During these dog days of August, what are you reading? Summer to me always feels a bit lighter in terms of what I'd like to read, not Danielle Steel light, just lighter than Proust. This summer my big read (or should I say listen, as I've "read" it by listening to a recorded version of the book) so far is The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I didn't like it at first but at a certain point it dawned on me that this was a wonderfully conceived, constructed and written story, a consummate work of literature, a To Kill a Mockingbird for our time (even though the book is set in the early '60s and references Harper Lee's masterpiece, John Kennedy's and Medgar Evers' assassinations. Not being from the south and never having had "help" of any kind growing up (as an adult I've had occasional hired cleaning and pet sitting help), the situations were fairly foreign to me, but being a human, I know a thing or two about prejudice, hatred and stupidity, and I'm sure I've had my moments of being a less than evolved person myself. Unlike Mockingbird, there is no saintly Atticus Finch to lead Skeeter, the narrator of The Help, out of her own specific upbringing and to enlightenment; she has to get there on her own, and she does, gradually and beautifully. The African-American women who reluctantly agree to share their stories of working for white families with Skeeter are so strongly drawn and vivid, that I felt as if I knew Minnie and the others personally, as if I shared their sorrows and scant joys. And as a writer, I always tear up when there's a scene involving a recalcitrant publisher finally accepting a book for publication. In the movie, Julia and Julie, I bawl every time Julia gets that package in the mail, her published Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And I've seen that movie about a dozen times.
Speaking of bawling, To Kill a Mockingbird just happens to be on television as I write this, and I'm avoiding the courtroom scene, which is wrenching and always ends up with me bursting into tears (or my WASP version of such) when the "colored" folks in the gallery tell Scout and Jem to stand up, "Your father is passing." And is there a more glorious movie soundtrack than Elmer Bernstein's for that film? If there is, I've yet to hear it.
Anyway, running late as usual and need to get back to see the Halloween scene, which I adore. Hoping I won't cry too much. August is a teary month: my late father's birthday, my grandparents' birthdays, a month when I lost too many people I loved. I have to remind myself that it's also my oldest grandson's birthday on August 26, and how lucky I am to have had people to love and be loved by. Not everyone is that fortunate. For some, life is a bitter journey that doesn't end well. If we've been blessed with good friends and family, it behooves (yes, I wrote behooves, and I use it in my everyday speech) us to honor them by spreading happiness whenever we can. And so for the authors who have created so many memorable books that have enriched my life, I will buck up during the "dog days" of summer - remembering the constellation Sirius shines brighter this time of year.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Saturday, August 11, 2012
On the horns of many dilemmas
Here's what I'm wondering: why can't I watch cooking shows (especially Julia, Jacques or Lydia) without an uncontrollable urge to whip up some dish, which I can watch exercise shows with total immunity, lolling about while watching others sweat, stretch, groan and tone. Well, no matter, the damage is done, and while I'm nursing top-of-foot tendonitis, which requires frequent elevation and icing, I'm prone to watching the Julia Child 100th anniversary marathon more than anything else. Only good thing about tendonitis, it keeps me from jumping up and creating a quick English custard. I tell myself Julia ate butter, sugar, animal fat and smoked, still living to a ripe old age and seemingly enjoying every minute. Life is short, eat chocolate, frequently. Michael Pollen and his ilk are righteous and no doubt healthier than I, but are they happier than Julia? I think not!
Here's what else I'm wondering: why would one go to a 45th H.S. reunion, even if one loved one's H.S. years and had many good friends (of which, I'm happy to say, a few are still dear friends), enjoyed school, yadda, yadda...why go? I've gone to two reunions before and each time emerged with a case of over-socialization resulting in at least two days of troubled sleep. Not to mention the stress of trying to lose 20 pounds before the reunion date, which for me usually means gaining five. And what about dress, nails and hair? It's just too much, I tell you! If I were a real extrovert instead of the painfully shy child who learned relatively late in life how to fake being sociable, perhaps reunions, weddings, large parties, etc. wouldn't be so debilitating. It's not that I don't want to see everyone (well, almost everyone). I do, but preferably one-on-one, which with the 400-ish graduates of Paramus High School Class of '67, would take me several lifetimes to schedule and fulfill.
I know, you're going to say, Facebook is the solution. Well, I do, and some of my former classmates are my FB "friends", which is lovely, but a mere drop in the proverbial bucket. And really, what is the purpose of seeing classmates after a 45-year hiatus except to either congratulate oneself at being a) alive and relatively healthy (check), b) thinner than you were in H.S. (that ship has sailed for me long ago) or c) to showcase your brilliant career (again, ship has sailed). Ah, I think I've hit on a valid, if dishonorable, reason to go. My darling hubby is also the good sport of the world (and he owes me, as I've schlepped to at least two of his H.S. reunions and other such affairs in which he is canonized as the basketball and music hero he was in H.S., and I am regarded as an appendage of dubious provenance, having grown up in leafy Bergen County while he and his minions braved the rough streets of Paterson and rigors of Catholic schools. I can sort of see their point.). I hadn't even met him at the time of the last reunion, when I was a business owner and divorced woman with no children, hardly a poster child for "most likely to succeed". But am I really that cowardly? (Yes.) Can't I go alone? (No.) Can't I simply say, No thank you and get on with my life? (Maybe, but these things tend to haunt me, whichever decision I make.) Well, what would you do?
Here's what else I'm wondering: why would one go to a 45th H.S. reunion, even if one loved one's H.S. years and had many good friends (of which, I'm happy to say, a few are still dear friends), enjoyed school, yadda, yadda...why go? I've gone to two reunions before and each time emerged with a case of over-socialization resulting in at least two days of troubled sleep. Not to mention the stress of trying to lose 20 pounds before the reunion date, which for me usually means gaining five. And what about dress, nails and hair? It's just too much, I tell you! If I were a real extrovert instead of the painfully shy child who learned relatively late in life how to fake being sociable, perhaps reunions, weddings, large parties, etc. wouldn't be so debilitating. It's not that I don't want to see everyone (well, almost everyone). I do, but preferably one-on-one, which with the 400-ish graduates of Paramus High School Class of '67, would take me several lifetimes to schedule and fulfill.
I know, you're going to say, Facebook is the solution. Well, I do, and some of my former classmates are my FB "friends", which is lovely, but a mere drop in the proverbial bucket. And really, what is the purpose of seeing classmates after a 45-year hiatus except to either congratulate oneself at being a) alive and relatively healthy (check), b) thinner than you were in H.S. (that ship has sailed for me long ago) or c) to showcase your brilliant career (again, ship has sailed). Ah, I think I've hit on a valid, if dishonorable, reason to go. My darling hubby is also the good sport of the world (and he owes me, as I've schlepped to at least two of his H.S. reunions and other such affairs in which he is canonized as the basketball and music hero he was in H.S., and I am regarded as an appendage of dubious provenance, having grown up in leafy Bergen County while he and his minions braved the rough streets of Paterson and rigors of Catholic schools. I can sort of see their point.). I hadn't even met him at the time of the last reunion, when I was a business owner and divorced woman with no children, hardly a poster child for "most likely to succeed". But am I really that cowardly? (Yes.) Can't I go alone? (No.) Can't I simply say, No thank you and get on with my life? (Maybe, but these things tend to haunt me, whichever decision I make.) Well, what would you do?
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