirement”), from 2016 to 2021, were different from summers in a Michigan tourist region. In a small rental cabin in a ghost town in the mountains of southeast Arizona we lived, as he described it to friends, “joined at the hip,” or, “in each other’s pockets.” Each of us had a corner of the cabin for reading and writing and thinking. Beyond that, the kitchen area was pretty much mine to arrange and reign over, while he was guardian and ruler of the television (with an antenna on the roof, several stations came in clearly) and DVD player, their remote controls a complete mystery to me, but we were within physical reach of each other more often than not. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXg0Xmi3rzr8juQQuiojhvLE155H2vOD1NEyfLdkHo0aZyL92fal3V2QtcJH-buom9CHDw5Vu0MQ3YbCiGIDJugMtdZ2eFDopPUS3eB3BssVz-Dhv5l29LyB3LpilPkCX1zKsykcHmzJsZN8eTlMW23isUXZ135P_ZV1WlmH4NM064ILM4mj2giR1dJjx/s1984/David's2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1984" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXg0Xmi3rzr8juQQuiojhvLE155H2vOD1NEyfLdkHo0aZyL92fal3V2QtcJH-buom9CHDw5Vu0MQ3YbCiGIDJugMtdZ2eFDopPUS3eB3BssVz-Dhv5l29LyB3LpilPkCX1zKsykcHmzJsZN8eTlMW23isUXZ135P_ZV1WlmH4NM064ILM4mj2giR1dJjx/w400-h300/David's2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early days in Arizona ...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXg3Wg6R5mD5pqGaT9Z_zu4Q7CGRvKf_r8fVy_rJndLpCuMsozTxzglhAl_b3A_8v-7Xst_72fIwjMhQ6W6yEAlFdiRKD-BZdqIUtpDJAMaP-u03m078i72cpPVlzSUPDNe3B3o0hyiCLyKnUn4Zxsr1sMrwrlhphoMo3Y5s1TtZ9sEKJ7M77UyIuUYtyk/s1984/IMG_1359.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1984" data-original-width="1488" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXg3Wg6R5mD5pqGaT9Z_zu4Q7CGRvKf_r8fVy_rJndLpCuMsozTxzglhAl_b3A_8v-7Xst_72fIwjMhQ6W6yEAlFdiRKD-BZdqIUtpDJAMaP-u03m078i72cpPVlzSUPDNe3B3o0hyiCLyKnUn4Zxsr1sMrwrlhphoMo3Y5s1TtZ9sEKJ7M77UyIuUYtyk/w300-h400/IMG_1359.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... when our spaces were yet spare.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Summers, we drove separate cars to work. Having me on hand next door to answer questions of visitors to his gallery, he was free to take leave whenever the spirit moved him – to visit artist friends in their studios; to take the slow “county cruises” he loved, soaking in the landscape for future work; to attend to little jobs that needed doing back at home. My summer days were spent on Waukazoo Street; his were there and elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIIgobAbrHeyvtpOFEEbmHk_zTCKHD_WxGOFYmnbY_TiJ0Zfe4l0TQaodWK1zdFoChgHwFqkVuckTwTQ17_Q-lNGXlfOU0HzhrOQgonoZJe7pFfWexrwdvHUbQFTEcArrwdm3ZqyU27WwQoQjLRPDGXgbTOx7YFhACZrDF-YXBhypTAmRh0R22NKs1c4t/s1920/316664347_10229343033624450_6196790080473797566_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIIgobAbrHeyvtpOFEEbmHk_zTCKHD_WxGOFYmnbY_TiJ0Zfe4l0TQaodWK1zdFoChgHwFqkVuckTwTQ17_Q-lNGXlfOU0HzhrOQgonoZJe7pFfWexrwdvHUbQFTEcArrwdm3ZqyU27WwQoQjLRPDGXgbTOx7YFhACZrDF-YXBhypTAmRh0R22NKs1c4t/w360-h640/316664347_10229343033624450_6196790080473797566_n.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out on the town -- Willcox, AZ</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Again, Arizona winters were different. With a single car between us, it was a rare day when one left the cabin without the other. Instead, almost always, after I returned from a long morning ramble on foot with one dog or the other (we only ever had one at a time, but two figured in those years of cabin life), he and I, usually with dog, would set out on the road, armed with water and snacks, books and notebooks and sketchpads. We might have a destination in mind when we left home base, but those days were always revisable, each one an improvisation. There were forays up to Tucson or into Santa Cruz County to see friends, as well as expeditions north to Safford on a favorite mountain road; the majority of our explorations, however, took place in Cochise County, our home base. The second year I worried that