New Dog Ears Dog

We were agreed that we didn't want a puppy. We were agreed that we wanted a small dog, one no bigger than Nikki, and David really wanted a lap dog, which would have meant something smaller than Nikki's 30 pounds. So yesterday we went to the Cherryland Humane Society and left with 4-month-old Sarah, whose paws indicate (our vet will tell us better when he meets her) that she may reach 50 pounds. But she is (besides being cute) very smart, friendly, affectionate, unafraid--and, well, irresistible.

Sarah? That was her name at the shelter. It may stick (as did Nikki's), but so far I'm calling her Sarah So-Far (like Maggie-Now in Betty Smith's Brooklyn novel). My suggestions of Missy (one grandmother's dog), Pepper (the other grandmother's dog), and even Eliza Bennett (Lizzie, for short) were rejected by David, and it was David who came up with the name Barkis (from DAVID COPPERFIELD) for our long-ago dog, so I'm not arguing with him.

So far Sarah is practically the perfect puppy. She slept peacefully all night long in her crate in our bedroom and hasn't had any accidents in the house. She's taken to the bookstore like a duck to water. When I called various customers to tell them their special orders had arrived, I told them also about Sarah, and everyone is eager to come in and meet her. She loves meeting new people.

Two friends arriving now--gotta go....

Colorful Companions Along Life's Way

We haven't had fresh snow for a while, and what's left is looking pretty tired. More tired-looking still is all the bare, wet ground. There's a lot of brown in all directions. But it's possible to find color if you know where to look, and here along the creek in Northport, behind the library, the red twig dogwood and clusters of nightshade berries (aren't they") caught my eye this morning.

I'm going to make a long introduction to the book I want to focus on today, so bear with me.

The two stories that make up FRANNY AND ZOOEY, by J. D. Salinger, were published in book form in 1961. “Franny” had been published in the "New Yorker" magazine in 1955, but somehow, child that I was, I missed its appearance; not until 1966 did that magazine take hold in my life and dreams. No, like so many others of my generation and in my part of the country, I came to Salinger in high school, by way of CATCHER IN THE RYE. Oh, that small paperback novel with the plain red cover! “Are you reading that dirty book?” someone would ask with a leer. Spirited defense would follow, of course. It was a cult but much more than that, too. For me it was an introduction to life in New York, to young people who called their parents by their first names, to a whole world of unbelievable sophistication. My midwestern brain reeled. I took to calling my own mother ‘Bessie’ for as long as she let me get away with it--and that wasn’t even her name.

Do you remember Franny Glass? Do you remember the book she was carrying when she and her boyfriend, Lane, were at the restaurant, the book that was related somehow (probably not causally, but not casually, either) to her nervous breakdown? It was THE WAY OF A PILGRIM, and when a paperback copy came my way recently, I couldn’t resist it. “A classic of the spiritual life,” the cover read, but my immediate reaction was, “It’s Franny’s book! That’s the book Franny Glass was reading!”

The pilgrim’s quest is to learn how to “pray without ceasing,” and in search of this knowledge he leaves his home to wander the countryside with a knapsack of dry bread and a Bible. Early on he has the good fortune to meet a man who becomes his teacher and confessor, leading him to the second book that will guide him on his way, a book on prayer by a variety of sainted church fathers. Sometimes when he stops with people for a while, but most of the time he stays away from main roads and villages, “that I might be more by myself and read more quietly.”

I was disappointed once. That was when a little dog ran to him in the woods, and I expected the dog to accompany him from then on. Didn’t happen. Still, the little pilgrim himself is a good companion, very good in a surgical waiting room, as it is a calming story. Hardly kosher, of course. Is that what bothered Franny’s brother Zooey? I can’t remember, and now I need to re-read Salinger. Say, maybe that will make me feel 18 again!

Ice and Austen

Those are last week’s icicles. All day today, driving to Traverse City, waiting in the surgical center waiting room while David had a cataract removed, then again driving home in the late afternoon, I was conscious of the sunlight, dark clouds, revealed expanse or glimpses of blue sky, play of light and shadow. The rich last light on the shore of Grand Traverse Bay was golden, with Old Mission peninsula cloud-dappled, and the water between the two land masses rippled like a sheet of silk. As designated driver, however, I didn’t feel it was my role to leave the “patient” cooling his heels in the car while I poked around taking pictures.

To revisit and wrap up what I started in yesterday’s posting:

THE JANE AUSTEN BOOK CLUB (hereafter JABC)) is more complex than my posting of the other day implied. At various times through the book, one sees reflections of Austen’s different novels, characters and situations. Once the first of these is glimpsed, the reader (okay, you know—this reader) is on the alert for more. It’s like the game of looking at a complicated drawing and finding, besides the obvious picture, “hidden” objects, right there on the page but turned on their sides or upside-down, incorporated so craftily into the obvious as to be almost invisible. Once you begin to see what’s “hidden,” you see more and more.

The novel does have a narrative of its own. Will Sylvia’s husband ask for a divorce? Will Allegra return to her lover? And what on earth is Grigg’s story? (His, for me, was the most unexpected.) These questions, along with the game of finding Austen parallels, kept me going until the end last night.

