century 21

I am perched at an outdoor table on the patio of Au Bon Pan in Harvard Square.  I sit here and see what must be as diverse a population as there is on this planet.  Right in front of the patio is a gray haired fellow with a guitar who must be collecting social security. He is crooning Dylan's, Just Like a Woman hoping that some of the pedestrians will drop a shekel or two in a basket that sits in front of him. Directly across from both me and him is Harvard Yard.  It is an absolutely gorgeous day in Cambridge.  Not too hot, sun shining, and everyone has come out.  It is nothing short of a miracle that I found a parking spot a very short walk from where I sit here and write.  More miraculous is that  because of what our ancestors would have found unbelievable I am, without any chord or wire, connected to the world as I type on something we know as an ipad.  When I am done, I will push a button and anyone in China, Portugal, Russia, Scotland, and anywhere else, if they were so inclined, could read what I am writing.

Promenading in front of me in both directions, at this instant, is an amalgam of humanity that could not be believed unless you were sitting here. A guy in a bowtie and straw hat just walked by looking for all the world as if he wants to be a stand-in for Dan Akroyd at some point. Another fellow in white shirt and black pants is looking at his hand-held as if trying to locate where the bar mitzvah is where he is supposed to be bussing dishes.  A crew of ice cream eating folks are talking and dribbling  onto their napkins. To my left is a guy who has decided it is high time to post an enormous sign that reads, "Vivisection: Wasted Money and Wasted Lives."  To my right, at this very instant is someone I know  to be a street person. He has found himself a couple of bagels which he is snorting as he gets out of the sun with his stroller which, sadly, has what I imagine are his entire belongings strung to the rolling device.  A group of protestors have just walked by chanting "Impeach Park" holding signs with the same message.  A tiny kid is doing jumping jacks in front of the singer.  A wise five year hold is dancing to the tunes.

Century 21 it is.  A device no heavier than a couple of pounds allows me to type while I watch this stream of humanity, a stream so heterogeneous in terms of age, race, and I imagine wealth and interests that this would be an antropologist's dream seat.  The chess players to my right, the yard in front of me,  the unicyclist in the pit outside the newstand.  I left my home in Waltham twenty five minutes ago and have seen more people since I have begun this entry than I do in an entire month walk up and down my street.

The protestors are back. Still want to impeach Park. A white bearded man who looks like old Bible books used to picture as God is knocking back some water.  It's worth it to come to Boston, just once, to get a look with your own peepers on this delightfully wild scene.

Book Review: Man in the Woods

So, let's say you killed someone.  And you did not mean to.

And let's say you are a good person and the person you killed was not. And what prompted the action that resulted in the killing was that the victim was doing something incontrovertibly reprehensible.

And let's say that you are involved with someone who is as kind and loving to you as you are to your lover.  And let's say because of nothing other than hard work and a good heart your partner has come into some big money.

And finally let's say you are likely never to get caught for killing the bad guy.

Are you out of the woods or in the woods?

This is an excellent book.  Very well written.  The characters--even the peripheral ones--are multidimensional and the subplots well developed.  The story is suspenseful and engaging on the plot level--that is--"what will they do" "will they give themselves up." "will they get caught."  Beyond the story line there are messages aplenty.  Are you ever out of the woods if you have, even inadvertently, killed someone?  Is God on your side (there is a well done, religious theme that is part of the novel) if you have killed someone who had it coming?  Is there anything more predictable than how seemingly insignificant events can have dramatic effects?  Is anything, anything at all, insignificant?

Had the day-off yesterday and was on a long plane ride the day before, so I read the book in a concentrated period of time.  It is going to hang around a while.  Powerful ending. I never heard of the author but I know now--thanks to Google--that he has written books that are supposedly better than this one and I look forward to reading them.

Worked at a camp once where my co-counselor was in charge of the pioneering program.  He was a character--cartoonish actually.  He was forever telling the campers, "In da woods dere aint no luxuries"
We would kid him and the refrain became a standard joke.  "In da woods dere aint no luxuries."  Not a joke here. Despite an abundance of apparent pluses--wonderful spouse, beautiful home, plenty of money--there are not going to be any luxuries for those with a conscience when we have done something so wrong and are, ineluctably, in the woods.

