E.B. White: a good noticer

From mid-September to early November, E.B. White’s collected letters lived on my bedside table. At nearly 700 pages, it’s too heavy to carry on the subway and hold in one hand, so I kept it at home, dipping into it morning and evening.

After reading a fascinating biography of White and then his essays last fall, I found his letters at the Brattle (complete with newspaper clippings from 1977 featuring an interview with White and a New Yorker tribute to his wife, Katharine, after her death). Intimidated by the collection’s size, I let it sit on my shelf for a year.

(Image from amsaw.org)

Once I finally picked it up, I found myself charmed again by White’s keen eye, dry humor and gift for understatement. His life may have been quiet, but it was peopled with fascinating characters, including Katharine; Harold Ross, longtime editor of The New Yorker; fellow writers; his family members; and Ursula Nordstrom, the longtime children’s editor at Harper’s, whose letters I also read and loved.

As I read White’s letters, chuckling at his witty observations (and frequently reading the choicest bits aloud to J), I kept thinking of a scene from The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle. Polynesia, the Doctor’s wise parrot, is talking to the narrator, Tommy Stubbins, a boy who will become the Doctor’s new assistant. She dismisses his worries about never having been to school, but when he wonders if he could learn animal language, she asks him a vital question:

Are you a good noticer? Do you notice things well?

White often doubted his own skill as a writer, even as he wrote weekly essays and shorter pieces for The New Yorker, and worked on his three books for children. He never quite understood all the fuss people made over him and his work. He harbored a deep love for New York, where he was born and raised, even writing a gorgeous, elegiac essay about it. But as he grew older, he spent more and more time on his farm in Brooklin, Maine, raising chickens and pigs and various other animals, followed around by his dogs.

White was, at times, a poet, a social critic, a quixotic dreamer, a children’s novelist, a newspaperman, a humorist, an amateur cartoonist and an essayist. But at all times, in all places, he was a good noticer. His precise observations of daily life, his keen insights into human nature, all hinged on his powers of observation. His noticing, and the care he took in writing down his noticing, are what makes his letters so much fun to read.

Do you enjoy reading collections of letters? (I love them.) And are you a good noticer?

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Harry Potter and the Periodic Rereads

Although I am an Anglophile, a bibliophile and a fan of young adult literature, I spent several years as a Harry Potter skeptic. I first heard about the books when a family friend, a school superintendent, read the early ones and praised them. But I wasn’t sure I’d really like them – wizards? Spells? Some kind of game played on brooms? Sounded a bit too fantastical for me.

During my first semester in Oxford, several friends were thrilled to tour Christ Church because its dining hall serves as the Great Hall in the Harry Potter films. Privately, I scoffed at their excitement. Didn’t they love this elegant, historic building for its own sake? (Yes, I know. I couldn’t stand me, either.)

Finally, Valerie convinced me to give Philosopher’s Stone a chance. “Just try it,” she begged, pushing it across her coffee table on a hot August afternoon. “If you hate it, I swear I’ll leave you alone. But if you love it, come back and you can borrow the rest of the series.”

Two days later I was back on her doorstep, holding out the book I’d just finished and begging to borrow the next one. I finished Prisoner of Azkaban the following week, sitting at Val’s kitchen table, and as soon as I read the last page, I leaped up and pounded down the hall to her bedroom, to squeal and exclaim and discuss. I had enjoyed the first two books, but the last 80 or so pages of the third one break the plot wide open, forcing readers to reexamine many things they thought they knew. Suddenly, this story was  bigger and deeper – and darker – than I could previously have imagined. (Val, bless her, never so much as said “I told you so.”)

Recently, I spent a couple of weeks immersed in what I think is my sixth reread of the series. And I love it more than ever.

It’s fascinating to reread a series from the beginning after I know the end (though it was fun to wait with bated breath for the sixth and seventh books, with millions of other fans). I can glimpse Rowling’s grand design from the first pages of Philosopher’s Stone, and I know to look for the signs and hints she weaves into the buildup of Harry’s story. I notice the repetition of certain symbols, key phrases, even verbs. These books are full of action, and the verbs “seized,” “bellowed,” “roared,” “dashed,” get quite a workout.