I had only two complaints. (Decide for yourself how serious they are.) One was the number of small editing glitches (I resisted going for the pencil!), and the other was the synopses of Austen’s plots at the end of the book, which reduced the stories to farce. I did however, enjoy the book, and since I love PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, and PERSUASION unreservedly (and enjoy Austen’s other novels with a few reservations), I guess I’m recommending JABC. Those who haven’t read Austen would probably still enjoy JABC for its own characters and stories, though they’d miss all the fun of the allusions and parallels.

Mid-Thaw

Sometimes I really like these minimalist winter views. Yesterday the fog was such that the eastern horizon of Grand Traverse Bay vanished from sight entirely. After morning fog and afternoon deluge, we have another day of rain in today's foreast, turning (back) to snow tonight. Warm temperatures and non-icy road surfaces have made life temporarily easier in some respects, which is good, since it’s been more difficult in other ways.

Question here: why is it that mechanics have to provide a written estimate before doing anything to your car but doctors can recommend—even order--tests for you with no idea what you’ll have to pay for them? I have to suppose that the idea (rationalization?) is that what you need in terms of health care shouldn't be a matter of cost--but of course it is, for most of us, one way or another. Looked at the other way around, what your car needs is often a matter of safety as well as cost. So isn't it important in both cases, both to get what you need and to know what it's going to cost?

Okay, enough of that. Rather than bog down in complaints, let me turn to books--exactly what I did last night. Call it self-medication. Prescription: books and bed rest.

As a Jane-ite (is that what one says?) of decades, I’ll admit I was surprised last year (having picked it up not expecting a lot) to enjoy very much Paula Marantz Cohen’s JANE AUSTEN IN SCARSDALE, a modern reworking of PERSUASION, one of my favorite Austen novels (and coincidentally, the one I believe was most faithfully translated to the screen in recent years). Cohen has a nice, light touch, making her modern version of the plot neither slavishly imitative nor relentlessly determined to be as wild as our modern times can be. I look forward now to reading her JANE AUSTEN IN BOCA (which preceded SCARSDALE and was a best-seller), and just my wanting to read it tells you how much I enjoyed SCARSDALE.

Yesterday, however, I decided to go out on a different limb, to stop (finally) rolling my eyes and give THE JANE AUSTEN BOOK CLUB, by Karen Joy Fowler, a try. Fowler’s book, unlike those of Cohen (and so many recent films), is not, it turns out, a retelling of one of Austen’s novels but exactly what the title suggests: the characters are a group of people (six women of varying ages and one man) getting together to discuss Jane Austen’s novels, one book per meeting and, reasonably, one meeting per chapter of the novel holding all the stories. Each meeting is hosted by one of the book club members, and the narrative moves back and forth between the meeting itself, with members’ comments and disagreements on the book under discussion, and the life, past and present, of the member hosting the meeting.

It was a brilliant prescription, if I do say so myself. The novel kept me reading until sleep claimed my weary brain. I’ll have more to say about it in the future, but I can say now that the story was pleasant, intriguing, relaxing and rewarding and that no sleeping pill could give anywhere near as much pleasure.

Guest Review #2: THE LAND THAT SUNRISE WASHES

Roger Landrum, of Washington, DC, writes this review of a Leelanau County original:

“Over the holidays I read Kenneth Wylie’s new collection of poems—twice--and I’ve been musing about why I feel so captivated by these beguiling poems. The collection is titled THE LAND THAT SUNRISE WASHES and comprises 70 poems, opening with ‘Pre-dawn breeze’ and closing with ‘Buzzing Garden.’ Common stuff, uncommonly observed.

“All of these poems are tethered to a very specific place: rural northern Michigan, mostly the author’s back yard, home, the passing seasons; his memories and his reflections about everything from Emily Dickinson to a blue jay egg. These keen observations of place and the sensibility infusing them are edgy (like Robert Frost in this one way), anything but sentimental or cheerful. They are poems of solitude, of being alone without being lonely. It is the natural world that is acutely present in this poetry, with its sensory impressions and human meditations evoked by it.

“Wylie’s style, unlike so much of today’s ‘professional’ poetry, is not at all obscurely formal or academic, but the poems teem with ungovernable things—wild birds, coyotes at night, weather, dreams, loss, irony. More like Jim Harrison than Frost in this respect, but more civilized.

“Wylie is fond of Japanese poetic forms—Haiku, Tanka and Kanshi—with their vivid images of Nature and familiar rituals accompanied by sudden plunges into recollection, allusion, metaphor, and philosophical abstraction. He has a skillful easiness with these forms that makes for accessible but evocative reading. We all inhabit many levels of awareness and perception beyond the ordinary conventions of our social lives. We are all filled with innermost reflections upon the various realities of our lives. I like this quality in Wylie’s poems very much. With it, he may have achieved something universal, exactly what we cherish in good music, visual arts, and literature.

“I suspect one can revisit these poems often and that, as with a morning breeze or buzzing garden, they will lose none of their freshness. Exquisite little black-and-white photos by Jocelyn Trepke accompany the text.”

