Say What You Want About Newt, But I Think That When It Comes to Supporters, He Has the Edge!

Came across this interesting video from Newt's recent campaign stops in Illinois.  I think the lady they interviewed at 50 seconds in has the right stuff.  "Newt speaks for me," she says.  If Newt is in it to win it, he might want to hire her to speak for him!

View more videos at: http://nbcchicago.com.

Nice job, Sis!

Back to the Grind (I Like SBC's House Blend on Medium; How About You?)

It was a nice week-and-a-half.  Such craziness as our whirlwind of a February was surely made our break even more welcome than usual.  We're on year-round "school" in these parts: 3 weeks on; 1 week off.  But, because we left town for Sadie's birthday, we extended the three weeks into three and a half, and took a longer break.  Homeschooling is great for traveling flexibility.

Highlights of the trip?  Mine were: The Warner Bros. Studio tour; visiting Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa; eating lunch at the Blue Bayou at Disneyland (you know -- the restaurant that overlooks the Pirates of the Caribbean ride).  I'm sure Jason and Sadie have their own.

Here's a funny story from the trip:  We went to church on Sunday, March 4 at Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa, which is the "mothership" of the church we attend here in Kent, WA.  It's a rather famous church, having grown out of a ministry founded by Pastor Chuck Smith in the 1970's (I think) as an outreach to all the hippies bumming around So. Cal. at the time.  That's why our church is a jeans and rock-n-roll type place.  We all grew out of the groovy Jesus Movement.  Of course, nowadays CCCM is a highly respectable looking congregation, and I only saw a couple ushers who looked as if they had not completely disavowed their hairy pasts.  And it's HUGE!  Like Jason said afterward, "It really makes you yearn for and appreciate our much smaller, homier Calvary Chapel South."  Indeed.  We dropped Sadie off in one of their several third grade classes while we went to service in the sanctuary.  When we came back, this is what we learned:

First of all, Sadie participated in the Bible story time and knew all about David's sparing of Saul while he "did his business" in that cave.  Secondly, she got 100% on her Bible quiz and a little jar of Play-doh as a prize.  Lastly, the teacher had said that when they were done with their quizzes, the students could color a Bible scene on a handout or draw whatever they wanted on the back.  So, Sadie drew Venus on a half shell on the back of her coloring page.  Naked, grinning Venus in all her glory.*  In church.  Nice.  Do you think I am taking the Classical aspects of her education too far? 

Anyway, back to the labors of Momcules today.  I'm pretty excited because we're starting something new -- a mother/daughter book club.  So far, it's just us two.  But, maybe we'll encourage some more moms and girls to join us.  Our first book is Louisa May Alcott's Little Women.  I have never read this book -- I kid you not.  I think I tried way back in my halcyon days; but, if I recall correctly, the fact that the March girls called their mother "Marmee" completely turned me off.  But, I'm willing to give it another go.  Sadie is, of course, unenthusiastic.  But, she always is when there's something new a-comin'.  We call her Inertia Girl.

Happy Monday to all!  I'm off to the kitchen for another cup of joe!

*It was quite a charming drawing, by the way.  I think Botticelli himself would have smiled affectionately at her youthful effort.

Book Notes: March 4-10

I really, really, really love the way that Ross King writes about art and architecture.  I had to keep reminding myself of this, as I struggled through the dense technical descriptions that explained in greater detail than I ever would imagine needing the arduous, grand, nigh miraculous construction of the dome atop the cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence.  What makes Mr. King's books so special (my favorite of his, so far, is The Judgment of Paris: The Revolutionary Decade That Gave the World Impressionism -- a simply fabulous read -- everything a book of that sort ought to be) is that he marries human interest aspects of the artists to a meticulous understanding of the art they create, which produces the fruit of appreciation in the reader that is both new-found and profound.

The biggest difficulty in writing about Renaissance genius, Filippo Brunelleschi, is that, apart from the inherent trials of the monumental task he undertook and his amazing feats of invention and ingenuity, there is not much else there.  Does that make sense?  I mean, Brunelleschi set out to design and construct a dome for the unfinished cathedral; he did just that.  All in all, he met with few of the derisive and dismissive skeptics and establishments that tend to separate the radically creative artist from the fulfillment of his vision.  Sure, Mr. King does an admirable job in trying to drum up some tension for Brunelleschi in the form of rivals like Lorenzo Ghiberti or Giovanni da Prato; but, these fellows never were able to stand much in Filippo's way.  Nope, he just designed the dome, designed machines to assist in the building of the dome, and supervised it until its completion -- which happened before he died, even.  The book, without notes, is only 167 pages, and it is easy to understand why.  While Mr. King's extensive explanations of physics and geometry leave the architecturally unschooled reader in mouth-gaping awe, ultimately the subject does not afford the same heart-pounding excitement of his other books.