Highly recommended.

bagels and tuna fish

I am down in south florida visiting with my dad.  Yesterday we were invited to a camp friend's home for brunch.  Wally, Andy, Brownie, me and Dad.  All former campers and counselors.

We had bagels and lox, tuna fish, egg salad, and conversation.

The food was fine, but it was the conversation that was the most nourishing.  My father had been the head counselor at the camp and we relative younguns talked about where was this one and that.

Sunny day, Brownie's beautiful home, and talk.

The spirit is such a powerful variable.  What we do, or feel we can do, on a given day is often less a function of our intelligence and more dependent on our spirit that can fuel our industry, or not.  It was so good to see these folks and chat with them. The nostalgia was great, but more than that it was the affection that was floating above the bagel tray and ruggeleh that we picked at with our coffee.

Take the brunch away and yesterday could have been a depressing afternoon for all five of us involved. Maybe not. But maybe so. Brownie invites us to brunch andwe are all buoyed.

Remarkable. When we think of what is essential for life we often think of the right foods and exercise.  But if you don't acknowledge the importance of contact and healthy relationships you miss the boat.  Even for a family of eaters, and we are, what we will remember from the day are not the delicious sandwiches we made, but the company we shared.

Book Review: Await Your Reply

Unusual book.

Are  we who we purport to be?  This book is, on the surface, about identity theft.  It is presented as three discrete stories which are presented alternatively 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1...  For the first 150 pages at least you wonder how they relate.

It was not a page turner in the beginning. I found myself looking forward to Lucy's tale, for example, and not excited when it was Miles's.    Some of the novel is far fetched, though perhaps not as far fetched to those who are knowledgeable about identity theft and computers.   Also, while impressed by the plot as it unfolds, I found some of the story amateurish and some subplots were unresolved.

My take-away is the message that seems to pervade the book.  Who we are may not be who we purport to be and, the same can be said of those we think we know.  That is, who they claim to be, may not be who they are.  That message is powerful enough for me to recommend the book, but only for those who find this idea worth investigating.  It would not be the book I suggest you read when you are reluctand to explore  just who your spouse turned out to be or if you are not even so sure who you yourself have become.

I am very curious to know what happens to Lucy.  Maybe that's going to be the sequel.

Book Review- Father of the Rain

This is the best book I have read in some time.  Beautifully written and engaging story by Lily King.

It's about a father-daughter relationship written from the perspective of the daughter.  My childhood and relationship with my folks is not of their world.  They were"privileged" in the sense that the word has been used in that they were wealthy and, apparently, despite some expensive habits never were concerned for money.  Also they were boozers---boozing to that extreme or even much at all was not something I observed in my household or in those of my neighbors.

So, it could have been difficult to relate to the novel.  Father of the Rain might have seemed trite or whiny in the hands of a less skilled writer. That was not the case here at all. The book was just terrific--the sort you shlep wherever you are going in case you have a few minutes.  Some of the characters,  I think, were superfluous and once near the end I saw a reference to one and had to go back and try to remember who he was and why he was even mentioned in the scene.  Couldn't find a mention of him and, significantly, it did not seem to matter. But these are minor complaints.  Lily King captures moments so vividly that on occasion I would have to put the book down just to appreciate how she had, just right, managed to describe what a character would have done in a similar situation.  Her depictions of the father were remarkable and I feel as if I can see him right here, right now.  This is not typically one of my strong suits as a reader.  I often don't see characters physically in the way they are described.  In this book I can see him, I can imagine his mannerisms, and predict what he might say--and marvel when she has written what I imagine to be the precise things he would do and say in a given situation.

Not a terribly uplifting book so if you need a laugher, I'd put this book aside for now. But I would pick it up later.  The kind of read that makes you glad that reading is a hobby.

powerless

Strange day.  Woke up to rain. Then bright sunshine. Then rain. Then a thunderstorm.
Then beautiful skies and sun. And now, serious cats and dogs.

