Interpreter of Maladies and Other Books

Day 110: Interpreter of Maladies, a Suitable Boy and Other Books Not About India

After what feels like an eternity sitting in the sun in a non-air-conditioned car driving back from Gros Cap (how peaceful it is there!), I only have enough energy to pick out a few books for the giveaway pile. Two about India, one about China, one about ancient Britain, E.L. Doctorow's fictionalized biography of two brothers/hoarders, a fantasy novel (come on Jasper Fforde, you can do better!) and a mystery novel (about the U.P. where I've just been). 

Also I found five books to move to the "future reads" shelf. "A year of..." memoir of the ilk that has inspired me to do this year of getting rid of one thing a day (about meat!), a Susan Sontag book (haven't you always wanted to read her and never quite gotten around to it?), another one about India (is there a theme here?), one about Niagara Falls and one with a really cool retro cover (and Herman Wouk wrote one of the stories!).

Last week I unearthed popsicle makers from the cupboard and elected to make popsicles instead of giving them away. A trend?

Scarves

Day 109: Scarves

If I could take a sabbatical every seven years, I could keep working until the day I die. Unfortunately, the price for that is obtaining a PhD, followed by a tenure track faculty position. My theory is that it's hard to emerge with a tenured position and your community-mindedness intact, owing to the relentless individualism required first to get the PhD and then to get tenure. Which is why it is practically impossible (or perhaps just very rare) for tenured faculty to be good managers. What is a good manager except a person who uplifts and empowers staff? And what relentless individualist devotes effort and study to bringing out the best in others?

It takes courage to allow your direct reports to do better than you would. Perhaps even more courage to allow them to do not quite as well. 

Hidden away as I am at the Arb & Gardens, these realities are removed. I'm fortunate enough to have a former Eagle Scout and pillar of the community as a boss. That's part of the reason why there hasn't been a necktie or a pair of nylons sighted at my workplace in several years. The other reason, of course, is that so many of the staff here spend their days digging in the dirt, firing up power tools, setting fires, climbing trees, and pulling weeds. The rest of us labor in un-air-conditioned offices (I send staff home when indoor temps exceed ninety degrees), where neckties and nylons are unbearable. 

All this means that the very large scarf wardrobe I collected to dress up my management consulting and finance manager attire is getting pretty dusty. It was easy to pull out a handful that I haven't worn in over a year. 

Meanwhile, my four day sabbatical in the UP is drawing to a close. If only it were four months, I'd be ready for anything. 

Boots and Knee Guards

Day 108: Boots and Knee Guards

My mother is still taking care of me, although I am fifty and she is 74. These boots are proof. This January, the rubber disintegrated, fully and irrevocably, on my 15-year-old Columbia ultra-warm ultra-comfortable snow boots. It was the winter of 2014, the Snowpacolypse, the coldest, snowiest, nastiest, no-boots-left-on-the-shelf worst winter of all time. 

"Take these," my mom said. "I haven't worn them in three years. Really. " So I did. Sadly, they were extremely uncomfortable, binding across the tops of my very high arches. But the intention was there. 

Right beside my mother's old snow boots out in the garage were these old knee pads, which came with the Bell helmet we got for Emma Jane's little head and knees 13 years ago, when we were teaching her to ride a bike and just getting into the swing of what it feels like to be fully responsible for the mental and physical health and well-being of another human being (or two). One that you love absolutely. 

Fully responsible. 

So here we are, up north at my parents' UP getaway while that other human being is staying all by herself for the very first time, with no one but a couple of chickens for company. As my brother says, "College is coming, you know? She can manage."

Will I still feel fully responsible thirty plus years from now, when she is fifty? Perhaps. Can she manage? I believe so. Otherwise, I wouldn't have left her. 

Chaise Longue

Day 107: Chaise Longue

Life is about compromise. So, rather than giving away this old-fashioned armless rocking chair, which no one sits in nor ever has, we are moving it to the front porch and giving away the wicker chaise longue, whose cushion the squirrels have begun to disembowel to steal the cotton for their nests. I hate the chaise longue even more than I hate the rocking chair, because it is uncomfortable for your neck and, even more important, some undergraduate slept off a drunken stupor on it a couple years ago, which makes me fear that it's an invitation to every homeless person and partier in the neighborhood, located as it is on the front porch in plain view. We just need to find another spot for the hidden key. 

The antique armless rocking chair is theoretically perfect for sitting in to play the guitar, although it can't be used for that purpose stored beneath the studio stairwell as it is. So it's destined for the front porch, and the chaise longue is destined for the Goodwill.  