I love tracing the familiar, twisting path from number four, Privet Drive, to Hogwarts and back again, learning about the wizarding world alongside a wide-eyed Harry, taking in the delights of Diagon Alley and meeting the Hogwarts students, staff and ghosts. I love the flashes of humor that pop up regularly (often in the form of Fred and George, whom I adore). From Zonko’s to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to various clever spells, it’s obvious Rowling had so much fun creating this magical world. And Dumbledore had it right: the heart of the series, the great secret that gives the story its power, is love.

Harry has grown up mostly ignored by the Dursleys, but his mother’s love and protection thrums through his veins in his very blood. Somehow, his years with his relatives haven’t erased his compassion: he is kind, loyal and honorable, although he has a temper and a stubborn independent streak (he is no angel, but rather endearingly human). His parents’ love saved his life, and his love for his friends saves more than one life throughout the series, as the stakes rise higher and higher, and more people are forced to risk their necks for those they care about.

I love the Order of the Phoenix, how these wizards from varying backgrounds band together to fight against Lord Voldemort, though for all they know, it might be a losing battle. I love how the Weasleys take Harry in as another son, how the members of the DA stand up for him and for each other, how Ron and Hermione stay with him until the very end. I love how the story keeps growing in depth and scope, until it becomes truly epic, a battle for the very future of the world we all hold dear.

Every once in a while, I get a hankering to return to Hogwarts, to spend a week or two in this world filled with magic (of various kinds). The best rereading combines the comfort of familiarity with new moments of insight each time, and Harry’s story provides both, in ample measure.

Do you reread favorite books or series? Have you read the Harry Potter books?

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Folding My Way Home

Image from the Flickr Commons

Home is where you do your laundry.

I have yet to see this phrase on any of those distressed wooden boards painted with cheery slogans, so ubiquitous in shabby-chic home décor shops. In my homeland of Texas, the signs often say “Home is where you hang your hat,” adorned with a cowboy hat (or boots). I love the variation I saw on a pillow last year: “sweet home sweet,” a four-year-old’s variation on “home sweet home.” And for the last few years, my husband and I have quoted the line from folk band Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes: “Home is wherever I’m with you.” We often feel like foreigners in our suburb south of Boston, but we have chosen, and keep choosing, to make a home together, wherever we are.

There are no signs on my walls about laundry, or washing dishes, or my other daily and weekly chores. But after nearly a decade of washing and spinning and hanging clothes to dry, in half a dozen houses on both sides of the Atlantic, I’ve come to believe that laundry is a quiet but essential part of the way I make a home.

I’m back at the the Art House America blog today, musing about laundry and how it helps ground me. Head over there to read more.

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29 things before I turn 30, update #1

Every year I make a list of things to do before my next birthday, from the fun to the profound. Items completed are crossed off; items begun are starred.*

1. Go back to Europe. Specifically, Oxford (where I used to live).
2. Read or donate at least half the books I own that I’ve not yet read.* (I’ve donated at least a dozen and read about 15.)
3. Go back to the Glen Workshop.* (Signed up and making plans.)
4. Visit my loved ones in Abilene.* (Making plans.)
5. Finish a draft of that memoir I keep talking about.
6. Pay off my student loans.* (Chipping away at ‘em.)
7. Go apple picking for the third time. (It was glorious.)
8. Visit a place I’ve never been. (Newport, RI)
9. Read 10 new-to-me classics of any genre.* So far: O Pioneers, You Come Too (poetry by Robert Frost), Emma, The Hound of the Baskervilles
10. Participate in my first cooking challenge with fellow Shelf Awareness reviewers. (Read all about it!)
11. Visit New York in the fall. It makes me want to buy school supplies… (A weekend full of wonder.)
12. Cuddle that sweet nephew of mine a lot.
13. Conquer the snooze button.
14. Knit a few beautiful things.*
15. Go to the dentist.
16. Visit Canada (we’re only a few hours away).
17. Reach out to two friends every week.* (I’ve made a good beginning.)
18. Reread the Mother-Daughter Book Club series. See my post about these lovely books.
19. Take a vacation with friends.
20. Try 2 or more new recipes a month. *So far: a new ravioli recipe, Peruvian roasted chicken, butternut squash quesadillas, black bean-jalapeno soup, cranberry-walnut cake, roasted honey-glazed carrots, mustard-garlic chicken…
21. Develop a steady, focused routine for my workdays: less frantic multitasking.
22. Reimagine our cluttered guest room.
23. Invest in sturdy, chic black flats.
24. Eat at the food truck on the Common. Love their breakfast granola, apple cider and rosemary fries.
25. Get a pedicure. (I hardly ever do this.)
26. Invite friends over at least once a month.*
27. Write half a dozen more essays, a la my recent Art House America piece.* (Working on it. Look for another one soon.)
28. Order myself a new “brave” necklace. (See above.)
29. Savor the last year of my twenties.*