- Roger Landrum, 1/2008

Roger Landrum, a photographer, grew up in Michigan and now lives in Washington D.C. His Michigan photographs can be viewed at www.darshanphotos.com.

Kenneth Wylie and his dog, Leo, are residents of Leelanau Township in Leelanau County. THE LAND THAT SUNRISE WASHES, $12.95, is available at Dog Ears Books in Northport and at Horizon Books in Traverse City.

January Thaw

This weekend, it’s New York in Leelanau! Singer Gillian Bell, home visiting her parents for the holidays, gives her annual recital tonight. The program, this year entitled “Defining Moments,” begins at 7:30 at the Suttons Bay Congregational Church at the corner of Lincoln and Madison Streets in Suttons Bay. You don’t need a ticket; donations will be accepted following the performance. If you’re anywhere in the area, don’t miss this event—it comes but once a year!

Take time, also, to read the Written Nerd’s latest blog posting (link at right, bottom of list), and take her advice and mine to check out Arts and Letters Daily (top of alphabetical list at right), where you may be tempted to wander delightedly for far too long....

Rain is in the forecast, along with temperatures you'd expect with rain. Don't worry, skiers: we'll get back to snow before you know it. Of course, the tribe of readers, snug indoors, doesn't mind the weather, whatever it is.

Briefly (About Toys)

While I'm flush with the success of solving (thanks, Walt!) a linkage problem from two days ago, I'll try immediately to put in a link today. This one comes from one of Diane's blogs, not the one listed at right but one I don't have in my list. It's for anyone with young children or grandchildren who's looking for good, wholesome, fun toys.

Here in Northport, Sally Coohon of Dolls and More has arts and crafts supplies, dolls and toys for all ages. The elegant teddy bears in the basket were made by Sally from a customer's vintage full-length fur coat. Go to the Chamber site at right to find Dolls and More and other Northport businesses.

More on Why I Love Books

Today I heard a very sad story. A little girl had received one of those stuffed animals that kids “play with” by registering them online on the Internet, after which their toy can “interact” with those of their friends. If I understand the concept correctly, kids then play on computer screens with representations of their toys (which are, as David points out, already representations of real animals, taking abstraction pretty far out, one would think). What happened in this particular case was that the mother had endless trouble registering the toy online, blocked at various levels after putting in information. Well, not “endless,” because eventually, after trying two or three computers and two or three web browsers, she finally achieved the goal, but before it was reached, she said her daughter was standing next to her, quite forlorn, holding her stuffed animal and waiting and waiting until she could “play” with it.

This is where I can’t help thinking how it was “back in my day,” when we just sat down on the floor (or on our beds) with our friends and our stuffed animals. We played with the toys directly. Same with games. When we wanted to play a game, we got out the box and took out the board and game pieces, and we were in business. To play baseball or hide-and-seek, we ran around outdoors.

Reading was simple, too, back in my Dark Age childhood. We didn’t have to download texts or go screen-blind or didn’t worry about power sources or program glitches. We just opened a book and dove into the story! In bed, on the bus, under the living room desk, up in the apple tree—the book could go anywhere. Dinosaur that I am, I still read that way most of the time. Human-readable text! What a fabulous concept! It’s so darned easy (not to mention cozy, a top criterion in our household)!

Okay, sorry! Can’t blog any more tonight. Gotta curl up with a book! CUTTINGS FROM A ROCK GARDEN calls!

Around and About

After a magnificently bright sunrise against clear blue sky, sunshine has appeared and disappeared today. Bruce is at the counter today--when he needs to be; when things are quiet, he’s in one of the red leather reading chairs—so I’ve been able to get out for a couple of walks in the frigid January air. These girls outside the library with their prize icicles were having a good time.

I had a good time in the early afternoon, reading Aristotle down at the Treasure Chest over a hot chocolate. Explaining how it is that he can say a man becomes just by performing just actions (answering the objection, How could he perform just actions if he weren’t already just?), Aristotle wraps up by saying observing that “most people, instead of acting, take refuge in theorizing; they imagine that they are philosophers and that philosophy will make them virtuous; in fact, they behave like people who listen attentively to their doctors but never do anything that their doctors tell them. But a healthy state of the soul will no more be produced by this kind of philosophizing than a healthy state of the body by this kind of medical treatment.”

Talk is cheap, Aristotle is saying. And even the philosophers can’t get away with talk alone. It is because life demands action that ethics (for all its theory) is the practical branch of philosophy.

Big book news today is the Literate U.S. Cities list, with Minneapolis at the top. I was glad to see that Cincinnati made the top 10 bookstore cities. Chicago was on neither list, which is sad.

First Day

I’ve been hearing people say that January 2007 was unusually warm, but I couldn’t remember. This picture from my archives, however, shows bare earth in the foreground of a January sunrise, evidence for the claim.

The new year for me is starting with myriad pedestrian tasks, so for today’s literary musings I refer you all to an essay by Valerie Trueblood, whose novel SEVEN LOVES was reviewed in this blog not long ago. She spells out the distinctions between novel and short story with more eloquence than I can muster today or ever.

This is my 90th posting.