Speaking of compromise and playing music, we've been doing a lot of both this weekend in the U.P. Rich has been playing the guitar and I have been playing the mandolin, he beautifully and I with supreme mediocrity. Compromise plays into it: I'm playing the melodies at double my comfortable speed, and Rich has been teaching me chords and strum patterns, if not exactly with patience, then at least with good humor. And yesterday, when we caught me weeping with frustration over changing a string, he kissed me on the cheek, took  the kinks out and coached me through. We're going to perfect Whiskey Before Breakast  and Soldier's Joy before the weekend is out. 

No phone, no texting, no internet. Just music (I'm getting better!), good food, the sound of the surf and midnight sunsets. Except for worrying about Emma Jane (is she okay by herself in the house?), I am having a terrific time.

Sam's School Work

Day 106: Sam's School Work

My COC village. Peaceful, innit?

Sam is out of the house for two weeks visiting his grandma in Florida. I'm trying to stay in touch with him by playing his favorite game, Clash of Clans. I am a member of his clan. I never actually go to battle except when Sam starts a clan war and it's my duty to take one for the team. Even though my warriors are really just binary code, I hate that they all get killed every time I go to battle. I'm totally incompetent as a warrior; the only time "I" win is when Sam is physically sitting next to me to coach me through it; sometimes he has to take the helm (ie, grab my iPad and finish playing for me). However, as in life, Clash of Clans awards the Chief who waits patiently for the gold mines and elixir drills to accumulate wealth, then spends wisely on infrastructure. I'm ranked third in our clan.

I took Sam's absence as an opportunity to clean out his cubby, which is really just square in our living room IKEA bookshelf. The cubby was filled with reams of notes, handouts, tests, study guides, used spiral notebooks, drafts of essays, Spanish language vocabulary sheets, English language vocabulary sheets, and science lab results. Our 50-gallon recycling bin is over half full with a single year's worth of school work. 

Here it is, empty binders and new
spiral notebooks all ready for next year

I personally remember very little of what I learned in high school, so I doubt whether this weight of busy work has actually added much to Sam's store of knowledge. There are over a million words in the English language, with a new word being invented every couple hours. The average high school educated English-speaking person knows about 45,000 words (60,000 including proper nouns). So what's the point of learning 15 words a week for an English vocab test? 

I suspect that the real point of a high school education - maybe even a college education - is to prove that a person can follow instructions and meet deadlines. Neither of my kids certainly seems to be learning much critical thinking and teamwork at school.

I did find some valuable things in the cubby: a Spanish textbook and a novel from his English class, both property of the Ann Arbor Public School system. If he does not return these books before June of 2016, he will not be permitted to graduate. I've therefore put them in a prominent place, with a note telling him to return the books the minute he gets back from Florida.

Little Bo Peep's Cane

Day 105: Little Bo Peep's Cane
Can I be an old codger, now that I'm fifty? When I was a kid, our approach to Halloween costumes was completely different. I remember putting significant thought and creativity into the stuff we had at home, and how it could be transformed into a costume. A couple of costumes I particularly remember: a snowman out of a white terrycloth robe with pillows tied around my body, lumps of charcoal for buttons and an actual carrot tied around my nose. A cereal box out of a giant cardboard box, carefully papier mache'ed and painted to replicate Rice Krispies exactly, except larger and with holes for my head, legs and arms. My friend Shelly Tuer went as Frosted Flakes.

Little Bo Peep probably actually
had a shepherd's crook. I hate to
imagine Emma, a shepherd's crook
and Joe and Sam all together in the
same room at that age.

When the kids were really little, my mom made awesome themed costumes each year for all the grandkids. One year, it was Little Bo Peep. There are advantages to being the oldest grandchild: Emma was Little Bo Peep, Joe and Sam were sheep. Then there was the Wizard of Oz. Emma was Dorothy. Little Red Riding Hood - guess who Emma was? The only vestige of the costumes I have is Little Bo Peep's cane.

My own children focus on buying the right thing rather than making the right thing. I tried to resist. I tried to get their creative juices flowing. I tried to suggest fabrics and objects that might turn into something exciting and original. One year, it worked. Emma and I crafted a giant Pepsi can using a two-foot diameter metal ring that used to hold our dog food pail shut, plus a lot of blue, red and white felt and Elmer's glue. She even won an award.

But in general, most of their Halloween costuming has involved Fantasy Attic or eBay. And in truth, everybody else's costumes are store bought. Forcing them to wear handmade costumes is like sending children of the 1950's to school with homemade bread: embarrassing.

I can only hope that after fifty more years, homemade costumes will be cool again. Just like home baking.

Tablecloths

Day 104: Tablecloths

I don't know why I have stacks of tablecloths. I have not used a tablecloth in at least ten years. They are not pretty. They don't match my dishes. They don't fit the table. Why do I keep them?

Just in case.

Reminds me of bedsheets somehow.