Being Lonesome is Its Own Fast

Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter is a novel written by Tom Franklin about two boys who grow up in Southeastern Mississippi in the 70s and 80s.   Southerners, according to the author, are schooled to spell Mississippi by repeating,  M, I, crooked letter, crooked letter...

There is probably a metaphor in the title about how we are all crooked letters, hunched over because of the experiences we endure--even those of us who evolve relatively free of hardship.

The two main characters in this book do not grow up relatively free of hardship. Larry is the son of a distant and critical father who drinks too much and is angry at the world. Silas lives in a one room spartan cabin with a single mother holding onto a secret.  Larry is ostracized early on because he is not cool, later because of an assumption that he is responsible for the disappearance of a young girl, and currently because of the disappearance of yet another young woman.  Silas, now a constable and previously a star athlete, had been friends with Larry--one of--if not the only--friend Larry had.  He, Silas, is hauling around a secret of his own which he discovers is even more complex than he originally assumed it to be.

The book is well written and engaging.  There are some sections that resonated particularly with me. At one point when Larry considers his own history he muses that

time packs new years over the old ones but ...those old years are still in there like the earliest tightest rings centering a tree, the most hidden, enclosed in darkness and shielded from weather. But then a saw screams in and the tree topples and the circles are stricken by the sun and sap glistens and the stump is laid open for the world to see. (page 251)

Earlier in the book, Larry remembers the times he would fast for three days to support his mother who was not eating for a church related reason. Larry thinks of this after a real ne'er do well (Wallace), becomes something of a friend.  Wallace's visits remind him of the process of fasting.

[Larry] found the first skipped meals the hardest, the hunger a hollow ache. The longer he went without eating, though, the second day, the third, the pain would subside from ache to the memory of an ache and finally to only the memory of a memory. Until you ate you did not know how hungry you were, how empty you'd become. Wallace's visit had shown him that being lonesome was its own fast, that after going unnourished for so long, even the foulest bite could remind our body how much it needed to eat. (182)

Some things about the book seem strange.  It is tough to imagine Larry so relatively undamaged despite his experiences.  Silas is depicted as a kind ethical man.  It is difficult to believe that he would not have revealed what he knew even before he knew all of what he eventually discovered.

I read the author's comments after finishing and apparently some of the book is taken from episodes in his own life.  Nothing wrong with this, but occasionally the novel reads like a pastiche of events, and the plot itself unlikely to have unfolded like it did.

Still, I liked this book and recommend it. It is a whodunnit of sorts with sweet portrayals of Silas and Larry and the nature of their relationships.  Like us all, two crooked letters trying to address the injuries to their postures.

Linus

When I arrived in Florida on Wednesday night I discovered that the wifi we have maintained in the house specifically so we could access the internet when we are visiting, is out.  Go figure.

I called the cable company and after going through the exasperating, despite my experience with it, menu of options I got to speak with someone from another planet.  She was very patient and went through the entire troubleshooting options in a mellifluous but difficult to discern lilt.  Eventually, she told me that I needed a new modem. Strange, I thought, since the last time I was here, the wifi was working at orbit velocity using what she was calling an ancient device.

So yesterday I drove to the local cable outlet where a friendly attendant attended to me. He gave me a new modem and I--less than mechanically inclined--attempted to unhook my dad's old computer and wiring, and reinstall the new modem.  Predictably I was unsuccessful.  I had made a just in case appointment with a technician to visit and we will be receiving a visitor at 3.  Just fifteen minutes ago we both tried to get on and, for reasons I cannot explain, were able to.

The point is that last night after a day without connection I felt as if I was out of drugs.  There was nothing essential that I needed to get on the net, but I felt like I had to check. My phone had limited access to sites, so I was without connection.  I was to pick up my brother at midnight and, more to address my addiction and get my fix than to assure that I was prompt, I arrived at the airport an hour ahead of time and used the free airport wifi while waiting for his landing.

This morning when we went to the condominium cafe for breakfast I noticed that several octogenarians had ipads with them. While they dined they were poking their tablets in the wifi equipped breakfast spot.  We are talking a senior citizen complex here where I, alas, qualify but would be one of the younger denizens by at least a decade.  And here World War II veterans are checking their e-mail and going to their favorite sites.

It struck me just how hooked we, or at least I, am.  When I connected at the airport last night, I felt the kind of relief I feel when I have a glass of water when I am very thirsty.  Relieved.

Like Linus, we in the 21st century, need our blanket whether we really need it or not.

Brady, vu den?

I have read the executive summary of the Wells report two times now.  After the first time I felt as though it was damning. That is, I thought Brady was culpable.