What lists are you working on lately?

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On reaching 1,000 posts

The leaves on the Common are flaming out in color, shedding the thick, lush green of late summer for the panoply of fall. A few weeks ago, the spindly maples lining the brick path between the bandstand and the tennis court began flaunting their red leaves, and I thought, “These maples always turn first.” Autumn winds have now stripped off half their leaves, but vibrant shades of scarlet and orange remain. This, too, happens every year.

I have lived here long enough to know a few things: which trees on the Common bud first in early spring, when the Swan Boats come out for the season and when they disappear. I know the stretch where the wind sweeps most fiercely down the east side of the Common. I can tell by the sky if the outdoor carts at the Brattle will be open, or if the booksellers will hedge their bets and cover the carts, but open the shelves. I have a favorite stand at the farmer’s market. I am a small part of the bustling routine of this particular city, these few square blocks, this everyday.

And yet: I have not yet learned to hide my surprise when a grove of green trees turns orange overnight. New obstacles on familiar streets (construction, always construction) catch me off guard. There are still fresh delights to discover, like the food truck near the Park Street station, with its rosemary french fries, mulled cider and friendly staff. And sometimes I board a crowded subway train and snag a seat for the ride home. After a long day, a square of faux leather and plastic to perch on feels like grace.

I have been here long enough to know this blogging neighborhood, too. Eight years and hundreds of posts – today marks my 1,000th – is sufficient time to get to know any terrain. I have my favorite haunts, my well-traveled paths online. Some bloggers and readers are constant companions, others intermittent visitors. I know the landscape and can predict some of the seasonal changes. I have a practice, a process, a routine.

I began writing in this space as a college student in Oxford, posting commentary on The Lord of the Rings as part of a guided study conducted with a professor back in Texas. I quit posting when I came home, but started blogging a year later with a group of friends on a private site. At the urging of another friend, I switched back to this public blog, to muse about travel, books, college life and the looming uncertainty of my future.

I never expected to reach 1000 posts, as I typed in the crowded computer lab on Canterbury Road in 2004. The online world continues to surprise me: how huge and unknown it still is, how fast it can grow, how much potential it holds for connection. There is plenty of rubbish too, like the litter and grit along Boston’s streets: the Internet can be a venue for bickering, bullying, snark or simply too much shouting. Sometimes I retreat from it for a day or a weekend or longer. But I always come back. And this online corner of my own, a place to connect with readers and share my life, feels like grace.

Our digital world is changing so rapidly that I can’t predict where I’ll be writing in another eight years or 1,000 posts. But for now, I plan to keep coming back here, sharing books and travelogues and bits of my life story with you. The element of connection makes this space rich and sacred, and for that – and for all of you – I am so grateful.

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Scarcity, abundance and journals

I have a friend who hates to use anything up.

She hangs onto remnants of certain items for years: sheets of scrapbooking stickers, favorite bottles of lotion or body wash, scented candles. When I helped her move a few years ago, my other girlfriends and I nearly had to stage an intervention to convince her to throw away some of that 90-percent-used stuff. It wasn’t that she’d never used it: rather, she enjoyed it so much she was terrified of running out. She perceives a kind of scarcity in the world, at least of these small, often limited-edition luxuries.