it would be old hat for the Artist, no longer an adventure, that he--not in love with Cochise County as I was--would find our surroundings boring. One winter after another went by, though, and we never exhausted the possibilities. Never got to Ramsey Canyon or King Ranch, for instance. Besides revisiting favorite places more than once (Faraway Ranch, for instance, in the Chiricahua National Monument; Turkey Creek Road; Whitewater Draw), we kept discovering unfamiliar and exciting places easily reached on day trips: a shortcut across the Sulphur Springs Valley or a back road to Bisbee, a new coffee house or junk shop or shady stretches of the San Pedro River that held running water.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBb2wZ-539K-n0J478EnR9G86sBg40pgKh9CBR3HCmL9vtfM8Vd7wet6IxgDAHa3YsYvl7WED9OKpLQv9hpsWmn69IdL3E1TtKR2_z3Tg6WTBMsIVdFBAwldhR-WgpCkc6ph6FDIMVAl5qRQMTR0dA3F34QrsW8FtL8y7VZ13QIB4fPNqM__8u1TdS7B1/s1600/bordered.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBb2wZ-539K-n0J478EnR9G86sBg40pgKh9CBR3HCmL9vtfM8Vd7wet6IxgDAHa3YsYvl7WED9OKpLQv9hpsWmn69IdL3E1TtKR2_z3Tg6WTBMsIVdFBAwldhR-WgpCkc6ph6FDIMVAl5qRQMTR0dA3F34QrsW8FtL8y7VZ13QIB4fPNqM__8u1TdS7B1/w400-h300/bordered.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Of course, our life together had not always been divided between Michigan and Arizona. Years earlier, before and following a spate of Florida winters (Weeki Wachee first, then Aripeka), we had stayed put, first in Leland, later in our old farmhouse between Leland and Northport. One year, snowed in for a week in Leland, we would walk “downtown” every day: Main Street, only two blocks from our house, had everything we needed--post office, bank, the Early Bird for coffee, the Merc for groceries, and the library on the other side of the bridge. Earlier still had been the Kalamazoo years. After we moved to the Leelanau Township farmhouse in 2001, winter was more challenging, but we still managed even when the power was out – once for four days. Our stove and fireplace worked on propane, and we had candles and oil lamps. “This is how old Joe and his wife lived,” he observed one of those cold, snowy evenings. Winters meant adventure at home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkREyw1czV8V0uZVNoYpA-zctqFGEaNBBZ4G9MGqmhZFx8g5i3kEAl385t8cLnh2qrTBZph8AnO_omYf2rmMULeJWj-Nylf9tDgcxv5kCq5aEL-8gDpGkAM6DN9U_cy8edeGN2NpVIyRDOthEIeZMYMI6jcZV96y3wivGnggmS-hVhyphenhyphenQYfMtJwJRAueOa1/s360/send5storm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="360" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkREyw1czV8V0uZVNoYpA-zctqFGEaNBBZ4G9MGqmhZFx8g5i3kEAl385t8cLnh2qrTBZph8AnO_omYf2rmMULeJWj-Nylf9tDgcxv5kCq5aEL-8gDpGkAM6DN9U_cy8edeGN2NpVIyRDOthEIeZMYMI6jcZV96y3wivGnggmS-hVhyphenhyphenQYfMtJwJRAueOa1/w400-h300/send5storm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But life with the Artist had always been an adventure. Short on money in Kalamazoo (“I’m tired of being poor,” my son complained, and my husband told him, “We’re not poor, we’re just broke”), we visited flea markets and thrift shops and had wonderful, far-ranging conversations over endless cups of coffee, our untethered imaginations reaching far beyond our physical surroundings. For every day of life constrained by finances, we had years of dream lives in which we created a combination tea shop and bookstore in Kalamazoo; raised shallots and rabbits in Leelanau County; lived part-time in Montreal; and furnished a pied-à-terre in Paris with finds from the Marché aux Puces de St.