I thought about it last night and then another thought came to me. What if one reads the summary with this assumption in mind: Assume that Brady did not tell the ball boys to under-inflate the  balls. Assume that Brady said--as a tyrannical manager might---"Make damn sure those balls come in at 12.5, or else."

For those who have not followed the nuances of this case, the balls can be anywhere from 12.5 to 13.5 pounds per square inch of pressure.  So let's say Brady likes the balls at 12.5.  When the attendant  brought the balls to the officials before the championship game he testified to the Wells commission, that he told the officials that Brady likes the ball at 12.5.  So this was no secret.

Now let's say that throughout the year Brady was breaking the stones of the attendants when he felt the balls were above 12.5. And he said, "Make real sure, real sure those balls are at 12.5."

If you read the report with this assumption, then there is nothing about the testimony that suggests that Brady was culpable in breaking the rules. What he wanted--fully within the rules--is to make sure the balls were at the lowest permissible level.

It would make sense then that the attendants were upset with Brady for the same reason we get upset with bosses who are tyrannical and don't care about how things get done, just that they get done. It would make sense they would quip that way and one may even call himself, "the deflator."

The one line in the testimony that still sticks out is the one where an attendant says to the other, "I'm not going to espn....yet."  That suggests illegal activity. Unless continuous harassment about the balls, in itself, was an offense worthy of scrutiny by the sports network.

"Tom Brady, it appears, harasses his ball boys making life miserable for them."  

That could be a story.  I do have some doubts about this being a reasonable explanation.

However, I have no doubt that if you think of the context as I have described it, there is not sufficient evidence in the report to suggest that Brady tried to break the rules.

I think the NFL will have hell to pay if Brady can support a claim that he never asked for anyone to break the rules, just that he insisted that the balls be at the minimum psi.

Rangers

I have written before that of the three major sports--hockey, basketball, baseball, and football--hockey is my least favorite.

However, there is nothing more exciting in all of sports than Stanley Cup hockey in overtime when your team is facing sudden death. And that was the case last night.

I root for all Boston sports teams, except in hockey. There my allegiance is to the New York Rangers. It was to a New York Ranger hockey game that my parents first took me to an indoor professional sporting event.  I had been to see the New York Giants in the Polo Grounds earlier. But it was not too long after that when, for a holiday celebration of some sort, that my folks took us to Madison Square Garden to see the Rangers defeat the Black Hawks 3-2.  A few years later, again around holiday time, we went to see the Rangers defeat the Bruins 9-3 a contest that is etched into my mind. It is so etched because the goalie for the Bruins got hit in his maskless face by a puck, was cut, and required stitches. The goalie left for the sutures while the maintenance folk scraped the ice of his blood and we waited--in the days when there was only one goaltender on a team--for his stitched up return and the game to resume.

Another reason for my hockey allegiance is that my brother is a true fan of the Rangers. I have over the last thirty years or so joined him in his season ticket seats to watch games. As readers of the epilogue of the Madness of March know, it was in these seats where I watched the most exciting sporting event of all my spectating time, when the Rangers in a 7th game defeated the New Jersey Devils 2-1 in double overtime.  That victory allowed the Rangers to advance to the finals when they won their first Stanley Cup since 1918 and last since 1994.

All that as background, last night the Rangers had their backs to the wall in the series against the Washington Capitols.  The Caps led the series 3-1, and were ahead in the game 1-0 with less than two minutes to play.  I had left my gym between the second and third periods of the game when the score was still 0-0. I was driving toward home when the game had resumed so I pulled the aging Element into a local tavern.

The Red Sox have started lamely this season and the Bruins did not even make the playoffs, so when I entered this sports bar there was not much enthusiasm for anything. Place was dead, and on only a couple of screens were the Rangers playing and I think I was the only one paying attention. The Capitols took their lead on a breakaway and nobody in the place said boo.

When it looked as if the Rangers would lose I imagined my brother in his season tickets feeling despondent sitting there last night with his son, my nephew Matt.  Then with a minute plus to go the Rangers scored.  And I, a sedate college professor by day, made a sound that startled the drinking clusters discussing their romantic activities and embellishing the prurient ones.

The third period ended and I hopped back into my car driving toward home.  About ten minutes later I found another tavern that typically airs sporting events. In I went, and the place was loud with an Irish band playing all sorts of ditties including the Boxer to which a thirty something kid nearby sang along as if he was around when the 1970 song first came out.  Again, not many were engaged in the sporting events.  By this point the Red Sox had lost, a basketball game held no particular interest for the gathered, and I was right in front of one of the two screens that had the hockey game.

They dropped the puck for the start of the overtime and I was riveted.  Again, nothing is more exciting than a game that is so fast paced and could end a season in an instant.  Back and forth with every rush potentially ending the Ranger season. Hold your breath in, let your breath out.