I don’t hang onto odds and ends with quite the same tenacity. But I do sometimes freak out if I perceive a scarcity of something I use frequently, which is not easily replaceable. Most recently, it involved journals.

Toward the end of August, I had nearly filled up the Compendium journal I’d found at the Booksmith and realized I needed to begin nosing around for a new one. When I did, I had trouble finding just the right one, which I define as medium weight, lined paper, softcover (the hardback ones are bulky), about 6″x8″ (those pocket ones are cute, but they don’t last me long), with a charming-but-not-twee cover. (My arbitrary list of qualities, of course, created the perceived scarcity in the first place.)

Coming up empty, I signed onto the Compendium website and ordered five journals, reasoning that I would thus be stocked for several months, and I would save on shipping if I ordered them together. (Compendium did not sponsor this post. They don’t know about me, or how panicked I can get when I think I might be running out of journal space.)

Although I still had a bit of room in my current journal, I then panicked that the new stack might not arrive before I took off for Texas to attend my high school reunion. So I did the only sensible thing: I went to Paper Source one more time, and scored a three-pack of lined notebooks from Rifle Paper Co.

Of course, the journals from Compendium arrived right before I left town. I had eight journals to choose from.

Ridiculous, no? I laughed at myself, and then reminded myself to be grateful that I even have this problem. A stack of eight gorgeous journals is a true embarrassment of riches. (I am, fittingly, embarrassed to be telling you this story.)

I have since filled up one of the Rifle Paper Co. notebooks and am happily scribbling away in one of the Compendium journals (sprinkled with travel-related quotes). The stack of spare journals waits in my desk drawer, a comforting promise of abundance, and also a reminder not to take myself quite so seriously.

What about you? Do you use things up or hang onto them? Do you panic when you’re running out of (or about to be running out of) something you love? And do you tend to see the world as a place of abundance or scarcity? I’m especially curious about this last one.

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October books, part 3

The Complete Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi
Satrapi’s graphic memoir tells the story of her childhood in Iran, her adolescence during the Islamic Revolution, her teenage years in Vienna and her return home (a decidedly mixed experience). She conveys a whole world through her bold black-and-white drawings: cultural norms, relationships, irony, grief, the repressive Islamic government. Thought-provoking, often heartbreaking and a great lesson (even for us non-graphic writers) in using telling details.

A Fistful of Collars, Spencer Quinn
Chet and Bernie, PI team, take on an unusual gig: security for a high-profile movie star shooting a western in the Valley. Of course, there’s more to the situation than first meets the eye, and our heroes are soon on the trail of a complex situation involving drugs, blackmail and several murders. Bernie’s also dealing with a long-distance relationship, and narrator Chet (as always) has his own canine needs and perspective. A great addition to this fun series.

Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre, Miss Read
I love the cast of village characters in Miss Read’s Fairacre tales, and enjoyed this book focused on Mrs. Pringle, the dour school cleaner, and Miss Read’s relationship with her (sparring, but grudgingly affectionate) over the years. Mrs. Pringle will never be warm and fuzzy, but she’s a good soul and a hard worker, and Miss Read’s portrait of her is witty and amusing.

Changes at Fairacre, Miss Read
During a couple of sick days last week, Fairacre was the only place I wanted to go. Amid worries of her school’s closing (again) and the last illness of a dear friend, Miss Read contemplates her own future, eventually moving to a new house in the next village. This book had some melancholy spots, but was still full of the good cheer and kindness of life in Fairacre. I’ve grown particularly fond of Bob Willet, gardener and general handyman, and Miss Read’s bossy, good-hearted friend Amy.

Judging a Book by Its Lover, Lauren Leto
A snarky, erudite, mostly funny guide to today’s book culture, including advice on “Stereotyping People by Favorite Author” and “How to Write Like Any Author.” These wisecracks are amusing, but I prefer Leto’s more sincere moments of book love. She’s a true bookworm (though she argues convincingly for changing the book lover’s mascot to a “bookcat”). I confess I skimmed the “How to Fake It” section, which runs 80 pages (nearly a third of the book). Fun for book geeks. (I received a copy from the publisher, but was not compensated for this review.)