But, I just noticed, while looking up the titles of his other books, that Mr. King has some new books out or coming soon that I have yet to read, so -- yippee!  I look forward to getting my hands on Defiant Spirits and Leonardo and the Last Supper.

Books for the Road . . . er, the Air

How hard it is to go on a trip when all I want to do is pet my pony, futz around with my garden, target some wicked-awesome spring cleaning projects, and play guitar!  I don't even have any books I'm terribly excited about for the trip.  Here's what I'm bringing:

Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak:  I do not know why I keep returning to attempts at these Russian doorstops, but there it is.  I always just feel that I ought to have read them, so I keep trying, trying, trying.  This particular translation is supposed to be the bomb-diggety, but I find it awkward and annoying to read (which may actually make it as close as possible to the original Russian -- a language whose inflections and intonations I find grating to the ear and taxing to the soul).  People in Russian novels always seem so heavy -- not physically, but spiritually.  I just think it's a culture beyond my ken.  But, Boris gets to go to Anaheim in my attempt to get more than 60 pages into the thing.

Brunelleschi's Dome by Ross King: I bought this book a couple years ago, after having read and been enchanted by Mr. King's The Judgment of Paris and Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling. I wonder if I thumbed through it back then and thought, "Way too much about this dome; not enough about the people and doings of 15th century Florence."  Because, that's what I'm thinking now in reading it.  I can understand that the dome was a marvel of architectural design; but, I just cannot get all that interested in its construction.  Nonetheless, it is coming with my to Cali, just so I can cross it off my list.

The Magician's Book by Laura Miller:  The subtitle on this one is A Skeptic's Adventures in Narnia.  The inside flap reads thus: As a child, Laura Miller read and reread The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe and its sequels countless times, and wanted nothing more than to find her own way to Narnia.  In her skeptical teens, another book's casual reference to the Chronicles' Christian themes left her feeling betrayed and alienated from the stories she had come to know and trust.  I found this interesting, because when I read the Chronicles as a child who was not from a believing household or background, they really freaked me out.  It was as though I knew something important and life-altering was being stated in the books, but I had no way to internalize and process it, so I was scared to death of the Chronicles all throughout childhood (especially The Last Battle) -- even while loving them. This might be a pretty good read, though I find the semi-hysterical tone of the phrase "betrayed and alienated" in the cover flap a bit silly.  But, suppose I had read and loved the His Dark Materials trilogy as a Christian child and then later found out that Philip Pullman was a big atheist who actively tried to subvert authors of faith like C.S. Lewis in his work.  Might I not feel betrayed as well?  So, it comes down south, too, and I'll use it as my reward for slogging through the Russian tome.

Well, you are all welcome to feel sorry for me as I once again am torn from hearth and home to participate in this perpetual wanderlust that fills the souls my husband and daughter.  And if you don't, never fear: I feel sorry enough for myself to fill volumes of lamentations. 

Sadie's Second History Report

Every three months, I have Sadie write a short history paper about something or someone she wants to learn more about from the era we are studying in our curriculum.  For her November paper, we had just finished the colonial origins of America and the Revolutionary War.  She chose to write a paper on the inventions of Benjamin Franklin.

Since then, we have covered the people and events of the Civil War.  She has had to read Chasing Lincoln's Killer by James L. Swanson (author of the superb Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer; the book Sadie read is the younger reader's version of same).  She has memorized The Gettysburg Address.  And she had to write a paper.  She chose to write about Robert E. Lee's horse, Traveller.  Here is her paper:

Traveller: Robert E. Lee’s Famous Horse

By Sadie

Traveller was Robert E. Lee’s horse during the Civil War. He was a American Saddle Bred, a beautiful iron grey color. He was 16 hands high. He was named Traveller because he always wanted to go, go, go. General Lee spelled his horse’s name with two ‘l’s’ because that is the way the British spell it.

Robert E. Lee rode Traveller almost all the war. General Lee did have other horses, but Traveller was his favorite and is the one best remembered. He must have been a very brave and even-tempered horse to have survived all those battles.

After the war, Traveller went with Lee to Washington College, and the boys there plucked his tail for souvenirs of the famous steed. Robert E. Lee died on Wednesday, October 12, 1870. Traveller was used in the funeral procession. Lee’s beloved horse outlived him for a while. In 1871, Traveller stepped on a nail and developed tetanus. Since there was no cure for this, they shot him to relieve him of his misery. Traveller was initially buried behind the main building of the college. But, his bones were unearthed by people unknown and were bleached and put on exhibition in Rochester, New York in 1875 or 1876.