With about ten minutes to go in overtime, the Rangers scored and I jumped up from my leaning position against a pole in the joint.  The Irish Singer thought I was giving him a shout out as the goal coincided with the end of one of his songs. The loopy couple leaning into each other got a jolt from my shout, but I think--given how they were entwined--they were likely able to get back into the mood.

I don't even like hockey that much, but I was thrilled. I am not a crazy person, I just enjoy sport. And despite the lethargic groups in Boston because of the current failures of its teams, I can assure you that the crowd in Madison Square Garden erupted last night for no other reasons than those that reflect the power and attraction of sport.

mayweather

I've watched a good deal of basketball since the beginning of the year. Since the Ray Rice incident in the fall there have been many public service announcements aired during basketball games that have urged all viewers not to ignore or make excuses for domestic violence.

Nevertheless the hoopla surrounding the Mayweather fight has been unassailed by the same sorts that, ostensibly, are offended by domestic violence.  Mayweather is a repeat offender.  Despite all the announcements and assertions that we must not look the other way, athletes and sportscasters apparently did just that when it came to Mayweather's history of beating up women.

But let us pillory Tom Brady because a commission believes that while they have no hard evidence it is more likely than not that he condoned the deflating of footballs.  In a game that his team won by 30 points.

anniversary

Today is the 45th anniversary of the murder of four college students at Kent State University.

Make no mistake about it.  Whatever the narrative of your circle might be, the truth is that Jeff Miller, Sandy Scheuer, Allison Krause, and William Schroeder were murdered on May 4, 1970.  I have been to Kent State on a couple of occasions to read what there is to read in the special collections section of the library and to walk/examine the area of event.  These four students were murdered. Others were shot including Dean Kahler who was paralyzed for life by one of the bullets shot pell mell at a group of students many of whom were either just standing around or on their way to classes.

 I posted the blog Letters to Jeff last year about the event. For those interested the link is below

https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3402019349610325465#editor/target=post;postID=282509509436575657;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=0;src=postname

stationwagon

So, when I was in 7th or 8th grade I broke my foot.  I was playing basketball for a club team and came down awkwardly.  I had a soft cast put on it, was given a pair of crutches, and took crutch-walking lessons.

I was not eligible for the bus under normal circumstances. We lived about 3/4 of a mile from the junior high school and you had to be a mile away to get the bus.  But, I discovered, if you have a broken foot you can get a ride to school in a station wagon.

It was called the station wagon by the regulars not to identify the type of car, but to suggest that it was the carrier for those impaired.  You had temporary folks like me in the station wagon, some semi permanent kids like Nick-who had done something awful to his leg and had been riding the station wagon for over a year, and permanent riders. The permanent riders were kids who were not getting better.  I remember one girl in particular who had a congenital problem that affected her walk. She, and all her sisters, had the same ailment. She showed the station wagon riders pictures of her clan once and everyone was sitting down because an upright posture revealed the handicap.

The station wagon experience is lodged somewhere deep in my head. It was dislodged just this past week on my drive to work.  I have discovered--through the help of a friend--a new route to work that avoids some congestion. Over twenty years on this block and it takes a cup of coffee with a colleague who just moved into the neighborhood to point out what habit had blocked out.  Now, I can hit the mass turnpike at least five minutes faster when I drive during rush hour.

It's a new beat for me and so I see different things. And what I have noticed is that the little kids who walk to the elementary school from the side of the tracks on my new beat are different from the kids near my home who walk to elementary school.  As I have written previously, most of the kids from my neck of the woods are accompanied by parents or big sibs.  My new route to the mass pike takes me through streets of tougher folk.  Not many seem to have company.

So, I started to think about these kids like the way I felt when I was in the station wagon. Likely just my imagination, but I wondered if these kids felt like second class citizens when they joined up with those who had a hand to hold it.  When I was a kid--when not hauling around a foot in a cast--I never had my folks walk with me to school. But it was a different era then. I knew of some kids whose parents drove them to school, but most of my cronies walked and felt fine about it.  Now, however, I think the norm might be to have a grown up guiding the way.

When I was in the station wagon we felt--particularly the regulars--like the bottom of the social ladder. In our own minds--if not in the minds of classmates--we were the freaks.  There were the swift kids, the average kids, the losers, and then those of us who emptied out of the station wagon.  For me it was just temporary, but I thought about Nick and the girl whose name I can't recall and some others who were barely communicative when we rode to school. And I wondered if the kids on my new beat somehow felt a rung below the others--and how much that could affect their sense of direction.  Perhaps their sense of self might be enhanced as they would know they could do things on their own.  But what floated to the top of my consciousness this one day last week as I cruised in my new quicker way to white collar toil, was the sense of self the station wagon fueled and how these kids lumbering to school solo might, without knowing it, be similarly affected.