Farewell to Fairacre, Miss Read
Though not quite ready to retire, Miss Read finds herself plagued by health problems, prompting her to consider ending her long teaching career. She savors her final year of teaching, relishing the small details (as always) and enjoying the antics of her pupils. I always feel refreshed after a few hours in Fairacre, in Miss Read’s witty company. This book provided yet another installment of her friend Amy’s matchmaking efforts and Miss Read’s insistence on remaining a satisfied spinster. So fun.

Princess Elizabeth’s Spy, Susan Elia MacNeal
Feisty Maggie Hope, English-born and American-raised, goes undercover at Windsor Castle tutoring the Princess Elizabeth in maths (she’s really an MI-5 agent investigating a murder). A kidnapping plot, a Christmas pantomime, a new romance and several suspicious characters figure in this fun, fast-paced mystery (the sequel to Mr. Churchill’s Secretary). The writing, plot and characters were all much stronger in this book than its predecessor, and I’m looking forward to the third book, His Majesty’s Hope (out next spring).

All-of-a-Kind Family, Sydney Taylor
I read this book as a child, but picked up a copy at the Tenement Museum in New York recently, and reread it in one sitting. A series of charming vignettes about a Jewish family with five daughters, living on the Lower East Side at the turn of the last century. They visit the library, go to Coney Island, observe the Sabbath and the major Jewish holidays, and celebrate the Fourth of July. Such a fun, sweet, innocent story, and the first in a series. (Jessica recently reread this one too.)

What are you reading lately?

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How to Be Strong

Recently, the lovely and wise Jen Lee wrote about her prescription for strength, sharing a few details of her self-care routine and noting broader principles for tending to your own strength. That post came in the middle of a grey week, where I was feeling stretched thin, trying to do too much and growing frustrated when I ended up tired and frazzled.

I circle back to this theme of self-care every so often, devising recharge programs and lifesavers for myself, musing on the importance of taking care and moving toward balance when life goes off-kilter. My lists tend to include a mix of little treats (new books, chai lattes, hours with favorite movies or good friends) and old-fashioned nourishment (steaming bowls of soup, fresh fruit, hot showers, getting extra sleep). And as arsenals of mood-boosters and sanity restoratives, they play a vital role.

But I like Jen’s idea of operating from a place of strength, of knowing what you need for your physical and emotional health and then making that a consistent practice, even if taking care of yourself feels effortful, or complicated. We all know instinctively what we need to feel well and whole, but we don’t always think about it, or consciously put it into practice. This isn’t self-indulgence (though a little of that is called for every now and again). This is necessary care, especially since most of us are the primary caretakers of our own bodies and souls.

The practices that nourish me and shore me up include the following:

1. Come prepared. Check the weather forecast; bring an extra book; pack snacks (or an umbrella or a cardigan – whatever will likely be needed); keep teabags handy. I feel so much less frazzled when I take time to prepare, even just for the day.

2. Wear good shoes. Living, working and walking in a city, I notice a difference when I wear quality shoes that support my feet.

3. Make time for tea. This ritual warms, comforts and relaxes me; clears my head and prepares me to deal with the world; and yes, provides much-needed caffeine on many mornings.

4. Get enough sleep. I am a night owl by nature, and I hold a 9-to-5 job with a commute. This one is tough, but I am making an effort.

5. Spend time in community. Not just the virtual kind (though I love it and am grateful for it), but the real, face-to-face kind.

6. Make time to journal regularly. When I am edgy or off-kilter, J will ask, “Have you been writing?” The answer is usually no, and it means I need to get back to the page, even if it’s just to rant for 10 minutes. I learn this lesson over and over.

7. Cook nourishing meals, and accept the necessity of takeout sometimes. These are different sides of the same coin. But they are both ways of paying attention to my body and accepting the realities of my schedule. J and I cook dinner together and eat at the table whenever possible, which grounds and relaxes us – but we also know the value of a meal out when needed.