Sources: Wikipedia's Traveller page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traveller_(horse)
              Civil War Home's Traveller page: http://www.civilwarhome.com/leeshorses.htm
              Stratford Hall's Website: http://www.stratfordhall.org/learn/lees/leehorses.php
(I know, I hate that it is all from on-line resources, too.  Normally, I would have her check out books from the library; but, a search of our library's catalog revealed no non-fiction accounts of Traveller, and we ran out of time to look for Traveller information tucked into other biographies of Robert E. Lee.  Sadie did a good job of synthesizing the information she found on the Internet, I think.  Of course, I am entirely unbiased.)

Book Notes: February 19-25

Jason rarely asks me how I am enjoying the book I am currently reading.  Unfortunately for him, this does not stop me from telling him.  Often.

So, I kept sighing and grumbling throughout reading Marjorie Garber's The Use and Abuse of Literature.  When those frustrated noises did not elicit a query from Jason, I flat out groused.  "Aargh!"

"What?  What is it?" he looked up, startled, from his Kindle screen.

"This book!  It's driving me nuts!  I just don't get where the author's going with this."

"Well, why don't you read something else?"

But, I can be terribly noble and stubborn about completing insignificant things, so I shook my head.  "Nah.  I'm going to finish it.  But, I can't help wondering whether it's poorly written and constructed, or whether I'm just too dense to get it."

"Well, I'm sure that's not the case.  If there is a book whose point you cannot fathom, I would say it is definitely because it was not written well.  You thrive on tricky texts and idea-rich content."

That's one of the reasons I married this man, folks.  Like Mr. Darcy, he loves me not only for my fine eyes and impertinence, but for the liveliness of my mind.  Not that I was fishing for intellectual reassurance there.  OK, maybe a little.  But, I was feeling vulnerable, because this book was so strange.

Prof. Garber begins her work with the alarming news from a 2002 Census survey that reported that only 45% of respondents had read some fiction in their leisure time (she does not include information about upon what sort of span of time respondents were reflecting -- one year?  one season?  a decade?  a lifetime?), 12% had read some poetry, 4% had read a play.  Ooh goody!  I thought as I checked the book out of the library.  A diatribe against non-reading America and a call to immerse as a nation again in the world of books!  But no.  Not really.

She uses the survey results to launch her theme about the "use and abuse" of literature.  First of all, why in the survey would Agatha Christie's books be considered literature and Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire not be?  I can get on board with that.  Many works of non-fiction clearly deserve the laudatory designation of literature, and, just as clearly, many works of fiction do not (unlike Prof. Garber, I have no compunction at all in dismissing works based upon my own or putative consideration of their quality.  I have no need to be democratic in my distinctions).

So, then she goes on into the changing meaning over time of the words "literary" and "literature."  Fair enough.  Then, on to the money lines: "But what is the use of literature?"  "Why read literature?"  "Why study literature?"  Ought we to devote time (always a spare resource) to literature because it is inherently worthy, or because it makes us to be better, richer, more complete in some way?  Is it enough simply to appreciate the artistry without (to use a quote I love) "dissecting the butterfly's wing?"  These are the questions that must confront at some point the aware reader.  So, I looked forward to the rest of the book.

And, in parts, it was quite good.  Unfortunately, those parts were separated by a meandering sort of verbosity that it was almost like an Easter egg hunt to pull the colored treasures from amidst the weeds.  Chapter the second, "Use and Abuse," was a chore and dived far deeper into the battle between literary critics and non-critics who wrote about literature than I wished to go.  And so it went on.  Important and new things to consider mixed in with sigh-and-grumble-inducing sidebars.  The tone was an odd mixture of breezy, casual contemporary and overly academic.

Here are some more chapter titles and my snapshot impressions from the ideas therein:
"The Pleasures of the Canon" -- it's not enough to read the great books; you must study them and consider their sources and allusions for full appreciation; memorization cannot hurt, either
"What Isn't Literature" -- watch what you condemn today as unworthy of pursuit; it may be tomorrow's classic work
"What's Love Got to Do with It?" -- is loving books enough to fully appreciate them?  How important to literary criticism is the actual love of the act of reading?  Not all that important, apparently.
"So You Want to Read a Poem" -- I don't.
"Why Literature is Always Contemporary" -- probably my favorite idea in the book; books are always read in the present and always read for the first time, because the reader herself is an active part in the process of literature
"Truth and Lie in a Literary Sense" -- our collective, human desire that the most extraordinary and beautiful or gut-wrenching and horrific situations somehow "be real" is at the core of most non-fiction literary hoaxes
"Mixed Metaphors" -- I ended up skipping over most of this chapter, as it was mainly about poetry, which I find, with few exceptions, wholly annoying
"The Impossibility of Closure" -- writing good endings is hard; but, ending my reading of this book was easy.