-Ouen. We never stayed in the cheapest U.P. or Wisconsin motel room without redesigning and refurnishing it in our combined imaginations, in case we were ever “on the lam” (don’t ask me for what!) and had to live in that one room. We “wrote” screenplays during car trips or, again, over coffee – that is, talked our way through the films as we invented them, committing nothing to paper but having a wonderful time envisioning the development of our stories on the big screen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The artist’s life is not an easy one, nor is the bookseller’s life a road to riches, but the two of us were never in it for the money. For years I carried in my purse a tiny strip of paper from a fortune cookie (opened in spring of 1987) that read, “Your path is arduous but will be amply rewarded.” A forecast fulfilled: My path has been amply rewarded. (And yes, there were also arduous times.) My love and I made a rich life together, and my life alone continues to be enriched by what he brought to it, as chance encounters reveal more and more memorable stories people share with me about conversations they remember having with David. He had a gift for making memorable moments and hours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Harlan Hubbard wrote of his life with Anna that they lived “on the fringe of society.” While Grath life cannot be compared to Hubbard life, in many ways ours also was lived on the fringes. Michigan, after all, is not either Coast. (“By the time an idea gets here from one of the Coasts, it’s worn so thin you can see right through it.” Someone I know quoted that to me. I have no idea who said it first.) My artist husband was not shy about saying that he wanted to create beautiful work. (To make art that shocked was never his aim.) I have written no books but have been faithful to this modest blog since fall of 2007. Far from the world’s power centers of art and commerce, we pursued work that felt valuable to <i>us</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Well, now comes an unexpected postscript to the Artist’s life: The French translator of Jim Harrison’s work has unearthed two screenplay treatments, written in 1977, by David Grath & Jim Harrison, and the English pages have been translated and will appear in a new “omnibus” edition of Jim’s work from an imprint of Éditions Gallimard in Paris, the tentative release date November 2024. How thrilled the Artist would be! He had such a good time writing those treatments with Jim (neither ever sold, let alone produced), and to think they will be in a book published in Paris – he would be over the moon!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">So that’s my news from Northport today. – No, one more piece of news, this one very local: <i><u>Not only on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but every Saturday in December, from 3 to 6 p.m., there will be horse-drawn wagon rides through the village</u></i>. The horses are Clydesdales, the wagon bright red and festively decorated, so December Saturdays in Northport will be wonderful days for residents and visitors alike.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And yet one more (last?) note. I’ve been writing Books in Northport since September 2007. If you enjoyed this post and have friends who might appreciate it, also, please share a link. Comments here are always welcome, too. Thank you for your support – for my blog and for my bookstore!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And Happy Thanksgiving!!!</span><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: red;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSSkgltXYGxQy8gfiamuSaK5RETe4WPktFxYRBQ_b15qYDyCFruqNJur3sqLjUcZFF0D_312YAVbteHz8S-md0O7yiahx9vxBfa5d955zcURi3M6muo6BZ2refwiHhyAOgxhI6HKrctNK9nNMtFKzUTseedEkcEDQl7JknGgCXnfeF0SFuz_LuSCYC49A/s1440/404290346_10231882155580912_2419788414450511902_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSSkgltXYGxQy8gfiamuSaK5RETe4WPktFxYRBQ_b15qYDyCFruqNJur3sqLjUcZFF0D_312YAVbteHz8S-md0O7yiahx9vxBfa5d955zcURi3M6muo6BZ2refwiHhyAOgxhI6HKrctNK9nNMtFKzUTseedEkcEDQl7JknGgCXnfeF0SFuz_LuSCYC49A/w480-h640/404290346_10231882155580912_2419788414450511902_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window on Waukazoo Street</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: red;"><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>P. J. Grathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12693462910472164289noreply@blogger.com12