8. Surround myself with good words. Books, blogs, a handful of my favorite magazines: wise, thoughtful, witty and engaging words are the air I breathe.

9. Get outside. Even when it’s freezing, fresh air blows the fog out of my soul – especially in the middle of the workday.

How do you nourish yourself and keep your reserves filled? I’d love to hear your prescription for strength.

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Books to begin October

Secrets of Shakespeare’s Grave, Deron R. Hicks
Colophon Letterford, age 12, overhears a conversation about a mysterious family treasure, and sets off to find it and (she hopes) save her family’s publishing business. With her eccentric cousin Julian, she visits the church where Shakespeare is buried, trying to tease out the Bard’s connection to her ancestors. This is Hicks’ first novel and the writing is a little clunky, but the (enjoyably bookish) plot has potential and I’m curious to see where he takes this middle-grade series.

A Letter of Mary, Laurie R. King
Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell team up again, trying to find out who killed a friend of theirs, just after she left an old and possibly valuable piece of papyrus in their keeping. The writing and plotting in this series are brilliant, and this book explores the potential for flare-ups in the church over newly discovered documents. (More relevant than King could have known, writing in the mid-90s.) It also includes a gorgeous paean to Oxford.

The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are called to Devonshire to investigate the death of a baronet, ostensibly caused by the sight of a huge, demonic hound and a family curse. This was my first genuine Conan Doyle and it was great fun: well plotted, darkly evocative, wryly witty. I’ll be reading more of the originals as I continue spending time with Holmes and Russell.

I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourns in the Land of Memory, Patricia Hampl
This book of essays was a mixed bag. Some of them (including the title one) contain lovely, lucid images and musings on writing memoir. I was also fascinated by Hampl’s experience reviewing a “definitive edition” of Anne Frank’s diary, and the essay on how Augustine invented autobiography. But some of the other essays were rather dull and tangential. Still worth reading.

The Moor, Laurie R. King
Holmes and Russell return to the terrain of Baskervilles (see above) to investigate strange happenings on the moor. The action ratchets up slowly; King carefully builds up the gray, moody setting (and Mary’s reaction to it). The death of a wandering moor man, plus sightings of a carriage allegedly made of bones and (of course) a supposedly demonic hound form an interesting case for the pair. Not my favorite in the series, but still evocative and fascinating.

Sapphire Blue, Kerstin Gier
I loved this sequel to Ruby Red, following the further adventures (and feuds) of a secret circle of 12 time travelers in London. Gwyneth Shepherd, a modern-day teenager who just discovered she carries the time-traveling gene, is still trying to figure out how to manage her new life (and a handsome, moody time-traveling boy). Gier piles on the details concerning time travel and the Circle, which can be a bit confusing, but the plot is intriguing and Gwen’s voice is fresh and fun. I also enjoyed the talking gargoyle ghost and a few bits of clever wordplay. (I received an ARC of this book from the publisher, but I was not compensated for this review.)

What are you reading lately?

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Poetry for better living

Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.

—Christian Wiman

I have been craving poetry lately, reading an entire volume of Robert Frost and a luminous chapbook by Gregory Orr, and returning to the words of Marie Howe and W.S. Merwin almost daily. The world can be a grim place, whether I’m battling the mundane frustrations of crowded commutes and grey rainy days and maddening to-do lists that seem to multiply overnight, or worrying over the larger issues of pain and hunger and need that plague so many people, in so many different ways.

As a bookworm, I am tempted to hide behind books when life is either colorless or painful, and sometimes escaping into a sweeping story or a beloved tale (or even a witty volume of letters) is just the ticket. But ultimately, hiding from my life and the world is neither productive nor satisfying. And poetry, with its brief, searching lines that often break me wide open, provides a way for me to pay more attention to both my life and the world around me. And when I start to pay more attention, to lean into the moments and middles and mundanities, I often find hope and beauty there. I often find sorrow and frustration, too, but poetry helps me realize that grief and ennui do not have the last word.

Do you read poetry – for this reason or for others? What helps you inhabit your life more fully? And what are the poems, or other words, you return to over and over?

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