There is a little feeling of betrayal when you have enjoyed one book by an author, only to be disappointed by his or her next offering.  I used Prof. Garber's Shakespeare After All when I took a course on Shakespeare many years ago.  I found it very readable and helpful and thoroughly enjoyed her analyses of the plays.  I do not know what I was expecting with The Use and Abuse of Literature.  I guess I was thinking there would be more than just the modicum of pleasure I received.  I could write more, but I have already spent more time than I had planned on this book, and will happily return it to the library this afternoon.

Welcome to Mayberry!

It is official: My husband was the most adorable 9-year-old boy ever.  This is an unbiased opinion based upon historical evidence in the form of his diary from 1987, which we rediscovered and read last night.

First of all, what kind of little boy writes every day in a diary for six months?  He basically stopped because he had filled up the whole thing.  (Leading me to hope, with cause, for more undiscovered volumes coming to light in the future.)

And what kind of little boy writes so well every day?  And about the most wide-eyed and sweet things you can imagine filling a young boy's mind?  And his parents didn't even know he kept a diary, so that means there were no admonishing words every night to remind him to record his day's doings.  He just did it on his own!  What a guy!  I think I fell a little more in love with him yesterday, just from knowing more about him as a child, and knowing that he could produce such a masterpiece of late-20th-century Americana.

And I fell in love with his childhood.  Sioux Falls, SD in the late 1980's may not have been Mayberry exactly, but it was full of wholesome diversions in which young Jason took part and then dutifully recorded.  The only things missing were fishin' trips to the old crick; but, I'm guessing that had more to do with Jason's lifelong aversion to fish than to any lack of opportunity.  It's all here: his frequent trips to the video arcade (complete with recorded high scores on "Paperboy" and "Elevator Action"; his excursions to play pool or ride go-carts with his grandpa (or, occasionally, "grampa"); his obsession with the Minnesota Twins (whom they played; which team won; their current ALC standing); riding bikes with friends or parents; going to the Y; charming angst about completing "Book-It" reading; programming an elaborate sports report into his dad's new computer (the one with the color monitor, no less!); interacting with various visiting family members; getting kicked out of the Pizza Inn with his sister and their friends ("don't worry, everybody already knows about that."); the getting and playing with of G.I Joe action figures; playing board games; snuggling with parents; typical hyperbolic statements about food (e.g. "Ate bacon and eggs at grampa's -- it was the best breakfast ever!"); doing homework for his ULE program ("fun!"); going to church; studying for his CCD class; and so on.  The minutia of his life as a fourth grader is just fascinating.  And it is fun to see now the glimpses of the nine-year-old in the person of the man I have loved for 18 years.

And it filled me with a sense of yearning, too.  I thought, more than once, in reading the journal: So, this is what a happy childhood is like.  Which makes me sound like an ungrateful wretch, I know.  But, I couldn't help but think about what my diaries from when I was nine would be like (and I kept them sporadically, but I am unsure if any remain).  When I turned nine, my parents divorced.  And, you see, they were both really decent people whom I adored.  I was an only child, and my parents were my life.  And, when they divorced, well, that was that for the wide-eyed innocence part of my childhood.  No event -- whether momentous or trivial -- of my young life would be experienced with unmitigated joy again.  Christmas?  Yeah, try waking up to one Christmas with your dad and then having to pack it all up and go to your mom's by midday (and then have your mom yell at your dad for bringing you over later than she wanted).  Horse show?  Yeah, that's fun -- with one parent who indulges you in your equine love and the other who resents it.  School play?  Uh-huh -- with which set of parents do you go to dinner and celebrate afterwards?  Any bit of good news makes you stop and consider -- whom do I tell first, Mom or Dad?  Because, when you choose the one, you automatically are not choosing the other.  Hideous burden for a child.  Truly.

Jason, with his intact family and close-knit extended family, had something really special in the 1980's.  He was a remarkable guy, of course; but, it was the safety and security of home that allowed him to be so free in coming into his own.  His is a chronicle of an untroubled mind (other than that dastardly "Book-It" which was the only cloud I can find in an otherwise sunny sky).  I love that little boy in that diary, and I am so grateful that the family and world that produced him was able to meet up with my own and bring me into it.  The good man whom I know, was a simply delightful boy.  In fact, the most adorable 9-year-old boy ever.

One last note from the diary:  On March 7, 1987, the temperature in Sioux Falls was 78°. On March 8, 1987, it was 34°.  Wow!