The lights flickered and went out about two hours ago and moments later came back on.  Then, twenty minutes down the road, they went out again.  Go figure this out.

This morning I was having breakfast with my friend Ken and, not for the first time, we spoke about all that we did not know.  He suggested a book called Heaven is for Real. I’d never heard of it, but it sounds interesting even if, to my cynical head, tough to swallow. He explained that a doctor was essentially dead for a seven day period and then miraculously came to life. The doctor asserts that while dead he was able to transcend what we humans can comprehend and claims that there is another reality, a greater one, which explains phenomena that we don’t even have the intelligence to ask about.

Well, maybe.  Go figure, 300 years ago, electricity.  Television 100 years ago.  Computers.  There is no way anyone could imagine 2013 if they lived in 1013.  So, by extrapolation, what can we possibly know about what life could be like a thousand years from now.  If it were not for weathermen telling me this morning that today would be a strange day, how could I have made sense of the alternating sun, clouds, and now pelting rainstorm.

I think the next frontier is love.  I mentioned this to Ken this morning and probably we have discussed this before.  How do you explain the sensation of romantic or maternal love?  You’re a kid and your sixth grade girlfriend breaks up with you. Why does it hurt? There is actual pain.  I remember when my mother’s friend lost her only son when he was only 18. She said to my mother that she did not know how she or anyone could endure this pain.  Not pain in your head. Pain, pain. It hurts. Who can explain the actual feeling you have when you meet someone who touches your heart?

In years ahead, the learned among the living, will consider us primitive—as we are—because we could not get why.  Today we are powerless to understand the power and pain of love, but we can feel it.

The power came back on a while ago.  Must have reconnected some wires.  Reading a book now about a woman who tries very hard to win the love of her father.  And when a small connection is made she feels elated.  Go figure.

trading tomorrows for a single yesterday

Traffic was not bad this morning coming in.  Typically if I leave at 8 I am cooked.  Today, while the drive was not smooth like it would be at 2 a.m., it did not feel like rush hour either.  Got on the Mass Pike without too much congestion, exited easily at the Prudential, and came up Huntington ready for my daily turn onto Parker.

There at Huntington and Parker something was doing. The light there is interminable anyway--it's as if some sick traffic officer set up the timer to infuriate anyone heading thataway. But today I could not even see the light as it was blocked by a truck or two and several autos were waiting to make the turn.  Highly unusual for such a long line of cars to be there waiting to make this turn.  That was the bad news. The good news was that I was listening to one of my favorite late 60s crooners--Gordon Lightfoot--and had multiple opportunities to hear his rendition of Me and Bobby McGee while I waited for the wagon train to move to the light.

I put the song on repeat, and paid attention to the lyrics in the detailed way I rarely do.  A line from the song engaged me in a way that it had not before.  "I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday, holding Bobby's body next to mine."

I purged the hyperbole and began to consider the idea of trading any tomorrows for a single yesterday. Would you? Should we?

I can think of some very special yesterdays.  They were special not in the way that sometimes ordinary events take on an idyllic utopian hue because we photoshop the recollection in hindsight. They were special--even if we did not realize just how special at the time.  Would I trade tomorrows, even a single tomorrow, for such a yesterday.

It's tempting. Today is a Wednesday.  I've got nothing special planned for tomorrow, Thursday.  Should I, if I could, trade it in for a day when I was, as the song goes "holding [someone special's] body close to mine?" We can all remember such days.  

Not sure. Certainly would not trade in all my tomorrows.  But even any tomorrow has the potential to be a special day.  Those who have lost family members or lovers, and who over 25 hasn't, know how much we can long for a single yesterday--but trade in tomorrows?  The more healthy wish is to duplicate an especially singular yesterday or to do what we can in an attempt to repeat them. Can't do much about death--can't repeat an event with someone who is gone.  But we, the living, I think would be wise to keep our tomorrows and cultivate the turf so that our future may include replicas of our most cherished yesterdays.